John Belushi Is Dead (14 page)

Benji wasn't convinced. “Sure I do,” he said, sulking. “I know how it is.”

“So have fun in Yosemite, okay?”

“Whatever.”

I slunk out, leaving him to his computer and his magazines; Sid the fish still in the cupboard. Mrs. Connor stopped me in the hallway.

“Hello, dear,” she said, smiling broadly. “Benji tells me you aren't coming to Yosemite with us.”

“No, sorry, Mrs. Connor. Lynette wants a ‘girls' weekend.' You know how it is.”

“But surely she can make an exception in this case. We would so love to have you. Benji would be very happy if you came.”

Yeah, well, Benji's too busy in his bedroom playing Mengele
, I wanted to say, but instead I frowned as if I were disappointed.

“I know, but I've already said yes to Lynette. I don't want to let her down.”

“Oh, okay, then.” Mrs. Connor sighed, giving up. Her blond ponytail was pulled back so tight I thought her scalp might come off. “But if she changes her mind, you will let me know, won't you?”

“Of course. Thanks, Mrs. Connor,” I said, and started off down the hall.

“Good-bye, Hilda,” I heard her say, and I couldn't help catching a hint of sadness in her voice.

T
HE AD IN THE
newspaper gave me an idea. For days I had been trying to figure out how to coax Hank out of his apartment. I had suggested going to the local pool, where we could dip our feet in the shallow end and drink beer.

“I can drink beer here,” Hank had grunted, sweat trailing down his face.

“How about a walk down to the lake?” I offered. “We could sit in the shade and feed the ducks.”

“I got enough trouble feeding myself!” he bellowed. “I ain't giving my bread to the goddamn ducks. Screw them.”

I became obsessed with getting him outside. The heat was becoming intolerable and I didn't know how much longer I could stand it. I was also worried about Hank. At his age heat like this could kill, and when I arrived at his apartment I was always relieved to find him hot, sweaty, and cranky, sprawled in his chair in a bad mood rather than lying dead on the floor.

I began to think that maybe Benji was right, that Hank was hiding something in his past so terrible that to go outside would expose him. I scolded myself for buying into Benji's wild fantasies. I told myself Hank was just a lonely old man, cast aside by an uncaring and indifferent world. He had lost interest in life and was content with his wine and cigars and old movies from Blockbuster. There was no one to push him out of his complacency, no one to tell him there were better ways to spend your twilight years. But he had me now, and I wasn't going to let him live out the final years of his life in a sweatbox.

T
HE ADVERTISEMENT IN THE
newspaper was exactly what I had been looking for. I pulled a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer and cut around the edges. Lynette gave a startled yell as she stirred her coffee. It was one of those rare Saturday mornings when she was home, and not at the gym or some fund-raising benefit.

“How about you ask before you start cutting into the weekend paper?” she said, looking at me over the edge of her glasses. “There are two people living in this house, you know.”

“So you keep reminding me.”

She drank her coffee. “What are you going to do today?”

“Just hang out with Benji.”

“Well, perhaps you should be spending less time with him.”

“Why? Since when have you cared who I hang out with?”

“Since your attitude started to stink.” She put her arms on the countertop and turned away, not looking at me. “I've tried so hard to make things comfortable for you, and half the time you act like you don't even want to be here. You're always racing off to Benji's
place. Maybe you should just go and live with the Connors. That seems to be what you want.”

“Don't speak for me. You don't know a thing about me.”

“It's not like I haven't asked! Every day I ask how you are and you barely tell me anything. What the hell do you and Benji get up to anyway?”

