Run Delia Run

by Cindy Bokma

  “Wow.” I shook my head.

  “Murder. I mean, how could I live with him, knowing that? No offense to you, I wasn’t implying anything.”

  “I can’t . . .” I couldn’t breathe, my lips went numb. Could I live with Leo knowing what I learned?

  Aurora’s face was red and tears ran down her cheeks. “I begged him for a divorce. Finally, he gave in. We filed and I agreed to never have contact with him or speak about him or our relationship. I moved away and settled here. I got remarried a few years ago. My time with Leo is a distant memory.”

  “This is a lot to take in, not what I was expecting.”

  “I never told anyone. But seeing you . . . knowing that you are in the same situation I found myself in. It’s your right to know. At least, what he’s capable of. Maybe he’s changed.” She shook her head sadly, her lips turned down at the corners. “But by the look in your eye, I don’t think he has. And you can’t tell anyone, can you?”

  I shook my head. I had no one.

  When I finally spoke, my voice came out as a whisper. “Everyone loves him.”

  “Everyone but you?” she asked.

  “I love him. But I walk on eggshells, worried that I’ll set off his temper. Then he comes home with some grand present or gesture and I hope he’s changed but then it starts all over again.” I gulped the remains of my coffee. How unladylike, Leo would say. Pig.

  “I should be going. I said twenty minutes and it’s been much longer.” Abruptly she rose from her seat. I noticed she was wearing leopard print shoes and I opened my mouth to compliment her but decided against it.

  “Do you have a hotel? Somewhere to stay?” She looked at my travel bag sitting next to me. I shook my head no.

  “Try the Monteleone in the French Quarter,” she said abruptly. “And please don’t come back. Don’t mention my name to anyone, ever. Don’t ever bring me up to Leo. Please.”

  I turned to face her, noting I was the same height. “I don’t know what to say but thank you for—”

  She cut me off quickly, then hurried out the door, only her perfume leaving any hint she was ever there.

  I went to the library to read up on the unsolved case of Leo’s stepbrother. I began to pull away from my husband. The mysterious death haunted me but I couldn’t ask him anything. Not unless I wanted a volcanic eruption of his rage. I decided I’d give him some space and take some for myself.

  I did small things, like not rush to the door to greet him when he came home; I didn’t sit next to him on the couch when he wanted to watch a show or movie. I stopped going into his office and asking him to fill me in on the details of his projects. In the past I liked hearing about what went on during filming, but now I didn’t want to know. The less interaction we had, the better. My life was more peaceful the less I saw him.

  I pretended everything was fine, but, in reality, I was a mess. Every time he touched me, all I could see was a dead boy. I tried to convince myself he didn’t commit the crime. It was a misunderstanding, it had to be. Yes, he had anger issues and he was controlling, but murder? A gruesome murder? I didn’t want to believe it.

  Although the name mentioned in the papers was different, a small grainy photo included in one of the articles was clearly him. The person in the photo had the same stance, shoulders pushed back, chin tilted to the side. I wished I could find his parents and talk to them, but that was something I couldn’t risk. As it was, I went to the library and did my research on the computers there. What if he checked my search history and discovered what I looked up? I couldn’t risk that. My “plan” as Dr. Hiller called it, was to gather information, figure out what I wanted for my future. Imagine my life without Leo.

  He had been home from Vancouver for two months. The decorating was complete on our residence; it was now stark white with stainless steel in the kitchen and sharp lines everywhere. I wished for a home that was comfortable and welcoming, but Leo and Kressley had decided on the modern theme and there was nothing I could do about it.

  One afternoon, I was reading a book on the couch when Leo arrived home early, his arms laden with bags and boxes. Hearing the key turn the lock made me jump, it didn’t take much to make me cringe. I dropped my book and ran to the door, surprised to see him.

  “What is all of this?” I asked keeping my voice friendly. I had to gauge his mood, if his eyes wrinkled when he smiled; I knew he was genuinely in a good mood. If his shoulders were tense and stiff, his eyes blank and unfocused, then I knew I had to tip toe around him and not talk. I started biting on a nail, blinking up at him. What was going on?

