A SMALL MATTER

by M. M. WILSHIRE

Copyright © 2010 M.M. Wilshire

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

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Chapter 1

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind.

It seemed a small matter, Vickie thought, the way Dr. Bienenfeld handed out her death sentence, as though they were talking about somebody else. He was much too young to be the angel of death. At 48, Vickie did not consider herself all that old, but this guy was just a big kid in a white coat. The kid said a lot of things she didn’t really hear, but he finally came out with it.

“The path report on your biopsy came back positive,” he said.

"English, please," she said, her voice a frightened squeak.

“Sorry. It's cancer. A bad one."

"Where?"

The doctor broke eye contact briefly and looked down. Always a bad sign. "The pancreas,” he finally announced.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes," the doctor replied, looking up.

Vickie lost all sense of time, and wondered how long she had been sitting there with the doctor. It could have been 30 seconds or it could have been a day.

Of course, Dr. Bienenfeld knew what time it was. He had seen more than his share of patients hit with the shock of bad news which instantly separated them from their normal sensibilities. He could judge their strength for the fight which lay ahead by the time it took them to come out of it. In Vickie's case, the shock had been complete, had apparently caused a total disassociation, but as her eyes returned to meet his, she was already coming back after only a few seconds. She was a strong one. She had a chance.

“Is it because of my dog?” Vickie asked.

“What?” the doctor said.

“Was it my dog?”

The dog question again. Completely baffling the young doctor. He looked questioningly at the brother of the girl, a man who called himself Dalk. The brother stood guard at one side of the table, a stocky, short, muscular blond man in his late thirties who’d ratcheted a few shades paler at the news.

“Doctor Bienenfeld,” the brother said, “her dog got cancer and died last year. Vickie’s in shock. She’s asking you if the dog’s cancer might have been contagious, if she could have caught her cancer from the dog.”

Aha, the doctor thought--Dalk had understood his sister’s irrational dog question, had made the complex and creative association missed by himself--the more scientific, left-brained man of the two.

“No,” Bienenfeld said to her. “It’s not because of your dog.”

Vickie slid off the examining table. Her eyes went straight past his own, to a point on some distant horizon he hoped he’d never see. With her brother's arm wrapped around her shoulder, she left the office.

"Christ, I need a drink," she said.

They exited the Kaiser Hospital compound and found themselves in a late afternoon L.A. windstorm as they made their way to her car, their forward progress hampered by a brisk Santa Ana crosswind. Folded into the cross currents were the crisp stirrings of a deepening October, its smell of dead leaves and photochemical smog quickening their nostrils enough to pick up the scent of Pacific Ocean mist delivered from over the mountains twenty miles away.

Dalk stopped her and took her by the shoulders. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“It's the end of my world. There is no cure.”

“You’re in shock. Perhaps I should drive.”

“I’m driving.”

They slid down into the cockpit and Vickie eased the classic Z-28 muscle car past the parking kiosk in time to make the green light before heading south on Woodman, the lean red body of the machine slipping easily in and out of the dense pack of lesser surrounding cars, it’s primeval, prominent exhaust rumble blanketing the sonic landscape like a fog. She burned the tires around the corner at Vanowen and locked in to the slow westward crawl through the Van Nuys barrio to Sepulveda, taking the former mule path, now turned major artery, north to The Lamplighter, a small cop bar which shared a strip mall with a liquor store and laundromat.

They took seats at the bar in the juke-sonic joint and let their souls float a minute on the skyscraping falsetto of the Chilites, doing Hot on a Thing, the lead singer Eugene’s wailing caterwaul soaring over a funky cloud bank of close harmonies. The place was loosely populated, with a couple of cops playing pool, and two old geezers down on the end humping dice.

Mulroney, the big ex-cop now turned bartender, came over and slapped down two cocktail napkins. “The Chilites lead singer used to drive a cab,” he said. “The usual, Vickie?”

“Not tonight. We’ll both take Blackjack neat and keep ‘em coming.”

Mulroney--a hulking, red-faced Irishman who’d spent a former life walking a beat and carrying justice to the punks in the bad neighborhoods all over L.A.--had a good eye and quickly read her face with disarming accuracy. He set the drinks before them and studied her frightened, pinched features intently for another few seconds. “Vickie? Why the face? Who died?”

Dalk stood off his stool and crushed his shot glass with one electrifying squeeze of his muscled hands, the exploding pop lending force to his words. “She is, Mulroney! She’s got cancer! Our Vickie is dying!”

All heads turned in the psychic void left by his words.

“I’ve got pancreatic cancer,” Vickie said.

Mulroney, in spite of his formidable bulk, seemed to shrink a size or two. He grabbed the revolver on his belt and with a quick, practiced movement, blew off an ear-smoking round into the jukebox. The ensuing silence in the place was palpable, like something to be worked with tools until a suitable explanation appeared.

Vickie, hands shaking, fumbled a couple of pain pills out of their container and placed them on her tongue before downing half the whiskey. “To love and death and that whole thing,” Vickie cried. She raised her glass high. “And to good cops and good friends.”

The motley crew surrounding her raised respectful glasses to their friend as the gunsmoke, like a departing soul, drifted slowly upward.

Chapter 2

They’d been hard at it for nearly four hours, interrupted only by a time-out to gobble down a couple of Mulroney’s big sloppy burgers accompanied by a large pile of greasy, batter-dipped potato slabs he called his “tombstones”. Vickie, having gone to freshen her face, stood before the mirror in the powder room and took a dazed appraisal of herself while freshening her lipstick, the new one, blatantly sexy, Cherry Crush. Only tonight it didn’t feel sexy, it felt stupid and out of place.

She was losing it--her face in the mirror blurred and morphed itself into that of her deceased husband Jack. After his death a good 13 years ago--a closed-casket ceremony--he’d caught a round point blank in the face from a 20-gauge during a building search--she’d experienced the phenomenon of seeing his beatified face in the oddest places, especially after a drinking bout, but it had been awhile since she’d last made contact. Tonight, his face was young, unlined, righteous, like a Hindu totem.

“Oh, Jack, I miss you so.” The force of the missing took her by surprise, the depth of her love still strong. She’d had something special with him, a security almost magical, considering the usual types of relationships found in the revolving-mate world of L.A.

Jack began to speak. “Soon you will see and feel everything--from the Spiral Nebulae to the Stigmata of St. Francis.”

Vickie shook her head and pressed a cold damp paper towel to her eyes. When she looked again, Jack was gone, returned no doubt to whatever death-without-tears corner of Cop Heaven he inhabited along with the other good guys.

She returned to her stool. Dalk was passed out--he’d been gamely trying to keep up with her, shot for shot, but he was too young and fit to handle the spirits in the manner her age and experience allowed.

“Help me get him out to my car,” she said to Mulroney.

Mulroney commandeered a couple of buff, younger cops who managed to cart Dalk out the front door and harness him safely in to the jump seat of the classic Z-28 without too much trouble, the job made easier by the car’s low proximity to the ground.

“You look a little toasted, Vickie. You're not thinking of driving," Mulroney said. His concern was genuine.

“I’ve got a little double vision...and I just saw my deceased husband in the Ladies’ Room...yeah, I can drive."

She drove off into the perpetual semi-twilight of the quickening Los Angeles October night, prowling the harsh, neon-nighttime gauntlet of strip malls and apartments, her drunken brother slumped forward against the shoulder restraint. She hit the shortcut through the Sepulveda Dam flood control basin, an area of semi-wilderness smack in the middle of the Valley. There was nobody around and she had a clean one-mile ribbon of road ahead. She punched it and the fierce beast exploded in a tire smoking charge, the rear end skipping around a little before the raw speed brought the body down hard over the suspension. She put the needle squarely on 140 for a heart-stopping few seconds before pounding the brakes to re-enter the world.

The car was well-engineered for just such occasions and came to a smooth stop at the light, where she felt the welcome aftermath of the adrenal body-shot to her system, enjoying the way her embroidered wine-colored silk camisole felt on her skin, and the heavy sensation of her baby braids pulling on her sensitized scalp. She gave herself up to the enchantment of being quite senselessly happy, and her laughter echoed in the confined space of the cockpit. She was riding a wave of delirium, courtesy of road speed, pain pills and Johnny Walker, knowing it would dissolve soon, and probably never return.

“I’ll always love you, Jack. Make a place for me up there. I’m coming home soon.” The tears began to flow as she turned into the alley behind her home, beamed open the garage door and pulled into the detached garage. She left the car in the garage with Dalk still in it and stumbled across the back lawn, making it up the porch steps without falling before unlocking the back door and heading down the hallway to her bed.

The sharp pain in her lower back began to burn white-hot. Tomorrow she’d need to get a prescription for something stronger, but not tonight. Tonight, she offered the pain to Jack. It was a pain which drew all things within her to itself, all her joys and all her sorrows, melding them into a single flame firing upwards toward the heavens. She barely got the spread turned back before she pitched headlong into the swelling blackness of the booze.

Chapter 3

She awoke angry, still in her clothes from the night before, the fire in her lower back burning ceaselessly hot where the tumor had seemingly expanded its ugly self from its base camp atop her pancreas into a set of nerves along her lower spine.

Dalk appeared in the doorway, looking somewhat the worse for wear from the prior evening’s drunkfest. “It can’t be as bad as all that,” he said, surveying her face.

“It’s worse--I feel weak. I suppose this is inevitable. You can’t expect anyone to maintain their toughness forever.”

“I’ll start breakfast. By the time you’re out of the shower, it’ll be ready.”

“Don’t. I’m sick to my stomach.”

“You’ve got to eat,” he insisted, and made tracks for the kitchen.

Under a needle-hot shower, the muscles in her lower back relaxed a little. Recent events were beginning to force understanding upon her. She traced her path back several months to the slow, but steady encroachment of the nausea, drowsiness, and inexplicable weight loss--from the CT scans to the hideous insertion of the long thin needle which led up to the grand finale--Bienenfeld’s announcement that she was in deep trouble from a malignant tumor attached, of all places, to her pancreas.

Until these events, she hadn’t even been fully aware of her pancreas. She was now. The thing had betrayed her. The cancer, she felt, had already started to spread from there. To remove it, she figured, they’d have to go in and cut everything out. These events had forced her to confront reality, had taken away any spirit of denial she might have otherwise entertained. She understood fully now, and with no denial, that she was going to die.

She threw on her favorite ratty white terry robe and sat at the little vanity in her bedroom. She loved the house, small though it was. She’d sold her former home--the one she and her policeman husband Jack had lived in--a year after he died and chosen this place instead. After Dalk’s semi-recent divorce a few years back, he’d moved in with her. It was a dinky, stucco-covered three-and-two in the traditional floor plan, with all the bedrooms on the north side, the kitchen facing west towards Tampa Avenue--a six-lane north-south artery well-stocked with freeway-bound commuters. Once inside, the fact that the property’s automobile blasted frontage was a complete write off didn’t really matter, and she and Dalk had made good use of the spacious living/dining combination enhanced by a wood burning fireplace and a nice set of sliding glass doors opening onto the deep lot with its detached garage serviced by a back alley. It’s true, she thought. There’s just no place like home.

From the living room the stereo snapped to life--Dalk’s favorite station, K-Earth 101, which played nothing but oldies, at the moment The Four Tops--Bernadette--the fire and passion of Levi White’s robust-lunged love croon taking her back to 1967--she'd only been a little kid.

Oh, she thought, Was I ever that young? She thought of where Jack might have been in 1967, and laughed at the thought, wondering what turnings in his road took him to the year he’d entered the Los Angeles Police Academy. Fate had brought them together ten years after his rookie year, over a traffic ticket. She’d had the Z-28 for only a day when he’d pulled her over on Laurel Canyon. Jack had been old school--he’d pulled her over--not for speeding--but because she was a cute blonde in a racy car. He followed suit by waiving the ticket in exchange for a phone number. She’d gone through with his offer for an evening of dinner and drinks. They’d wound up at The Lamplighter, and she’d met his partner, Mulroney, in the days when the big guy was still the King of the Streets. A year later, she and Jack, with Mulroney standing in as best man, had tied the knot at Our Lady of Grace.

She pulled tight her robe, slipped on a pair of furry house mules, grabbed her doctor’s prescription from her bag and wandered to the kitchen, taking a seat at the tiny dinette. Dalk was going whole hog--pancakes, and bacon, accompanied by little fried potato balls and big glasses of orange juice. He set a mug of strong coffee and a carton of heavy cream before her.

“Almost ready,” he said. “I just need to nuke the bacon for two minutes more.”

In spite of her nausea, she knew she’d have to eat. She remembered how her own mother had wasted down to a stick from the same disease. The lesson? When you had cancer, you had to eat big--you were “eating for two”--yourself and your tumor. If you didn’t feed it, it ate you. She took a sip of coffee, frowned at the bitterness and stirred in several spoonfuls of sugar. Was her desire to eat, even while nauseous, a sign of her wish to fight back against the tumor? She wondered just how well she really knew herself, wondered if she had the guts to simply sit idly by and watch the tumor kill her.

“After breakfast,” she said, “I’m sending you out to fill this prescription--my back is absolutely burning. It’s like somebody’s poking me with a hot curling iron.”

“What’d the doctor prescribe?”

She scrutinized the hieroglyphic the doctor had scrawled. “Something unpronounceable.”

“I hope it’s non-habit-forming.”

“What difference does it make?”

“I wish you’d let me take you over to see Sensei Toyama,” Dalk said. “Or at least try some acupuncture.”

“No thanks.”

“If you’re going to refuse traditional medicine, you could at least look into Toyama's alternative treatments.”

Vickie had expected this pitch from her brother. Dalk, after their mother’s death, had left the L.A. area to spend a decade in Japan studying a little-known school of the martial arts, which focused on killing a great many people quickly and without a lot of fuss--but which also contained an element of magic and miracle healing. He’d done well and attained a high degree of proficiency before leaving Japan and bringing home with him his Sensei, Master Toyama.

Together, the two of them had opened a school in Panorama City, a bad business move which quickly turned into a hand-to-mouth operation, during which time Dalk had married, but when his childless marriage of 5 years fell apart under the economic strain of his faltering self-employment, ending in a bitter divorce and leaving him with a need for steady income to handle the alimony payments, he’d left Toyama to run the dojo alone and taken a consultant job with the LAPD as a self-defense instructor, a position he’d held for the past year.

“C’mon Dalk. You know how Toyama is--he’s going to tell me I’m possessed by the spirit of a fox, or something. I’d have a better chance seeking a cure from Sabrina the teen-age witch.”

Toyama, Vickie knew, lived alone in a back room at the dojo, where he devoted himself to his magic, keeping himself attuned to the tenets of his magic-based messianic religion which made him prone to offering to those around him some rather unusual remedial methods when confronted with the darker face of human frailties.

“Toyama will respect you,” Dalk said. “And his religion does have a bona fide track record of healings. In any case, whatever Toyama attempts will be cleanly controlled and dignified.”

“He’ll start shaking his gold charm in my face like he did the last time I had the flu. And I’ll tell you something else--Last week Toyama called me on the phone after you told him I was having my biopsy, and he told me he had a special dish of beans, cheese, and roast mice guaranteed to draw out the evil fox spirit inside me.”

“Eat your pancakes. And is it so farfetched? Toyama offered to draw out an evil spirit from your back using a roast mouse as a lure--compare that to the folks at the HMO who’re waiting to go in with their knives and gut you like a fish.”

Vickie’s fork dropped to the floor.

“Oh Vickie. I’m so sorry. That was impossibly tactless of me--it wasn’t really me talking. It’s just that I can’t bear to lose you like this. The grief is killing me. I can’t sleep, and I can hardly eat--I’m on an emotional roller coaster here. Sometimes, I even wish it was me instead of you.”

“Dalk, you’ve got to stay strong for me. You can’t let your emotions overwhelm you.”

“I’ll be strong. It’s just that lately I’ve found myself really regretting the ten years I spent in Japan--I should have stayed here with you. I realize now that running away to Japan was my way of trying to process Mom’s death--I was just trying to escape everything. I shouldn’t have left you alone to handle the aftermath by yourself.”

“You did what you had to do. And look at you. You’re one of the rising stars of the Los Angeles Police Department. I’m so proud of you. Besides, after Mom died, and you left for Japan, I wasn’t alone--I had Jack. Those ten years with him were probably the best years of my life. It was like every day I was a new bride. The only grief Jack and I experienced was our inability to have children together, but we made up for it by really loving each other.”

A knock on the front door sent Dalk to the vestibule. He returned with Mulroney--the big guy looking frazzled in his baggy black slacks and tired white shirt--the only thing she’d ever seen him wear. Mulroney’s sudden appearance at their home was a common occurrence, him being extended family, having partnered with Jack for the twenty-six years preceding Jack’s untimely death. At Jack’s death, Mulroney pulled the pin on the job and bought The Lamplighter to give himself something to do, keep connected with cops, and in his own words, “to keep from eating his gun”.

“You’re just in time,” Vickie said. “The coffee’s hot and so are the pancakes.”

“Get dressed,” he said. “We don’t have time to eat. We’re going for a ride.”

“Oh? Where to?”

“North Hollywood. Guy I know says there’s one of these Virgin Mary ladies living over there who has a statue of Our Lady that cries real tears and heals people.”

"The hell you say. I just turned down an offer of Sensei Toyama's roasted mice. I certainly don't need a Virgin Mary lady lighting candles for me."

"Please. It's the last thing I will ever ask of you," Mulroney pleaded. "This woman is a real miracle worker."

"Okay, as long as you understand I am doing it for you, not because I believe in her. But if she starts handling snakes or drinking blood or anything, I am gone."

Chapter 4

Vickie entered the middle bedroom to look for something to wear. It wasn’t an easy decision--the room had been converted into a huge walk-in closet, the racks filled with an amazing display of shoes, coats, and dresses, all the items arranged by type, many of them still with the tags on. Bags and boxes from famous designers lined the top shelves, as though somebody had taken the whole of Rodeo Drive and extruded it through a micro-screen, the net result appearing before her.

Not sure exactly what the protocol was for visiting a faith-healer in North Hollywood, she finally decided to keep it simple, going with a black cashmere tee tucked into a long, plum, knit skirt, finishing off the look with mid-calf black boots. Against the morning wind, she buttressed her outfit with a trendy white coat and topped off the whole thing with a few miniature butterfly clips attached to her baby braids. The clips added a touch of whimsy she did not feel.

“You look incredible,” Mulroney said.

“We’ll take my car,” she said.

“Oh no. You know I can’t fit into that thing. We’ll take mine.”

“You coming, Dalk?” she said.

“Can’t. I’ve got a building-search seminar at 10, after which I’m running the rookies up and down the fire trails around Chavez ravine.”

“Give me back my prescription. We’ll get it filled on the way to the crying statue.”

Mulroney led her out the front door to his ride--a three-ton navy-blue Suburban with blackened windows. The eighteen-foot-long monstrosity on its oversize tires looked ready to assault a college campus demonstration, or an inner-city riot. The Suburban was the un-ecologic, unapologetic choice of many connected with copdom, it being the flagship of LAPD’s SWAT Division.

