The Truth About Delilah Blue
Page 16
“Anyway, I wasn’t feeling great—some kind of stomach bug—and I left school early. Only I couldn’t get into the apartment. Door was locked from the inside. Then I saw the tasseled loafers beside her sandals on the mat in the hallway. She was tidy like that; didn’t want ‘the streets of Los Angeles’ on her kitchen floor. I knocked and knocked, but she couldn’t hear me.” He paused to lay a sheet of paper over Nikki’s nipples, then looked up. “The AC unit is in the bedroom. You can’t hear the front door from there.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. I moved out that night and he moved in three weeks later.”
Together, they taped down the last sheet of paper and he asked if she would help haul the painting to the front door. As they shuffled along the dim hallway, straining under the weight, Lila asked, “Do you love her still?”
He kicked the front door open with his foot and they set the enormous parcel down on the porch, leaned it against the house. “I’d cut off my hands to have her back.” Dropping onto the porch rail, he folded his arms across his chest and stared at Lila. “I told you mine—you tell me yours.”
Behind him, at the edge of the yard, was a rock garden. Cheery black-eyed Susans and pulpy sedum sprung up in clusters around large stones. The garden had just been watered; a hose lay limp on the dried-out lawn and the flower heads were still heavy with shining droplets. At the flowers’ feet, beside the hose, lay a hefty pile of freshly pulled weeds. There was an old sign on the fence behind the garden, partially obscured by a shrub that had grown through the pickets from the neighbor’s side. She leaned to the right and saw it read DEEDEE’S GARDEN.
Lila thought back to Adam’s mud-stained pajama bottoms.
Even in his state, he’d been tending his mother’s garden.
Because a child without a mother hangs on to whatever remains. The spiky armor of the weeds might puncture your flesh, the hair dye might sting your scalp, but that wasn’t real pain. It was proof your mother used to exist, and amounted to nothing compared to her absence. A paper cut versus a severed limb.
She reached for his hand and turned it over. His palm was scratched and dotted with tiny red sores. Barely making contact with his skin, she traced around his wounds with her finger, then took a tissue from her pocket and pressed it over the cuts.
“Did you wash these out?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes the prickles get in beneath the surface. You have to scrub them good.”
He nodded.
Still holding his hand, she pulled him down to the welcome mat where she arranged herself in front of him, cross-legged, her knees nearly touching his. With her eyes cast down at her scribbled boots, she told him. About the move. About the barbershop. About growing up believing her mother didn’t want her. Learning she did. Her father’s refusal to explain the abduction.
As Lila spoke, she felt herself lighten. The sensation was dramatic. As if she were being bled of the murky, leaden fluid, the liquid wretchedness, that had weighed her down far too long, and now her body could take flight. Levitate into the air, as if wearing her fairy wings again, and get tangled in the overhead branches. She found herself grasping Adam’s bare foot, lest the weightlessness take her away from his soft presence for even a second.
Finally, she stopped speaking and looked up. His eyes were still bloodshot, but the brightness of the sky and the whiteness of his shirt made the pattern of his irises as clear and intricate as kaleidoscopes. It was impossible to look away.
She wasn’t sure what to expect from him—maybe a lame joke to cut the tension or maybe the requisite platitudes. Something like, “It’ll all work itself out. You’ll see.” Perhaps a bit of wondering out loud about what kind of person her father might be or insistence that he was sorry for what she was going through.
But Adam did none of these things. To her relief, he placed his hands on either side of her face, pressed his forehead to hers, and said nothing at all.
Twenty
The trouble with California was that it wasn’t level. Victor stood back, squinting into the early-October glare, and evaluated his progress. Ten wooden posts, the kind you’d use to stake your tomatoes, stared back at him, arranged in a largish, sloped rectangle beneath a shade tree. It hadn’t been easy to hammer them into the rain-starved hillside, that was for bloody certain. Like spearing a boulder with a toothpick. He’d never built a fence before, but the plan was to set up the posts, join them with horizontal slats, then wrap the interior with chicken wire. Problem was, in trying to find a good place to sink his posts on the downward incline, he’d set some of them too far apart. His slats were too short to reach from one post to the next.