  “It’s all for you. I hope I got the sizes right. Of course, you could have gained more weight,” Leo said, placing his keys in the glass bowl we kept on a table by the door. He kicked off his shoes then bent over to line them up evenly. He turned to me.

  I opened my mouth to say something but thought otherwise. He smiled, his gray eyes creasing at the corners under his dark eyebrows. I used to remind myself how lucky I was to be married to Leo Kubias, now I took a breath and told myself this wasn’t forever. Someday I would be free to say and do what I wanted without twisting myself into something else to suit Leo’s moods. In the back of my mind the thought of leaving him hovered.

  “Is there a special occasion?” I asked nervously, my voice cracking.

  “Come here; let me show you what I chose for you.” I followed behind him, as he walked up the stairs, into our bedroom. My bones cracked like twigs with every step. I wondered about my health, I took great care to cover up the circles around my eyes and hoped he didn’t notice my thinning hair. Handfuls of it had been falling out.

  “Stress,” Claire told me over scones recently during one of our coffee dates. “I don’t know what you have to stress over but I guess you have some kind of adrenal fatigue.” She stared at me, picking at pieces of her scone until her plate was a pile of crumbs. “I had severe adrenal fatigue after my second divorce,” she said. “You should get that checked out.”

  I shrugged and changed the direction of our conversation. I would rather discuss Claire’s series of disastrous dates than my health.

  Now we reached our bedroom where he began to carefully pull items from the bags and boxes, gently placing them on the bed.

  Designer outfits from Barneys, a black leather purse, and a few pairs of heeled shoes were spread out all over the snow white quilt. The clothes were all in shades of white, cream, and black. I held back a sigh. I told Leo that my favorite color was pink, but he insisted on dressing me in his preferred neutral shades.

  “Great. Thanks,” I said dryly. The few times I went shopping by myself, I picked out soft fabrics, comfortable sweaters and sweat pants, leggings, cotton socks and slippers to wear around the house. I liked casual clothes but Leo preferred shirts and skirts made from expensive fabrics that required dry cleaning. I liked sneakers; he wanted me in four inch heels.

  He nodded.

  “I want you to wear this blouse with the black pants tonight; we’re having dinner with a friend of mine and his wife. Wear the black heels,” he directed, pointing to the clothes on the bed and the pointy, sky high heels on the floor, in their box. Looking at his watch, he commented, “You better get ready now, we need to leave in forty minutes. For Gods sake, wear the shapewear under the pants. You know how lines and bulges are déclassé.”

  Moving toward the bathroom to get ready, I blinked back tears. Maybe tonight would be different. As I turned on the shower, I removed my clothes and thought about previous dinners out with Leo’s friends and associates. I was awkward and nervous, usually remained quiet and sipped my wine, took a few bites of dinner and nodded politely. I had very little in common with those people. Leo liked to take over the conversations anyway and I wondered why he wanted me with him. He usually ignored me.

  As I stepped into the white marble shower and stood under the spray of hot water, my stomach rumbled. I ate a bag of kettle chips before Leo came home, I hoped I shoved the empty bag far enough do
wn in the garbage that he wouldn’t see it. I covered wrappers and boxes with coffee grounds, or I took the trash bags to the bins outside. If Leo knew I secretly ate junk food, he’d send me away to one of those spas that only serve green juice and forced colonics.

  Leo burst in as I was drying off with a thick plush towel. “Were you singing? I heard enough noise for the day when I was at work.” He gave a smirk and shut the door behind him with a bang.

  I was humming a tune, I guess my voice carried. I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t speak back though I wanted to insist my voice was barely raised. What point was there in defending myself? In the mirror I attempted to cover up the purple circles under my eyes, applying a thick layer of concealer on my face but nothing could hide the sadness that lurked there. Applying makeup to the bruise on my shoulder, I covered it up well enough to not draw attention to where Leo had dug his fingernails into my flesh and left half moon shaped marks.

