Innocent Little Crimes

by C. S. Lakin

  She sighed as Jason slid into the seat beside her. He squeezed her hand and smiled, searching her face. Cynthia appreciated his look of concern.

  “I’m all right. Everything okay at home?”

  “Yeah. Danny couldn’t get the VCR to reset.” He shrugged. “Kids. They know not to page me unless it’s important. But he just had to record some comedy special.” Jason signaled a waiter for a drink. “You want another?”

  Cynthia shook her head. Close by, at the bar, a blast of laughter erupted. She glanced up at the television mounted on the wall. The crowd seated around on barstools strained to listen to the set. A stab of pain shot through her as she saw Lila’s face staring out. The camera slid up close on Lila’s expression, first serious, then silly. The intimacy of her expressions more than unsettled Cynthia. She remembered snatches of words emitted from Lila’s mouth, bits and pieces of that weekend she had been trying to force from her memory. Jason must have noticed her agitation. He took her arm and pulled her up from the table.

  “Come on, let’s go for a walk on the promenade.”

  Cynthia tore her eyes away from the set and looked into Jason’s accepting face. “Sure.”

  He shrugged again, so casually. She was beginning to like that little movement of his. It said: not to worry, everything will be fine, relax. She wanted to trust him. She needed someone to lean on, to pour out her heart to. So much pain welled up tight inside her.

  Her parents and friends had tried hard to comfort her when she returned from Lila’s island. All those compassionate people, well-meaning but ingratiating. It was easier to be alone and think. But thinking made her crazy. If only, if only . . .

  Jason entwined his arm with hers and led her out the French doors. The night was warm and balmy, and a big harvest moon sat on the horizon. Jason paused at the railing and looked out. “Quite a sight.”

  “Yes, it’s stunning.”

  “Should I take you home?”

  “No. This is nice. Let’s sit out here and talk. We need to go over these figures. Besides, if I went home, I’d just lie in bed watching the news and stuffing my face. No thanks.” She sat down at one of the round tables on the deck.

  Jason stroked her hair and on impulse, leaned over and kissed her on the lips. He pulled back abruptly. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me. It must be the full moon. And you’re awfully hard to resist.”

  Cynthia laughed. “So are you.”

  Jason smiled and waited for the awkward moment to pass. He reached for his briefcase and opened it on the table. Cynthia relaxed. As Jason spread out the sheets of paper and started explaining his ideas, a heaviness lifted. She knew later that night, as she lay in bed, it would come back; it always did. But, in this moment she felt hopeful, as if everything would be all right—eventually. Life would go on, without Davis and without Lila. The nightmares would gradually fade and she would be happy again.

  She took Jason’s hand and squeezed it. He stopped talking and looked at her with questions in his eyes.

  “Thanks,” Cynthia said. “For being a friend.”

  He shrugged again.

  Cynthia smiled. The knot in her stomach loosened.

  West Hollywood, California

  “Knock, knock,” Peter yelled through the crack in the door. “It’s the pizza man.”

  He waited, listening for sounds of movement. Matt took awhile to come to the door. Peter stood at the landing of a second floor apartment in Hollywood, an old peeling building built in the ’twenties with ornate wrought iron railing and bars over the windows. Below him, the traffic on Melrose Avenue moved at a snail’s pace; the headlights weaving down the street resembled yellow and red snakes. It was Friday night and Melrose was the hippest game in town.

  The aroma from the hot pizza made his mouth water. Friday nights he spent the evening with a patient named Matt. He didn’t even know Matt’s last name, or the last names of the others he visited, for that matter. They all seemed to prefer the comfort of a first-name basis. With few friends left, this little personal touch meant a lot. It gave these guys reassurance where so little reassurance was available.

  The door opened.

  Whenever Peter saw one of his “neighbors,” as he liked to refer to them, he steeled his emotions for what he might encounter. Sometimes they would be fine, happy, almost an image of perfect health. At those times he found it inconceivable that they were close to death. The only telltale signs were the weight loss, the dark circles under the eyes, and the side effects from medication. But most nights, after he got off work at the counseling center, he encountered what he called “walking death.” He mustered every ounce of emotional strength and put on his best acting ability to smooth over the heaviness in the air. He made it a point to be cheerful, compassionate, and a good listener, for sometimes they needed that most of all—just someone to listen to them.