To my surprise Lynette had tears in her eyes. I had never seen her cry before and wasn't even sure she had the capacity to. Even at my mother's funeral she had been stone-faced, coordinating the event as if it were a military operation. She asked the priest if she could “sample” the sandwiches the church provided before passing them on to guests. She even told off the grave diggers for leaving a spade near the headstone, claiming it was “unsightly.” What was unsightly was my mother's body after the truck tore threw it. Who the hell cared about a fucking shovel? But to Lynette it was a symbol of disorder in her neatly organized world, just like I was. Like a trial she'd lost, the fact that Mom was gone sentenced Lynette to life with a teenager without parole. It was like a death sentence. I closed the newspaper and put the clipping in my pocket. Lynette came over and sat beside me, her face grave.

“We can't go on like this much longer.”

“Don't worry. I'll finish school next year and be out of here.”

“Don't say that.” She put her hand on mine, where I let it rest, even though every nerve in my body wanted to push her away. “I'm not going to let this relationship deteriorate any further than it already has. We are going to resolve this situation and move forward.”

I shrugged her off. “Give me a break, Lynette. I'm not a client.”

She sat back, hurt filling her eyes, and I had to look away. “Does Benji speak to his mother like that?”

“Benji's mother lets him do what he wants. She leaves him alone.”

“One minute I'm not paying attention, the next you want me to leave you alone. You are being totally irrational. If you want me to be interested, you need to give me consistent messages.”

“If I
want
you to be interested?”

“I
am
interested.”

“Really? Okay. You want to know what I do all day? Fine. Benji and I visit houses where people have been murdered. We take photos and try to imagine what it was like to be bludgeoned to death.”

“Hilda—”

“And I'm having a relationship with an old wino in Echo Park. We'd have sex only I think he's too old to get it up.”

Lynette looked at me like I was insane. “I think I need to take you to a doctor.”

“Why? Because you feel obligated to look after me?”

“Obligated? You really think that's how I feel? Well, Hilda, you may feel I know nothing about your life, but it would appear you know just as little about me.”

Lynette took her coffee and left the room. I felt terrible. Lynette tried so hard to connect with me, but every time she got too close, I pushed her away. I read the front page of the newspaper, trying to forget that Lynette was in her bedroom, probably seething after our confrontation. A female serial killer in Russia was claiming she was much more ambitious than other female killers, who were content to drown their own babies at home. “I want to be as famous as the men,” she was quoted as saying. “I will continue to fight for equality.”

A few minutes later Lynette emerged from her bedroom in gym shorts and a tight tee, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“I'm going to the gym,” she announced, and I didn't say anything. I had my own places to retreat to.

“G
UESS WHAT
,” I
SAID
when I arrived at Hank's later that evening. The sun was going down and I could tell he was surprised to see me so late.

“Didn't know you were coming,” he grunted as he turned around and went back inside. He collapsed in his chair wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. I stepped in and closed the door behind me, barely containing my excitement.

“We're going out,” I announced.

“No we ain't.”

“Here.”

I pulled the newspaper clipping from my pocket and thrust it in his hand. Reluctantly he started to read. When he'd finished he folded the clipping and passed it back to me, looking disgusted.

“That's sick,” he said. “I don't wanna get involved in your sick death shit.”

“What are you talking about? It's really popular. Loads of people go.”

“Bullshit.”

“It's true. It's kind of a hip thing to do.”

“People go to the cemetery to watch movies?”

“Absolutely! Last summer Benji and I saw
The Shining
. It was a blast!”

“I ain't interested.”

Hank put his feet on the table and stared at the football game playing on the television. I leaned over and switched it off.

“What the hell?” he yelled.

“It's
Sunset Boulevard
, Hank. With Gloria Swanson. Are you telling me you don't wanna see that on the big screen? Under the stars?”

I stood, opened the curtains, and pointed outside at the setting sun.

“Look, soon it will be totally dark. No one will see you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I'm just saying, there's no reason to be nervous.”

“I told ya, I ain't nervous about going outside!”

“Then do it!”

“I will!”

Hank stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door. I heard drawers opening and cupboards slamming. A moment later the door swung open and there was Hank, dressed in a white shirt and old beige suit pants, a pair of leather shoes in his hand. He looked at me uncertainly.