He assisted her climb into the jump seat and shut her in. As soon as she clipped her belt, a hoarse cough from behind made her aware she was not alone. She turned to face a wide-eyed feline peering through the grill of a big carry cage. The beast was the largest of it’s kind she’d ever seen, with a head the circumference of a dinner plate. A single paw, claws extended to clutch the grill, easily outsized her own clenched fist. For a brief instant, she had the feeling she belonged to the cat, as though it had sized her up and mentally rehearsed her as a mealtime possibility. Her instinct was to flee the vehicle, a sensation interrupted by the intrusion of Mulroney’s massive carcass coming through the driver’s-side door. He popped into the pilot’s seat with an ease which seemed to defy gravity, considering his raw bulk.

“What is that?”

“That’s Kilkenney,” Mulroney said. “He’s a cat.”

“What do you feed him--small dogs?”

“Kilkenney’s a Maine Coon. They were first sent to the U.S. by Marie Antoinette, shortly before she got the blade. I won him in a dice game last week.”

“He looks like a raccoon.”

“I think they’ve been interbred with ‘coons, because they use their paws just like hands. You should see him sitting up with a chicken leg.”

“I hope I never do.”

Mulroney waited for a break in the busy morning traffic, didn’t get one, so instead bullied his way across the six-lanes in an outrageous U-turn before heading down Tampa to Burbank and turning eastward into a short, sharp sun. Vickie settled back. It would be a long overland haul over a varied and sundry terrain across the Valley to North Hollywood.

“What’s Kilkenney doing in the car?”

“I’m introducing him to travel,” Mulroney said. “Although you’ll never see a cat hanging out the window of a moving car like a dog, it’s a fact that cats who are introduced to travel often learn to enjoy it. We’re going to do some cage work this week before going cageless.”

“What if he freaks out and rips your face off?”

“Awww, he’s a big cream-puff. Although he’s designed for survival in tough conditions, he’s a great family-style pet.”

She glanced back at the glaring cat. There was nothing in that wild visage which remotely suggested family-style anything.

“What’s after going cageless? Restaurant training?”

“Only if I think he’d feel comfortable doing so.”

Vickie hit the radio--Janis Ian--Society’s Child. “I can’t believe it. Every song I hear lately takes me back to 1967. I was only a kid.”

“I love Janis Ian,” Mulroney said. “She was only fifteen when she did this song.”

“I hate people like you who know something about everything. You’re like an encyclopedia of Oldies--it makes me feel like I’ve done nothing with my life.”

“You’re doing something now.”

The Suburban crossed through the crammed and jammed Balboa Boulevard intersection and entered a curving, car-stalled swoop of roadway which presented a different world from the apartment/strip-mall zone they’d just left. The Sepulveda Dam Recreation area--a patchwork ecological menagerie comprised of a golf course, wetlands, ballparks, bike trails, and other amenities finding their terminus at the edge of a massive Thirties-era concrete flood control bunker erected--via a U.S. Government work-relief project--by the emigrant dust-bowlers. The bunker and its floodgates were part of a city-wide network of concrete channels, an array which collectively dwarfed, in both size and weight, the Pyramids of Egypt and the Great Wall combined.

As they made the crawl, Vickie found herself surveying the wonders of the basin as though for the first time. “When I first met Jack, he took me hiking around here. We’d start right here at the Dam and make our way across the spine of the Santa Monica mountains and down through Rustic Canyon all the way to the Pacific. One time we got caught in this huge concrete channel in the rain and had to wade five miles in hip-deep water to get out. I still remember how that channel ran through the backyards of the Arabs, and how all the peacocks came out and hooted at us. We also had a favorite place at the bottom of a ridge below Bel Air--a cave hidden by a waterfall--it was our own private world.”

“Jack was a man among men. I remember the time there was a monkey loose in Van Nuys. We think the banana-eater escaped from some movie mogul's petting zoo up on Mulholland or someplace. It climbed a telephone pole and snuck into some guy’s third-story apartment and hid under the bed. When Jack and I were called in, we got down on our bellies to take a look and the thing charged us. Let me tell you, you don’t want to be trapped in a bedroom with a pissed-off monkey.”

“What happened to the monkey?”

“I capped it with my flashlight. Jack was a little irritated, what with his love of the wilderness, and wildlife, and all. He’d wanted to capture the small simian by throwing a blanket over it or something. He was a bit sensitive in that way, but it never got in the way of him doing his duty.”

“He loved the wilderness up in those mountains. We walked every trail. Nowadays it’s not the same. The Getty Museum’s gone in, and the rich have started paving over the place.”

“It’s the end of an era,” Mulroney admitted. “When rich producers start moving to the mountains and replacing nests of vipers and skunks--I figure Mother Nature considers that an even trade.”

Vickie looked down from her perch high up in the Suburban at the traffic below her, the cars filled with sharply dressed office types, talking on the Bluetooth, some applying last minute makeup, some even reading, as the long slow cavalcade made its way across the wastelands towards the hill where the freeway connections could be made. The sight of the people with someplace important to go made her feel all the more the disconnecting impact of her present situation with the tumor. “I guess I’m quitting my job for good. No need to pretend with this leave of absence charade. Scratch one more departmental Special Liaison Rep.”

“You should quit. That job wasn’t good enough for you.”

“When Jack died, I went crazy staring at the walls. The job gave me a reason to get up in the morning, and a feeling of being needed by my colleagues. But I’ve learned something--those people weren’t really my friends. Nobody’s called me since I took the time off. But I don’t blame them. All they’re interested in is kissing corporate butt, doing deals and making money. It’s easy to see that, from their viewpoint, there’s not much deal potential in phoning a dying woman to see how she’s feeling.”

“They’re morons. They should all be burned at midnight in some downtown alley. At least they’d serve a purpose by keeping the winos warm for a few hours. But enough of them. I wanted to apologize to you for last night.”

“For what?”

“Last night. When I shot the jukebox.”

“You were just being you. Other men would have simply held my hand, or brought me flowers. You clipped the juke.”

“May I get away with a little tactless honesty?”

“It’s now or never,” Vickie said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Okay. I feel like I ought to get you on Sally Jesse or something to say what I want to say to you. I didn’t have it figured for me to be saying it in the middle of rush hour, but you know, Vickie, we’ve grown pretty close over the two years since Jack died.”

“Sure we have. I guess it’s because we both shared the common grief of losing somebody we both loved and depended on. Actually, if you think about it, we’ve been together almost every day since he died, if you count the time I spend at The Lamplighter.”

“Well, that’s right. But last night, when Dalk gave me the bad news about you--about you’re--well, you know.”

“Call it cancer,” Vickie said. “Let’s be right out front with it. It’s cancer, with a capital C.”

“Yeah, okay. Anyway, when I got the news, I nearly lost it--it didn’t seem fair. I thought, Why is God punishing me this way? Wasn’t I a good enough Catholic? You know, I’ve worked all my life, never taken a real vacation, saved all my money, put together a healthy retirement, paid my house off--all that--and suddenly I find out that you’ve got--Cancer!”

They’d arrived at the top of the freeway overpass and were suspended forty feet above the Valley. Mulroney pulled off the boulevard into a small parking area. Before them stretched the wilderness playground which terminated in the massive bulwark of the dam, its gates open wide as if they were the portals connecting the wild to the Land of the Living.

“Last night,” he continued, “I prayed to God, if he would give you another chance to live, I’d go to Mass every day. Or if you needed a body part--any body part--I’d donate mine, or I’d find somebody to give up theirs--one way or the other.” He broke off, eyes brimming.

“Oh, Mulroney. Where would I be without my red-faced, white-haired Irishman?” She unclipped her seat belt and crawled across the console to huddle next to him. “Believe me, I’d never have made it through those dark days after Jack’s death if you hadn’t shown up on my doorstep every morning with your little cardboard tray of coffees and doughnuts.”

They cried together, childlike.

“I thought we had more time,” he said. “So I’ll say this now--and God have mercy on my soul--I love you, Vickie. I always have. From the first minute I saw you, I have loved you. I will love you always, and forever.”

“Mulroney!”

“Let me finish. After you hear me out, if you want to tell me where to go, that’s okay. Listen--when you and Jack got serious, I put my feelings for you in a cocoon and went about my business. Controlling feelings are a cop’s specialty. Early on, I learned to put my feelings aside and rely on myself to make it through tough spots. But in the weeks and months following Jack’s death, my feelings for you came back out. I couldn’t keep them down anymore. Vickie, I never said anything all this time, you’re being such a new widow and all, but it’s been two years, and unless I’m wrong, I think you have some small feelings for me. Vickie, this weekend, I was going to ask you to consider marrying me.”

His words were huge, washing over her like a waterfall. Now that they were said, she realized she’d known about Mulroney all along. She’d seen it in his eyes the first time they met. A vast empty space opened up inside her as she saw the truth behind the last twenty-two years of her life.

“You never married because of me,” she said. “Your whole life you never married because of me. You fool!”

He grinned through his tears. “I’m some kind of stupid, huh?”

There was a spirit in the air between them, charging itself higher and higher before releasing its lightning bolt which struck her right between the eyes, conveying to her its message of Solomonic purity.

“Mulroney--you know what I’m facing, right?”

“I know.”

“And yet you could have kept the lid on about your love for me, but you didn’t.”

“No. But I told it to the priest instead. I’ve confessed it a million times.”

“You chose just now to finally convey your deepest feelings to me--you were planning to ask me to marry you.”

“Yeah.” His features sharpened. “Will you?” A tiny eternity passed.

“Mulroney, I would have married you when I first met you. But you weren't ready. You big bastard, you were just into being a street monster cop and partying with your cop buddies. That's why I chose Jack. But I would have picked you if you had straightened up even a little bit."

"Will you marry me?" he said slowly, one more time.

"Yes."

It was a small word from her lips, but it hung in the air a long time, like a free-floating balloon.

“Yes?”

“I’ll marry you,” she said. “That is, if you still want to, considering everything. And you’re right. I do have deep feelings for you. I just didn’t know how to deal with it until now. So, knowing what you know, knowing I’m going to die soon, do you still want me?”

Mulroney looked deeply into her face. Etched around his eyes were the lines from a lifetime of command decisions, but now the lines were unfocused, as though he was a child. “I still want you...even considering everything.”

“There’s one condition. You have to ask me properly.”

He quickly exited the Suburban without closing the door and helped her down before dropping to one knee in the gravel, the formidable roar of freeway and boulevard like a giant, languageless choir surrounding their moment, she in her white coat standing before him like a working class angel presiding over a large and sorry penitent. He took her hand.

“Vickie, I love you and always have. Will you marry me?”

Their eyes met and she realized deep within herself it was more than just friendship she felt for the man, knew she wasn’t merely grasping at straws in an attempt to avoid the lonely chill of death, but rather had been offered a life-giving bouquet at the onset of a chill, desert winter.

“Yes, Mulroney. I also love you and will marry you.”

A thumping noise interrupted their psychic embrace--Kilkenney, infused with the scents of wetlands and dank concrete gateways to civility, was reacting with cattish vigor to the eternal promises offered by both.

Chapter 5

“Should we just do it?” Mulroney said, “or should we first draw up a catalog of precautionary measures?”

They were back in the Suburban.

“Marriage isn’t so simple as it used to be,” Vickie agreed. “For one thing, we’re both Catholic, so there’s the matter of finding a suitable priest. I should probably confess that I haven’t been a very good Catholic--I haven’t been to Mass in a ‘coons age--or should I say a Maine Coon’s age?”

This last remark was in deference to Kilkenney, who, de-caged, purred demurely in Vickie’s lap, much to her amazement and relief.

“I know a guy,” Mulroney said. “Father Larry, over at Our Lady of Grace on Ventura near White Oak. He owes me a few."

"A Catholic priest owes you a few? A Catholic priest?"

"Yeh. They're people like anybody else you know. We became friends when I was in the hospital after Jack and me rammed our unit into that porn palace on Lankershim. He’s got a special place in his heart for cops. I helped him out of a jam one time. Of course I can't tell you about it, what with him being a priest and all.”

“You have a long arm, Mulroney. And I remember him,” Vickie said. “He said the Mass for Jack’s funeral. But why do I all of a sudden feel the cold breath of reality breathing down my neck?”

“I can fix that,” he said. He hit the radio, seeking an oldie. He struck gold, The Beatles--She Loves You--the close harmonies and odd chords reviving their spirits. “That song will endure forever,” he said. “That was when Lennon and McCartney wrote everything together in a hotel room or a van. The edge of poverty--that’s the proper setting for an artist.”

“Spoken like a true Irishman,” she said. She turned toward him and took both of his big rough hands in her two tiny smooth ones.

“Let’s make it our song,” she said. “It fits. You think you lost your love--but--it’s you she’s thinking of. You never lost me. True, I had to love another man first, but now I understand it’s my destiny in life to love two great men before I die. So you never lost me, Mulroney--I was right in front of you all the time. It’s just that to every thing, there is a season. This is our season. And this is our song.”

“I love you, Vickie.”

“I love you, Mulroney.”

Their first kiss was soft, as each gave quietly of their earthly substance, each seeking to discover the mystery of the other, yet they found themselves still polite, like houseguests inspecting their new lodgings, moving forward and drawing back at the same time.

“Wow,” she said. “Soon we will be married, so I think we better cool it for now.”

His tears coursed the lines of his face, and the softening of his features revealed him to be more kind than savage, a trace of the leprechaun replacing the warlike grimace inherited from some ancient lineage of Irish Kings.

“I hate to bring this up,” Vickie said, “but in spite of our newfound delirium at having finally connected, if we’re going to be married, we both have our respective individual estates to consider--I have to warn you, I’ve got a ton salted away.”

“There’s probably a hotbed of tax issues if we marry our estates together,” Mulroney said. “I, too, have a ton. I recently sold three rentals I owned free and clear, which left me over five-hundred grand in the bank after taxes, and I have over five-hundred grand in my retirement account. I own my place in Santa Monica free and clear and despite the real estate collapse and all, it’s worth over six-hundred grand easy. The Lamplighter’s only a hobby with me, but it’s worth about a hundred and a half, with no note against it. Income-wise, I get a tidy sum from retirement, plus whatever I want to draw from the bar, which nets about sixty-thousand a year. Most months, I draw nothing, putting the profits against the note. So I guess I’m worth somewhere around a million-and-a-half, give or take, and it’s mostly liquid assets.”

“You did all that on a policeman’s salary?” she said.

“My dad taught me I’d get rich if I squirreled my money away,” he said. “So every month, I put everything I could into real estate and savings.”

“Who would ever guess you had such a pile?” she said.

“It wasn’t all real estate,” he said. “Being a cop helped some. I admit I ate lunch free every day while I was on the force. But I only ate where I was welcome, and it was mostly just taco joints or stir-fry places, nothing fancy, not like a Chicago politician or anything.”

“Okay, Mulroney,” she said. “You showed me yours, now I’ll show you mine. I’ve got a lot of money. When Jack died, he left me set for life. All the years we were married, we both worked. We lived off what he earned and put my paychecks in the market. Jack loved the technology stocks. We’ve quadrupled that money. When he died, there was an insurance policy that paid off our house, and a huge death benefit. I have to admit, I’ve spent some of the money to satisfy my two major vices--keeping my Z-28 alive, and nice clothes.”

“Nobody looks nicer than you, Vickie,” Mulroney said.

“I’ve spent way too much on my wardrobe,” she said, “but what can I say? I like the way I feel when I shop in an elegant store. While Jack was alive, we found most of our clothing at Ross, but since Jack died, I guess shopping for expensive outfits was my way of keeping sane--it was something I could do without having a man along. The truth is, shopping in the best shops gives me a feeling of being cared about--but now that I’m dying, I guess I can admit to a new perspective--I see all that shopping as a phony way I had to mask the loneliness I felt--to pretend I had friends. All those salespeople were nothing more than professional fawners. Anyway, to make a long story short--I’m rich. My accountant keeps wanting me to diversify, but I keep letting it roll over in the high yield sector. If I cashed out today, I’d probably come in likewise at around a couple of million or three.”

“Good grief,” Mulroney said. “I always figured you were barely making it. I was looking forward to showering you with my riches, and even showing off a little. I’m so cash-heavy right now, if I don’t do some tax-hedge-type investing, my exclusive Santa Monica accountant is threatening to downgrade me to one of the discount firms. Can you imagine a guy like me trying to explain my life to some weenie at Charles Schwab?”

“Mulroney, I’ve got a problem,” she said. “I’m worried about Dalk. He’s never been smart with money like me, and I won’t be around to take care of him. He’s got nothing but past due credit card bills and he’s almost 40. He blew his peak earning years in Japan learning how to tap into his spiritual essence or something, and as you may have guessed, they don’t pay a whole lot in this town for that kind of skill. Even his job with the Department is on a consultant basis--he’s not a for-real cop. I wish they’d at least make him a permanent employee so he could get a pension and health benefits.”

“Dalk really helps the officers he trains,” Mulroney said. “He helps them overcome the bad habits they’ve picked up which could get them killed. He deserves a secure position within the Department. His self-defense seminars have created a lot of respect for him. A couple of times, he’s pointed out better ways to do things which have gotten the old policies changed. I can call somebody inside the Department and secure him a position, if you’d like me to. I still have a few favors owed me.”

“I’d like that,” Vickie said, “But don’t tell me anybody owes you any favors. You’re a crusty old goat who knows where all the bodies are buried in the Department.”

“It’s a tribal thing,” he said. “I came of age as a cop before the PD went PC. Most of the bodies that lie buried, I buried myself on behalf of someone else. It so happens that those someone else’s are running things now. My experience from the dinosaur days entitles me to lifetime pimping privileges among the Department higher-ups, never mind that mealy-mouthed sorry excuse of a Chief they brought in from out-of-state to pressure all the righteous cops into early retirements.”

“There’s one more thing,” Vickie said. “I’m not sure how you’re going to take this, but as far as my money goes, I plan to leave it all to Dalk. He’s all the family I’ve got left. I don’t think Dalk is capable of building any wealth on his own--he’s the type to donate everything to some Buddhist temple nobody’s ever heard of, where it somehow winds up in a politician's pockets.”

“I think it’s beautiful that you’re going to take care of your baby brother,” Mulroney said. “That’s what families are for. As far as us getting hitched, I’ll sign a prenup. That way there won’t be any cloud over Dalk’s inheritance.”

“You’d do that for me?” she said. “You’d sign a prenup?”

“I love you,” he said. “It’s not about money. If you owed a million, I’d pay it to have you.”

She laughed softly at his concern. “You’re a knight in shining armor, Mulroney,” she said. “You’re well-documented proof that cops have never evolved beyond the archaic traditions and social standards set up all those thousands of years ago, when everything important was set in stone.”

“No,” he said. “Don’t judge me harshly. Even though I have made a couple of attempts in the past to find the Holy Grail, I’m still very much a millennial man. When it comes to relationships with the opposite sex, I’m very flexible--I consider myself very modern. You might even call me a feminist’s dream.”

“To set the record straight,” Vickie said, “you’re every feminist’s nightmare--but I love you anyway. I want you to look before you leap, because a few days from now, when I waft down the aisle in my virginal-white gown, pledging a lifetime of devotion and love to you, there’ll be no need for a prenup because I’ll already be flat broke.”

