The Truth About Delilah Blue

by Tish Cohen

  Because of her artistic manipulation, because of her understanding that great stories had even greater resolutions with problems being solved, but not too solved, the confrontation would end with a glorious meal. Characters on the floor, barefoot, arms draped over knees in front of dirty plates and uncorked bottles of Shiraz. Laughing through tears. No one would mind the paper cups they drank from, or that Lila was underage—only that this crazy family had found a new way to be.

  “Yes,” Lila said with a sniff. “I can arrange it.”

  Kieran stomped into the room, tiny fists pressed into her sides, a look of fury on her face. She pointed at Lila. “This Delilah Blue person forgot all about me.”

  Lila jumped up. “I’m sorry! Let’s try again.”

  “No.”

  “This time I’ll stay focused, I swear.” She turned back to Elisabeth. “Do you mind…Mum?”

  Elisabeth’s face broke into a smile so wide she began to cry. She took a moment to fan her face and sigh before saying, “Oh, Delilah Blue. You’ve just given me the gift of a lifetime.”

  Lila grinned, turned to follow Kieran into the kitchen. Kieran checked to make sure her sister was behind her before turning her nose in the air. “It’s too late to play now. I have to make my lunch for school and finish with my milk carton.”

  “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

  “Amanda Iaello.” Kieran shook out any remaining drips and wrapped her carton in the tea towel. “This was very hard to find.”

  “What?”

  She held it up for Lila to see. The girl on the milk carton. “Missing: Amanda Iaello. Age: eleven. Height: five-footone. Weight: ninety-six pounds. Last seen wearing a yellow dress and sneakers.” She looked up at Lila. “There are only two milk companies in California that still put kids on cartons, so we have to shop at certain stores.”

  Lila looked at Elisabeth, who had just padded into the room. “She’s keeping that?”

  Her mother shrugged. “Show Delilah your friends, Kiki.”

  Kieran motioned for her sister to follow. The room itself was nothing special. Pale green walls with a vinyl blind. Worn-out carpeting. Sprayed stucco ceiling. No baseboards to speak of. Single bed dressed with sheets undoubtedly made of 100 percent cotton, and two rows of stuffed animals. But on the wall beside the bed was a huge corkboard nearly covered in the faces of missing children cut from milk cartons. Out of four rows of faces, some smiling, some not, two were x-ed out.

  Michael William Lee.

  Christiana del Toro.

  Steff Johnston.

  Lindie Suzanne Wyatt-Kress. X.

  Joanna Vicenze.

  Marsha Elena Jane Gillott.

  Frederick and Jackson Burroughs.

  Delilah Blue Lovett. X.

  It was the most heartbreaking display imaginable for a child. Lila sat on the foot of the bed and stared at the wall.

  “Jesus, Kieran. Look at them all.”

  “Forty-three. Minus two.”

  “Lindie was found too?”

  Kieran nodded sadly.

  “Alive?”

  The child turned away to adjust the blind. “No.”

  “Why do you do this, Kieran?”

  She ignored the question and climbed across her plush toys to point to an empty spot on the board. “This is where I’m going to put Amanda.”

  Lila reached out and poked her sister playfully in the side. “Ever think of collecting stamps instead?”

  The child looked at her as if she’d suggested sleeping on the roof. “What would I want with a bunch of stupid stamps?”

  SEPTEMBER 16, 1996

  It was just over a week after Delilah drank the backwash at the cowboy bar back in Toronto. The house was strangely quiet, nothing but the dryer whirring and ticking from her mother’s studio at the back of the house. She began to wonder if racing down the street ahead of the other kids after school had been such a good idea. She despised being alone in the house, especially today. Something creaked in the next room.

  “Mum?” she whispered, hardly daring to breathe. She reached for a fire poker, held it up like a sword, and tiptoed toward the kitchen. “Mummy?”

