The Truth About Delilah Blue

by Tish Cohen

  Her painting gazed up at her, unimpressed with the transformation that had taken place. Tiny, jagged hyphens in cerulean blue yawned and turned away, nudged cadmium yellow light in the ribs and jeered. The mixture of alizarin crimson and manganese violet and phthalo blue she’d worked so hard to get right and smeared across the lower right side of the painting in an effort to show the cold (but not too cold—if you looked closely there was hidden warmth) world this woman inhabited actually got up and marched off the edge of the canvas and under the dryer like a never-ending trail of ants.

  Lila couldn’t take the disinterest. Not from her own creation. Not today.

  Forget the portfolio.

  She reached up to the shelf behind her, flicked open a paint-spattered Swiss Army knife, and dropped down onto her knees. She crawled to the top of the canvas, stabbed the knife through the linen and into the dirt, and slowly, precisely, slashed her painting into ribbons.

  Sixteen

  Going to a dance club the same day she learned she was kidnapped turned out to be a colossal error in judgment.

  Back in the damp of the cellar, with curls of shredded canvas at her feet, Lila had decided that she, her father, and the stainless-steel blade in her hand all needed a bit of distance. She’d changed into a miniskirt and off-shoulder sweater—red for the feeling of having been infused with a quart of someone else’s iron-rich, heated-to-boiling blood—swapped her new cowboy boots for the comfort of her doodled pair, and driven along Sunset to the Cathouse—a gritty little club a few blocks away from L.A. Arts that the students had pretty much claimed as their own, even going so far as to strike up a deal with the owners to paint the interior as they saw fit. Ceiling, walls, tables, chairs, and ductwork were spattered, graffitied, crosshatched, and finger painted. Rumor had it that one wall had been stamped with bare torsos, and if you looked closely, you could see the imprints of navels, nipples, hip bones, and chest hair.

  It was as if an enormous gallery boasting art of every style and method and talent level imaginable, exposing motivations good, evil, and depraved, had been gathered in a vessel and held over a flame, shaken like Jiffy Pop, then poured over the nightclub and left to cure.

  Lila had wandered inside a few times before working at the school, but she’d felt like an impostor and quickly skittered back to the dismal acceptance of her cellar. It wasn’t as if there was a rule about who could or could not enter the club. But still. Now she felt qualified to walk past the humping cherubs that decorated the doors and into the frenetic interior.

  The intention was to swathe herself in music that would thump against her flesh and through to her organs. To sip alcohol from a badly washed glass and vanish into a herd of people who thought they needed an escape from their own existence. Of course, the need to escape was subjective. These kids might be running from schoolwork, lousy jobs, or money stress. Dating complications, maybe. Lila felt fairly confident in her status as sole abductee in the room.

  Refusing to be held back by California lawmakers, Lila waited next to a group of rowdy girls at the bar, and watched the bartender set their drinks one by one on the counter. When no one was looking, she picked up the tallest glass—one filled with clear bubbly liquid and ice—and slapped a ten in the puddle where the drink had been.

  It wasn’t in her to steal.

  Armed with what turned out to be vodka and 7-Up, Lila wormed her way through thrashing, grinding bodies on the dance floor to a rickety staircase—more of a fire escape, really—that led to a loft, and found an unoccupied table with a view of the action on the main level. She sat, settled her bag by her feet, and tipped carbonated alcohol down her throat, loving the way her head started to whirl almost immediately.

  Staring up at the dusty pipes that snaked across the ceiling, she thought for a moment. Her last name. Mack. It couldn’t possibly be legal. Come to think of it, weren’t they living in the country unlawfully? She was smuggled in with a fake ID, for Christ’s sake. Would she be deported if she went back to Lovett?

  Who the hell was she now?

  She watched human shapes move around in the dark down below. Every single one of those lurching bodies had a name. No matter how abandoned, dejected, wasted, broken, slutty, drunk, or otherwise messed up, they all had names. Tears blurred her vision and she scrubbed them away with her sleeves.

  Two beers clunked down onto the small round table to her left, followed by a male body.

  Adam Harding. Lila looked away fast.

  “Lila. Is that short for something?”

  She shrugged, praying he would sense her mood and go sit elsewhere.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Actually, I’m not staying—”

  Too late. The beers were on her table and he was already pulling a stool way too close and straddling it. He grinned and slid a beer in front of her. “The other day. Wow. I’m so sorry.”

  She shifted away. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I mean, here you are having this huge drama with your mother and there I am stuck in the closet. I didn’t know what to do. If I stay in there, I’m a creep who’s listening to this totally emotional reunion between long lost relatives. And if I come out, I interrupt, and very possibly annihilate, the moment.” Before sipping his beer, he pulled the NyQuil from his jacket pocket and took a few big gulps that stained his lips greenish black. “But then I tripped over an easel and fell on my ass.”

  “Seriously. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Anyway. I apologize.”

  “What’s with the medicine? You’re sick?”

  “Allergic to paint fumes. I’ve been on this stuff for three months now and I’m much better. Forget antihistamines. The ’Quil is all you need to keep the air passageways open.”

  “So you take it all the time? Even when you’re not painting?”