“Come again?”

“I’ll explain on the way. Right now, I want you to re-cage this family-style pet of yours and start the car. Second, when you hit the bottom of the hill, turn south on Sepulveda towards the beach.”

“South? But I thought we were taking you to see the Virgin Mary lady.”

“C’mon, Mulroney,” she said. “The tumor’s probably already spread. It’s past time to be working on the cure. I’ve decided not to fight it. I want to enjoy what little time I have left. That’s why you’re turning south. We’re going to spend the day in Santa Monica.”

“Santa Monica?” he said. “What for?”

“What do you think? Santa Monica is the New Beverly Hills. We’re going to spend my million dollars.”

“On what?”

“On Dalk.”

“Explain, please.”

“Dalk may be the master of the armed felon building search,” she said, “but he’s a fool when it comes to money. I have no intention of leaving him a million in cash. The vultures would pick him clean in a year. And this is The City of Angels. Before I die, I’m going to be his guardian angel and buy Dalk a piece of heaven right here on earth.”

Chapter 6

“You got anything to drink?” Vickie said. “I need something to settle my stomach.”

“There’s a short dog of Schnapps in the glove box,” Mulroney replied.

They were moving slowly through the Mulholland tunnel, located in the heart of the pass which provided north-south access from the Valley to West Los Angeles and regions south. The morning commuter traffic poured like a slow-falling steel waterfall from the tunnel mouth down the side of the Santa Monica National Park System, the world’s largest urban national park, and the only park in the world with a mission to preserve the city’s “air shed”, that is, to act as a natural filter for the smoggy secretions which passed for air among the citizens.

Vickie popped open the glove box. Alongside a large-bore revolver, she found a pint bottle of Peppermint Schnapps and something else--a prescription vial of tiny white nitro pills.

“What’s this?” she said.

“You weren’t supposed to see those,” he said. “Pass the Schnapps.” He took a sip and passed it back.

“What’s wrong with you?” she said.

“My heart,” he said. “It’s a big, nasty mess from all those doughnuts and coffee. I can’t walk ten feet without a pain. The ghouls want to open my chest, but I won’t let them. To tell you the truth, I think my surgical risk is in the same category as Ron Goldman’s impromptu surgery at the black-gloved hands of Dr. O.J.”

“My, we’re a pair,” she said. “We’re both dodging the doctor’s silver bullet. I hope you don’t croak before our wedding.”

“Just for the record,” he said, “if God calls for me in the next few days, tell Him I’m out.”

“I want to buy the dress today,” she said, “but I’m concerned about the fit. For some reason, the last few days, my stomach’s starting to swell--Oh! Ooooooh!”

At that very instant, the back pain, which for weeks had reserved itself to a somewhat constant level of burning pain, decided to escape its boundaries and expand throughout her upper abdomen, as though an electric eagle were raking a white hot talon through her guts.

“Oh! Help me!” Vickie screamed.

Mulroney swerved over to a stop. “It’s okay,” he said. “Try to breathe. Just try to breathe.”

An unearthly shriek from deep inside her sought to shake the pain loose, but it dug in deeper, pushing her limbs into an awkward dance of senseless writhing.

“Mulroney!” she shrieked.

The pain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, retreating to its base camp fire in her lower back. But it’s probe to further regions of her body had proved successful, thoroughly dehumanizing and demoralizing her, leaving in its wake the chill of death blanketed over her still-twitching limbs.

Mulroney whipped out his phone. “I’m calling for help,” he said.

“No,” she whispered.

“You need help,” he said.

“No, Mulroney. Don’t call anybody. I’m not going back to the hospital. Take me into the mountains. Take me back to the canyons. I want to see the waterfalls and hear the peacocks one more time. Tell me you love me and leave me there beside the waterfall to die in peace. Promise me, you’ll never let me die in a hospital. Never.”

“Okay,” he said. “I promise.” He rummaged in her purse. “Where’s your pain pills?” he said.

“I don’t have any,” she said. “We forgot to fill the prescription this morning, what with all the excitement about our wedding plans.”

“Well I can fix that,” he said. He rummaged in a cargo compartment and came up with a large white-capped vial full of pills, from which he shook out a couple of capsules. The white-and-green specked caps sparkled authoritatively in his palm.

“Dr. Bienenfeld warned me not to self-medicate,” she said.

“To which I say a big So What!”

“I won’t even ask what these are,” she said. She opened her mouth and he placed the unholy communion on her tongue, which she then swallowed, following this with a long swallow of the Schnapps.

“They’re Policeman’s Specials,” he said. “I’ve been on them ever since I got that brick in the shoulder during the Rodney King aftermath.”

“My doctor prescribed something,” she said.

"He didn't give you anything like this. My special’s will keep you pain-free for awhile longer. If those give out, we’ll get you something stronger.”

“Do you have enough to last me?” she said.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I can get all you need without a prescription.”

He put the big SUV in gear and bullied his way through the dense traffic down the hill while Vickie nursed the Schnapps, feeling a welcome warmth suffuse her bones and skin.

“I’m being slowly cut off from life,” she said. “All my life, I’ve always thought that death would walk up to me one day and tap me on the shoulder--now I realize that death is like a bullfight. We’re like poor dumb animals on display in a ring where the evil Toreador of Death puts in the lance while we're still alive, while all the world is watching and mocking us as we grow weaker and weaker. We can fight back, of course, but we’ll only wind up with our noses in the wind, smelling the stench of our own blood as it drains into the earth.”

Ten miles later, the relief from the synthetic narcotics and the Schnapps was surging through her body like an incoming Pacific tide, each wave pushing her higher and higher. By the time they hit the storybook Montana Shopping District in Santa Monica--said by some to be second only to Beverly Hills’ Rodeo Drive--Vickie was ready to shop.

“Where to?” Mulroney said.

“Where else?” she replied. “The Montclair Collection--they’ve got a rack of bridal gowns from around the world.”

“I get to buy the dress,” Mulroney said. “And I want the most expensive one in the joint.”

“It doesn’t have to be expensive,” Vickie said, “just perfect--the perfect dress for our perfect day--but if it’s perfect and expensive, that’s okay, too.”

“I think we’re starting a tradition, here,” he said. “I’ll bring the Schnapps.”

“Oh no you won’t,” she said. “You’re not coming in to my elegant boutique dressed like that. You’re staying in the car with Kilkenney. There’s a Starbucks back down the street. You can go have your coffee and donuts while I pick out my dress.”

“I’ll leave you the Schnapps,” he said.

“Get real,” she said. “This is Santa Monica. They’ll be serving champagne.”

Chapter 7

“If it’s a second marriage,” Dee said, “tradition dictates we work with something beige, or even another color entirely.”

“To heck with tradition,” Vickie said. “I’m going with white. My intentions are honorable. I’m not buying into the notion that because a woman isn’t a physical virgin, she’s no longer pure. Of course, with the recent turn of events in my life perhaps it’s fitting that my final gown be a dress with colors closer to the earth than to the sky. No. I’ve decided. The dress must be white.”

Dee was pure California power sales stock, with the sharp looks and firmness of demeanor required of the territory, but also a force to be reckoned with by virtue of that hint of humanity and depth found only in workers serving stores of the highest echelon, such as those found routinely along Montana Avenue in Santa Monica, California, the backyard and playground of the mighty City of Angels. Dee understood the first principal of upscale boutique hospitality--that in the City of Angels, where some of the richest and most powerful people in the world power-shopped in T-shirts and jeans--every stranger through her door was a possible angel in disguise. Although she’d never met Vickie, she knew when a customer was wearing a designer label, and had already pre-determined by Vickie’s taste in clothing that this was a woman accustomed to the finer things in life.

They were standing next to a bulletin board featuring photos of happy brides. Along the wall, a Niagric panoply of samples of the World’s Most Important Dress flowed copiously all the way to the store entrance.

“More champagne?” Dee said. “It’s a Pierre Jourdan Brut from South Africa. I think it has the most bubbles of any I’ve tried.”

“And it’s creamy,” Vickie said. “Fill ‘er up.” She extended her glass, enjoying the brief feeling of sophistication imparted by the finely fluted Mikasa crystal, a sensation enhanced by the submissive, yet attentive ministrations of her acolyte. On Montana Avenue, where the stakes were high, the Dees of the world preened their patrons with flattery and plied them with the finest wines while discussing life and death as though they were only issues, not ultimate realities. Vickie sipped big. One more glass and the bonding would be complete.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Dee said, “but you seem a little sad.”

“It’s not what you may think,” Vickie said. “It’s not like I’m having second thoughts about the marriage, as I suppose is typical with people who’ve been married before. No, the truth is, I’m suffering from pancreatic cancer. I’m dying.”

There, she thought. She’d just announced it to a total stranger. A real conversation stopper.

But Dee returned the serve easily. “How soon?” she said.

Vickie had to give her a lot of credit. The woman hadn’t flinched. Of course, this was L.A. and Heaven only knew how many stories of such a nature Dee had absorbed.

“I don’t know how long,” Vickie said. “I mean, it could be five days or five months.”

Dee commandeered a flute for herself and filled it to the brim. “To you, Vickie,” she said. “To your courage under fire.”

They basked in the warmth of the new-formed bond between them.

“Have you set the date?” Dee said.

“Two days from today,” Vickie said. “It’s like everything else lately. It’s rushed, as though it was the last thing on earth.”

“Have you had much time to plan it out?” Dee said.

“Not exactly,” Vickie said. “I only got the proposal this morning. But my fiancé knows a good priest who’ll get us through it.”

“I can work with that,” Dee said. “Believe it or not, I once arranged a complete ceremony in a little over eight hours for a certain well-known Hollywood brat who had to get married to keep TMZ from running a certain story. How about the man in your life--is he going to be able to keep up with us?”

“He’s a retired cop,” Vickie said. “He’s used to high-speed living. Besides, all he has to do is throw on a good dark suit. I know he has one, because he wore it to my late husband’s funeral two years ago.”

“Does he know who’s the boss when it comes to your wedding?” Dee said.

“He’s on a personal campaign to resurrect chivalry in this city,” Vickie said, “not that he’s a wimp--he doesn’t ask permission to go to the bathroom or anything--but he knows it’s my show from here on out.”

“I can tell he must be one good man,” Dee said. “To help you through your time of emotional devastation and all.”

“Not only emotional but physical,” Vickie said. “I had a severe episode of pain about an hour ago, and he stoked me up with painkillers right on the spot. I feel pretty good now. I’ve had lower back pain for a month, and right now I don’t feel a thing. It’s amazing how life changes. Yesterday I walked away from my doctor. I decided to refuse the cure and walk the plank by myself to save my dignity, but while I was walking, my fiancé joined me on the plank.”

“That’s beautiful,” Dee said. “You two are honest with yourselves and where you’re at. You’re taking your lives exactly as they are at this moment, with no unreal expectations, no false hopes, no blindness. You guys are really on the road to God--you’re working with the karma that exists in your life space.”

“Our marriage will be more than a special friendship,” Vickie agreed. “A couple of times today, I’ve caught myself and thought, Wow, Vickie--you’re getting married!--and I realized in those moments that I’m somehow doing what I was made to do.”

“I want to show you something,” Dee said. She took Vickie by the hand and led her to a room in the back. There, displayed alone in the center of the room was a dress of singular beauty.

“Oh wow,” Vickie said. “It’s breathtaking.”

“It’s called the Flower of Ireland,” Dee said. “It’s fashioned from hand-spun Irish linen and double-silk lined.”

The delicate craft of the dress, embellished with a gold-filigree interlace design with stylized hand-made flowers spiraling down the side panels took Vickie’s breath away. The articulation was brilliantly clear, the work so fine it seemed the artist must have been sent down from Heaven for just the one job.

“It’s a fresh creation,” Dee said. “It even comes with a twenty-four-carat gold replica of the Tara brooch. It’s a new Irish designer who only turns out one dress per season. His name is Kell.

“Look,” Vickie said, pointing to the shoulder embroidery.

“Yes,” Dee said, “they’re peacocks--in ancient Christian tradition, they represent the resurrection of Christ.”

The tails of the cocks thrust down the rear panels in a flurry of circles, spirals and curlicues of such ingenuity as to defy the mind’s ability to assimilate the pattern, rather, the whole had to be taken piecemeal, as though the artist required from the observer a small exercise of faith.

The train hung from a silk-padded crossbar to which Dee guided Vickie’s gaze. There, in symbolic abstraction, embedded in the gossamer shades of linen, delicate and subtle, was the simple intensity of the Blessed Mother in frozen dignity, her tender look touching something in Vickie’s heart.

It was too much for Vickie, the finding of the Irish dressmaker’s work of art on the very day she’d accepted an Irishman’s proposal. “I shouldn’t think it would fit my body type,” Vickie said. “I’ve got a short, thick waist.”

“You’re every man's dream,” Dee said. “But as you’ll notice, the gown is cut low in the waist to allow for your fuller figure.”

Vickie drained her champagne, observing a slight tremor in her fingers.

“I see you before me on your wedding day,” Dee said. “We’ve worked some life back into your blonde hair with a fresh cut from a top stylist, and we’ve gone with a light lip gloss, maybe a Creme Soda or an Iced Coffee, to preserve your beautiful blue eyes. Your skin sparkles with shimmer powder, maybe Chanel Pure Frost. For a fragrance, we could go with one of the Arden scents, something old fashioned. Maybe Green Tea--something light, but earthy.”

Vickie, caught up in this implanted vision, circled the Flower of Ireland--the beauty of it making her spirits a bit manic, as though she was next in line to receive a healing from the Lord. She wondered idly if perhaps the Mulroney Specials, combined with the Schnapps and the champagne were helping along this beneficial feeling. She was marveling once again at the softly flowing image of Our Lady when suddenly the image spoke.

“My Child,” it said. The voice, clear and beautiful, conveyed a deep sense of peace to her soul.

“Did you hear that?” Vickie said. “The train of the dress just spoke to me. I heard the Virgin Mary. She said “My Child”.”

“I heard nothing,” Dee said, “but perhaps your suffering has attuned you to a higher essence. I must say, I do feel something in the room--it’s like a spiral of energy generating a sense of love and well-being. And when I look at you, I see a radiance in your face that wasn’t there a moment ago.”

They stood together for a moment, as each woman sought to further intrude on that higher essence and absorb the experience of the talking train on the Flower of Ireland, as though the handiwork of the artist Kell would add a measure of heavenly, superabundant life force to their souls.

“It’s going to be a small wedding,” Vickie said. “Just me, my fiancé, my brother--and, if I’m lucky--a maid of honor.”

“The quality of a wedding isn’t determined by the number of people,” Dee said. “I can provide you with a complete service. I’ll handle each detail personally. In two days, you’ll have the wedding of your dreams.”

Vickie contemplated the notion of trusting somebody she’d just met for something as important as the wedding, but she realized the truth--she hadn’t the energy to plan lunch, let alone a wedding.

“I want you to plan everything,” Vickie said. “Pull out all the stops. I’ll call you later to tell you the time and the place. I’m going to trust you completely.”

“You’ll be rewarded,” Dee said.

“I shouldn’t ask,” Vickie said, “but what is the price for the Flower of Ireland?” Her voice broke a little as she realized for the first time the course of her illness was not in her hands. The tumor wasn’t working alone, it was simply a tool in the hands of a much larger force, and she could feel deep within her a connectedness to that force, the way, she thought, a fish must feel connected to the energies of the mighty Pacific a few blocks away from where she stood. Always before in such times, she was able to take charge by moving on, by taking action. But she couldn’t with this. The talking dress was no hallucination--she realized suddenly that God was with her. This epiphany shocked her, leaving her stranded between a desire to let go and a desire to hang on. It made no sense.

“The price is two-hundred, twenty-five thousand,” Dee said. “But each flower on the dress is hand-made from rare, antique Irish brocades at a cost of over three-hundred dollars each, and there’s over one hundred flowers. The gold chains running from the hem all the way through the bodice and around through the back are real twenty-four-carat gold. The price also includes my wedding planning assistance and twenty-four-hour limo service for a week. I realize it’s too much gown for the average bride, but I really wanted you to see it before it winds up in the Norton Simon or the Getty. I don’t show it to just anybody. You'd be amazed at some of the people who have been turned away in spite of everything.”

“Thank you,” Vickie said.

“I suppose we should tear ourselves away and get to work,” Dee said. “The first thing we need to do is introduce you to our inventory and see what suits you. I’ve got some beautiful new styles in from Italy. The trend has moved towards the simple this season, away from all the pouf.”

“No,” Vickie said. “This is my dress. I felt it the moment I first saw it. This is my wedding gown. I’m taking the Flower of Ireland.”

Dee gaped, composure shattered. Vickie once again approached the driving vitality of the creation and felt of the linen of the train--it was light and rich and pure, exactly like the soul of Mary Herself.

“No one else is to view or touch this dress from this moment on,” Vickie said. “My fiancé’s accountant will call you in an hour or so.” She turned and left the room, having the sensation of crossing an ancient Irish moat, leaving a safe, defensible place to return to the world outside where the vast city sprawled around her, busy in its interminable workings of thatch and plaster, chilled as it was by the pervading winds of the creeping October.

Chapter 8

She met Mulroney on the sidewalk. Kilkenney, harnessed and leashed, sat passively beside the big man.

“We had a little stroll together,” Mulroney said. “Long walks are out of the question. And he won’t heel like a dog. Kilkenney prefers to walk alongside.”

“I had a cat once named Jaws 2,” Vickie said, “who used to go for long walks with me--not on a leash, of course--he’d simply follow along in my footsteps.”

“A lot of people don’t like cats,” Mulroney said, “because, although they can be tamed, they refuse to be conquered. It’s a documented fact that Hitler was terrified of small felines.” He had in his non-leash hand a tall paper cup of coffee with a cardboard sleeve and a white plastic perforated top from Starbucks. He handed the cup to her and she took a small sip.

“Never had that brew before,” she said.

“It’s the coffee of the day.” he said. “A Guatemala Antigua--I spiked it with the Schnapps. I think it presents a more convincing argument to the palate this way.”

“I found the dress,” she said. “It’s unique. It even has a name--The Flower of Ireland. The price is two-hundred-twenty-five thousand dollars.”

The universe of Mulroney’s face passed through a range of expressions as his common sense took the heavy beating. A couple of nanoseconds passed, wherein his Schnapps-gaffed sensibilities weighed out the situation and found all available responses to be not only inadequate, but simply crushed out of existence. There was only one thing he could say.

“I love you,” he said. “I wouldn’t care if it cost a million. I’ll call my accountant and have it taken care of immediately.”

The idea of a man in her life so generous set Vickie’s heart vibrating. The sensation disturbed her. She realized that, for some time, she had wanted Mulroney, but had finally passed over into the reality of having him--this final confirmation--over the price of pricelessness--made her feel faint, as though she had somehow stumbled into the presence of a powerful magnetic being.

“Kiss me,” she said. “And this time, I want it all.”

He embraced her and what began as the faintest touch proceeded to quickly push forward like a searing hot fireball which blew them both away, releasing so much energy between them that each fell back, stunned, as the massive realization of who they were and what they were before the kiss disappeared under the newfound evidence of what they had just become.

“Nothing in my life before,” he said, “ever prepared me for this moment.”