  Footsteps. Then a sharp clatter, followed by Elisabeth rounding the corner and nearly tripping over her. “My word, you scared me to death!” shrieked her mother, clutching her chest. “What are you doing, sneaking around with a fire poker? Planning to murder someone?”

  “No. I was just…”

  “You should feel my heart pounding.”

  “It was Stranger Danger Day at school.”

  “Ah.” Elisabeth pried the poker out of Delilah’s hand and set it back against the fireplace. “I can see they frightened you kids to pieces.”

  Delilah rubbed soot on her jeans.

  “Well? What did they tell you?”

  She held the pamphlet behind her back. It had been big news at school, but here? She wasn’t sure. “Last week they made us all do drawings of strangers,” she padded into the kitchen behind her mother and pulled a chocolate cookie out of the tin on the counter. Perching herself on her knees on top of a red vinyl chair, she bit into her cookie, sending crumbs chattering across the table. “It was for this art contest. The best drawing wins and gets on the cover of the stranger booklet. Today they passed out the books and guess whose drawing was on the cover?”

  “Whose?” said Elisabeth, eying her daughter with a sly smile.

  “Mine!” Delilah held up her winning cover art: an exquisitely detailed rendering of a green monster in a trench coat. Crimped hairs sprung from sinewy legs, polyps and moles decorated sausage fingers, claws stabbed through the toes of great black galoshes. His nose resembled a tent unwisely perched on top of a precipice, and all four coat pockets bulged with gadgetry an ill-intended stranger might consider fundamental: candy, skipping rope, squirming puppies, smiling princess dolls. Skulking behind the monster was an unmarked van, its side door yawning open like a hungry mouth.

  “This is wonderful. They actually picked your drawing?”

  “Yup.”

  “And the teacher didn’t help you with it?”

  “Nope. Not one bit. I gave my stranger regular ears because Mr. Meade said strangers might look like everyday people.” Delilah held her breath as her mother studied it. It was her best drawing ever, she was fairly certain. When Mrs. Bonet, the principal, made the announcement that she’d won, she’d said the winner was “South Toronto Public School’s premier artist, Delilah Lovett.”

  “You really are a very talented girl. I hope you told them your mother is an artist?”

  “Um.” She scratched the side of her nose. Her mother didn’t actually sell her work. Delilah wasn’t sure it qualified as a job. “I don’t know. I might have forgot.”

  Elisabeth jerked back, staring at her daughter as if she no longer recognized her. “It would have been the first thing out of my mouth if I were you. Shows you come by your talent honestly. Plus I would think you’d be proud.”

  “I am. I’m going to tell them tomorrow.”

  “No. Don’t. Telling them tomorrow would be weird. Like I told you to say it.”

  “You didn’t. I’ll say you didn’t.”

  “That would be worse.”

  “Do you like it?” It didn’t really matter what a second grader thought, or the principal. The only opinion she really cared about was the one she was about to hear.

  “Let’s see.” Elisabeth sat beside her daughter at the kitchen table where a cup of tea and a cigarette awaited. “Your artwork is certainly advanced. Adult even.” She took a thoughtful drag, blew the smoke toward the open window beside her, then pointed toward the outside of the monster’s calves. “But if you look at this, the peroneus longus muscle here, there are slight flaws.”

  Delilah felt the smile slide off her face. No one at school had mentioned flaws.

  “You see how you’ve shaded the outside edge of the muscle? That’s fine—you’re learning how to make things round, how to give them dimensi
on. But your figure has one foot flexed. One day, when you know more about the body’s structure, you’ll understand that this muscle here should be bulging because it’s at work—it’s actually pulling the foot upward. We need our shading to reflect this effort. But you don’t need to worry about that yet.” She turned to her daughter, who hid clenched fists. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Did I upset you?”

  “No.”

  Elisabeth rubbed her arm. “It’s called constructive criticism, sweetie. That’s when someone gives you an honest evaluation. One you can really learn from. And that’s far more valuable than empty praise, believe me. You’re old enough to understand, aren’t you?”