  Dinner and drinks was at a posh new restaurant in West Hollywood created recently by a singer/model/actress with a perfume line coming out in the fall. I wasn’t impressed with the interior, but Leo nodded with satisfaction as he took in the sleek decor.

  It was dark and smoky, the deep red walls offsetting the black tables and chairs. Ebony and crimson tablecloths matched the black patterned carpet. It was like walking into hell.

  “This place is incredible.” Leo cried, squeezing my hand so hard that the bones of my knuckles almost touched. I politely smiled but didn’t agree. I had to hide my surprise at his opinion, he normally only liked all white interiors. I thought he hated red?

  We waited twenty-five minutes for the other couple to arrive. In that time, Leo and I shared a bottle of red wine and he told me about some on set shenanigans from one of the actors starring in his movie. I gave him a plastic grin and nodded like a puppet, not daring to say anything that would set Leo off. He kept glancing at his watch, pressing his lips together. People who wasted his time made him angry.

  Finally they arrived. I hoped they would be a couple I’d click with, I always felt like a black sheep, an outcast. Making friends was hard for me; everyone was so concerned with “the industry” and I met very few genuine people.

  The guys name was Ivan and he was of medium stature, wearing a moth eaten green sweater, unraveling at the cuffs, and wide whale corduroy pants. Though the clothes looked worn and old, they were probably from a hip new fashion designer and cost hundreds of dollars. Ivan’s gray hair kept falling into his face and with a trembling hand he pushed it back away from his forehead. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was homeless. I saw a lot of men and women look ragged and run down but they were millionaires, casual about their wealth but their shirts with holes and stains cost hundreds at the hip shops in Beverly Hills and West Hollywood. There was a period of time when every young actress wore flannel and sported greasy hair; it was a trend that I never participated in.

  Ivan’s wife Jolie was at least twenty years younger than him. Her ivory skin, cascading white blonde hair, and red lips were striking. She turned to me and nodded hello before opening her red leather menu and holding it in front of her face. As I murmured hello, I tried to mentally tally the amount of plastic surgery she underwent, if Leo was in a good mood later, I’d do one of my impressions for him.

  Within a few minutes, Ivan and Leo were deep into a conversation, their heads bent close together and Leo nodded vigorously, laughing at something Ivan said. I leaned in to try and get a listen but could only make out husky whispers.

  I turned to Jolie and asked her the standard, “Where are you from, how long have you lived in California?” questions.

  “Do you work?” I questioned, trying hard to make conversation with her.

  Her voice was childlike, going up at the end so it came out like a question. “I model?” She placed her menu on the table and folded her long arms over it.

  “What do you model for?” I took a sip of water, holding the glass with a sweaty hand. I smiled again; insecure about my unaligned eyetooth which wasn’t perfectly straight despite the braces I wore at night. Jolie’s teeth were as white as the walls in our house and as even as piano keys.

  Jolie looked agitated. “I model for everything. Have you seen me before? I’m like, in magazines. And I do some runway shows.” Her blue eyes reminded me of a Husky’s.

  It was then that Leo leaned over and her face visibly brightened as she offered him a wide smile showing off her flawlessly organized teeth. “I saw the vodka ad, Jolie. Very nice. Very nice indeed.”

  She looked pleased. “Thank you.” She touched her silky white hair and gave me a smug look.

  “I cannot get over it, Jolie. You look absolutely fantastic.” He clinked his wine glass against hers and the smoldering stare she gave him was not lost on me. “You should give Delia lessons on poise. Doesn’t she have potential?” He turned to me and grinned.

  I narrowed my eyebrows as Jolie answered, “Oh Leo, you know some things cannot be taught.” Now she turned and looked me in the eye then gave a wink. “You are cute though. Maybe you could do commercials?”

  Ivan pushed his hair out of his face and said to no one in particular, “I’m going to be working on a movie out of Montana. A western.” He made a thumbs up sign. “Love it there.”

  “Mmmm,” Jolie said dreamily. “I did a photo shoot there years ago. I was naked, on a horse. Haven’t been back since.”