“It’s not going to be comfortable,” she said. “It’s going to be raw and naked and moving fast. We’re going to lose sight of everything else for awhile, but as far as I’m concerned, everything else can wait.”

An enormous black stretch Lincoln limousine slid up to the curb and emitted a uniformed chauffeur.

“That’s my ride for the next few days,” she said. “We’re going to have to split up to get everything done in time.” She entered the plush and spacious coach work. The driver shut the door and she slid down the window.

“Tonight?” he said.

“I’ll see you at the bar,” she said.

He moved towards her.

“Don’t,” she said. “Our next trip into space will be at the altar.”

“You’re the light of my world,” he said and turned, Kilkenney in tow, walking toward his vehicle, intent on future matters of solemn oaths and timeless doctrines, and the spendings of new lives.

Chapter 9

“Run me down to the pier,” she instructed the driver.

The Tibetans had the Himalayas, the Japanese had Fuji, and the Africans had Kilimanjaro--but Los Angelenos had the mighty Pacific Ocean as that which defined their central nature, united them and drew them together. As they fought for survival, for status, for a confusing range of an infinite number of things in the nation’s largest city, everybody agreed on one thing--the beach was the place to let it all hang out, to set aside individuality for the mind-meld of sun, sand, wind and water. The beach was the place to replenish whatever had been lost in the vortex of ten million whirling lives. And the beach was accessible to Vickie--she’d have given anything to return to the beauty of her beloved canyons, but her present physical condition made that impossible, hence her desire to stand at the edge of the world instead.

The limo cruised by the largely undeveloped bluffs, the so-called Palisades park, before turning sharply right and descending down the Colorado Avenue ramp to the Santa Monica pier itself. She hopped out onto the rickety, but hopeful structure of wooden pylons strung together with wire and scanned the fast food stands. It wasn’t quite noon, but the smells of tacos and hot dogs already hung heavy in the air. She decided on a churro--Mexican fried dough shaped like the trunk of a saguaro cactus, the dough rolled in sugar and cinnamon--carrying her prize to the southern railing. The air was still and the ocean was mirror flat. There were few blankets or bodies scattered over the wide sandy shore. The greasy, hot, sugary bread was a comfort to her body as well as her soul, and she found herself free to marvel at the changes occurring inside her.

Dear God, she prayed, It’s not that I hate dying--it’s that I hate the thought of arriving in a place where You are everything. I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s not time for us to meet. We hardly know each other. We have no rapport. I mean, I’m not ready for the big sit-down feast. I’m not even ready for purgatory. I don’t especially want to be changed from what I am now into something else. I don’t want to review my past life. The truth is, I want a little more time so I can walk around the planet a bit with Mulroney. We deserve a porch somewhere to rest our tired bones awhile. Who do You think You are? You can’t walk into my life and hand me my pink slip! There was a lot I still wanted to do.

And I resent your methods, your cruelty, your choice of death for me. Why couldn’t you serve me my Notice To Evict The Planet some other way? Instead of the number-two killer in the world, why couldn’t you simply have had a criminal shoot me? I must say, You must have a discontented majority of Your people complaining about your methods. Why heart attacks and cancer? Why not one night we simply close our eyes and the next thing we see is you?

It’s not fair, God. I’ve lived in a city where I’ve spent most of my waking hours behind a steering wheel stuck in traffic and waiting for the Big One. Is this my reward?

Suddenly she laughed. Halfway through her prayer, she’d been struck with the feeling of being someone else who was watching herself pray. That someone else was laughing at her ridiculous attempt to cajole God. God didn’t cajole or persuade easily, if at all. The laughter coming from her carried with it the realization that she simply wasn’t the same woman she’d been a day ago--she knew she was dying, yet somehow, deep down, below where her shallow prayer had generated, was a person who felt things were going better than she had any right to expect.

The placid ocean and the empty sands before her seemed somehow virginal, and she found herself feeling that she should simply remain where she was, at the railing on the pier, eating churros until she finally expired and tumbled into the arms of the earth-sea-sky juncture surrounding her.

She remembered as a girl she’d come down here with Dad to hunt the grunion. The grunion--small silver fish--assembled themselves each year by the millions offshore, waiting for precisely the right time and tide to wash onto the beach and lay their eggs. When they hit--usually around midnight--they carpeted the sands with their flashing bodies, and people walked around, loading up their buckets in the same manner the ancient Israelites must have done when they gathered their daily heaps of miraculous quail.

The stupid fish, she thought. Doing the same thing for millions of years and unable to tune in to the fact that within the last seventy years, ten million people had gathered along their shore to gobble them up. But perhaps they knew something she didn’t. Perhaps they knew that in another seventy years, the ten million people would be gone and it would be back to the way it had always been.

She identified with the grunion, and realized that they were smarter than she was--because the grunion knew what they were doing. She herself had no idea whether to swim towards a goal or simply float with the tide of recent events. Either way, the tumor was waiting at the shore to toss her into its bucket of death. True, the tumor had stripped her of her need to continue clinging to her old life of work-eat-sleep-and-play--had in fact propelled her into the present fiery furnace of pain. To her surprise, she’d found that once inside the furnace, her perspective had changed. For one thing, just like the three men in the book of Daniel who’d been saved from being turned into toast by a mysterious angel, she’d likewise found a life-giving friend in her fiery furnace--Mulroney.

All her life she’d avoided pain and sought comfort, but now her perspective had changed. Which was real, she wondered, the world of pain or the world of comfort? She finally understood the truth. The pain and the comfort weren’t separate entities, but rather were, like the sand and sea before her, a single reality. One always led to the other.

She pulled out her phone and hit the speed dial and asked for Bob, her accountant.

“Vickie,” Bob said. “How are you? Ready for Halloween?”

“You have no idea,” she said. “Listen Bob, I’m in a big hurry, so I’m going to dispense with the amenities. I’m converting all my assets to cash today. I want you to total it all up and sent a third to the IRS. Then I want you to contact the best Realtor in Santa Monica and have them sell my house in the Valley and call me right now about finding a good property here in town. Next, call Simonson Mercedes and let them know that I’ll be in there later and I’m good for whatever I want and not to give me any sales bull. Third, get hold of a decent lawyer and setup everything so whatever I own or buy in the next day or so can be transferred to my brother upon my death with a minimum of tax-impact. Finally, put about a hundred grand in an account for perpetuity to cover taxes on any property I own which is transferred over to Dalk.”

“Is that all?” he said.

“This is no time to be funny,” she said.

“Vickie, why do I feel all of a sudden like I’ve just boarded the Metro and asked Bernie Goetz for some spare change?”

“I’m sorry, Bob,” she said. “And I intend no insult.”

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“My life’s fortunes,” she said, “are at a critical juncture--I’m quite ill--I may have only a few days or weeks left. So forgive me for being brusque.”

“I’ll take care of everything you need,” Bob said. “You can count on me. And it goes without saying, that after twenty years of friendship, you have my deepest sympathy.”

“Sorry to lay it on you like this,” Vickie said. “I couldn’t think of any better way to do it. I guess it’s my way of adapting to the none-too-distant moment when I will be leaving this world.”

“I’ll call you,” he said, “and let you know how it’s going.”

“Thank you, Bob,” she said. “Please hurry--my time is running out.”

She realized that while talking to Bob she’d managed at the same time to finish up the churro. How she’d accomplished both actions simultaneously and unconsciously was beyond her. She needed another churro; she made the buy and admired the form of it, the way it’s ridged, sugar-coated body projected itself from the paper bag as if to say, “bite me”. She did, and was surprised to find this second helping not as good as the first, as was the manner of all things of its kind which began, like the universe itself, with a rush of heat and molding.

Chapter 10

“My background,” Mary-Jo said, “prior to Real Estate, was in Advertising. After graduation from USC, I went out and did my bit for the Ad industry, but I got out seven years ago when I grew tired of being covered in slime. My last advertising gig was pushing gourmet popcorn for a certain famous old geezer who couldn’t keep his buttery fingers off me. I repelled his advances and he complained--next stop--Real Estate.”

Vickie and Mary-Jo, her new real estate agent, sat talking over drinks on the patio at Chillers on Santa Monica’s Third Street Promenade--a large European-style open air mall, wherein the City of Santa Monica had simply closed off a street, added a few topiary dinosaurs and a couple of fountains, and rented out the whole thing to an eclectic assortment of eateries and shops. The trendy eatery had been chosen by Vickie based upon its featured hit-list of over thirty kinds of frozen drinks which ascended in appeal as the October day heated up briefly during a lull in the Santa Ana breezes. A nice mix of oldie rock-n-roll overlay the conversational buzz in the background.

Mary-Jo, in a basic blue power suit, bore a striking resemblance to Pamela Anderson. Vickie mentioned the resemblance as, she knew, countless others must also have.

“I get that a lot,” Mary-Jo said. “Especially from the tourists. Mine are real, by the way.” Mary-Jo worked in a town and in a profession where she had to maintain a certain level of appearance which required the help of a strong hairdresser, a good physical trainer, and a staff devoted to making sure everyone was paying attention and nobody was taking anybody to the cleaners. With her styled, short blonde hair and muted makeup, she presented the essence of class, grace, and a certain psychic dexterity demanded of those who spent their working hours assisting wealthy home buyers on and off the financial roller coaster of the Santa Monica real estate market.

The waiter took drink orders--a White Russian for Mary-Jo, and a Strong Buzz--a frozen slush of tropical punch spiked with vodka--for Vickie. Mary-Jo flipped open her notebook computer and brought up a clever electronic picture-book of available properties.

“So tell me--,” Mary-Jo said, “--what are you looking for?”

“As Bob, my accountant probably told you, I need you to sell my home in the Valley and help me find a suitable place here in Santa Monica.”

“My people are already working on your Valley house,” Mary-Jo said. “We’ve already got it listed and a sign will be in the yard by late this afternoon. If it doesn’t sell for top dollar in ten days, my company will buy it from you at five percent back of appraisal. But what I want from you now is to get an idea what your dream house looks like.”

“My accountant probably told you I’m dying,” Vickie said. “It’s funny in a way, because I had always planned on retiring someday here at the beach. My dream after my husband died was to keep myself busy until I hit my early sixties, at which point, I’d buy my dream beach house and live near the water and spend many idle hours in pursuit of happiness. But yesterday I found out that a nasty little tumor has made other plans for me. So, to make a long story short, I’m buying my dream beach house for my brother. It’s probably my way of seeing my dream come true through him.”

“Tell me about your brother,” Mary-Jo said. “Does he have a family?”

“He’s single,” Vickie said. “He’ll be the big 4-0 this February.”

“Will he be working with us on this?” Mary-Jo said.

Vickie laughed. “No,” she said. “He’s not practical about such matters. He’s the kind of man who’s happy simply to have clothes on his back and a hot meal. Not that he’s a pig. He shaves and showers every day, and he’s in incredible physical shape. He’s got low self-esteem, though, because he’s a little on the short side--like me--we’re both short and a little stocky.”

“He sounds refreshing,” Mary-Jo said. “And you’re not stocky--voluptuous is the word.”

“You can afford to be generous with your compliments with that set of wheels,” Vickie said.

“I’m thirty-five and I still haven’t met a man in this town I could tell apart from the last one. I’d love to have a rough-cut man like your brother to polish to suit my tastes.”

Vickie brought out the photo she kept of Dalk in her wallet.

“Ooh-la-la,” Mary-Jo said. “You didn’t tell me he was so cute. Is he seeing anybody?”

“He’s been unattached for the past couple of years. He needs a house and somebody to look after him. I can’t leave him alone to wander around friendless and homeless in this land of barbarians. His big problem is he has no head for money. You should see the car he drives--an old heap one of his students traded him for some lessons.”

“Student? Is he a teacher?” Mary-Jo said.

“Brace yourself,” Vickie said. “He’s a martial artist--he works for LAPD.”

Mary-Jo drained off her White Russian. “He sounds like he walked straight out of my dreams,” she said. With a sharp eye, she summoned the waiter. “The White Russian didn’t cut it,” she said. “What’ve you got with an edge?”

“How about a Suicide,” he said. “151 rum, light rum, dark rum, vodka, triple sec, and five fruit juices, all slushed together--it’ll cut through anything.”

Mary-Jo nodded at Vickie. “Do you mind?” she said. “ I know it’s unprofessional, but I suddenly feel the need for us to achieve some sort of state of grace here as quickly as possible.”

“I agree,” Vickie said.

“It’s settled then,” Mary-Jo said. “I’ll have a Suicide.”

“Make it two,” Vickie said.

“Your brother is like one of those macho, self-imposed exiles-from-the-world that women dream about,” Mary-Jo said. “The minute I saw his picture, I was ready to quit everything and go with him on horseback to anyplace wild.”

“You should be careful,” Vickie said. “One of his dreams is to go to Alaska and do that dogsled thing they do up there.”

“That’d be better than what my life is now,” Mary-Jo said. “My love life has really been reduced to foraging for nuts and berries the past few years--nothing of substance has graced my paths for a long time. I’ve made some money selling Real Estate, even in this difficult market, and I guess that’s left me vulnerable to the kind of dream guy who’s just that--all dreams and no money--the kind of guy who’s looking for somebody to take care of him while he goes to all the right Studio parties praying for a miracle Producer to snap him up and make him the next Brad Pitt.”

“Dalk is a bit of a wild beast,” Vickie said. “He’s your basic meat-eater--not the type to inhabit the enclosed environs of the movie people.”

The Suicides arrived, brightly sheathed in mounds of multi-colored ice crystals. Each lady took a sip through their straws.

“Whoo,” Mary-Jo said. “One of these and it will be with the utmost reluctance that I ever return to reality.”

Vickie felt a stirring in her lower back and a whisper of fear in her heart. The pain, forgotten for a precious few hours, was awakening from its slumber. She fumbled with her vial of Mulroney Specials, palmed a couple of caps and took them with a sip of Suicide.

“What’ve they got you on?” Mary-Jo said.

“I’m really not sure,” Vickie said. “I'm self-medicating. My fiancé supplied me with them this morning--they’re working, that’s all I care about for now.”

They sat and sipped, nodding in tune to the beat from the bar--Elvin Bishop, Fooled Around and Fell in Love--the angel-sweet crooner framing his testimony to the value of true love found.

“Your brother’s name is Dalk?” Mary-Jo said. “Is that a nickname?”

“I know what you mean,” Vickie said. “It’s unusual, isn’t it? He had a lot of trouble from the other kids when he was growing up--plus, Dalk’s a little on the short side--it’s probably why he was attracted to the warrior life.”

“Does it mean anything?” Mary-Jo said. “The name Dalk, I mean.”

“Dad always told us it was the ancient Celtic word for iron, which meant strength,” Vickie said. “But after Dad died, we did some research and weren’t able to find any proof. It’s possible Dad simply made it up. At this point, it’s a mystery.”

The Promenade before them was suddenly deserted, in one of those accidents of fate and timing, and Vickie felt the curious sensation of silence about her. She took a deep breath and felt something hard at the end of it, as though someone had tied a rock to her lungs with a string. When her lungs expanded, the rock pulled downward at the same time, making her effort to obtain oxygen enormous.

“Ohhhh,” she wheezed. The feeling passed, the rock disappeared, and she inhaled deeply, greedily.

“You went three shades whiter,” Mary-Jo said. “Shall I call for a doctor?”

Vickie felt ashamed of her weakness. Struggling to avoid eye contact, she turned deliberately away. “No,” she said. “No doctor. Phew! I feel like I survived an Al Gore masseuse bear hug--I have no idea where that came from.”

“It’s anxiety,” Mary-Jo said. “What with all you’re facing, it’s not unexpected. A lot of people go through it when they contemplate purchasing real estate.”

Vickie turned back around. “Well, I’m pretty tired of this nonsense--I keep praying for it just to be over--but, you know, I’m still here. My fiancé is probably keeping me alive with his prayers.” She sipped her drink and the straw sucked air. She needed another frozen cylinder of booze. In her attempt to signal the waiter, she was surprised to find she could barely lift her arm. The thing weighed a ton.

“Order me another drink,” she said to Mary-Jo. She took a quick look around. Nobody seemed to be noticing her display of weakness, but Mary-Jo’s face brimmed with emotions Vickie couldn’t place for a second, but then it caught up with her. Mary-Jo was giving her The Face--the one people gave to the dying--a sickening blend of sadness and pity Vickie had never seen before. She realized that she herself must have given such a face to other dying people in her lifetime, but it came as a shock to find it turned on her.

“Stop with the face,” she said to Mary-Jo.

“You’re a brave woman,” Mary-Jo said. “I can see you fighting it with everything you’ve got--you’re a little saint.”

“If I’m anything,” Vickie said, “it’s a concerned sister. I’m concerned for Dalk--but only because I suspect he’ll be adrift without me. That’s why I need you to find him a good house.”

“Then let’s get busy and find him one,” Mary-Jo said. She slid closer to Vickie and together they flipped through the electronic database of pictures of available beach properties. Vickie sat back. “I can’t do this,” she said. “I’m too tired. Shut the computer off.”

Mary-Jo closed the lid and the machine whirred its way to silence. “Maybe tomorrow, when you’re feeling better,” she said. “I understand.”

“No,” Vickie said. “You don’t understand--I can’t do this--I’m too weak. You’re going to have to do the whole thing for me.”

“You want me to buy you a house without you even seeing it?” Mary-Jo said.

“Make sure it’s got a little spot out front for some flowers,” Vickie said. “And a nice fireplace. Dalk always liked a nice fireplace.”

“How much do you want to spend?”

“I’d say around a million,” Vickie said. “Can you find something around here for that?”

“Are you kidding?” Mary-Jo said. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you get the very best.”

“There’s just one thing,” Vickie said. “You’ve got to find the house and buy it today. I want the transaction recorded and closed by tomorrow morning.”

Mary-Jo chewed on her tongue a moment and took a big sip of her drink. “Okay,” she said. “But I better get moving. Where can I get in touch with you later?”

“Meet me tonight,” Vickie said. “There’s a bar in Van Nuys, The Lamplighter, on Sepulveda a tad north of Vanowen.”

Mary-Jo stood up and grabbed the chit.

“Leave it,” Vickie said.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Mary-Jo said. “I’m sure I’ll have some good news.”

“Mary-Jo,” Vickie said. “There’s one more thing I want you to do for me.”

“Name it,” Mary-Jo said.

“Marry my brother. He’ll be at the bar tonight. I’ll introduce you.”

“Marry Dalk,” Mary-Jo said. Her face registered the struggle as she sought from Vickie’s eyes an accurate reading on her demeanor and intent.

“He needs you and you need him,” Vickie said. “I’m serious. When you’re dying and you know it, you begin to see the truth about people and the nature of things. You learn that though the game is played out here, the planning is done someplace else, someplace higher. I just now saw the truth about you and my brother--you two are made for each other. You’re a perfect match. Besides, you haven’t so much as said it, but I can tell you’re lonely as sin.”

“I can’t just marry somebody I never met,” Mary-Jo said. “I don’t even know him.”