  “It better be pepperoni or you can just forget it.” Matt leaned over to smell the pizza. Peter saw his head shake; supporting his neck seemed unbearably straining. Matt motioned with his hand. “Entrez, entrez.”

  “Good to see you up and about.”

  “I’m up but not about. Bring the box over here. We’re gonna watch the tube.”

  Peter cleared the coffee table littered with books and newspapers. The apartment was in its usual disarray. Many of these places were. The patients could rarely afford domestic help, and friends were either few or too busy to offer a hand. That’s what made the assistance program so great. People who did have spare hours could fill in where needed: buy groceries, clean homes, take pets to the vet. Peter brimmed with a sense of purpose and pride. He was doing something that made a difference, and those he helped showed huge gratitude. Not like the last person he worked for.

  Matt lowered his body into a reclining chair as Peter dished out the pizza. “So, what’re we watching tonight? It must be important if we’re skipping chess.”

  Matt pressed the remote. To Peter’s chagrin, Lila’s sneering face assaulted him from the small TV screen. Just what I need. An evening with Lila Carmichael.

  “This lady is the funniest thing on legs,” Matt said. “Not much makes me laugh these days.” He chuckled, then hacked, doubling over. Peter came to his side but Matt waved him away.

  “Are you sure you want to watch this trash?” Peter asked. “It might be hazardous to your health.”

  “Like I care?” He turned up the volume. Lila’s crackling voice screamed out at Peter. He swore never to see her face again, and here he was, forced to watch her show. But how could he turn Matt down? With a grunt, he sat in an old armchair and pretended to be amused.

  “I never missed her shows when they were on the air. You ever see any?’ Matt asked Peter.

  “A few. Let me get you something to drink.”

  “Beer’s in the fridge. I know I shouldn’t, but what the hell.”

  Peter got up and retrieved two beers. As he watched alongside Matt, he thought about the day he packed his things at Lila’s—right after the weekend. When the limo pulled up at Lila’s house in Bel Air, he told her he quit. She didn’t say a word; just sat there, sullen and brooding. No word of thanks, no wishing him well or promising a recommendation. Nothing. Well, he didn’t want a recommendation from her, anyway. Only to sever the ties for good.

  When he read that Lila had quit her series, he wasn’t surprised. Rumors said she planned to retire from show business. Yet, here she was. She couldn’t keep away from the spotlight. Nightmares of that weekend haunted him; surely Lila replayed that scene at the beach over and over in her mind as well. All those years of plotting and scheming for her sad, lost love. Was it Oscar Wilde who once said “each man kills the thing he loves”? With what he knew about Lila, she must be suffering terribly—or else smothering in denial. And that meant taking her stress out on everyone around her. He felt sorry for whoever landed the ignominious job of being her new personal assistant.

  Peter listened to Lila’s patter. She was not up to par. Her
lines were funny, but the delivery was off. She looked haggard and exhausted, especially on the close-ups. Her makeup was smeared and sweat poured down the side of her face. Nevertheless, she had the crowd by the crotch, as always. Peter watched her roam the stage, as he had watched countless other times. Beside him, Matt laughed and coughed interchangeably. Peter could tell Matt was in pain, but so fixated on Lila that he didn’t care.

  “I hope in my next lifetime I come back as funny as her. If I have to come back to this screwed-up planet at all.”

  Peter chewed his pizza and thought how Lila evoked such loyalty in her fans. She had a gift for reaching the heart and wrenching it into pieces. All her words were two-edged swords, unbearably funny and unbearably painful. He thought about Lila’s life and the events that formed her character: her stifling upbringing, the series of disappointments and illusions she encountered through her life, her desperate need to make friends. Everyone was made of those little bits and pieces, pieces that moved you uncontrollably toward your destiny, whatever that proved to be.

