Innocent Little Crimes

by C. S. Lakin

  “Then why do this to yourself? Why don’t we head directly to the island?”

  “Hey, what kind of daughter would be this close by and not stop for a quick hello?” Her smile turned into a grimace. “Besides, my parents are such a riot. Who knows—they might inspire yet another comedy routine. Which may have something to do with their continual inhospitality.”

  Lila looked over at the hostess scurrying around the room. The dark-suited businessmen resumed shooting photos. “Hey, lady, where’s my damn drink?”

  Lila had the limo driver park around the corner from where her parents lived on a quiet, tree-lined street in the bedroom community of Tumwater, outside of Olympia. For forty years they had stayed in the same gray box of a house. The paint had long since peeled and hung in shreds from the siding. Rusted gutters dangled precariously. The steps to the front door warped. Their lone spruce was the only dead tree on the block.

  Lila grumbled as the driver helped her out of the car.

  “Excuse me, Miss Carmichael?”

  “Wait here. I surely won’t be gone long.”

  Each time she came back to Olympia she realized how much she missed the wildlife refuge at Nisqually, the Sound, and picking blackberries in Watershed Park. But she could count the good memories on three fingers of one hand. Innumerable bad ones were contained in the house in front of her. And she certainly didn’t miss the rancid smell of beer hops that pervaded the air when the wind was right—or wrong—depending on your point of view.

  Lila’s arms overflowed with roses that barely hid her shaking hands. After steadying herself, she rang the bell. Her mother answered the door, but Lila caught a glimpse of her father as he squinted through the blinds in the front room, then shut them. Lila forced a smile.

  “Mom, hi.” She tried to thrust the bouquet at her mother, but the woman’s hands flew up, resisting the offering as if it would burst into flames. Lila took note of the familiar attire—the drab dress, the scarf restraining her hair, the loose pantyhose sagging around her ankles. Quickly closing the door behind her, her mother stood on the steps, shaking her head spasmodically.

  “So, Mom. How are you and Dad?”

  Darla Carmichael spoke in a hushed, hurried voice. “What is this dropping in on us without notice? Your father is home. You know what he told you the last time.”

  “Hey, Mom, I’m just passing through. And I knew if I called first, you’d be sure to be out or sick or something.” Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the neighbor across the street step out on her porch and, upon recognizing Lila, rush back inside. The circus had begun.

  The Carmichaels’ front door flew open. Lila’s father loomed in the threshold. Squat and hefty, George Carmichael’s presence was imposing as ever. His strong, square face sported a bulbous nose, and a shock of black hair hung over his forehead. Lila had the softer features of her mother and her mother’s red hair, but wasn’t spared her father’s eyes and heavy eyebrows.

  The Reverend scowled. He glared at Lila’s clothes and makeup, summing up everything he felt about his daughter in one expression of disgust. The only expression Lila ever got from him.

  “Hi Dad,” she said, plunging into the abyss. “Hey, you look great. How ’bout I come in for a few minutes? I brought you some mementos from Hollywood. Mom, I know how much you love ‘Days of our Lives.’ ”

  Her father shoved his hand out, inches from her face. “You know you are not welcome in this home.” He cast an angry look around at the small clusters of his whispering neighbors who had suddenly appeared on the sidewalk in front of their homes. “I don’t want a spectacle here, so leave!”

  “Oh, come now, Dad. Aren’t you going to invite your own daughter in?” A stickiness spread in her armpits and sweat dripped down her sides. She shifted the bulky bouquet to her other arm.

  “Young lady, I will remind you what Saint Paul said to the Romans: ‘And since they did not see fit to acknowledge God, God gave them up to a base mind and to improper conduct. They were filled with all manner of wickedness, evil, covetousness—’ ”

  Lila joined in sing-song with her father, “ ‘—malice. Full of envy, murder, strife . . .’ ”

  The Reverend waited for Lila to stop talking. Then he bellowed. “ ‘Disobedient to parents, foolish, faithless. They know God’s decree that those who do such things deserve to die.’ ” He shoved the words into Lila’s face. “We all must appear before the judgment seat of Christ, young lady, ‘so that each one may receive good or evil according to what he has done in the body.’ I’m through listening to your blasphemy.” George Carmichael’s face and neck flushed red. His nostrils flared like an impatient horse.