“Would it make any difference if you knew him?” Vickie said. “What good has knowing the guy ever done you before? You haven’t been able to arrange it on your own. I’ve met you and I know you. I know my brother. I know you two would go together. Everything in life happens for a reason. I’m here looking at you and you’re here looking at me. Our lives have led up to this point. The reason we’re here is for me to give you a message--marry Dalk.”

“Oh my gosh,” Mary-Jo said. “I had chills shoot all through my body when you said that. While you’ve been talking, there’s been a movie running in my head. In the movie, I’m walking into a bar and meeting the man of my dreams--I’m going to meet the man I’m going to marry tonight!”

“You’re a lovely woman,” Vickie said. “Your problem with men is that you’re too beautiful--you’ve only attracted the superficial kind of men. Dalk isn’t like them. Your beauty has been your curse, yet it can also be your salvation. Because of your beauty, it’s in your power to marry Dalk. Your physical beauty will overpower him. He won’t refuse you--it’s his destiny.”

“Whatever is happening here between us,” Mary-Jo said, “I’m praying it’s real. You showing up in my life like this now is really amazing. You have no idea what I’ve been through lately.”

Vickie felt a sweeping compassion for the green-eyed girl before her, felt Mary-Jo’s life enter her own, and saw Mary-Jo’s heartaches and dashed hopes. She reached out and took her hand.

“You’re free now, Mary-Jo,” Vickie said. “You can stop trying to figure it all out--when you meet Dalk, you’ll know for sure I was right.”

Mary-Jo turned and left, leaving Vickie sitting alone on the sunny October patio, contemplating her newfound gift of wisdom and watching the people who lacked it stroll down the Promenade. They were ordinary people, and none of them appeared to have rocks tied to their lungs or be heading for distant tombs on faraway hills.

Chapter 11

“I’m in trouble,” Vickie said to Mulroney. “Something’s wrong with my legs. I don’t think I can walk.”

She was linked to him via some satellite overhead connecting her from her table at Chillers to the hands-free in his Suburban.

“Where are you?” he said.

“Chillers--at a table on the patio.”

“Five minutes,” he said.

While she waited, she reflected on the fact that all her life she’d been an extraordinarily neat person. She’d maintained a fastidiousness which extended to all her belongings. Her personal effects were kept carefully in order. During her childhood with Dalk, her parents had always chided him to model his behavior after her shining example. Vickie was neat and clean--it was who she was--but all that was ending. It was part of the reason why her tumor disgusted her, and inspired feelings of guilt. The tumor was anything but neat. It was unpredictable and messy. It was out of order.

The present loss of feeling in her legs, discovered moments before when she’d tried to rise from her seat, had jarred completely her equanimity, even to the point of amazing her. It was why, when she realized she couldn’t walk, she didn’t squeak like a mouse in fright, or cry, or cause a scene--she was simply too amazed for her emotions to react. She’d gone on autopilot and speed-dialed Mulroney. Now she sat in full view of everybody on the Promenade. Waiting. Keeping her secret.

Mulroney wasn’t worried about neat. He drove right up the middle of the Promenade in his big blue machine, parking beside the patio railing adjacent to her table--appearing like a miracle. Driving up the way he did was a big no-no--Vickie saw security closing in on the vehicle. The Promenade was off-limits to cars, a result of the City’s efforts to create some sacred strolling grounds. Mulroney’s big Suburban, appearing out of nowhere, violated all the rules. His presence as a former police power was amply demonstrated as he stepped out and said something to the security guards, who nodded and faded away. He vaulted the rail, an act a man his size should not have been able to perform.

“Nice vault,” she said.

“My heart doesn’t think so,” he said. “I just got a monster pain. But the vaulting is in my blood--it’s something in my lineage. All the men in my family look big and slow, but we’re surprisingly agile.”

“Where’s Kilkenney?” she said.

“Getting a bath,” he said.

She took his hand.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“What’s wrong is, I’ve lost all my strength,” she said. “I’m squeezing your hand as hard as I can. As you can see, I have no grip left. And I can’t feel my legs. I think it’s the tumor. It’s gotten loose somehow--it’s going on a full-scale rampage. I tried to get up, but there was nothing there. Mulroney, I’m starting to get really scared. I thought I’d have more time. I want more time. I need it.”

He reached his hand to her lower back and began pressing in sharply with his fingertips.

“Ouch,” she said.

“That’s good,” he said. “At least you’ve got some feeling there. Let’s get you up.” He hoisted her from the chair and set her on her feet.

“Oh man,” she said, “people will think we’re a couple of dancing drunks.”

“We are,” he said. He gripped her tightly and shifted her torso this way and that until she felt a sudden pop. Feeling flooded her legs and her muscles steeled themselves.

“I’m standing,” she said. “That’s amazing. How did you know what to do?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I go on instinct a lot. It served me well on the streets. On the way over here, I thought maybe the reason you were suddenly paralyzed was because the tumor was pressing on your spinal cord. Perhaps I was right.”

She folded into his arms. “Dammit, Mulroney,” she said, “it’s too soon for you to be fighting for me like this.”

“We’re not kids anymore,” he said. “We’re past all that--way past. Our priority now is just to try and stay alive.”

“I feel so small,” she said. “This whole thing about dying seems so monumental, and yet I know that I’m just another cancer victim. History will never record my name or my pain. My story is like that play by Sartre--No Exit.”

“There’s a way out,” he said. “You’re still young. You could still fight for your freedom.”

“You mean chemo,” she said, “along with enough radiation to re-fuel Chernobyl.”

“I mean freedom,” he said. “It’s natural for you to shy away from the fight in the aftermath of receiving the bad news, but you’ve still got time to put a few moves on the tumor--this is no time for quiet diplomacy--this is the time to wrestle the thing to the ground and stomp its shins flat.”

“Let’s sit down,” she said. The waiter appeared. “Two Blackjacks, neat,” she said. They sat in silence while the drinks arrived--an inch of liquid at the bottom of a couple of short, square tumblers. “Keep ‘em coming,” Mulroney said. They each raised their tumblers to directly below eye level, nodded to each other and sipped simultaneously, the silent liquid raking their throats.

“All right,” she said, “you think I should abandon my resistance to the doctors and go for the cure?”

“Well why not?” he said. “you said you wanted more time--that’s what they sell over there--time.”

“Mulroney,” she said. “This morning you proposed to me and I accepted. This afternoon, you rescued me from paralysis. Now you’re selling me time, as though it’s something simple--like boarding an airplane, or buying a new outfit. All I have to do is walk into my friendly doctor’s office, select from a menu of treatment options, and add a day, a week, or a few months to my earthly existence.”

“Or live for many years thereafter. It is simple,” he said. “We can drive over and see your doctor right now.”

“You’ve forgot one thing,” she said.

“What?” he said.

“My tumor,” she said. “It’s way ahead of my doctor--it’s like a fire that’s already spread through my house and is getting ready to knock out the power box any minute!”

The waiter set out the second round and lost a napkin to the reviving Santa Ana breezes. Mulroney and Vickie sat and sipped, united in their intent to grab a special moment, facing their common enemy, one far more hateful than either felt it had a right to be.

“You’re a blasted hypocrite, Mulroney,” she said.

He took a careful sip. “I’ve been called worse,” he said.

“I mean it,” she said. “You need open heart surgery, but you’ve refused it. So how do you justify telling me to go through the agony of chemo?”

“I have to go,” he said. “Kilkenney will be dry by now.”

“Very funny,” she said.

“Sorry,” he said. “I resort to humor when I don’t like where something is going.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said. “But my condition has exacted its toll on my normal compassion and forbearance, so I’ll say it again--Mulroney, you’re the world’s biggest hypocrite!” She tried to read his expression, but his face was swept clean of any guile.

“It’s always been something of a point of honor for me,” he said, “to challenge the bad things that come my way. But right now I’m at a loss--the truth is, the thought of going under the knife and having my chest pried open with those big pincers scares me to death. I’d rather walk down 103rd Street at night armed only with a baseball bat than face that. And there’s one other thing.”

“Which is?” she said.

“I’ve never argued with my fiancée before--I’ve never had a fiancée to argue with--and I don’t like it.”

“We’re having our first fight,” Vickie said.

His face split into a goofy grin. “Gee, that’s beautiful,” he said. “Oh! I love you so!”

“You’re relationship impaired, you big ape,” she said. “So I’ll educate you. Rule number one--never challenge me--you don’t have the mental resources.”

“True,” he said. “My understanding of women has never advanced much beyond the dream stage.”

“I can’t believe it,” she said. “You changed the subject. And you did it so sneakily, you almost got away with it. We were talking about you being a huge hypocrite.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “What you’re saying to me is that I have no right to ask you to take the chemo if I myself won’t go for the quadruple bypass.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“So what if I agree to take the cure?” he said.

“But you won’t,” she said. “And we both know you won’t.”

He slammed down his glass. “I will,” he said.

“You will?”

“I will,” he said, “if you will.”

Vickie was taken aback at this turn of developments--her intention had only been to goad Mulroney, perhaps due to her own anguish over her failing body. She’d been taking it all out on him, who’s chances for surviving his medical procedure, she reckoned, were measurably better than her chances of surviving hers. Somehow, he’d turned the tables, putting his fate into her hands. She felt the heavy burden descend instantly upon her soul. She now had Mulroney’s life on her conscience, had it in her ability to save the big, stubborn giant from his worst fears. She could, at a word, markedly prolong Mulroney’s life.

“That was a neat trick you performed,” she said. “Shifting the burden of your life to me at a time when I’m the one who needs caring-for more than you. But I made a decision. I’m going to call you on it. I’m going to ascend the scaffold.”

“What?” he said. He’d heard her clearly, but the implications of what she’d said short-circuited out when it hit the wellspring of his fears regarding a possible rending open of his giant chest.

“I’m taking the chemo,” she said. “I’m going to fight for more time, even for the cure, if it isn’t too late. I’ll even go under the knife and let them cut out my insides if they want to--but only on one condition.”

“Oh no,” he said. “This can’t be happening.” At this point, he was happy, but he realized that the happiness was soon to be extinguished as he found himself being propelled forward towards a date with a knife. “What condition?” he said.

“You go under the knife first,” she said. “Get your arteries repaired. The day you come out of surgery, I’ll start the chemo.”

“I’m lost,” he said. “I’ve spent a lifetime in command of other men’s destinies, but in the grip of your psyche, I feel wholly inadequate.”

“I told you never to challenge me,” she said. “You built the trap to force me to seek the cure, but now you’ve fallen into that trap. You said you’d have the surgery if I’d have the chemo, but you didn’t think you’d really have to go through with it. But all that’s changed. If you’re going to remain in a happy union with me, you’ll have to assent to the open heart surgery. To realize my healing, you’ll have to take a knife in the chest for me.”

“I have no choice,” he said. “I’ll go under the knife for you.”

They avoided each other’s eyes, the better to appraise this unexpected and more profound connection between them.

"I am scared to have you go first," she said. "Because right now your support means everything to me. But I also think it will help me to have somebody to nurse back to health."

"Okay," he said.

“You give up your heart for me,” she said, “and I’ll give up my guts for you.”

“I’ll make the arrangements right after we’re married,” he said.

“No,” she said. “You have to have the surgery right away.”

The big man blanched. “Right away?”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “I’m sorry to rush you, my love, but I’m almost out of time.”

Chapter 12

Mulroney and Vickie, ensconced in comfortable leather chairs in a spacious office somewhere deep inside the Division of Cardiothoracic Surgery at UCLA Medical Center, were in deep conference with Mulroney’s cardiologist, a woman who wielded the blade with international renown. The world class hospital--set into the West Los Angeles foothills like a mighty temple of healing--presided over the southern end of the sprawling UCLA campus bordering the semi-posh--albeit bohemian--Westwood shopping district.

“The trouble is,” Dr. Lerner said, “everybody wants to be Winston Churchill--he ate and drank and smoked cigars, he never exercised, he had a high stress occupation--and he still lived to be ninety. They say the only exercise he did get was walking from the car to the funerals of his friends.”

“It’s okay,” Mulroney said. “I know it’s time to pay for my sins. All those tacos and hot-dogs have finally added up.”

“Of course, we could go in and replace everything,” Lerner said. “Our specialty is transplants, after all. Or you could let us freeze you for now and bring you back in a couple of years once we get the stem cell thing together.”

Mulroney’s face drooped.

“That’s a joke,” Lerner said. “Sorry. I guess I'm trying to lighten the mood. You’re in for a rough journey. Even with efficient heart-lung machines and modern anesthesia, the plain truth is that hearts don’t like to be handled--in fact, they can get downright irritable.”

“I get the picture,” Mulroney said. “You can go ahead and sharpen your knife now. Do you want me to remove my shirt first?”

“You’ll have to spend the rest of the day here,” Lerner said. “We’ve got a lot of poking and prodding to do before we put you on the table in the morning. Do you have any more questions of me before I start you through the process?”

“I guess not,” Mulroney said. “Although I must admit, the thought of lying on a gurney somewhere, drugged, scrubbed, shaved, stripped of all my worldly possessions and wrapped in gauze does give me pause to consider.”

“Well then,” Lerner said. “Pause to consider this--you’ve got two total occlusions of two coronary arteries. Your life is entirely dependent on a critically narrowed third vessel. We both know your angina hasn’t responded well to the nitro or other drugs.”

“I’m a walking time bomb,” Mulroney said.

“As you know, Mulroney,” Lerner said, “it’s been my strong opinion for the past year that you should have immediate surgery. For the life of me, I can’t believe you made it this far. It’s time to operate for the simple reason that it’s safer to have it here and now in the finest hospital in the country than to wait until you’re forced to undergo the procedure on-the-fly in an emergency room out there somewhere where they’ll use the technical equivalent of a flashlight and a razor blade to do you.”

Vickie had to give Mulroney credit. She could see a certain amount of fear in his eyes, but he didn’t flinch.

“We were planning on getting married in a couple of days,” Vickie said. “Will that still be possible?”

“No,” the doctor said. “It’s out of the question.”

“But I figured I’d be up and about in a few days,” Mulroney said. “I know a guy who had it done here, he said your staff of Nazi’s got him out of bed and on his feet that same day.”

“Unfortunately,” Lerner said, “because of your age and physical condition, after we go in, you’re going to be temporarily worse off than when we first started. During your time in intensive care, you won’t even be lucid. After you regain consciousness, you’ll barely be able to communicate through the thicket of tubes and lines--plus all that buzzing and beeping of the monitoring machines will be driving you crazy--you’re going to lose all track of time. Day and night will come and go without you even knowing it.”

“C’mon, Doc,” Mulroney said. “You don’t have to sugar coat it for me--give it to me straight.”

“We’ll get married tonight,” Vickie said. “At midnight, right here in the chapel. Mulroney won’t even have to dress--they can wheel him to the altar in his robe and slippers.”

“No,” Vickie said. “He’s strong enough. We’ll get married tonight. Hey, all he has to do is slip on a tux and walk from his room to the chapel. It can’t be that much of a strain.”

The doctor stared at her as though she was some new kind of animal she’d never seen before.

“Can you get us permission to use your chapel?”

Lerner smiled. “I like the idea,” she said. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Here’s the name and number of my wedding coordinator,” Vickie said, handing Lerner a card.

“Aren’t we rushing things a bit?” Mulroney said.

“I mean it,” Vickie said. “We can condense everything. Mulroney, you need to call your priest and have him meet us here at midnight.”

“Are you sure this is wise?” Mulroney said.

“What’s wisdom got to do with this? I’ve made up my mind,” she said. “I love you, Mulroney. I want to be your wife. I want the pleasure and happiness it will bring. Because we’re in no position to march down some church aisle doesn’t mean the timing isn’t right. Doctor Lerner, I swear on my life right now, by the time you wheel Mulroney into that operating room tomorrow, he’s going to be married.”

The doctor twiddled with her pen, first looking at him, then at her. “We don’t want to put too big a strain on Mulroney--perhaps you’d better hold off on the wedding until after he recovers.”

“He’s got a tough afternoon ahead,” Lerner said. “He’s going to be exhausted by midnight.”

“I’ll be okay,” Mulroney said. “Don’t get us wrong, Doc. We’re working a little bit outside the box, is all.”

“I have my reservations,” the cardiologist said. “But I’ll have my head of housekeeping work things out with your wedding coordinator. If you two want to act like a couple of moonstruck fools, well, I think that’s great. But remember--Mulroney can’t eat or drink anything after. And it goes without saying all the other traditional marriage rituals will have to wait until he’s recovered from his surgery--do I have to spell that out?”

“Thank you for understanding, Doctor Lerner,” Vickie said. “And after all, is it so strange? Just because we’re at the age where we’re no longer ruled by torrential hormones, we still have love and passion.”

There was nothing more to say about it, and nobody had much enthusiasm to keep it going. It was no time for small talk.

“I’ll be going,” Vickie said. “I’ve got a lot to do before midnight.”

“You’ll be okay?” Mulroney said.

“Of course I will, you big fool,” she said. “Walk me to the elevator.”

At the elevator bay, he said, “Are we doing the right thing?”

“What,” she said, “you want to spend the last few hours before your surgery analyzing this? Listen to me. Sooner is better than later.”

“This wasn’t the way I planned to do this,” he said, “but here.” He handed her a small black velvet box. She flipped open the hinged lid and was greeted by the eye-popping rainbow sparkle of a hefty diamond solitaire, easily better than three carats, it’s depths swept in a storm of blue fire, putting the thing into the category of the very finest available anywhere, at any time.

“It’s not the Crown Jewels or anything,” he said.

“Shut up and put it on my finger,” she said. He slipped it on her and she felt the power of the rainbow flashes inside the stone carrying his love deeper and deeper into her heart. “I have no words,” she said.

“I also thought you might like these,” he said. Another box, like the first, but bigger. She gasped. A pair of tiny golden peacock earrings, encrusted with diamonds and rubies, their flashing tails curving downward. The birds seemed to move as she turned the box , her eyes captured by the arresting display of scintillating rays.

“How did you know?” she said.

He stared at her without understanding.

“How did you know to match the peacocks on my bridal gown?”

Still no understanding in his eyes, the beginnings of puzzlement forming around his mouth. He knew nothing of the peacocks on her dress. His choice had been entirely arbitrary.

“It’s fate,” she said.

“I better get going,” he said.

“Wait,” she said. She entered his arms and they gave themselves to a kiss, a brief one, as though marking the spot where they’d return later to complete the job. “I love you,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I better get going,” he said. “Before Lerner decides to re-classify me as a training dummy for her students.” He turned and slowly tread down the hall towards his date with the team of technicians who were planning, in the morning, to stop his heart in order to rebuild it. She watched him until he rounded the corner.

“It’s fate, my love,” she said. “it’s fate.”

Chapter 13

In the elevator, now alone, descending slowly to the lobby, Vickie began to cry, the tears rolling down her face. The doors parted and she stepped out into the main lobby and stood there beside the elevator without going anywhere, oblivious to the people around her. In the shadow of Mulroney’s life-threatening operation, she saw her desire to cling to him for what it was--dreams and smoke. In spite of this, she felt the fierceness of her desire to join her soul with Mulroney’s at the altar.

“Are you all right?”

She blinked. The voice belonged to a young girl who was waiting for the elevator.

“I noticed you were crying,” she said. “I wondered if you were all right.” The girl was holding a bouquet of flowers. She was dressed in hospital pastels and was maybe nineteen.