  "Oh Jolie," Leo laughed, "You're so funny!"

  Dinner was drawn out and excruciatingly painful. We consumed drinks and appetizers, more drinks, and then steak for everyone but Jolie who ate a petite mixed green salad, no dressing. Dessert was served, followed by coffee and after dinner cognac, and then the men smoked cigars on the terrace while Jolie spent half an hour in the bathroom and I sat at the table stacking sugar packets.

  I was not good in situations where I had nothing in common with my dining companions, which was often the case when my husband insisted we go to dinner with industry insiders. Most of the time, I could manage to strike up a dialogue with someone, but this time, Jolie was a block of ice that didn’t melt. Ivan was a bumbling, shaking mess of nervousness—from cocaine or speed I assumed—and Leo acted condescending whenever he got the chance, which was quite often since Jolie was such a paragon of perfection, I saw the little glances he kept giving her. I was grateful when the night was over and I could climb into bed while Leo rattled off everything he wished to change about me.

  One year later and life was more or less the same except for one huge change: I was pregnant. I still saw Dr. Hiller but the pregnancy threw a wrench in the plans I had to leave Leo. There were days when I attended domestic abuse groups, sitting in without saying a word but listening to everything that was said and shared. Occasionally I saw a therapist who specialized in abusive relationships and I was making progress with my plans to move out. Then I got pregnant.

  Now I was a hostage, there were days I cried and days I prayed that he would soften once the baby arrived. Maybe the baby was the miracle we needed. There was not a day where I didn’t wish for my own mother. On more than one occasion, Leo caught me looking through the handful of photos I was able to keep from my childhood in Ohio.

  I sat on the bed, photos fanned out on the white bedspread, tears dripping down my cheeks as I allowed myself to fully remember my favorite memories.

  He strolled into the bedroom, his face a mask of frustration over what I assumed was a work related issue.

  “Why are you crying? What is it?” he asked, the tone in his voice was sharp. He approached me like I was a child in trouble, an accusation rather than a question.

  My shoulders lifted in response. The pregnancy zapped my energy and every day I was deeply fatigued down to my bones, not in the mood to argue. I stared down at a photo of my mother, standing in front of the window in the kitchen, holding a mug of something, coffee or tea. The sunlight streamed through the window, giving her a halo. Though the photo was slightly blurred, it was on
e of my favorites. Her gentle nature was caught by the camera. I don’t recall my father ever taking pictures but who else would have captured this moment? She was probably not much older than my current age in this shot.

  Leo stood in front of the bed, staring at me as I sniffled and dabbed at my eyes with a tissue.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” he muttered, as he proceeded to turn and walk out of the room, leaving me softly sobbing.

  I was home most of the time, reading or knitting, solitary hobbies. I rarely left the house, only going out for groceries or to buy books on childbirth or raising children, occasionally I’d see a movie or take a prenatal yoga class. I enjoyed weeding the garden, but only when Leo wasn’t home or else he would be furious that I was outside “getting dirty.” I was afraid of his temper, that never changed. I wanted to avoid him and keep our interactions limited, especially being pregnant, I didn’t need the stress. The times he was angry with me outweighed the times I did anything to please him. The only thing that got me through the pregnancy was that he was often on location, filming a movie or locked in his office, working.

  “We have a gardener for that,” he snapped one day when he came home early and caught me on all fours weeding the flowerbed. “How degrading, digging around in the dirt. Are you a lowly landscaper? Can you find a more dignified hobby?”

  I visited with Camille on the occasion Joe was in Los Angeles for a gallery opening. Claire and I continued to meet for lunch at the most expensive, flashy restaurants where she was an expert at pushing the bill toward me with her manicured nails and a wink. I became a regular at the library and took up knitting.

  Leo scoffed, “Knitting? Don’t ask me to wear anything you make please. Oh, God, Delia. Knitting?” If it didn’t have a designer label in it, Leo wasn’t interested. I made baby blankets and tiny little hats for our child, I was convinced I was having a boy but didn’t say anything to him.