Innocent Little Crimes (5 page)

“So, Peter, how do you like Seattle so far?
It only rains about three hundred friggin’ days out of the year. I
don’t know how I ever stood it. Rain depresses the hell out of me.
It always reminds me of my lousy childhood.”

“I don’t get it. Then why buy an island
retreat up here? Why not Hawaii?”

“ ’
Cause I like to be reminded of how
far I’ve come and how much I’m willing to do to never go back
again.”

Peter tilted forward to listen, but Lila grew
sullen and silent. She hardly ever talked of her past. She once
told Peter her most vivid childhood memory was of her father
pushing her head down during her daily prayers. He begged to hear
more, but even that short recount made her physically ill.

Lila tapped her fingers on the side table,
watching for the hostess who had disappeared behind the oriental
screen. Peter stroked her arm. “Are you sure you don’t want me to
come with you?” Empathy oozed from his eyes.

Lila patted his hand. “No, Sugar. But, thanks
anyway. You better stay in the limo where you’ll be safe. The good
Reverend Carmichael would take one look at the likes of you and
call down the wrath of God. Or even reach for the silver crucifix
and a couple of wooden stakes. Besides, knowing how much dear daddy
loves me, I won’t be gone more than a few minutes.”

“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.”