“Is anybody all right in this place?” Vickie said. “I left my fiancé up there--I guess you could say that all the love, protection and loyalty in my life vanished with the push of an elevator button. I’m afraid he won’t live through his operation tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry,” the girl said. “And don’t give up on life too easily--it’s the persistent soul who finds healing.”

“You’re very wise for one so young,” Vickie said.

“You look like you could use these,” the girl said, handing her the flowers. The elevator opened and the girl stepped in. The doors glided shut and the girl was gone. A random act of kindness.

While examining the flowers--center-most of which was a brilliant golden Dahlia--Vickie took stock of herself. She wasn’t hungry, but she’d eaten almost nothing the entire day. She made her way to the cafeteria, where a server tong’d a few pieces of fried chicken onto her plate. The room was filling up as the dinner hour approached, but she managed a table by herself next to one where five doctors were chowing down without utensils or shame on their chicken, the performance impressively unselfconscious. She attempted to follow suit and soon found herself completely nauseated by the chicken, the kind of nausea which signaled the eater to a full stop. She steeled herself against the disturbing wave, feeling the sweat begin to run down the small of her back. The sights and sounds of food were all around her, making the wave stronger and stronger. If she couldn’t control it, she was going to heave right in the middle of the cafeteria.

One of the doctors from the table beside hers was staring at her, looking her over for what seemed like a long time before he returned to his plate of chicken, mashed potatoes and honey cakes.

Oh God, Vickie prayed, don’t let me throw up on this table.

A wave of darkness passed across her eyes, obliterating the room. When she tried to shake it off, flashes of color exploded around the edges of her darkened vision. She fought to maintain the rising panic and closed her eyes, feeling the nausea subside against the backdrop of brightly colored spirals vibrating around the corners of the darkness. A severe pain spread across her forehead. From what seemed far away, she heard someone speaking.

“Do you need help?” A voice above her head and a hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes. The doctor from the table beside her searched her face. She caught the traces of true compassion shining out from his eyes.

“I’ll be okay,” she said. “But thanks for asking. It’s been awhile since I’ve eaten. I’ve been under a strain. Please, finish your dinner. I’m sorry to have interrupted you.”

“Not at all,” he said, his compassion never wavering, his eyes boring into hers. The other doctors at his table were staring as well.

He knows, Vickie thought. They all know. I’m not fooling anybody here. They’ve all seen my type before. They know where I’m headed.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” he said.

“I don’t work here, if that’s what you mean,” she answered. “My fiancé’s in for a bypass.”

He nodded. His silence made her uncomfortable, and she babbled foolishly on. “We’re getting married tonight in the chapel before he goes in for his surgery.”

“Congratulations,” he said.

“Since you asked,” Vickie said, “the truth is, I’ve had a bad episode of nausea, and now I’ve got lights sparkling in my eyes and a huge throbbing in my forehead. What do you think’s causing this?”

“Sounds like a migraine,” he said. “Probably from stress. But it wouldn’t hurt to see somebody before you leave here.”

“Thanks,” she said.

She felt comforted by the force of the doctor’s compassion and understood the value of it. Compassion was the substance which defined the essence of the hospital workers, which drew them to this place to play the game of life and death.

The pain in her head signaled for immediate action. She shook out two more Mulroney Specials from her vial and took them with a sip from her water glass.

On the far wall, her gaze was captured by a Picaso print--The Three Musicians. The unreal three figures--composed of hard-edged contours and flat planes of color--seemed to be having a great time playing their instruments. They were supreme in their ugliness--yet that ugliness didn’t stop them from living their lives to the fullest.

The Specials kicked in and the migraine vanished. She was glad for this and found herself enjoying the sensation of being fully present once again in the light and noise of the cafeteria. The doctors at the next table were rising to leave. She caught the eye of the compassionate one.

“Thank you,” she said. He nodded and smiled.

She arose from her seat, picked up her flowers and found her way to the main entrance where her limo driver waited.

“Do you have anybody in your life?” she said.

“Everybody’s got somebody,” he said.

Vickie handed him the bouquet. “These are for that somebody,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I realized something,” she said. “I realized that compassion is what holds everything together. That’s why I gave you the flowers.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “Anyplace special you want to go?”

“Simonson Mercedes,” she said. “And step on it. I want to see the colors before the last of the light is gone.”

“You got it,” he said. The driver wasn’t phased. He was used to the foibles of people who traveled in limousines, people who were in a hurry and wanted to see the colors before it was too late.

Chapter 14

“You’ll never believe this,” Dalk said, “but I just got a major career boost. The Department’s bringing me on board permanently at the pay grade of Sergeant. I left Personnel--they’re putting through the paperwork as we speak. I’m actually going to be a cop--not the normal kind, that drives around in a radio unit, but a cop nonetheless. Wait’ll you see my badge--it’s the real thing, with the image of Parker Center and everything. I’m going to keep it clipped on my belt from now on. Now I can drive as fast as I want, like you.”

Vickie was putting in some quality phone time with Dalk while her limo slowly worked its way through the nearly impenetrable Wilshire Boulevard traffic. Why anybody called it rush hour, she’d never know.

“I knew you had it in you,” Vickie said. “I guess the Department shares my views. I hope you’ll let me buy you a drink tonight at The Lamplighter.”

“I can’t wait to tell Mulroney,” he said.

She didn’t bother to fill him in on the details of the past eight hours, nor mention that Mulroney’s fix with the Department on Dalk’s behalf had apparently been handled with incredible speed. That would be her little secret. “I’ve got a lot of news for you, but I can’t talk now,” she said. “I called because I need you to drop everything and meet me at Simonson Mercedes--they’re on the corner of Wilshire and 17th.”

“I know the place,” he said. “I’ve drooled on their sidewalk a few times. A little too steep for me, even with a sergeant’s pay.”

“How fast can you meet me there?” she said.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” he said.

Her next call caught Dee, her wedding coordinator. “Don’t faint,” Vickie said. “But there’s been a change of plans. The wedding’s at midnight tonight at the UCLA Medical Center chapel. You’ll be getting a call from housekeeping to help you set it up.”

“Okay,” Dee said. “I’m in shock, but I’m still here. It’s 5 o’clock now, that gives me seven hours to pull it off.”

“Can you do it?” Vickie said. In vain she tried to imagine the problems inherent in a request to completely plan a wedding in seven hours involving a dress which cost two-hundred-twenty-five thousand dollars.

“I can do it,” Dee said. “I don’t know the meaning of the word can’t--but we’ll have to improvise on a few things. Listen to me carefully. I’m going to set up a trailer in the parking lot of the Medical Center--the employee lot off Circle Drive south. For this thing to work, I’ll need you there at 10 p.m. sharp along with your best man and maid of honor.”

“Is this a crazy idea?” Vickie said.

“If you can define crazy, then you tell me,” Dee said. “Crazy or not, get ready--you’re getting married.”

The limo pulled into Simonson Mercedes. Vickie stepped out and was greeted by a young woman.

“I’m Kasha,” she said. “You must be Vickie. Your accountant called--we’ve been expecting you.”

“I pictured myself working with an old German guy,” Vickie said. “I’m pleasantly surprised to find a woman working here.”

“Please come with me,” Kasha said. Kasha had a pleasant open face and a long dark braid. She moved with the confidence and poise of a dancer. Vickie knew from experience that Kasha’s outfit, a slick black-and-white Gucci number, was designed to reinforce her role as an advocate for the world-class machinery clustered around them. They stepped into the showroom where a handful of highly polished machines silently and shamelessly displayed themselves.

“I don’t believe in power selling,” Kasha said. “I try to create a space and be supportive. Tell me where you’re coming from and we’ll take it from there.”

“Where I’m coming from is I could use a drink,” Vickie said.

With a head nod, Kasha summoned an assistant from the wings.

“Would it be too much to hope for a martini?” Vickie said.

The assistant departed swiftly on his errand.

“So tell me, Vickie,” Kasha said. “What’s important to you in your driving life?”

“Speed,” Vickie said. “But I’m not sure where to go from there. Right now, I’m on too many levels at once. I’m getting married tonight at midnight. My fiancé’s having a bypass done in the morning. I found out yesterday that I’ve got a pancreatic malignancy to deal with, and I’m buying a new house and selling my old one.”

“I must say,” Kasha admitted, “that’s not the usual answer I get to that question.”

“To fully answer you,” Vickie said, “the car won’t be for me--it’s for my brother--a sort of farewell present, you might say.”

“You mean, you think there’s some chance your cancer is going to win?” Kasha said.

“There’s a big chance,” Vickie said. “Short of a miracle, I don’t see how I can survive it.”

“Tell me,” Kasha said. “What is your brother like?”

“He’s hard to describe,” Vickie said. “He’s kind of different, the sort of man that some would classify as an underachiever--he’s not your typical L.A. power type. But I think that’s what makes him so special.”

The assistant arrived with the martini--well chilled, with two olives.

“Oh, that’s good,” Vickie said.

“What does your brother do?” Kasha said.

“He’s a martial artist,” Vickie said. “But it’s not as flaky as it sounds. He takes it seriously. He follows the spiritual teachings about respecting life and so forth. He calls it his “journey to simplicity”.”

“Sounds like a threatened species,” Kasha said.

“He’s the type who believes money can’t buy happiness,” Vickie said. “That’s why I’m here. I thought a new car might help him enlarge his boundaries a little bit. I’m his older sister. I guess I feel it’s my responsibility to keep working on him. I thought the car might influence him to try some new directions. I mean, life can’t be all sweat and meditation--once in a while you’ve got to get out and step on the gas!”

“You’re right,” Kasha said. “And you’re in the right place--a Mercedes is so much more than a car--it’s really a kind of mood therapy on wheels.”

“My brother became a cop,” Vickie said. “So he can drive as fast as he wants. Which car here is the fastest?”

Kasha pointed to a silver convertible with black and red leather trim.

Vickie drained the last of her drink. “I’ll take it,” she said.

“You will?” Kasha said.

“It’s this one, or nothing,” Vickie said. “My brother will be here in a few minutes. Can you have it ready that fast?”

Kasha was momentarily caught off balance. It wasn’t every day a woman pulled up in a limo and selected the most expensive vehicle on the floor the way an adult might select an ice cream cone for a child.

“By the way,” Vickie said. “How fast is it?”

“That’s the Roadster,” Kasha said. “It’s got a V-12. It’ll blow away anything out there.”

“That’s good,” Vickie said.

“Don’t you want to hear the price?”

“No,” Vickie said.

“I feel I should tell you the price,” Kasha said. “It’s a little over a hundred and fifty thousand.”

“That’s fine,” Vickie said. “Have the car ready for my brother when he gets here. He’s a short, muscular blond guy named Dalk. He’ll probably have his new Sergeant’s badge clipped on his belt. He thinks he’s meeting me here. He doesn’t know about the car. I want it to be a surprise. Thanks for the drink.”

“Thank you,” Kasha said.

“There’s one other thing,” Vickie said.

“Name it,” Kasha said.

“When my brother gets here, I want you to confiscate that old heap he’s driving and burn it. Under no circumstances is he to be allowed to keep it.”

With that, she turned and left behind the world of leather and metal, intent on greater pursuits. “Take me back to the Valley,” she told her driver. “And drive slow. I’m going to lie back and take a little nap. When you get to Sepulveda and Vanowen, pull up to a bar--The Lamplighter. I’ll buy you a drink.”

The stretch pulled out onto Wilshire and she closed her eyes, drifting into a dreamless half-sleep, setting aside for the moment the arduous tasks of buying expensive presents and, of course, dying.

Chapter 15

A crisp, brisk breeze swept a few dry leaves across the parking lot, the energy of it quickening Vickie’s spirit as she stood on the sidewalk outside The Lamplighter. A black Ford Explorer pulled up and a middle-aged priest with a good head of hair stepped out.

“It’s been awhile, Father Larry,” she said, giving him a brief hug.

“What’s it been? A couple of years?”

“Time passes swiftly,” she said. Father Larry was right--it had been a couple of years since they’d seen each other--the last time being when the Father had celebrated her deceased husband Jack’s funeral mass.

“It’s a beautiful night,” he said.

“It is,” she said. “I’ve always felt a special magic in the air this time of year, you know, when everybody’s out picking their pumpkins and cleaning their chimneys.”

“I like the fact that we steal an hour when we set the clocks back,” he said. “At my age, being an hour younger has taken on a whole new meaning.”

“October always seems to promise everyone that perfect Saturday,” she said, “where you can spend a sunny afternoon planting bulbs and snacking on bright red apples.”

“Mulroney filled me in,” he said.

“Can you marry us?” she said.

“I can,” he said.

“Can I buy you a drink?” she said.

“That would be nice,” he said.

They went inside and hailed the bartender.

“Black coffee for me,” Father said.

“How about an espresso?”

“No thanks,” Father said. “The truth is, if I’m going to stay awake to perform your midnight wedding, I’ll need lots of caffeine, and contrary to popular belief, there’s more caffeine in a regular cup of coffee than there is in an espresso.”

“Make it two blacks,” Vickie said to the bartender. “But brew it up fresh and pre-heat the mugs before pouring. We want it to be nice and hot.” She guided Father Larry to a booth. The place was quiet--a couple of guys shooting pool in the back and a little Jeopardy on the overhead tube; the afternoon people having gone and the evening people being still at their suppers.

“I hear you’re going to die soon,” Father Larry said.

“You come right out with it, don’t you?” Vickie said.

“I’m a priest. Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s funny,” Vickie said. “Lately, I’ve been volunteering information about my condition to people around me, but it’s been awkward. You’re the first to simply sit me down and ask me if I want to talk.”

“Does it disturb you?”

“Oh no!” she said. “I’m glad. You’re the first person I’ve been around who isn’t upset by the whole thing. It makes it so much easier to be with you.”

The coffees arrived and each took an exploratory sip.

“Are you scared?” he said.

Vickie chuckled softly. Father smiled--the smile of a friend--devoid of the sympathetic saccharin most people offered.

“Death doesn’t freak you out, does it?” she said.

“Sure it does,” he said. “Death freaks everybody out. But you didn’t answer my question. Are you scared?”

Vickie chuckled some more and Father smiled some more. The chuckle expanded to a giggle. “Oh Father,” she said, struggling to get control of the giggles, “When you asked me if I was scared, I started to say I was scared to death! Do you get it? Scared to death!”

Her giggle flamed its way to her emotional powder keg and blew sky high, propelling her into full-bodied, convulsive laughter. The laughter excited a stabbing pain in her lower abdomen, a pain which grew sharper and more severe with each mirth-born heaving of her insides. “Oh!” she cried. “It hurts! I can’t stop laughing! Father! You’re watching somebody about to die of laughter right here at this table! Oh! It hurts! Oh!”

Vickie fell to the floor, doubled up and writhing, the convulsions of her laughter pushing her farther and farther into the pain until the pain pushed back with sufficient force to shut the laughter off. With the laugher gone, the pain subsided, leaving her body and soul suspended in an aftermath of great, deep, sweaty peace. Father Larry waived away the bartender and the two guys from the back room who’d rushed out to help, and by himself assisted her back into the booth, where she labored for some minutes to return to some semblance of normal.

“I’ve been running scared,” she said. “When I got the news about the tumor, I ran away from the doctor’s office. I refused to set another appointment to discuss treatment.”

“Is your marriage to Mulroney a part of that running away?” Father Larry asked.

“No,” Vickie said. “The marriage was something we’d both been secretly wanting for awhile. The bad news about my health pushed our love for each other out of hiding and into the open.”

They sat and sipped their coffees a moment.

“Father, will you hear my confession?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said. “It’s something I hoped to accomplish by my visit here before the wedding ceremony tonight.”

Vickie bowed her head and made the sign of the cross while Father intoned the ritual words of welcome from Holy Mother Church to its penitent daughter, inviting her to remission of sins and the recovery of lost graces.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she said. “The truth is, ever since Jack died, for the past two years, I’ve avoided the Church--way deep down, I’ve been angry with God for taking Jack. For a long time, I’ve been walking through a dark tunnel of anguish and despair.”

“That’s understandable,” Father said. “What brought you out?”

“Mulroney,” Vickie said. “He walked with me through the tunnel and showed me the light once again. While we were walking through it, I guess we fell in love. I was about ready to give God another shot when I got the bad news from my doctor. It’s strange, though--the bad news seems to have provoked me somehow into wanting God again.”

“Illness is the big one for bringing people back to God,” Father said. “When we’re sick, we experience our limitations and our powerlessness which reminds us of our need for something greater than ourselves.”

“I’m sorry that I wasted the years after Jack’s death feeling sorry for myself,” Vickie said. “I was really into self-pity because I thought that I’d have to be alone for the rest of my life. I figured I’d have to grow old without a husband, and I couldn’t handle it--little did I know I’d be joining Jack myself in a short few years.”

“I can see you’re sorry for your sins,” Father said. “I’m assigning you a penance of two Hail Mary’s--one for each year you were away from the Church.” He spoke the words of absolution and her “Amen” concluded the sacramental procedure.

“There’s an interesting duality at work here in the lives of yourself and Mulroney,” Father said. “Through your marriage, you’re reaching out to God for the graces of your new life together, while at the same time, through your respective illnesses, you’re reaching out for the graces reserved for the dying.”

“I need to get off the fence,” Vickie said. “I promised Mulroney I’d seek the cure, but the truth is, I’m not sure I have the guts to face the procedures the doctors have got planned for me. This is going to sound awful, but deep inside me, I’d rather die than fight back. This may sound a little sick, but one of the reasons I want to marry Mulroney is so I’ll have somebody to take care of me when I’m dying--in a way, I’m sort of using him. I’ve wondered if I love him, or just need him.”

“Love and need are closely intertwined,” Father said. “Perhaps you’re being a little selfish--you’d do well to think more about his well-being than your own.”

“I encouraged him to go for surgery to save his life,” Vickie said.

“But you did it for your own selfish reasons,” Father said. “I’m not saying you don’t love him, but it looks like there’s room for improvement.”

“I’m dying,” Vickie said. “My body is eating me alive--there isn’t time for any more improvement.”

“There’s always time,” Father said. “We’re not going to solve all your problems tonight--I’m suggesting that you begin to seek out for yourself the true meaning of compassion.”

“You’re lecturing me, a dying woman, about my lacking compassion? Where’s your compassion for me?”

“It’s right here,” he said, pulling out a small vial of oil. “Hold out your hands.” He anointed her forehead and hands with the oil. “Through this holy anointing,” he said, “may the Lord in His love and mercy help you by the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.”

“Father?” she said. “The last rites? That sent a shiver right through me. After all, I’m not dead yet!”

“The Last Rites aren’t for the dead,” he said. “They’re a prayer for healing and recovery for the gravely ill. I’m doing the same for Mulroney tonight in light of his imminent surgery. But don’t get me wrong. I’m banking on the both of you gaining full recovery and living a long life together. When you do, you’re going to have to learn to stop thinking only of yourself and more about sacrificing yourself for others.”

“Duly noted, Father,” she said. “But at this point, I’ll need a miracle to recover.”

“It’s times like these,” he said, “when miracles are most likely to occur.”