  By this time, the crowd lining the sidewalk began to resemble a minor congregation, gathered around the small wooden podium of her father’s doorstep. Someone waved a sheet of paper in the air. “Hey, Lila, how about an autograph?”

  Lila tried to focus. “Fine, Dad. I was only paying a friendly visit. But remember, your beloved apostle Paul in Hebrews said not to neglect showing hospitality, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

  “How dare you quote Scripture to me, young lady. You use Scripture to fit your whim, like Satan when he tested our Lord Jesus . . .”

  Darla Carmichael placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder, separating him from Lila with her short, stocky body. She looked at Lila with that familiar fearful expression. Lila could only guess what tirade would follow behind that closed door.

  “Please, daughter, go. Your father’s blood pressure is up. He doesn’t need this aggravation.”

  Lila sighed. She observed her mother’s fierce control, developed from living with this man for forty years. Lila didn’t know whether to hate or pity the woman.

  “Don’t say I didn’t try,” she said, turning to walk down the street. George Carmichael disappeared into the house. Lila ignored the faceless people who flanked her as she hurried down the block, her skirts dragging on the sidewalk. Their babble was bee buzzings in her ears.

  She called back to where her mother stood, biting at her cuticles. “ ‘Love bears all things, hopes all things . . .’ ”

  Her mother hurried inside. As Lila rounded the corner to the parked limo, she found Peter pacing at the curb. She turned and yelled back, knowing the whole neighborhood was listening by now.

  “’A slave of the lord does not need to fight, but needs to be gentle toward all, keeping restrained under evil.’ ” Lila smirked. “So there.”

  She tossed the bouquet of roses onto the nearby manicured lawn and flounced into the limo. As they drove off, she watched through the tinted window as a flurry of bodies fought over the trampled flowers.

  Chapter 7

  Della looked nervously around the Annacortes ferry terminal lounge for a familiar face. Finding none, she panicked and pulled out the wrinkled and water-stained invitation. She reread the words for the twentieth time. It was the correct date, but where was everyone? She slumped into a chair in the corner of the room, but as soon as she sat down, she rose and paced the floor. After buying a cup of coffee at the snack stand, she reached into her bulging shoulder bag and rummaged through the bottles of prescription medication. She washed three pills down with the lukewarm coffee.

  Looking out the large windows, she saw cars lining up in the marked lanes, but the traffic was light on this stormy spring day. The mountain peaks were capped with snow and Puget Sound spread out before her in a dazzle. Water sparkled and rippled, reflecting the clouds passing overhead. Della felt out of place in the midst of the beauty surrounding her. She had taken a shuttle from the airport to the ferry as soon as she deplaned and was now feeling the jet lag compound her lethargy. The airplane food combined with three martinis didn’t sit well in her stomach, either. She hurried to the ladies’ room. She had spent most of the plane trip in the claustrophobic bathroom, crouched miserably on the cold, smelly floor next to the toilet. And now she was on another cold bathroom floor, waiting for her heaving to subside.
All she could think about was her meager belongings, packed in boxes and stacked in the corner of her “maid’s room” in her brother’s apartment.

  After she had gotten out of the hospital, Margaret and Edward hardly spoke to her; they just waited for her to get better. When it was time to leave for her class reunion, Edward watched her pack, handing her a one way ticket for Seattle and an envelope with four hundred dollars in cash. He told her that was the last of his generosity. When she tried to explain she had nowhere to go afterward, he wasn’t interested. She was on her own and he didn’t want to hear from her. Ever again.

  So, fine, keep your stinking little place in Brooklyn. The only difficult thing was leaving Daniel, her shrink. He had even urged her to stay in New York, almost begged her. Well, at least that’s how it sounded to Della. But she noticed he never suggested she move in with him. She hinted she would be a real asset to have around. She could do his paperwork, type letters, cook dinner. No strings. But wouldn’t even consider it. At least he was willing to keep her cat. Poor Princess!