After repositioning the errant posts and affixing the slats, after testing the entire structure for strength, after installing his rudimentary gate, Victor leaned over, careful to press his tie to his shirt, and dug through his toolbox for his staple gun. Assured it was loaded, he took the roll of wire and stapled it to his first post. Nasty business, he soon discovered. The force of the staple gun dislodged a few of his stakes, and the edge of the chicken wire cut into his hands. Besides that, tiny jagged rocks and tough scrubby grass dug into his knees.
Some forty-five minutes later, he stood up, wiped off his trousers, and blotted his brow with his tie. It was an ancient Pierre Cardin with a herringbone pattern he’d never liked anyway. Made him dizzy. His white shirt clung to his wet back, and he desperately needed a glass of water. But, looking down upon his handiwork, he felt a rush of pride. The thigh-high pen might be a bit crude in its craftsmanship, and it might be lacking in finishing touches like fence caps and a gate that actually hung straight, but it would serve its purpose. It would keep a dog in and, with any luck, predators out.
He was ready. He’d called to check what day the manager was off. Fridays. And now that he knew what was expected of him—a little charade where he pretends to debate his commitment to raising a pet—now that he had a safe pen, he shouldn’t have any problem heading back down the road and bringing home his puppy.
But not today. Had to be a Friday.
A flash of movement next door caught his eye. Someone, a woman, was bent over a table in the backyard. He’d never seen her before. Must be the new neighbor. Nothing too stylish about her bare feet, sleeveless tan blouse, and garish-looking skirt.
She marched toward the back door, vanished for a bit, then came back out with what appeared to be a plate of food. She set it down on the table and peered out at the scrubby hillside as if a few dozen dinner guests might be hidden in the prickly brush. Once or twice she paused to adjust her visor or swat away a fly, but mainly she remained focused on the vegetation.
There was something commanding about her movements that attracted him. Made him picture her fussing over the dinner table at Thanksgiving, good-naturedly slapping at little hands—or big ones—that reached out to grab a sliver of hot turkey. The image made him smile.
She sighed and removed her visor, tossing it on the table. Then, as if someone might be watching, she ran one hand over her smooth brown hair, held back by a clip.
Victor frowned, picking his way across his property to get a better look. Could it be? He climbed the weedy knoll that led up to her yard, careful to lean over and brace himself against the ground as he went. As he got closer, he broke into a smile.
Gen.
Hiding himself behind a screen of dying tree trunks, Victor gave himself a good dusting off. He tucked in his shirt and rolled his sleeves up to hide the dirt stains, then spat in one hand and ran it over his trim beard. With pounding heart, he steadied himself and tried to think of what to say. Comment on her new home, perhaps. Or ask about things back at…what was the name of that place?
He could see through the twigs that she was leaned over now, making kissing sounds and waving something in the air. He stepped out of the brush and onto the edge of her yard, stopping for a moment to pick a handful of yellow wildflowers swaying at his feet. As he gathered them into a pleasing arran
gement, he saw an animal emerge from the
bushes.
It was a coyote.
Victor stepped forward, “Watch it there!”
Without turning, she shushed him. “Quiet! You’ll scare him.” She got down on one knee and held out what appeared to be a steak bone. Kiss kiss went her lips.
He watched as the coyote—the scrappy one who got into everyone’s trash, his back grizzled with silver as if he were part of the dusty earth, his nose too small and his ears too large—wove back and forth in an effort to get close to the meat without getting close to the woman. He kept his black-tipped tail low against his hocks as if anticipating disaster.
“I think you should get inside,” said Victor. “That’s a wild animal.”
“Shh!”
The coyote stepped into the yard now, slinking lower as if crawling beneath a city bus. As thin as he was, his coat gleamed with health. His yellow eyes were intent on the offering as he inched closer, lost his nerve and raced back to the bush, then crept close again.