  Peter smirked. He was sure waxing philosophic tonight. But it was easy to do, being around these guys who had maybe weeks to live. So, what was he going to do with the rest of his life? Whatever he chose, he would make it count.

  The pizza box was empty and Matt had somehow polished off three beers. Peter looked over and noticed Matt had fallen asleep; his chin rested on his chest and his mouth hung open. For a panicky moment, Peter thought Matt had died, but then he heard a quiet snore escape Matt’s mouth.

  Peter picked up the remote and turned off the television. Moving quietly, he gathered the trash and empty bottles and straightened up the kitchen. After writing Matt a note, he shut the door behind him and went out into a night bright and bustling with life.

  Epilogue

  Under the glittering, flashing marquis that reads “Lila Carmichael —An HBO Special,” Lila stands, immobile, sweltering from the spotlights. She’s in a regal, dark maroon velvet gown, adorned with jewels, the queen of crass. Sweat drips down her neck, down her cleavage. Her dress sticks uncomfortably to her skin. Her makeup feels like it’s cracking. As she speaks, she scans the meaningless faces in the crowd. All eyes are riveted, infusing her with familiar power. They may as well be faceless.

  As she usually does, she singles out two targets to concentrate on—a young woman in the front, and an old man in the fifth row. She knows they’ll respond appropriately to her barbs, and they do. Laughter erupts like scattered explosions as she does her routine. The cameras follow her every move with their single, black eyes. Energy surges over the stage like a flowing tide, enveloping her.

  Abruptly, Lila stops. She waits for the laughter to subside. A hint of irony appears on her face.

  “You like fairy tales? I do. Every kid does. We all grew up on them. When I was a kid, I read every fairy book there was. That’s probably why all my friends are fairies,” she says as an aside.

  “There was The Green Fairy Book, The Red Fairy Book, The Purple Fairy Book. There were more books than names of colors. If your childhood was like mine, then you hid under the covers and lost yourself in that world of witches and trolls and elves and handsome princes.

  “Once I tried to spin gold out of my hair, but I got it caught around the toilet paper holder in the bathroom. My father cut it all off with scissors. I kissed a lot of frogs, but all I got was bad breath. I remember making a magic potion out of food coloring and a bottle of perfume I lifted from the 7-11. I poured three drops in my father’s coffee, hoping he’d change into a unicorn. Instead he became a fire-breathing dragon that sent me to bed without any supper. I cast a spell on my mother by saying the Lord’s prayer backwards. I wanted to turn her into a beautiful queen. She turned into a witch instead, and washed my mouth out with soap.”

  Lila waltzes grandly across the stage, waving a jeweled wand. “I guess my childhood was more like a fairy tale than I thought. I was locked in my tower, to hide me from the world. It wasn’t really an ivory tower, but, hey, I did have some lovely polyester drapes and a chenille bedspread. A spell was cast over me, so that everywhere I went, I spoke gibberish. I was sure I was saying one thing, but what people heard was something else. It was an evil spell and it kept me from ever making friends.

  “Not once did my sweet little fairy godmother appear and wave her little pink wand. You bet I was pissed! Actually, in my family you waited for Jesus to take you up in the rapture. Personally, I would have settled for anyone, even the Jolly Green Giant, to whisk me away to a magic land where candy canes lined the streets and birds twittered, as long as I didn’t have to eat those frozen peas! I’d seen the Wizard of Oz twenty times, so I knew that somewhere over the rainbow was a place where happy little bluebirds fly. So I ran away from home, and like the proverbial hero of those fairy tales, went into the deep, dark woods to seek my fortune. Somehow, I ended up in college.

  “Like Bugs Bunny says,” (Lila imitates Bugs), “‘Ahh, I musta taken a left turn at Albuquerque.’ Like the prince on his quest, I fell into dangerous trials, fought dragons, fell in love. But still, I spoke gibberish. Finally, it made me so crazy, I ended up in a nut house—that is, back at my parents’ house—in a straight-jacket. No kidding! Once again I escaped, and lo and behold! here I am—The Queen of Comedy, ruling over a vast kingdom—and, lo and behold! still speaking gibberish.”