  She felt nothing inside for Daniel now. In fact, she felt nothing inside for anything or anyone. She knew she had to start over, somewhere. Not one lousy friend in that foul city offered to put her up. Lila was her last chance. She knew she was hoping against all hope, that Lila would give her a job, any job—any menial, demeaning job—just as long as she’d give her a roof over her head. But Della steeled herself to ask. What other alternative did she have?

  Della got up off the floor and washed her face in the sink. She brushed her hair, touched up her makeup, and felt barely human. She tugged at her long-sleeved blouse, making sure it covered the marks on her wrists. The damp weather made her hands achy and stiff.

  As she walked back to the food counter to get another cup of coffee, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Hello, stranger.”

  Della turned. A tall, blond-haired man was smiling at her. It took Della a moment to recognize him.

  “Oh, Davis!” She hugged him tightly. He seemed startled at the intensity of her embrace. Davis drew back, taking a good look at her, unsettling her. He looked terrific—healthy, happy—a contrast from the way she knew she appeared.

  “So, Della—after all these years. Wow, I was hoping you’d be here. I lost track of you after college. Where’d you go?” Davis grabbed her shoulders. “Isn’t it a kick that Lila invited the old Thespian group to her island?”

  His enthusiasm set off a nervous spasm in her stomach. He took her hands and she winced in pain. “So, tell me, how are you and where are you living these days?”

  “Well. . .” She reached for a cigarette and lit it. “Actually, I’m in the process of relocating. I lived in New York the last few years. Tried out for some parts in theater, but I got tired of it. Too hard to break in.”

  “I thought you and Jon headed for L. A. together.”

  Della’s laugh spilled over with bitterness.

  “So you never got to L. A.?”

  Della pulled hard on her cigarette. “And what about you? You didn’t really go into your father’s business, did you? I thought you wanted to be a big star, too. You could have been, you know.” She knew Davis must be wondering what had happened to the sexy, confident woman who could turn him on with a smile. She felt like crying.

  “Yeah, I did go into real estate. But . . . hey.” Davis motioned over to the door. “Here’s someone I want you to meet.” A young, gorgeous woman walked over to Davis’s side.

  “Hi, I’m Cynthia.” She took Della’s hand in hers.

  “I’m Della.”

  “My fiancée,” Davis said.

  Engaged? She looked Cynthia over. Of course she would be stunning. Confident, friendly, well-mannered. Class and culture oozed from her. But, so young. She couldn’t possibly be twenty.

  Della turned to Davis. “I thought you would have married ages ago.”

  “Never found the perfect woman,” he said, hugging Cynthia closely. “Now I have.”

  “So, what do you do, Della?” Cynthia said.

  Della forced a smile. “Nothing at the moment. I think I’m looking for a new career.” She reached into her bag and fumbled for another cigarette.

  Cynthia excused herself to browse through the travel brochures on the wall rack.

  Della sat down in a plastic chair and listened while Davis told her about his life in Marin and how he met Cynthia. She smiled politely, but the sound of his voice after all those years triggered so many memories—memories of such a different life—that she found it hard to believe they were hers. She had nursed a lingering image of his conceited smugness all these years, only to be abruptly reminded of his charm. Maybe he had changed, she thought. People do change—and some for the worse, she berated herself. But, wasn’t it easy to be happy when everything in your life went right? And Davis still seemed like the boy with the golden touch.

  “I forgot how much I hate this weather. You should come down to Marin County. Maybe it’s all that east coast cold and snow that’s depressing you. California sunshine. That’s the cure.” Davis laughed, but Della felt a wave of despair wash over her.

  “My life’s been hell, Davis. You don’t want to know what I’ve been through.”

  Davis sat next to her and spoke quietly. “I’m sorry, Del. You had everything going for you.” He lifted her chin with a finger and Della trembled. “But, hey, you’re still young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, right?”

