The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Part 18

Did I tell you Mom is beautiful? Must have slipped my mind. We forget what we want to, right? Mom is a natural blonde with large blue eyes and perfect cheekbones. I've got ordinary brown hair-thin, at that-and dull green eyes. It's been a real b.i.t.c.h growing up as her daughter. Mom turned forty last year, and she treated herself to a face-lift-smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. Now her face is so G.o.dd.a.m.n tight, it looks wrapped in Saran. Her body is wonderful, long and sleek. I'm the original blimpo-the kind of woman that those old artists liked to paint. I'm not fat but just really developed. Big b.o.o.bs, big round a.s.s. My mother used to put me on all these diets, and none of them ever worked. I finally told her to f.u.c.k herself and gorged on Oreo cookies. Ate the whole package right in front of her, and boy, did that burn her a.s.s.

She gave me this little smirk and said, "You're only hurting yourself, Kristie."

"I'm not hurting myself," I said. "In fact, I'm enjoying myself!"

Then she walked away with the same smirk on her face.

She once went to bed with this guy I was sleeping with. Can you believe that? Happened last summer at our beach house. I caught the two of them together. Mom got all red-faced, the guy was embarra.s.sed, too, but I just laughed. Inside, though, I felt lousy. I felt lousy 'cause I knew that the guy really wanted to f.u.c.k her all along and was just using me as a stepping-stone.

You might ask where the h.e.l.l was my dad when all this went down? I told you. He's never around.

My friend and co-hooker came down with strep throat today and asked if I could service her regular johns. I said sure. So I go to the room she rents. It's a typical sleazebucket of a place-broken-down bed, filthy floor, and a cracked mirror. Who should I see in it but my father? I turn my face away before he sees me. To tell you the truth, I barely recognize his face. Then I realize that he must have gotten a lift, like Mom, 'cause his skin is also like stretched to the max.

I'm shaking-half with fear, half with disgust. That dirty son of a b.i.t.c.h. Doing it with teenage hookers. Then I remember a few years ago. How he eyed my friends when we sat around the pool. How he strutted out of the cabana wearing red bikini briefs and shot a half-gainer off the diving board. My friends were impressed. He popped through the water's surface, a strange expression on his face.

It was l.u.s.t.

I sneak another glance in the mirror.

He holds the same look in his eyes now.

What the h.e.l.l do I do?

I think about running away, but I know my friend will be real p.i.s.sed. Jesus.

My dad.

I can't screw my dad!

Then I think to myself, My mom screwed my guy . . .

But this is something different. He's my dad.

'Course, he isn't my dad by blood . . .

And it's been a long time since I've seen him . . .

The thought starts to excite me. Yeah, I know it's real perverse, but my whole family is perverse.

And at least it isn't boring.

I take a quick hit of some snow from the vial I wear around my neck. Man, I need to be buzzed to pull this one off.

I'm real excited by now.

I drop my voice an octave-I can do that 'cause I have a great range-and tell him to can the lights. He starts b.i.t.c.hing and moaning that he likes to do it with the lights on, and where the f.u.c.k is my friend. I tell him my friend has strep and it's hard to give head with your throat all red and raw, and if he doesn't want me, fine, he just won't get laid tonight.

He cans the lights. The only illumination in the room comes from a neon sign outside that highlights his semi. It's a good-looking one, and it turns me on even further. But I stay well hidden in the shadows of the room.

I wonder what he'll think of my body after laying Mom all these years. Maybe he'll think I'm too fat, but the minute he touches my b.o.o.bs, his you-know-what becomes ramrod-straight. I let him bury his head in my chest, kiss my nipples. I give him a line of c.o.ke, then I take another snort. My face is always hidden.

I ask him what kinds of things he wants to do, and he says everything. I say it will cost him two fifty, and he gets suddenly outraged. A real bad acting job. I know what he makes, and he could buy all of Hollywood if he wanted to. Anyway, by now he's too excited to argue, and five fifty-dollar bills are slapped into my wet hand. I do whatever he wants as long as he can't see my face.