  Delilah nodded, watching as her mother opened up the booklet and began flipping through the pages, sipping her tea and commenting on various bits of stranger advice. Asking questions. Delilah wasn’t really listening, busy as she was chewing on the inside of her cheek and swallowing the blood pooling on her tongue, wondering how on earth a mother could know so much about monster muscles. And whether it wasn’t just a little bit possible for monster muscles to behave differently from human muscles.

  Delilah swung her feet from the kitchen chair, letting them hit the table legs in the same beat as the ticktock of the wall clock above her mother’s head.

  “There’s some decent advice in this booklet,” said Elisabeth. “Most of it is over the top, but it does say we should come up with a secret code for you, one that only we know. So if anyone tries to pick you up from school, you’ll know you’re only allowed to go if they know your code.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Delilah.

  Elisabeth reached behind her to the windowsill and stubbed out her cigarette, waving the smoke out the window. “Like if I were to send a friend to pick you up, you’d know it was okay to leave with that person if she had your secret code. It would mean I gave it to her. Should we pick one? Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  “Okay.” Delilah glanced around the room.

  “Cookie.”

  “Too boring.”

  “How about windowsill? Or clock?”

  Elisabeth pulled Delilah onto her lap. “I think it should be more special. More distinctive.” She tapped the calendar hanging beside the phone. It was a glossy, oversize calendar featuring French Impressionist paintings. September’s masterpiece was Paul Cézanne’s Three Bathers, depicting a group of female nudes in a landscape the artist painted in 1875. “Cézanne,” said Elisabeth. “No, let’s make it two artists. My two favorites. Your secret code will be Monet and Cézanne.”

  Delilah slid off Elisabeth’s lap and crinkled her nose, unsure. “Monie and Cézanne?”

  “Mon-et and Cézanne.” She stood up and dumped her tea in the sink. “So we’re all set then. Delilah Blue Lovett, what is your top secret code?”

  Delilah snatched up her stranger booklet and, holding it under the table, tore off the cover and crinkled it into a ball.

  “Sweetheart, what’s your secret code?”

  She stuffed the crumpled drawing under her leg.

  “Monie and Cézanne.”

  Elisabeth laughed and ran her hand over her daughter’s forehead. “That’s okay. You’ll get it with a little practice.” She pulled a pizza from the freezer and set it on the counter with a clunk. “Just remember—don’t tell a soul, not even your father. Monet and Cézanne will be our little secret. It’ll keep you where you belong. With me.”

  Twenty-Two

  It was mid-October, three days before Lila’s portfolio was due. Adam had removed his black glasses for the occasion, left them dangling in the pocket of his shirt—which Lila had not permitted him to take off in spite of his willingness to bare his chest in the middle of Willett Greens, a miniature neighborhood green space that consisted of a couple of benches, a trash can, a water fountain that didn’t work, and a rusted swing set. She had, however, allowed his sleeves to be pushed up, providing full exposure of surprisingly brawny forearms. Adam stood on the grass, shaded by a large oak tree, with bare feet spread apart and hands held low, in front of his hips, fingers splayed open to show white palms.

  “I’ve been thinking about your situation,” he said over the sound of a car backfiring on the street behind her.

  Perched on a collapsible stool, she balanced the art board between her knees and sharpened a pencil with her Swiss Army knife. “You have, have you?”

  “You know, with your mom. And your dad. What he did.”

  “She wants to call in the police. I keep stalling her because he won’t tell me what went on. But she won’t wait forever, you know? And I do get that.” She over-sharpened, breaking off the tip, and started all over again.

  “Maybe he’s not answering you because he’s trying to spare you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You have proceed carefully. You have to ask yourself if you really want to know what went down.” He reached up to swat an insect from his face. “I mean, if I were raped by a pack of French-Alpine goats as an infant, I don’t think I need to know.”

  “I’m pretty certain I wasn’t raped by any French-Alpine goats.”