  “The way I see it, I can take the NyQuil and live. Or not take it and probably live.” He shrugged. “I can’t take that kind of chance.” He tilted the bottle in her direction. “Want to try?”

  “Nah.” She shook her head and stared down at the crowd. “I don’t care much if I live.”

  “You always this cheery?”

  “If I told you my twin died yesterday, would it make you feel like a jerk?”

  “Holy crap.” He put his hand on her back. “I’m so sorry.”

  Again, she moved away. “Are you always this pawsy?”

  “I wasn’t making a move on you, Lila,” he said, carefully enunciating each syllable. “I was expressing sympathy for your loss.”

  “Well don’t. I don’t have a twin.”

  He blinked at her, silent.

  She felt her boot stick to the floor and examined the underside. “Perfect. I stepped in gum.”

  “I can fix that.” After a long swig of beer, he pulled a package of Clorets gum from his pocket and popped a few pieces into his mouth, chewing hard. He motioned for her to give him her boot and, after she set her still booted foot on his thigh, he spat out his gum and pressed it into the flattened bubble gum. “It’s the best way to remove anything gummy from a surface. Fight sticky with sticky.” Once green and pink had morphed into a pebble-spackled brownish gray, he attempted to peel it off, only to have small wads crumble to bits in his fingers.

  “Nice,” said Lila, pushing her hair out of her face and leaning forward for a closer look. “You’ve made it thicker. And uglier.”

  “Yeah. We’re going to need some peanut butter.” His eyes locked on to the miniature silver pen drawing Lila had scrawled on her heel a few weeks back. A man’s head, in profile. In spite of the unusual canvas, the diminutive size, the complete lack of shading, there was no mistaking the man’s sorrowful expression. Adam looked up at her. “Wow.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Believe me, that is not nothing.”

  “Just some guy on the bus.”

  He crossed his legs in front of him. Tilting his head up toward the ceiling, he said, “Draw me.”

  “Can
’t.”

  He laughed. “You can draw some guy on a bus but not the guy who puts this kind of vain effort into liquoring you up, insulting you, and wrecking the sole of your boot? Come on. A little respect for the underdog.”

  “Sorry. No pen.”

  “And if I were to pull one out of my pocket?”

  She shrugged.

  “Okay.” He looked at his watch. “Whatever.”

  “Did you actually have one? A pen?”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  “No.”

  Adam drank again. “Is it hard for the guys you date? They take you out then drop you off to strip for a bunch of other guys?”

  “My boyfriend doesn’t mind me stripping for other guys. He kind of gets a sexual charge out of it.”

  He grimaced. “Sounds like a keeper.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  He stared at her a moment, leaning back in his seat. “See now, I don’t take offense. You’re feeling tender. You’ve had a major upheaval in your life with your mother showing up like that. Who wouldn’t lash out? You’re deflecting and I actually think that’s healthy. Feel free to have another go.”

  “Nah. You’ve taken all the fun out of it now.”

  “Had you had much communication with her before she showed up like that?”

  She pushed her beer toward him. “I don’t want this. I’m more of a Boone’s Farm kind of girl.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No.”

  “My mom died when I was six,” he said. “So I know all about growing up without one. It sucks. The worst is the week before Mother’s Day at public school. All those flowerpots and poems and paper hearts kids have to make. And, like, halfway through the week, the teacher remembers you have no mother and suggests you address yours to a grandmother or an aunt. You’ve been there, am I right?”

  “I should go home now.” She rooted through her bag for her keys. “My father wasn’t feeling well. I never should have left.”

  “You know, the school can probably recommend someone for you to talk to. There are ways you can get free therapy. I can get some information for you, if you want. I help out in the office now and then.”

  “I don’t need therapy, okay? Jesus.”

  “I’m just saying.” He leaned over the table. “And I’m always around if you ever want to talk.”

  She cast him a sardonic glance. “Or draw you nude?”

  “Should the need arise. The two are not mutually exclusive.”

  “I’m confused. Are you trying to hit on me or be my BFF?”

  His mouth twitched. “I appear to be striking out in the therapist-cum-friend arena. I might make more headway as a letch—at least that draws a smile. So I’m totally open at this point.”

  “Good to know. What else you got?”

  “That’s about it. The ’Quil, the gum remedy, the odd kindness-gone-ugly.”

  He pushed aside his empty bottle and sipped from hers. “Is it working even a little bit?”

  “No.”

  “Good. It’s a system that rarely fails me.” He shifted his weight and nearly fell off his stool. Righting himself, he said, “Whoa. Dizzy.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Not on one beer.” He leaned against the table, swaying. “I’m no lightweight. You should know that. Don’t want to scare you.”

  She pulled her bag from the floor and set it on her lap. “I’m really just hoping you don’t vomit in my purse at this point. Anything else would be a bonus.”

  He smiled, rocking back and forth. “I think you’re developing quite a thing for me.” He stood up and staggered to the right, reaching for the wall to stop himself from falling. “I’m going home before I say something you regret.”

  She pulled him back to the stool and leaned him on the table. “Adam, you’re completely plastered. How did you get here? Did you drive?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, you can’t drive home.”