“Well?” he asked.

“What?”

He gestured down. “Is this okay? Is this what people wear to movies at the cemetery these days?”

“You look great, Hank,” I said, and I meant it. He grunted his appreciation.

“I gotta take a shit,” he said, and disappeared into the bathroom. When he emerged his hair was slicked back and I could smell cologne.

“This is bullshit,” he said, and headed for the door like a cannonball. “I can't believe you talked me into this.”

“Wait—we need something.”

“What?”

I raced into his bedroom and ripped the pillows from the bed. “To sit on,” I explained. “Is it okay to use these?”

“Whatever.”

I went to the fridge and grabbed a six-pack of beer. “Okay. We're ready.”

“Fine. Let's get this over with.”

Leaving the apartment was an ordeal. With every step Hank was looking over his shoulder. He didn't relax until we hailed a cab on Sunset, and as we pulled out from the curb he sank down into the backseat, looking as if he expected someone to open fire on us at any second. We left Echo Park and made our way toward Hollywood, watching the suburbs silently rolling past us, and I looked for any kind of expression of excitement on Hank's face, but saw only fear. I began to wonder whether this was a good idea after all.

H
OLLYWOOD
F
OREVER WAS ONE
of California's most exclusive cemeteries, a coveted resting place for the stars. Rudolph Valentino had a crypt there. Cecil B. DeMille. Tyrone Power. Even Dee Dee Ramone was interred in its lush green lawns, a strangely conventional resting place for a punk rocker. The waiting list was long and difficult to get on. It was a far cry from the tiny little cemetery in Topanga Canyon where my parents were buried, and where I would one day probably join them. Lying next to Dee Dee Ramone for eternity seemed like a more exciting option. You could be sure there would be a regular influx of teenagers to tip bottles of bourbon into the soil.

A few years ago they started showing movies at the cemetery during the summer, mostly Hollywood classics like
Singin' in the Rain
and cult films like
Rosemary's Baby
. When Hank and I arrived, people were already teeming through the gates with picnic baskets under their arms and trailing beanbags along behind them.
Sunset Boulevard
was a popular movie, a perverse film noir that would appeal to anyone excited by the idea of watching a movie in a graveyard. Everyone was walking fast, clambering to get the best position on the lawn, and I grabbed Hank by the shoulder and pulled him along.

“Hurry up, Hank, we've got to get up front.”

We walked past the headstones that lined the driveway. Unlike in most cemeteries where the graves were crowded and almost on top of one another, these were spaced far apart, with plenty of room to wander in between without worrying you were stepping on someone. Some of the mausoleums were the size of houses. We passed a sign that announced the chapel was now equipped for webcasts. Someone accidentally bumped into Hank and he jumped.

“Sorry, dude,” the guy said, putting his hand on Hank's shoulder before walking off.

“Hank? Everything okay?” I asked.

He swallowed hard and nodded. As the people milled around I saw Hank shrink, pulling in his shoulders as if he were hoping his head would disappear. I took his hand like he was a lost kid and to my surprise he gripped it firmly. I pulled him along the lawn until we arrived at the space that had been designated for the screening. It was a large stretch of grass named the Fairbanks Lawn, due to its location next to the crypt of movie star Douglas Fairbanks. People had already laid out their blankets and were rifling through picnic baskets, pouring champagne, and opening beers.

“Here looks good,” I said, and threw Hank's pillows on the ground. We sat down and watched as the people continued to arrive, placing beanbags and directors' chairs next to us, squashing us in. Hank was beginning to realize that no one was paying attention
to him and actually started to enjoy himself. I handed him one of the beers I'd taken from the fridge and he almost smiled.

“Thank God,” he said, twisting the top off. A woman nursing a baby walked past and smiled at us.

“Who the hell would bring a baby to something like this?” he said.

“Settle down, Hank. What's the big deal?”

“You shouldn't bring a baby to a cemetery.”