“Father,” she said. “Now that I’ve confessed, is it possible for me to receive Jesus?”

He pulled out a silver disk, snapped it open and removed a flat, circular, white wafer, which he broke in half, carefully returning half to the disk. He held up the Bread of Angels before her eyes. “The Body of Christ,” he said.

“Amen,” Vickie said, taking the semi-circle onto her tongue. She chewed thoughtfully and with some vigor before swallowing.

“I’m taking the other half to Mulroney,” he said.

“Thank you, Father,” she said. “I’m as prepared for Heaven now as I’ll ever be--but I still wonder if I’m doing the right thing by running away from the medical treatments--am I guilty of murdering myself?”

Father drained his coffee cup. “It all depends,” he said. “Tell me why you’re refusing treatment for the cancer.”

“Pure fright,” Vickie said. “They’ll inject me with heavy cancer fighting drugs that’ll waste me--if the drugs fail, they might even go in and cut out my insides until there’s nothing left.”

“Avoiding suffering,” Father said, “or choosing a lesser suffering in the final stages of life isn’t necessarily wrong--it certainly isn’t self-murder. On the other hand, it isn’t the high road, either--it’s somewhat selfish. Again, we’re back to the compassion issue--you’re also lacking in compassion for yourself.”

“But am I wrong?” Vickie said. “What if there’s an outside chance they can stop the tumor?”

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “You’re not guilty of murdering yourself because either way, the outcome is unknown. It’s your choice to make. It’s your call. There’s no condemnation either way.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said. “I wanted to keep my dignity.”

“And so you shall, Vickie,” he said. “And so you shall.”

Chapter 16

“Vickie,” the voice said. “Vickie.” It was dark all around her. Inside the darkness, she was alone. She felt centered, secure, and peaceful. The sound of the voice calling her name contaminated the spaces of her darkness with a harsh energy. She discovered that, by nodding her head downward, she could sink deeper and deeper into the void and away from the energy of her name. She finally sank far enough to where she knew she’d be able to rest completely--a place where she had no name and no identity--a place where she was nothing--where the nothing was so complete that even nothing was nothing.

Something was wrong. There was a shaking in the nothing, and a sharp smell. The shaking and the smell flung her upward and outward into a universe of light and pain.

“Vickie,” Dalk’s voice said.

Her eyes snapped open. She was back in her booth, feeling the rough hand of Dalk grasping her neck from behind, the air she breathed still tingling from the smelling salts he was waving under her nose. A deep sigh escaped her as she looked around.

“You were out like a light,” Dalk said. “Welcome back.”

“You should have left me down there,” Vickie said.

The joint had filled up and the smell of bodies, booze and burgers frying draped her in a cape of nausea. The jukebox was hammering her ears with Dionne Warwick’s, Don’t Make Me Over, the singer’s tender buzz saw soprano cutting crudely through the ambient crowd noise. She rubbed her cheeks and her hands came away wet. She looked down.

“Aww,” she said. “I don’t even remember falling asleep. I’ve been lying here in a puddle of my own drool. How long was I out? What time is it? I think I’m going to be sick.”

“It’s a little after 9,” Dalk said. “I just got here. The bartender said you’ve been lying here face down for over two hours.”

“You mean everybody that’s come in here in the past two hours has had to walk past my sleeping body, and that bartender didn’t try to wake me?”

“I’m afraid so,” Dalk said.

“I want you to jump over the bar and do one of your nasty judo pinches on him,” Vickie said.

“That wouldn’t be too cool,” Dalk said. “It has a certain lack of compassion. Besides, you probably needed the rest. At least you’re safe when you’re passed out in here. None of the other cops would let anybody touch you or rip off your purse.”

“Don’t start in on me about compassion,” Vickie said. “I already got an earful from Father Larry. And don’t preach to me with your Zen-babble about how everything’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

“You need to eat something and pull yourself together,” Dalk said. “Your makeup’s all over your face--you look like a clown on LSD. I’ll get us a couple of burgers.”

“Not for me,” she said. “And you can’t either. Listen to me--I’m getting married in three hours.”

“Tonight?” Dalk said.

“In the UCLA Medical Center Chapel,” Vickie said. She extended her ring finger. “Check out the rock. That’s at least thirty-five-thousand-dollars’ worth.”

“May I ask whom you’re marrying, and why you’re doing it in a hospital?” Dalk said. “Would that be too much?”

“Mulroney proposed to me this morning,” she said. “But he’s going in for a bypass tomorrow morning, so we’re in kind of a hurry--we want to be married in case the doctors blow it--and we need you to be best man.”

Dalk rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “You’re putting out an awful lot of thermal energy,” he said. “I can almost feel the clouds of steam rising in every direction--dare I mention the car I found waiting for me at Simonson Mercedes earlier this evening? I’m now driving a rocket sled on wheels that undoubtedly costs more than most people’s homes. They even had two goons come out and forcibly remove my existing vehicle, saying something about taking it to the dump to be burned.”

“Do you like your new car?” she said.

“How can I put this,” Dalk said. “I’ve spent the last fifteen years pursuing the Zen ideal of simplicity. I had almost made it to the point where by next year, all I’d have to do is sit under a street lamp on Ventura Boulevard and meditate until I melted into the void. But this evening, a whole heap of materialism fell across my path, and now it looks as though I’ll be doing my meditating in a red-and-black leather car seat.”

“Dalk,” Vickie said. “Cut the Zen chatter and give it to me in a language this old Valley Girl can understand.”

“In a word,” Dalk said, “no--make it two words--the car is--totally awesome!”

“Like it?”

“Love it!”

“I knew you would. But that’s not all--I’ve got a few other surprises for you. In addition to your new ride, I’ve also found you a house and a wife!”

“Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh,” Dalk chuckled.

“Don’t laugh,” Vickie said. “I’m serious.”

“A house and a wife?” he said. “Okay, I’ll play along--tell me about my new house and my new wife.”

“The house I’m not sure about yet,” Vickie said, “but your new wife’s name is Mary-Jo and I can tell you right now, she’s a knockout--a for-real Pam Anderson.”

“Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh. And I suppose this beautiful woman is going to walk in here any minute and propose to me.”

“See for yourself,” Vickie said. “That’s her right there, coming through the door.”

Chapter 17

Mary-Jo’s fast fresh appearance triggered an eerie silence across the barroom as every male eye fell under the hypnotic dazzle of her abundant sensuality. She slid into the booth opposite Dalk and Vickie and for a moment it seemed as though one could hear the slamming of the doors of hope in a couple of dozen boozed-up cops’ hearts as they realized she was taken.

As there was no protocol for the first meeting among equals insofar as arranged marriages were concerned, nobody said anything for what seemed an eternity. Vickie sat twirling a mini-braid through her fingers. Dalk sat dumbly, like a deer caught in the headlights of Mary-Jo’s beauty. Mary-Jo, the trained salesperson of the three, and probably used to difficult psychic encounters where a lot was at stake, took a deep breath and entered the water first.

“I’m going to openly speak my mind,” she said. “And I hope what I have to say doesn’t put up any boundaries between us. First of all, Dalk, hello. My name is Mary-Jo. I’ve been thinking about our first meeting all afternoon, wondering what you’d be like, and what I’d say, and what you’d say to what I’d say, and I went through a lot of anxiety. I wondered if I’d come off looking foolish because we wouldn’t be on the same wavelength or whatever.”

“Excuse me,” Vickie said. “But did you find a house?”

Mary-Jo’s face brightened. “I got you a fabulous Tudor-style on Hill Street, a few blocks from the beach,” she said. “We chartered a helicopter and courier'd all the documents for the necessary signatures, and I even bribed a friend of mine at the County who recorded the transaction for us an hour ago. A friend of mine from the Design Center is over there now, setting the place up. By tomorrow morning, the house will be completely furnished and stocked with every imaginable amenity. As we speak, the moving company is packing up everything at your old place and getting ready to transfer Dalk’s personal belongings to the Hill Street property.”

“What?” Dalk said. “You bought me a house? I’m moving to Santa Monica?”

Mary-Jo nodded, and pulled out a handful of pictures of the house and a key ring holding a dozen keys. “The house is yours,” she said, sliding the keys over to Dalk. “We can go over and see it tonight if you like.”

Vickie flipped quickly through the pictures. “Check it out,” she said to Dalk.

Dalk flipped through the pictures. “This is my new house?” he said.

“For life,” Vickie said. “There’s even a trust account to pay all the taxes, insurance and any upkeep you’ll need done. Since you have no taste, I even had Mary-Jo furnish it for you.”

Dalk hugged Vickie gently, the tears streaming from his eyes. “I’m completely stunned,” he said.

“It’s about time you were stunned by something,” Vickie said.

“If I’m not careful,” he said, “this may turn out to be the greatest day of my sorry life.”

“Mary-Jo, I need your help,” Vickie said.

“Anything,” Mary-Jo said.

“I’m getting married tonight at midnight,” Vickie said. “My fiancé’s going in for a bypass in the morning. It’ll be our last chance to tie the knot for awhile. Dalk’s filling in as best man, but I’d consider it a huge favor if you’d be my maid of honor.”

“Oh my gosh, of course I will,” she said.

“Thank you,” Vickie said. “Help me out of the booth,” she said to Dalk. “I’m going to the powder room. When I get back, we’ve got to clear out of here and make tracks for the wedding site.”

Mary-Jo looked at Dalk. “Blast,” she said. “I had this all planned, but when I walked in and saw you sitting there, the whole thing flew right out of my mind.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Dalk said. “At least you had some time to think about my sister’s crazy idea. I learned of your existence about five minutes ago. Vickie made the announcement about you, and the next thing I knew, you were coming through the door. I feel a little embarrassed. Hey, look--I know I’m out of your league--we can drop the whole thing after the wedding if you want to.”

“How did you feel when you saw me walk in?” she said. “Disappointed?”

“I’ll give it to you straight,” Dalk said. “When I first saw you, my mouth dried up completely. I felt like a schoolkid who discovers he has a crush on his homeroom teacher.”

“But you said you felt embarrassed. Why?”

“I hate to admit this,” Dalk said, “but before you walked in, I was making fun of Vickie’s announcement that she’d found me a wife. I was mocking her. I asked her if a beautiful woman was going to walk in and propose to me--I was teasing her about it, but suddenly there you were and it hit me hard. I had the crazy thought that my jest was about to come true, that you were going to walk up and ask me to marry you, and I was going to say yes.”

“You mean, you wouldn’t have minded having me, a total stranger, walk right up to you and propose?”

“It does sound crazy, and not a little sexist,” Dalk said, “but when I saw you, I had this hope come over me that somehow my sister had really and truly found me a wife.”

Mary-Jo smiled.

“Ohhh,” Dalk said. “Your smile is unbelievable--it moved my insides around.”

“I had a moment of doubt outside the door,” Mary-Jo said. “You know, the feeling that when it came right down to it, was this going to turn into another pickup in a bar? At that point, I almost didn’t come in.”

“What kept you going?” Dalk said.

“I figured where was the harm?” Mary-Jo said. “But when I saw you, I, too, was moved--excessively.” She blinked hard, the beginnings of tears sparkling in her wide green eyes. “This can’t be happening,” she said. “The truth is, I’d kind of gotten used to my life the way it was--not exactly a joy every day, nor an adventure, but it was bearable.”

“Go on,” Dalk said hoarsely.

“I’m 35 years old,” she said. “I guess I’d gotten used to the idea that I couldn’t have my dreams. The pain of getting used to that is brutal--but one adjusts. Of course, the spark goes out inside--that’s the price.”

“Yes,” Dalk said. “It’s like they take away the good things one-by-one until finally you’re left with the feeling that it’s not worth trying anymore.”

“Look at me,” Mary-Jo said. “My hands are shaking. Have I made a dreadful fool of myself by coming here?”

Neither one spoke. She was gazing intently into his face, her own face fragile and pained, as though about to collapse.

“Bartender!” Dalk yelled. “Champagne--make it your best!”

His shout silenced the room, as though everybody was in on the deal and had good money riding on the outcome. The champagne was uncorked and poured for them. It was an inspired moment, and dangerous, the kind where you either made the curve or sailed off the cliff. Dalk took her trembling hands into his own and looked deeply into the eyes of this woman whom, he knew, every man in the place would gladly give their eye teeth for.

“Ask me,” he said.

“I can’t,” she said. “I’m scared.”

In his eyes blazed a stubborn defiance. “Forget the rules, baby,” he said. “Ask me!”

“Stand up, Dalk,” she said. He did, and she closed the gap, bringing her classic softness against his primal roughness.

“Marry me,” she whispered.

“Yes!” he hissed, pulling her close and kissing her lips, her neck and finally her hands, as the room exploded with cheers and shouts.

Vickie appeared beside them and they pulled her into their epiphany, acknowledging her vision which set them on a journey too deep for words, a journey to a place beyond the grandeur of thoughts and judgment, a place which promised guileless days and long, thundering nights.

Chapter 18

“I used to hate the rain,” Vickie said, “but all that’s changed for me now. Too bad it took a killer tumor to get me tuned in to the beauty of falling water and neon lights.”

“There’s something about rain,” Mary-Jo said, “that seems to speak to our feelings and our imaginations--it’s like, when it rains, it makes it seem like anything is possible.”

The wet stuff had been pelting down in big flat soaking drops when they’d stepped outside into the Lamplighter parking lot to begin the journey southward to West L.A. for the midnight ceremony. This unexpected arrival of the unseasonable shower was a reminder that nature still existed in Los Angeles, despite attempts by the colonists to stamp it into oblivion under endless tons of concrete and asphalt. Vickie, in caravan, joined in the limo by Mary-Jo, the stretch black Lincoln followed closely by Dalk in his new silver roadster, found the sudden appearance of the storm stirring something primitive in her.

“I wish I could get out and walk across the mountains in the rain tonight,” Vickie said. “I know a cave hidden by a waterfall in the Santa Monica mountains below the Bel Air hills where one can sit inside with a fire and be dry even in the heaviest deluge. For so long, I haven’t felt really alive. Perhaps I went into hiding when my husband, Jack, died two years ago. I’m beginning to realize how much his sudden death disconnected me from my life. When I first received the news, I left my body. It’s like, for the past two years, I’ve been watching myself go through the motions. But this morning, when Mulroney proposed, I somehow found my way back, re-entered my own life, and now I’m living again, the way I used to. Except for the pain, I mean.”

“Are you scared of the pain?” Mary-Jo said.

“I’m a wimp,” Vickie said. “I’m staying stoked on painkillers so I don’t have to face it. As a matter of fact, they’re wearing off.” She fished out a long neck Corona from the tiny car fridge.

“Can you uncap this for me?” she said to Mary-Jo. “My grip is too weak. I need the beer to help me swallow my pain medication.”

Mary-Jo performed the cap excision with a deft twist and handed over the brew. Vickie palmed three of Mulroney’s potent caps and downed them swiftly, estimating, as she did so the number of remaining caps to be at about seventy-five--enough for a few days more.

“This is no time to be weak and timid,” Mary-Jo said. “We’re almost at the epicenter of your life, here--in a few short hours, you’ll be walking down the aisle.”

“I know,” Vickie said. “I guess this untimely rain reminded me that the marriage is happening in less than ideal circumstances--I mean, Mulroney and I, we’re not exactly Gable and Lombard. More like Malden and Milder, to be exact.”

“Your life isn’t a movie,” Mary-Jo said. “It’s real life. That’s where the beauty lies. I guess you don’t realize this, but I think you’re being awfully strong. I’ve been drawing from your strength since the moment I met you. You’re going for it, and not holding anything back. That’s why I walked up to Dalk and asked him to marry me. It was an act of strength. That’s not the way I’ve handled things in the past, but after meeting you, I knew it was the only way. Besides, I’m tired of being alone. Everybody thinks that if you’ve got looks and money, life is a big playground, but the truth is, my life was turning into endless nights staying up late reading romance novels and having my cat be my best friend.”

“Life is short,” Vickie said. “You’ve got to go for it while it can be got. My priest threw me for a loop earlier, though--he thinks I lack compassion. He thinks everything I’m doing, I’m not really doing for others, but for myself.”

“What difference does it make?” Mary-Jo said. “Besides, priests are celibate--their lives are devoted to others. What do they know about marriage?”

“Probably a lot more than anyone realizes,” Vickie said.

The limo swiftly flowed up the Santa Monica mountains overpass, the high trajectory allowing them a surreal view of the rain-glazed, shapeless amebic mass of monotonous tract homes which blanketed the Valley floor, a morph pleasing to the eyes and souls of the two newly-engaged women.

“I’ve spent my whole life down there in that Valley,” Vickie said. “But until today, all I’ve ever done is live there--I never thought about it one way or another. I merely accepted it. But yesterday, when I quit kidding myself about the cancer, I realized that everything I am now, everything I used to be, everything I was planning to become--all that was over forever. When I got that through my skull, I starting thinking about who I was and it terrified me because I realized I had no idea.”

“That must have come as quite a shock,” Mary-Jo said.

“It did,” Vickie said. “But tonight, seeing this rain coming down, it suddenly hit me--it doesn’t matter who I am. I’m me--selfish or not, lacking in compassion or not, I’m a woman who’s getting married at midnight.”

“I think I understand what you’re saying,” Mary-Jo said. “You’re saying that you’re not getting married because you’re dying soon, or because you need somebody to hold on to--you’re getting married to better experience being who you are right now--a woman who’s let go of everything and is free to feel the passion and power of her universe without limits.”

“Being alive is an awesome thing,” Vickie said. “It’s actually the only thing. So why, then, in a city of ten million souls, the only ones who’re really alive are the ones who’re dying?”

“It’s diabolical,” Mary-Jo said.

“This city looks alive, but it’s really dead,” Vickie said. “I think it’s because of the rain. The founding dunderheads of L.A. tried to conquer the rain when they paved the river it used to flow into. But they didn’t conquer it. Instead, they wound up forcing us to live in a huge outdoor prison and we all lost our souls in the attempt.”

“That’s why you want to walk across the mountains in the rain,” Mary-Jo said. “Because it will help you to find your soul again.”

“If I had the strength,” Vickie said, “I’d have the limo drop me off at Mulholland Drive and I’d plunge into those wild, fresh mountains and join the mountain lions right now. If I had the strength.”

“You’d keep Mulroney waiting,” Mary-Jo said.

“He’d understand completely,” Vickie said. “With Mulroney and me, there’s no strings attached, no hidden agenda, nothing I have to do to earn his love. It’s like what we have, no death can take away. That’s why I immediately accepted when he proposed. I saw it as the first step to experiencing as much life as I possibly could for as long as I could--no matter what. You can call that being selfish if you want, but I’m going for it.”

“I guess I can say the same for myself,” Mary-Jo said. “I must confess that because I’m not dying, I don’t have the total freedom you’re speaking of. But I want to marry Dalk for selfish reasons. One big reason is I want to be a Mommy. I want to have a child--before it’s too late for me. And you were right when you said Dalk can’t resist my beauty--I hope I’m not guilty of using my beauty to control him.”

“He needs to be controlled--you’re doing him a big favor. And Dalk will give you children. Your time is coming. It started tonight. You’d lost your way, but tonight you found it again. You’ve learned life’s most important lesson--any time that isn’t spent on love is wasted time.”