  “I can. Car’s electric.”

  “Yeah, that helps. Do you have a friend we can call? A family member?”

  He laid his head on his arms and smiled, eyes closed. She liked the curvy line of his mouth, like a flattened-out W. “See? Already you want to meet my family.”

  Jesus. He was a mess. She reached into his backpack and pulled out the cold medicine. Right there on the bottle it said, MAY CAUSE MARKED DROWSINESS; ALCOHOL MAY INCREASE THE DROWSINESS EFFECT.

  No wonder he was wasted. She helped him to his feet and wiggled herself beneath one of his arms. “We’ve got to get you home before you pass out. Where do you live?”

  “On a futon in my divorced sister’s sunporch. If you can call that living.”

  “Address?”

  “It’s the house we grew up in. My sister and her ex bought it from my mother before she died. After the divorce, Wendy rented out my bedroom to a computer student who’s never home. Until I make it in New York and start sending home the bucks. And I will, believe you me.”

  “Adam, focus. What’s the address?”

  “3414 South Pomona.”

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “Geez.” He put his arm around her for support. “You got it real bad.”

  THE COOL NIGHT air sobered him enough that he was able to lift his weight off Lila’s shoulder and walk upright. Yawning and swaying, he followed her up a hilly side street.

  “You should come with me,” he called out. “My cousin has this third-floor walkup in Soho. She’s going to Europe for a year and said I can stay for free if I take care of her sphynx.”

  They entered a gravelly parking lot dotted with weeds, beer bottles, and chirping crickets. Lining the lot were a series of dejected storefronts: a variety store, a Laundromat, and a porn shop—all with barred windows.

  “What’s a sphynx?” she asked as they wound their way through the parked cars.

  “You know, those grayish-pink cats—all skinny with no hair?”

  She made a face.

  “I know. Scary-looking at first, but you get used to it.”

  “What’ll you do there—besides not brush the cat?”

  “There are zillions of little galleries everywhere. In New York, they’re way more open to new faces in the art scene. And if I can’t get signed to a gallery, I can still sell my stuff on the street. You just set up a little stand on Prince Street and watch all the tourists scramble for your work. That’s how my cousin made it. She does nothing but bare tree branches and she had them screened onto T-shirts. They sold so well, her oil paintings started to take off. ”

  “Cool.” She pulled out the keys to Victor’s car and opened the passenger-side door. “It’s my dad’s car, so promise you’ll shout if you get nauseous.”

  “You should come with me. We could be roommates.”

  She helped him lower himself down into the seat, covering his head so he didn’t concuss himself on the way in. Still, he bumped his forehead. “I’m thinking guzzling that stuff every day isn’t such a great idea,” she said. “Maybe you should switch to DayQuil.”

  He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. “Never. They put uppers in it. That’s the difference. Day-Quil makes your heart race.”

  She closed the door and went around the front of the car. When she climbed in, he was gone. She spun around to see him lying in the hatch area, knees touching the roof, staring up at the sky. “What are you doing back there?”

  “I need to lie flat. I swear to God I’ll hurl if I have to look out the window.”

  She started the car. “Okay, but keep your knees down. I’m not getting pulled over on top of everything else this week.”

  “What else happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, your mother. Right. Where was she all these years anyway?”

  “Don’t want to talk about it,” she sang.

  “Okay, pretty girl. It’s your wounded psyche.”

  The exit was partially blocked by a few poo
rly parked cars. Rather than risk scraping the Datsun, Lila drove toward the adjacent lot, which appeared to sit a bit lower down than the first. As she attempted to guide the Datsun down what she imagined in the dark to be a gentle paved slope, the front end of the car dropped from underneath her and landed with a great crash about two feet down, killing the engine and leaving her hanging forward from her seat belt toward the steering wheel. The car’s back end was stuck on the upper lot and both her feet were stamped down hard on the brake. “Oh my God! It was a total cliff!”

  Adam’s curled body had also slid forward and now rested against Lila’s seat back. He groaned.

  “What do I do now?” squealed Lila. “We’re stuck.”

  “I think I’m hurt. My nose is making clicking sounds.”

  “My dad is going to kill me.”

  Adam leaned closer and pushed against his nose. “Do you hear that?”

  She spun around and squinted. “Maybe you should stop poking it.”

  “Just check yours. See if it clicks.”

  “I’m a bit busy up here, Adam. What should I do? Let the back end drop? I have to, right? We can’t go backward.”

  “Why did I get in the car with you?” He was silent a moment, his fingers traveling across his face. “Wait…what?” He reached forward to adjust the rearview mirror. “Holy crap, my nose is totally bleeding. Take me to Cedars-Sinai. You broke my freaking nose!”

  “How was I to know this would happen? It’s dark out and where was the cement barrier? There’s supposed to be a barrier, right?”

  “It’s not that hard to spot. I can see—very clearly—this lot’s down in a ditch.”

  “Which is why you should be in the front seat instead of back there with the surgical gloves and cartons of specimen containers.”

  He pulled a few boxes closer and examined them. “Vaginal scopes? What the hell goes on back here?”