  “I always wondered if you stayed mad at me.”

  “What for?”

  “You know—the thing with Jon. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was young and stupid, I guess. I didn’t think about anyone’s feelings.”

  “Hey, darling, that’s ancient history. Sure, I was jealous for a while, and you pulled a few nasty punches, but it was no big deal.” Davis shrugged. “We were just kids then. What did we know about life?”

  Della nodded. What did she know about life now? Obviously nothing. She dumped a guy who was crazy about her—and why? Because she was restless and bored. She could have had a safe life with Davis. He would have taken care of her, pampered her. Another stupid choice she made along the way. She inhaled deeply off her cigarette, flicking ashes onto the floor.

  Della changed the subject. “So what do you make of this mysterious reunion?”

  “I think it’s terrific.”

  “Come on,” Della said, “don’t you find it strange that she’s invited us all, after all these years? And why now?”

  “Maybe it’s her way of thanking us.”

  “Davis, get real. We’re just peons who shared a short year of her life. God knows we weren’t any real friends of hers.”

  “Probably wants to rub her success in our faces. So, let her gloat.”

  Della thought for a minute. “Did you ever find out what really happened on opening night?”

  “She got stage fright; isn’t that obvious? But it didn’t keep her from getting into show business. It’s unbelievable isn’t it? Lila—a star.”

  “Talk about people who’ve changed. Remember what she used to be like? A little mouse, afraid to say a word to anyone. Would you think she would, could, ever use the kind of language she uses now?”

  “Hey, the boat’s coming in.” Davis pointed to the multideck, green-and-white ferry edging up to the landing.

  Davis and Della joined Cynthia on the observation deck. Rain splattered against the glass as they watched men in parkas connect the boat to the ramp. Cars and trucks began pouring out of the ferry, driving toward the highway. Davis looked around him.

  “I wonder who else from the old group is coming?” The loudspeaker announced the boarding for Orcas and San Juan Islands. “Come on, Del, let’s get on board.”

  Della watched Davis wrap his arm around Cynthia and lead her to the ferry. A pain wrenched her gut—the feeling you’d get standing on a deserted shore, watching the last boat sail away, leaving you stranded for the rest of your life.

  She hesitated,
wishing she could walk off the ramp and into the sea. But, instead, she hefted her suitcase and trudged after them.

  Chapter 8

  The jet taxied over to the gate where airport personnel hurried to attach the staircase. Jonathan and his current girlfriend emerged from the plane, breathing in the fresh, salty Seattle air. Dark roiling clouds hung overhead and a biting wind whipped at their faces.

  Melodie, twenty-four and heavily made-up, struggled in her spiked heels on the metal steps. She tugged her fur-lined coat close to her neck.

  “Oh Jonny, it’s cold up here.”

  He waited at the ground level and helped her down. “What did I tell you? This is the Pacific Northwest. Or as we used to call it, the Pacific Knockwurst.”

  Jonathan chuckled, feeling happier than he had in ages. He clasped her hand as they hurried to baggage claim, but she had trouble keeping up. Water seeped into her open shoes. She yanked them off and ran in her stocking feet. She didn’t ask Jon why he was in such a hurry.

  As they waited for their luggage, Jonathan scrutinized her. Melodie had streaked blonde hair, cut stylishly at the Beverly Hills Vidal Sassoon salon. She stood five feet eight in her heels, dressed in a sequined black pantsuit that accentuated her extremely thin frame. Jonathan liked the feel of Melodie’s sinewy limbs, and the way she held her head aloft really turned him on. She was another studio conquest. Universal thought she had star quality and they were grooming her for the top. It wouldn’t hurt him any if she really did make it big in features. Those big stars got to choose their own directors. The thing he liked most about Melodie was how different she was from Vanessa, his third and most recent wife. Nessie, the sea monster. Good riddance!

  Jonathan had been through three successively younger wives during the last ten years of his aspiring career in Hollywood. But they all had one thing in common—they were gorgeous. They looked good on his arm when he attended the DGA awards dinners. And looks were everything in Tinsel town.