Skin Deep

66

FALL 1975

“She was so beautiful.”

Becky’s mother gave him a tearful squeeze. “I’m so sorry.” Her husband said basically the same thing and shuffled on to his aunt and uncle who made up the rest of the receiving line and with whom he would have to live until he was eighteen. The thought of moving to Fremont added to his numbness. Another sweet little surprise in Lila’s legacy.

The Tollands were the last of the guests at the two-hour wake. It was the same funeral home and the same mourners who had attended his father’s wake the week before. The same receiving line except Lila was now in the casket.

Festooned with roses and shiny sympathy banners, the casket was closed, of course. She apparently was dead for nearly twelve hours, and her face was already disfigured and bruised from Kirk, made worse by the noose. She was dressed in her favorite black lacy sundress and a large gold crucifix with the detailed full-body Jesus, his feet snugly tucked in the upper reaches of her cleavage.

At his insistence a small bouquet of white roses was placed in her hands along with the set of rosary beads from her confirmation. She also wore a pair of black nylon stockings with lacy elastic tops. Wolfords. The choice of her death wardrobe was his.

Becky was the last in line. She gave him a long close hug. “What can I say?”

“Nothing.”

As they embraced, he looked over Becky’s shoulder to the tawny red cherry casket, almost the same color as Lila’s hair. And even though he could not see her, he felt something radiate from those frozen shut eyelids within.

Even unto death I shall be with you.

Lila’s favorite hymn passage.

He tapped Becky on the back to release the embrace—an embrace that would be the last real exchange with a female for years. Of course, Becky could not know that Lila had usurped his passion. And that Lila would be in his system forever like one of those childhood vaccines whose preventive effects would last a lifetime once in your blood. This was her legacy. This and a black lace-top stocking.

“If there’s anything I can do, just call.”

He nodded and Becky left to join her parents outside.

It was nine P.M., time to go. His aunt and uncle were waiting in the other room. All the chairs were empty. The funeral was tomorrow morning at Holy Name Church in Derry.

For the last time he stood at the casket. Yes, she was beautiful. And now she was something grotesque and hard.

He knelt on the low padded stool. He wasn’t religious, so he didn’t pray. He closed his eyes, and like a movie projected on the inside of his skull, he saw her laughing, reading from a script in front of the mirror. Giving him smirky looks. Crying. Fighting with his father. Folding into her funk; angry, bitter, wounded. He saw her give him those withering looks, then the far askew stares, and the sulking mask that scared him more than death itself.

He also saw her cupping his face and kissing him to make some hurt go away. And like flicking channels, there she was dancing before him in those maddening, forbidden black nylons, peeling off one then the other and drawing it teasingly from his body to hers, entwining their sexes.

My mommy, my Salome.

And he saw her radiant with happiness in the Algonquin Room.

He saw her at the bathroom mirror, brushing that glorious burnt rose mane. He knew he would never ever see or smell that hair again, so before the police cut her down he snipped off a lock.

And now I hate you. I hate you for leaving me. I hate you.

My Beauty Boy,

I’m so sorry, but I have been bad and cannot live with my sins any longer. Please remember the good me. And may Jesus be with you.

Love, Lila

Her secret death note to him. Her exit line.

You bitch. You hurtful, hurtful bitch.

We could have gotten away with it. You passed the polygraph. There were no witnesses. You showered when you came home, so no cordite was on your hands. No evidence at the scene connected to the killing. And I was your alibi. The police said that they had a small list of potential suspects, and you weren’t one of them. And the insurance money from Kirk. You could have had it all. We could have. You could have found another acting job. It wasn’t the end of the world.

You left me, Lila. And now I’m a ward of my dolt uncle and boring aunt, executors of Kirk’s will. I have to leave my school and town and friends and move to another.

You did this to me.

His eyes fell on the crucifix hanging above the casket.

Jesus. For eternity he was going to hang in her dead cleavage in mute fourteen-carat gold while she shriveled to a mummy.

Jesus.

What the hell did Jesus ever do for you? He didn’t get you the big break you’d prayed for all your life. He didn’t get you a husband who fulfilled your needs. He didn’t stop his hand from smashing your dreams. He didn’t grant you peace from what your father did. He didn’t end your suffering. Jesus had nothing to do with you, just dangled false hopes around your neck until you got so weighted down you made yourself a noose out of your love toy. But you let Jesus get the best of you like a jealous lover. And here you are.

And now what? What happens to me, Lila? You’re dead forever. The ultimate silent treatment. And I’ve got to go on living with nothing—nothing but a black lace stocking.

Bitch. You heartless, selfish bitch. You left me in the cold forever.

He slammed the casket with the flat of his hand and walked into the night.