“Here, sweet thing,” said Gen. “Come baby.” Without taking her eyes off the animal, she called out, “Justin, you getting this?”
“Yeah.”
It wasn’t until now Victor noticed a teenage boy on the back deck. He stood perfectly still with a camera pointed toward his mother.
Kiss kiss.
The coyote stopped to consider things, planting his front feet wide and bobbing his head side to side. Then, in a movement so fast Victor barely saw it happen, the coyote darted close, snatched the steak, and loped up the hill and into the brush. The back door slammed shut and the boy and the camera were gone.
The woman spun around, smiling at Victor. “Did you see? What a beautiful animal!”
Staring at the close-set brown eyes, the upturned nose, the chin so sharp it threatened to pierce the skin, Victor’s spirits sank. This wasn’t Gen at all. Not even close. A blue jay cried from somewhere behind him, and he realized it was his turn to speak.
Instead, Victor started back to his own yard. He threw down the flowers and called back. “You might want to clear away the dead brush at the edge of your property. It’s a goddamned fire hazard.”
THE PHONE WAS ringing when he stepped into the kitchen where Lila sat eating tuna salad, scraping the metal bowl with her fork as she scooped up each mouthful. He shot her a look that reprimanded her for not jumping up to answer it—blasted thing hung on the wall just above her head—and she motioned toward her food. Victor snatched up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Is this Victor Mack?”
“It is.”
“Bob Rittenberg here from Air King Heating and Cooling. I’m calling about the résumé you sent in.”
Lila’s boot began tapping against the table leg. Victor nudged her, pointed toward the phone, and held a finger to his lips to shush her. “Oh, yes.”
“Are you free to come in for an interview? We’re looking for a senior sales rep for the Valley and you seem to have a good deal of experience.”
“Senior sales rep you say?”
“That’s right. I’m going out of town for a few weeks, but does two o’clock on the thirtieth work for you?”
“Just a minute, let me check.” Victor pressed the receiver to his stomach and waited a full minute before returning it to his ear. “No. I don’t think I can make it.” He didn’t need to look up. He felt his daughter’s shocked stare boring through the back of his head.
“Oh. Okay then. We have a district meeting on Monday, so that’s out. What about the Tuesday following? The seventh.”
“I don’t think so. But thank you for your interest.” He hung up the phone and leaned against the wall.
“They had a job for you?”
“They did.”
“And you turned it down?”
“I did.”
“Is there something wrong with this employer? Like they pay their staff in mittens? Or their units are built by seven-year-olds chained to fire hydrants in Pasadena?”
“Air King is a perfectly reputable outfit. I am simply choosing not to go back to work, that’s all. I choose to retire.”
Lila took a long sip of water, then took her dishes to the sink. “Is this another episode of confusion I should be concerned about? Because I’m not sure the financial arithmetic adds up.”
“Adds up fine.”
“Because I might not always be around, you know. You can’t count on me to support us forever.”
Victor couldn’t help it. The laugh snuck out. “You finding eventual employment and paying for me in my elder years is not part of my plan, rest assured, my darling Mouse.”
She appeared to mull this over. “I might not even live anywhere close. Just so you know. I could wind up with a cat, living in New York.”
“I wouldn’t advise that. Cat hair is inexorable the way it drifts through the air and works its way into everything. It will demonize these paintings you refuse to show me.”
“They have hairless cats just like they have barkless dogs, and I’ll show you a painting. Eventually.”
“Yes, well. It’s the eventually that has me worried. Time passes very quickly and before you know it, everyone your age will have degrees and careers. They’ll pass you by and you’ll have no real marketable skills. Believe me, I’ve seen it. And your future—”
“My future?” She shook her head, incredulous. “I don’t even have a real past, or a real name—how do you expect me to build myself a future?”
“What are you talking about? You have a name.”
“A legal name!”
He sucked on the side of his cheek. “It’s legal enough.”
She laughed angrily. “Is that what you told yourself when we boarded the plane? That it was legal enough?”