When it's over, I tell him I have a surprise for him. He's lying in bed now, smoking a joint. Still naked, I saunter over to the light switch, then suddenly flip it on. The cheesy room is flooded with bright yellow light. We both squint, then he sees me. It takes him a moment, then I see his tanned, tight face drain of all its color. His eyes pop out and he begins to pant. His skin takes on a greenish hue and he runs for the toilet. I hear him throw up.

Afterward he cries in my arms. But we both know it's not over.

Dad came home at eleven tonight. Mom and he start fighting. They always fight, did I tell you that? Probably why Dad started staying away. Anyway, it's the first time I ever remember Dad coming home in like twenty years or something. I'm no dummy. I know what the sucker has in mind, and that's okay by me. After all, I'm not really his daughter by blood, you know.

He comes into my room at around two o'clock. I make him pay, and no s.h.i.+t, he agrees. Man, I know you're gonna think I'm sick, but I gotta tell you. My dad's all right in the sack.

This goes on for the next month. If Mom suspects anything, she doesn't say a word. Then a strange thing happens. Life is weird-very weird. A real strange thing happens.

We fall in love.

Or something like it.

We consider all the options. The first is running away and giving me a new ident.i.ty so that we can marry. The idea is discussed, then tossed in the circular file. Dad makes a couple a million buckeroos as a TV producer, and no way he could make that kind of money outside of L.A. Neither of us likes poverty.

We consider having Dad and Mom divorce and I'd live with Dad. That's out. California has stiff community-property laws, and the b.i.t.c.h would get half of everything!

There's only one option left.

First off, I gotta tell you that neither one of us really feel guilty about our decision 'cause: A, I'm not my dad's real daughter; and B, Mom has had this coming for a long time.

Way overdue.

We plan to do it next Sat.u.r.day, right after she comes home from one of her parties. She's usually pretty sauced and hyped and has to pop some downers to get to sleep. We figure we'll help her along.

She comes in at two A.M., surprised that I'm still up. I say I was having trouble sleeping and offer to make her some hot coffee. She nods and dismisses me with a wave of her hand. Like I'm a servant instead of her daughter doing her a favor. I lace the java with Seconal. Halfway through the drink, her lids begin to close. But she knows something is wrong. She tells me she's having trouble breathing and asks me to call the doctor. I act like I'm real worried and place the phony call. By the time I hang up, she's out.

Both Dad and I are worried. She only drank half a cup, and we wonder if it's enough dope to do her in. Dad feels her pulse. It's weak but steady. A half hour later, her heartbeat is even stronger. Dad says, "What the h.e.l.l do we do now?" I think and think and think, then come up with a really rad brainstorm.

I get ten tablets full of Seconal, crush them in water, and suck the mixture into my old syringe. Did I tell you I shoot up occasionally? When the boredom is just too much. I haven't done it for a while, but I keep the syringe-you know, just in case the mood hits me. I shoot the dope under her tongue. It's absorbed fast that way and doesn't leave any marks. A friend of mine told me that.

Dad feels her pulse for a third time. Squeezes her wrist hard. Nothing. Nada! We celebrate with a big hug and a wet kiss, then wash the cup and wipe the place clean of fingerprints.

A half hour later, Dad places a panic call to the paramedics.

G.o.d, I'm a great actress, carrying on like Mom and I were like bosom buddies.

"Mommmeeeee," I wail at the funeral.

Everyone feels sorry for me, but I don't accept their comfort.

My dad has his arm around me. He pulls me aside later on.

"You're overdoing it," he tells me.

"h.e.l.l, Paul." I call him Paul now. "I lost my f.u.c.king mother. I'm supposed to be upset."

"Just cool it a little, Kristie," Paul says. "Act withdrawn. Like someone took away your Aerosmith records."