  The laughs dwindle. Members of the audience look at one another, puzzled.

  Lila seems distracted. She stops, then as if remembering where she is, walks to the edge of the stage and looks down, waving her wand in large, slow circles. “Finally, very late, my fairy godmother appeared. It was about frigging time, I told her! I expected Binnie Barnes and got Milton Berle instead.

  “Borrowing shamelessly from G. B. Shaw, he said only one thing: ‘Honey, there are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart’s desire. The other is to get it.’ ”

  Lila pauses again, dazed and distracted. “At least, that’s what I think he said. Sounded like gibberish to me.”

  Lila carefully lowers her heavy body down so she’s sitting on the apron of the stage, swinging her legs like a kid. The camera stays with her. The crew, knowing she won’t stick to a script, are ready to move at her whim.

  “Funny thing. Like the Emperor’s new clothes—I get on stage and everyone laughs and laughs. I’m naked and I don’t know it. I reveal my hidden parts and you laugh. Why? Why doesn’t anyone tell me I’m naked? Why doesn’t someone save me from myself? Why doesn’t some Good Samaritan say, ‘Hey, Lila, cover up, you’ll catch cold’ Or, ‘you’re making an ass of yourself.’?”

  Lila searches the audience. She sees eager faces trying to stay with her although they are baffled.

  “Why doesn’t someone say, hey Li, you are one screwed-up broad?” She swings her legs and stares off into space. “I hate myself for it, you know?”

  Again she stops speaking and stares mindlessly out into the sea of faces.

  A few nervous giggles travel the room as her audience waits for the delivery of the next line. But Lila sits there, motionless, and to her viewers’ surprise she begins to cry. The audience holds its collective breath.

  Slowly, with effort, Lila stands and walks off the stage.

  The audience shuffles uncomfortably in their seats. The sound is like a wind rustling old, crackling leaves. They wait, expecting her to return with some gimmick. But a minute passes, and finally someone breaks the strange spell and starts to applaud, joined by another, and another, until soon, the room is swelling with sound, the din rising like an ocean wave that crests and crashes, and then subsides to silence, leaving no trace of a footprint or a tear.

  ~The End~

  About the Author

  C. S. Lakin writes novels in numerous genres, focusing mostly on contemporary psychological mysteries and allegorical fantasy. Her novel Someone to Blame (contemporary fiction) won the 2009 Zondervan First Novel competition 2009 (published October 2010). Lakin’s Gates of Heaven fa
ntasy series for adults (AMG-Living Ink Publishers) features original full-length fairy tales in traditional style. Already in print are the first books in the series, The Wolf of Tebron, The Map across Time, and The Land of Darkness, with four more to follow. Her contemporary mystery Innocent Little Crimes made the top one hundred finalists in the 2009 Amazon Breakout Novel Award contest, earning her a Publisher’s Weekly review stated her book was “a page-turning thrill-ride that will have readers holding their breaths the whole way through.”

  Lakin grew up collating television scripts for her screenwriter mother. As an adult, Susanne assisted in developing series for television, and while raising two daughters and running a bed and breakfast inn in northern California wrote her first three novels and a cookbook. She currently works as a freelance copyeditor and writing mentor, specializing in helping authors prepare their books for publication. She is a member of The Christian PEN (Proofreaders and Editors Network), CEN (Christian Editor Network), CAN (Christian Authors Network—regular blogger), ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers), and two regional writers’ groups. She edits for individuals, small publishing companies, and literary agents.

  In addition to her mysteries and fantasy series, she has also written the first book in a Young Adult sci-fi adventure series: Time Sniffers. She recently completed Intended for Harm, a contemporary take-off on the biblical story of Jacob and Joseph and is developing a swashbuckling dog memoir in the style of Moby Dick entitled A Dog after God’s Own Heart. She lives in Santa Cruz, CA, with her husband Lee, a gigantic lab named Coaltrane, and three persnickety cats.

  Connect with C. S. Lakin

  Twitter: @cslakin

  Facebook: C. S. Lakin Facebook Page