“Don’t get glib with me on this. I told you I had my reasons. Is it so impossible to believe I knew what I was doing? That it was for your own good? My God, does everything have to be opened up and examined to death in this world today? Can you not just trust me on this?”
With an exhausted sigh, she dropped her bowl in the sink and stared down at it. “I’m trying—really trying—to be patient here. What I’m asking for is perfectly reasonable. I want your side of the story so I don’t wind up hating you for what you did. Mum can’t believe the way you’re…” Lila stopped. Victor’s face had drained of its color and he bent forward, leaning on the vinyl chair for support. “What’s wrong, Dad?”
“You’ve spoken to your mother?”
Lila spoke slowly. “Yes. I told you. Mum’s here in L.A. I saw her the other day, remember?”
“This day…I knew it would come.”
She watched as he rubbed his jaw, trying to pick his way through the plaque building in his mind. As angry as she was, the confused expression on his face—a look that was appearing more and more frequently—made her feel like weeping for him.
“Dad, you need to see a doctor.”
He stared at her. “No doctors.”
“But—”
“No doctors!”
His eyes weren’t the same when he vanished from his own mind. They became the eyes of an old man. They opened too wide in an effort to see through the neurosludge and, in doing so, exposed spidery veins creeping toward the irises. Pink rims. Water that threatened to spill onto his cheeks, perhaps from tear ducts that burst from such desperate attempts to see life clearly again. The glaring light overhead revealed the skin beneath his eyelids to be papery and transparent. Bloated blisters beneath his eyes. His existence had never seemed so fleeting.
As he crossed the room to pull open the curtain, then peer outside and look for the cops, just as he’d done the other day, she walked up behind him, wrapped her arms around his middle, laid her head on his shoulder, and squeezed him with equal parts fury, frustration, and sadness.
God, she was a selfish bitch for what she was thinking.
This gunk that was cruelly coating his brain was not only stealing away her father. If the tru
th about her past didn’t come out soon, it too would be gone forever.
Twenty-One
The end of California summer stretched itself across the early days of October. The hills were baked to brown in most parts, scarred with dusty trails and clogged with bushes so parched they snapped from the stirring of a sparrow’s wings. With any luck, if the fires that raged in areas surrounding the city didn’t get too greedy, if the Santa Ana winds behaved, if the temperatures cooled down; the hills overlooking L.A. would soon be woken up, slapped on the cheek by their longawaited friend—the winter rain. Soon, paper-thin blades of grass, in Veronese green no less, would work their way through the trampled tangle of baked straw that covered the hills and the state would once again be rioted with life.
Her mother had been back in her life nearly a week; it had been the best and the worst seven days of Lila’s life. Heaven to luxuriate in having a mother again. Hell to deal with Victor at home while coming up with excuses for his silence. As long as Elisabeth believed the conversation between Lila and Victor was about to happen, she was willing to wait. But the moment she realized her ex-husband-turnedchild-abductor was refusing to cooperate would be the moment she dialed 911. The excuses Lila had come up with had grown from reasonable (Dad wasn’t home last night) to downright lame (Dad had a bad day; he’s feeling a bit fuzzy just now).
Walking along Melrose Avenue, Elisabeth and Lila listened to the sky—usually sleek and silent and blanched to near white, but now dingy brown and cramped with bloat—grumble and belch overhead. It was the way Lila loved the rains to come on, with threats and warnings and days of false starts.
“I hope you didn’t mind me stealing away your afternoon,” said Elisabeth as she folded up her sunglasses and tucked them into her canvas bag. “It’s just that it’s been so long, you know? I didn’t realize how much I adored waiting for you outside your school until it was gone. Little things like that are the things that really get you.”
Lila hadn’t touched her mother yet. She’d allowed herself to be touched, hugged, but hadn’t had the nerve to reciprocate. Now, seeing the look on Elisabeth’s face, she reached over and stroked her mother’s cool brown shoulder. It was like touching lightning. Elisabeth looked up. It startled her too.