I sulk for a moment, then say what the h.e.l.l. He's older. Maybe he knows best. I crawl into this sh.e.l.l and don't answer people when they talk to me. They give me pitying looks.

The detective shows up at our door unannounced. He's a big guy with black hair, old-fas.h.i.+oned sideburns, and acne scars. My heart begins to take off, and I say I don't answer any questions without my dad around.

"Why?" he asks.

"I don't know," I respond. Then I ask him if he has a warrant.

He laughs and says no.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I can't help you."

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" he asks.

"G.o.d, are you crazy?" I say. "I mean, with all that happened? I can't concentrate on school right now. I mean, I lost my mother!

"You two were pretty close, then."

"Real close."

"You don't look much like her," he remarks.

I feel my face changing its expression and get mad at myself. I say, "I'm adopted."

"Oh," the detective says. His face is all red now. "That would explain it."

Then he says, "I'm sorry to get personal."

"That's okay," I say, real generous.

There's a pause. Then the detective says, "You know, we got the official autopsy report back for your mother."

I feel short of breath. I try to keep the crack out of my voice. "What's it say?" I ask.

"Your mother died of acute toxicity," he says. "Drug OD."

"Figures," I say calmly. "She had lots of problems and was on and off all sorts of drugs."

He nods, then asks, "What kind of drugs did she take?"

Then all of a sudden I realize I'm talking too much. I tell him I don't know.

"I thought you two were close."

I feel my face go hot again.

"We were," I say. "I mean, I knew she took prescribed drugs to help her cope, but I don't know which drugs. Our relations.h.i.+p wasn't like that, you know."

"Why don't we just peek inside the medicine cabinet of your house?" he says.

I shake my head slowly, then say, "Come back tonight, when my dad is home. Around eight, okay?"

He agrees.

Paul has a s.h.i.+t-fit, but I a.s.sure him I handled it well. By the time the detective shows up, we're both pretty calm. I mean, all the drugs found in her stomach came from her own pills. And then there was the party she went to. I'm sure at least a half-dozen people remember her guzzling a bottle or two of white wine. She loved white wine-Riesling or Chardonnay.

My mother was an alcoholic. Did I tell you that?

The detective has on a disgusting suit that smells of mothb.a.l.l.s. It hangs on him. He scratches his nose and says a couple of bulls.h.i.+tty words to Paul about how sorry he is that he had to intrude on us like this. Paul has on his best hound-dog face and says it's okay. Now I understand what he meant by not overdoing it. Man, is he good. I almost believe him.

"Sure," Paul says to the detective. "Take a look around the house."

I think about saying we've got nothing to hide, but don't. The detective goes over some details with Paul. My mom had gone to a party by herself. Paul didn't go 'cause he wasn't feeling well. At around three in the morning, he got up to get a gla.s.s of milk. I was asleep, of course. He went downstairs and found my mother dead.

"Where'd you find your wife?" the detective asks.

"On that chair right there."

Paul points to the Chippendale.

The detective walks over to the chair but doesn't touch it. He asks, "What'd you do when you found her?"

Paul is confused. He says, "What do you mean? I called the paramedics, of course."

"Yeah," the detective says. "I know that. Did you touch her at all?"

"Touch her?" Paul asks.

The detective says, "Yeah, feel if the skin was cold . . . see if she was breathing."

Paul shakes his head. "I don't know anything about CPR. I figured the smart thing to do was to leave her alone and wait for the paramedics."

"How'd you know she was dead?" the detective asks.

"I didn't know she was dead," Paul says back. His voice is getting loud. "I just saw her slumped in the chair and knew something was wrong."

"Maybe she was sleeping," suggests the detective.

"Her face was white . . . gray." Paul begins to pace. "I knew she wasn't sleeping."

"You didn't check her pulse, check to see if she was breathing?"

"He said no," I say, defending my dad. "Look . . ." I get tears in my eyes. "Why don't you leave us alone? Haven't we been through enough without you poking around?"

The detective nods solemnly. He says, "I'll be brief."