  He shrugged and said in a high-pitched voice, “Okay.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that it’s your life. Your head in the sand.”

  “Actually, the head in the sand would be yours. I would be operating with full disclosure. I would know all about the goats. Anyway, I’ve set up a family meeting. She’s coming to the house. They’re going to talk. Or scream and yell and pull out knives. But no matter what happens, it’s good. I’m going to find out what happened.”

  “That’s major. Are you nervous?”

  “Not bad.”

  “I’d be nervous.”

  “Yeah, well. Both of them will be there, explaining everything. Even if they fight, as far as I’m concerned, it can only help.”

  “Sounds like a good time.” Whistling softly, he allowed his eyes to follow a couple of kids racing toward the fountain while their nannies followed with plastic wagons.

  “Right now the whole thing’s so confusing. I mean, you think you know your life. It might suck, but at least you recognize it. Then…” Dropping the board to the grass, she leaned her elbows onto her knees. “I can’t draw today. This scholarship thing, who am I kidding? It’s not going to happen.”

  He didn’t break his pose. “It’s my fault. Forget the goats. As far as I know, there is no documented case of gang rape by Alpine goats, at least not in North America. So you’re good there.”

  She allowed herself a smile.

  “So here’s what you do. If you want this piece of art to really sing, and I believe you do, you want to zero in on the soul in my pose.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “Figure out where the enchantment lies.”

  Lila picked up her board, tilted her head and stared at it, trying to ascertain whether she’d shaded properly beneath the brow bones. They didn’t look right. When she was finished with the highlight, she set the board on the grass and stood back. Scowling, she dropped back onto her stool. “I’m not seeing it today. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You’re thinking I should remove my pants aren’t you? Right here in the park.”

  “I am not thinking about your pants.”

  Starting to unbuckle, he said, “I’ll do it. In the name of your future.”

  “No! Do not drop your pants in the park!” She started to laugh. “There are children.”

  He unzipped, grinning and swaying his hips. “Don’t think I won’t—”

  “Adam? Is that you?” a female voice called from behind Lila.

  She spun around to see a tall woman with short blond hair being ruffled by the wind. She wore slim pants and a girlish blouse, with expensive-looking tan sandals. Pushing her sunglasses up onto her head, she revealed enormous brown eyes that tilted up at the corners. Eyelashes so long they could have been, but likely weren’t, fake. A guy walked up to her, laid his arm
over her shoulder.

  Adam’s face flushed red. “Nikki. Hey. How’re you doing?”

  She nodded, looked at the guy. “I’m good. We’re good.” Nikki turned to Lila with raised brows. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

  “This is Lila. Lila, Nikki.”

  When Nikki greeted her, Lila tried to reciprocate but her words came out as silence. Who could speak when confronted by such a whole person. Lila had never encountered someone who exuded such wholeness in her life. Nikki was an oasis to the mirage that was Lila.

  Adam looked at Nikki’s friend. “Bruce, right? Or is it Brice?”

  Bruce or Brice was not impressed. He puffed up his mint green–striped chest. “It’s Bruce.”

  “Right. Right.” Adam quickly zipped and buckled, embarrassed. “This wasn’t what it looked like. I was just posing and started goofing around.” When neither Bruce nor Nikki spoke, Adam cleared his throat. “Lila’s putting together a portfolio for a scholarship and, well, you remember, Nik. Sometimes the work doesn’t come and you need a distraction. It’s not a thing like accounting or whatever. Where the numbers are numbers, and whatever just blew apart in your life they’re still going to be the same crappy numbers and you just add them up. Art takes advantage when you’re down. Doesn’t cooperate and then you really feel like shit. Some people say it’s therapeutic—and it can be, don’t get me wrong—but other times it just kicks you in the groin—”

  “Right. I bet.” Nikki stepped backward as if Adam might be contagious. “We’re actually headed to lunch. Meeting some friends and Bruce only has an hour.” She looked at Lila and shot her a sweet smile. “Good luck with the scholarship.”