“And I have you to thank, Vickie,” Mary-Jo said. The two exchanged a hug.

The limo, on its journey to the staging ramp for the launching of marital bliss, wasted no time as it sped into the UCLA Medical Center parking complex and docked beside a brightly lit trailer. Dalk pulled the roadster in beside the limo and, as if to herald the arrival of the love caravan, the rain increased to a deafening crescendo on the vehicle roofs. The torrent vanished as suddenly as it arrived, leaving in its wake an eerie silence. Vickie, Mary-Jo, and Dalk stepped from their rides as the trailer door opened, framing Dee, Vickie’s former gown salesperson now turned quickie wedding coordinator.

“We’re ready for you people,” Dee said. She directed Mary-Jo and Dalk to an assistant who led them towards the Medical Center before personally steering Vickie up the steps into the trailer.

“I needn’t tell you we don’t have much time,” Dee said. “While we’re putting you together, I’ve got a decorating crew finishing up inside the chapel. I’ve got our tailors set up in an empty room in the Medical Center down the hall from the chapel. She’ll be waiting to fit your gown. She’s already been over to see Mulroney. I should warn you, you may not recognize Mulroney when you see him all decked out in his new tux. Our theme is gold, so we’ve got him in a gold-sequined outfit--he shines like the sun.”

As they entered the trailer, Dee’s beauty team approached Vickie.

“This is Vito,” Dee said, “L.C.'s premier hair stylist to the stars, and Scotia--Vito’s assistant.”

“I’m overwhelmed,” Vickie said. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Save it,” Dee said. “We don’t have time for emotions or thinking. For the next ninety minutes, it’s going to be nothing but action. I’m going to guarantee you perfection itself. When you walk down the aisle in your Flower of Ireland bridal gown, it’s going to be as a goddess. But perfection doesn’t just happen. We’ve got a lot of work to do. And we have to hurry. Time is tight.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

The inside of the trailer was more like the inside of somebody’s swank yacht, with its hand-crafted interior amenities of polished woods, heavy Persian rugs, recessed lighting, antiques and cut glass bowls of fruit and flowers all working together in a sensual oozing of understated class. Classical music, Beethoven’s Ninth, blended perfectly in spirit with the colorful hiss of flames from a clever gas fireplace encased in a flamboyant Italianate marble mantle festooned with cherubs and grapes, the entire affair dutifully guarded by a couple of life-size ceramic Dalmatians.

Dee stepped to a display of hors d’oeuvres on a sideboard next to the hearth and plucked an enormous bottle of champagne from a golden ice bucket. She tipped the magnum, pouring a frothy golden stream into a delicate, gold-rimmed flute. “If you’d like a snack,” she said, “we’ve got a very nice brie we can serve with crackers. You might also want to try these olives stuffed with goat cheese--the olives are hand-picked Kalamatas from Greece.”

“Do you have anything sweet?” Vickie said.

“We’ve got a scrumptious chocolate and cherry thingie our chef flames with cognac,” Dee said.

“Yes,” Vickie said. She took a tentative sip of the champagne. “I recognize this from the bubbles,” she said. “It’s your Pierre Jourdan Brut, isn’t it?”

“It’s the only champagne I serve,” Dee said. “There’s just no reason to serve champagne unless it has a lot of bubbles. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to turn you over to Scotia--she’s got some bubbles of a different kind for you--she’s going to help you with your bath, and do your nails.”

Chapter 19

Scotia, a diminutive, freckle-faced young woman with wide gray eyes and an untidy mop of shiny auburn curls, waif-like in a little black dress, ushered Vickie through a heavily engraved, copper-clad doorway which opened onto a spacious bath, wherein a six-foot-long Jacuzzi tub steamed and bubbled in a cedar nook opposite an imposing marble countertop loaded with heavy towels, intriguing bottles of oil and lotions, and stacks of colorful glycerin soaps which perfumed the air. A trio of huge vanilla candles on an antique brass candle stand cast a spirited luminescence across a ceiling hung with a dozen baskets brimming with heavy-headed, golden Dahlias.

“Oh my gosh,” Vickie said. “I had a strange feeling when I first saw this trailer that this night wasn’t going to go well. I couldn’t imagine preparing for my wedding in a trailer in a parking lot. I can see that I underestimated Dee’s talents.”

“You can thank your stars you met Dee,” Scotia said. “Dee is a real hidden treasure.”

“Well she certainly has got my undivided attention,” Vickie said. “I feel like I walked into the Sultan’s harem.”

“Vickie,” Scotia said, “Dee filled everybody in on your condition, and I want you to know that if you need a friend to talk to, I’m all ears.”

“Thank you,” Vickie said. “I guess it must show on my face--my fear, I mean. Here I am, right in the middle of a life-and-death situation, and all I can think is, Why me?”

“I believe I know what you mean,” Scotia said. “We lost my brother to leukemia when he was only fourteen. It was a lesson for all of us. The day he died, I was in his room, and I asked him if there was anything I could do for him, and he smiled at me and said that all he wanted was a kiss and a dish of lime Jell-O. I pecked him on the cheek and went down to the kitchen to get the Jell-O. By the time I got back, he was gone.”

The sound of an ambulance siren approaching from afar underscored the true reality of where they were and what they were about--the preparation for marriage of a dying woman. The siren died with a whirping bwirp as it neared the emergency room dock with a cargo of somebody in a heap of trouble.

“Ask not for whom the siren blares,” Vickie said, making the sign of the cross.

“You can toss your clothes into this big wicker basket here,” Scotia said.

“To be taken out and burned, I suppose,” Vickie said.

“Oh no,” Scotia said, laughing. “We don’t burn designer labels around here. We’ll have everything fresh and clean for you after you return here from the ceremony. I’ll be back in a few minutes with your flaming chocolate and cherries.”

Vickie, alone, surveyed her image in the mirror. Her endless day of blood, sweat and tears, which had started out with angry pain, had finally come to an end at the apex of these ceremonial preparations. Scotia returned and caught her looking at herself.

“What do you feel when you look in the mirror?” Scotia said.

“I feel sad,” Vickie said.

“Well, girl,” Scotia said, “you’ve come too far to turn back now.”

“I was kind of hoping I’d feel more like a bride,” Vickie said, “You know, with the pre-wedding jitters and all.”

“Vickie,” Scotia said, “you need to get into your bath.”

“It’s now or never,” Vickie said, draining her flute and slipping into the surging waters of the tub.

“I’ll feed you,” Scotia said, spooning up some warm, glazed cherries covered in chocolate.

“Gosh, I feel like a baby,” Vickie said. “Mmm! That’s good!”

The combination of whirlpool and chocolate brought Vickie to a point of relaxation she hadn’t experienced in days.

“Scotia,” she said, “you probably think I’m from another planet. Who else would get married to a guy right before he goes under the knife for a bypass?”

“Lots of us would for the right man,” Scotia said. “So tell me, where are you going for your cancer treatments?”

“Nowhere,” Vickie said. “The truth is, I panicked when I got the news. I’m supposed to be thinking it over for a few days. My doctor is waiting for me to call. But I’m never going back there.”

Scotia continued feeding Vickie. After the chocolate, she unbraided Vickie’s baby braids before massaging in a generous dollop of shampoo, working up the suds with gentle fingers. Her probing located a spot at the back of Vickie’s neck and she began a gentle kneading.

“Oh, that feels good,” Vickie said.

“Your medulla oblongata,” Scotia said. “You’ve got a lot of overall stiffness in your scalp and neck. It’s one of the few safe places for me to apply massage pressure to help you relax.”

“Safe places?” Vickie said.

“In the presence of cancer, we have to be careful not to do any deep tissue work near the major organs--it might encourage the cancer cells to move somewhere else. That’s why I don’t have a massage table set up in here. But I can do your neck and shoulders.”

“Oh,” Vickie said. “Will it never end?”

“Eventually it will end for all of us,” Scotia said. “You happened to receive a little advance notice. So tell me, since you’re refusing treatment, are you planning to die at home, or in a hospice?”

“How dare you!”

“Excuse me,” Scotia said. “I forgot we’re supposed to be pretending that you’re going to get married and live happily ever after.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“Hearing what,” Scotia said, “the truth?”

“You have no right!

“In only a few short hours,” Scotia said, “you’ll be standing before God, taking a vow to love someone whether or not they’re in sickness or in health. But how can you make such a vow if you can’t do the same for yourself. How can you stand in front of God and lie like that?”

“Because God let me down!” Vickie shrieked. “He chose me to die by inches from a horrible disease--I hate God!”

The words took a moment to sink in. Staring down at the suds, Vickie slowly returned to reality. “Rinse my hair,” she said. The two women went without speaking for awhile as Scotia gently rinsed out Vickie’s hair.

“That took a lot of guts,” Vickie said. “To confront me like that.”

“I work part time in a hospice,” Scotia said. “That’s why Dee called me in. I’ve learned a lot about the dying. In your case, I decided to risk confronting you when I saw the way you were looking at yourself in the mirror. I could tell by the look on your face that you were caught up in something really deep and dark. When I saw that, I decided to try and get you back to the surface.”

“I don’t know where you came from, Scotia,” Vickie said, “but you’ve got some gift. You’re right. What I’m caught up in is, I don’t want to live anymore. I want out.”

“So why are you getting married then?”

“I don’t really know anymore,” Vickie said. “My priest thinks it’s partly from selfishness. I was telling myself I’m going through with it to help a man who’s been in love with me for decades. The truth is, I’m probably using him--I don’t want to die alone.”

“You’re going to marry him,” Scotia said, “but my guess is, afterwards, when you realize he can’t give you the comfort you’re seeking, you’re going to kill yourself in a fit of self-pity.”

“And what if I do? It’s too hard living. I’ve spent the day wrapping up most of my affairs. At least I won’t be a burden to anybody else.”

Scotia held a hand mirror in front of Vickie’s face. “I want you to look at the woman in this mirror,” she said. “What you see is a woman dying of cancer. A woman who has rejected her body. A woman who has lost all her inner confidence. A woman who’s thinking only of herself.”

“You know what I fear most?” Vickie said. “The loss of my hair. I don’t think I could stand it if it all fell out. And I don’t know where I’m going. The truth is, I’m scared to death. Day after day, my body is going to become more and more helpless and useless to me--it’s like the space around me is shrinking smaller and smaller, and the darkness is growing larger.”

“You fear passing over into dementia,” Scotia said.

“Yes,” Vickie said. “What will become of me if I simply drift away in my mind? I’ll have nothing to hold on to. I also fear the pain.”

“The fear of pain increases pain itself,” Scotia said.

“It’s a world of horror and hopelessness,” Vickie said. “You’ll never guess what else I fear.”

“What?” Scotia said.

“The smell. I fear the smell more than anything. I learned to fear it when my mother was dying of cancer. It’s a sour odor full of decay and medicine. You know the one I mean. It’s why everybody always sends flowers--they hope the smell of the flowers will cover it up, but it never does. I never want to smell like that--never!”

“So tell me about killing yourself,” Scotia said. “Do you have a plan?”

“I do,” Vickie said, “but you’ll never believe how I plan to do it--I’ve got this really fast car, and I’m simply going to go out one dark night and take it up to about a hundred and sixty miles per hour and drive it straight into a bridge abutment.”

“That’s hardly original,” Scotia said. “Actually, that’s not how I had you figured. I thought you might use pills or something. A bridge abutment, huh? Remind me never to go driving anywhere with you.”

“I can’t go through with this wedding,” Vickie said. “You’re right. The thing would be a lie. I mean, I love my fiancee and everything, but it’s not fair to him. I can’t marry him knowing what I’m planning to do if he can’t comfort me adequately. Help me out of this tub. I’m going to get dressed and get out of here. Maybe my last unselfish act will be setting him free.”

“No, wait,” Scotia said. “Maybe you should get married. Maybe it’s time you allowed yourself to be the center of attention. What would it hurt? I mean, if you’re going to kill yourself, you can do that anytime. What’s the hurry?”

“What do you mean about being the center of attention?” Vickie said.

“It’s just that I think women don’t face their own death well,” Scotia said. “And who can blame us? For most of our lives, we’re responsible for providing security and comfort for those around us--our families, our friends, people at our church and in our neighborhoods. So when it’s time for us to die, it’s like, we don’t know what to do. The people around us can’t help us because they’re too busy wringing their hands over the loss of the person who’s always taken care of them. There’s no rituals in our world for dealing with the death of a woman--they wait for us to die and then try to get us buried as quickly as possible and get it over with.”

“Oh,” Vickie said. “This whole thing caught me by surprise. One month I was living my life and the next thing I know, there’s this raging sense of urgency--it was like suddenly I found myself facing a hundred different doors to open and I had only a moment to open them. Today I accepted a marriage proposal, bought a house and car for my brother, and found him a woman to marry. In two hours, I’m supposed to be giving myself to my new husband in marriage. This is crazy.”

“You’re the one who’s dying,” Scotia said, “and yet here you are, still trying to take care of everybody else, right up to the end.”

“Oh, you’re right!” Vickie said. “And let me tell you, when somebody tells you you’re dying, you realize right then and there that you can’t handle it. It’s not something you learn in college. There’s so much I don’t understand--it’s all zooming way over my head.”

“That’s why you want to go a hundred and sixty miles per hour,” Scotia said. “You think you can outrun the fear long enough to work up the courage to check yourself out of the planet. When I saw you standing in front of the mirror, I knew that you were a woman who was a stranger to herself. The fact that you’re going to kill yourself proves it. It’s easy to kill somebody you don’t know. But it’s hard to kill someone you love.”

“Help me,” Vickie said.

“There’s still time,” Scotia said. “There’s still time to push back the darkness. But you’ll have to start really getting to know yourself. You’ll have to learn to look in the mirror without judging what you see.”

“It’s too late,” Vickie said.

“Nothing’s ever too late as long as you’re still alive,” Scotia said. “That’s the paradox. You’ve got to slow down even though you feel as though you’re running out of time. There’s something inside you trying to kill you, and you’re letting it. You’ve got to stop and listen to yourself and find out why. Cancer is a messenger. You need to find out what the message is.”

“Oooh!” Vickie cried.

“Are you having pain now?” Scotia said.

Vickie nodded.

“Where’s your medication?”

“No,” Vickie said. “I’m going to wait.”

“Are you sure?” Scotia said.

“Help me out of this tub,” Vickie said. “And tell your hair guy I’m ready. I’ve decided to go through with the wedding. Selfish motives or not--I’m getting married tonight--and then I’m going to take your advice and find out what exactly is going on.”

Scotia pulled Vickie from the waters. “You can have everything again,” she said.

“Thank you,” Vickie said. “For your courage. Perhaps it was no coincidence that we met tonight. But I have to ask you, what made you take the chance to confront me? I’m nobody to you.”

“When they told me my brother had passed on,” Scotia said, “I was standing in the hospital hallway with his dish of lime Jell-O. That’s when I understood what he’d done. He was trying to show me that if ever I came across someone who was dying, I was supposed to give them his Jell-O. The first person I gave his Jell-O to was myself--now I’m passing it along, in spirit, to you.”

“I’ll never forget your kindness,” Vickie said. She smothered her face in her towel and came forth with huge, gulping sobs, certain that her words were true--for what remained of her life, she knew she would never would forget the waif in the black dress whose delight in life was to carry lime Jell-O to lost souls and dying ladies.

Chapter 20

“Let me get this straight,” Vickie said. “You want to cut all my hair off.”

“I want to enhance your sense of enclosure,” Vito said. “It’s a part of the bridal mystique--you appear in the world and yet at the same time are covered behind your veil, enclosed and private. Too much hair sticking out from beneath the veil suggests to the world that you are somehow a bit more available than the veil suggests.”

Vito the hairdresser, a forties-something slim quick man in T-shirt, jeans and Reeboks, himself crowned with an artful tussle of curly blond locks, had Vickie hostage in his “hair mobile”--a small cubicle at the opposite end of the trailer from the bath--the cubicle draped in black to accentuate the sense of impending artistry--in the middle of which cubicle she sat, herself draped likewise in black, her head illumined in a pool of light cast from a single overhead spotlight, such that her head seemed to float by itself in mid-air.

“It’s a powerful statement,” Vito said. “I can understand your reluctance. As we get older, we’re more inclined to try to create a platform for ourselves where we can feel safe and secure...it’s as though once we’ve made it past thirty, our thirst for risk-taking vanishes. But yes, to answer your question, I think with your foxy face and voluptuous figure, going short would be nothing short of spectacular.”

“You’re very strange,” Vickie said. “And your assistant, Scotia, is really off the dial.”

“Scotia has a lot of inner power,” Vito said. “She thrives on truth.”

“And what do you thrive on?” Vickie said. “Taking scalps?”

“I’m enthusiastic about hair,” Vito said. “Each time I create a new look, I can’t help but get excited--I suppose I am a bit overbearing in my desire to have everybody see what I see.”

“I’m at wits end,” Vickie said. “A few minutes ago, I thought I’d lost it. I was going to walk out of this trailer and never look back.”

“A common reaction,” Vito said. “You’re a beautiful woman who knows her limits. Apparently, Scotia and I have pushed too hard and gone out of bounds.”

“No,” Vickie said. “I’m really appreciative of all this attention you’re lavishing on me. I guess the problem is, I’m losing control and I don’t like the feeling. I’m supposed to know where I’m going with this marriage--but I don’t. I’ve never felt more weak and vulnerable in my life.”

“That’s a great place to be,” Vito said. “It’s real. You’re stopping to listen to your pain. You’re taking stock.”

“The news of my tumor brought everything to a screeching halt,” Vickie said. “I guess before I got the news, I spent my time in a state of hope for what the future would bring. It was like I was always waiting for things that weren’t coming. Yesterday, I found out what was coming--an ugly death. Suddenly I had no future and nothing further to wait for. That’s probably why I’m getting married on such short notice. I’m starting to realize that the world isn’t going to turn into something other than what it really is, so I better quit waiting and start doing.”

“You’ve held on to your long blonde hair for many years,” Vito said. “Was that part of your waiting?”

“My hair was always my crowning glory,” Vickie said. “No matter what terrible thing was going on around me, I had my hair. Now, I’m even facing the possibility of losing that.”

“Maybe it’s time you let go of your long hair,” Vito said. “Go for a new look, smart and sleek, one which will balance the inner and outer realms of your new self. The short hair will match perfectly the golden dahlias which fill the chapel.”

“There’s golden dahlias filling the chapel?” Vickie said.

“The chapel has been completely transformed,” Vito said. “Dee brought in a large party tent and erected it inside. The entire inside of the tent has been transformed into a fantasy of gold, at the center of which will be you. With your short golden hair, your head will shine like the sun in a galaxy of golden dahlias.”

“What if I keep my long hair?”

“Of course that’s your choice,” Vito said. “But it’s my interior inspiration that you’d be making a mistake. My sense of your present style, the long blonde hair with the baby braids, is that it belongs in the past, to a person you no longer are--your long hair is something that you hung on top of your head a long time ago because at that time, it brightened up your world, or maybe it was part of some teenage surfer fantasy or something, but now I sense it’s time for something that will bring into focus your considerable present beauty.”

“I’m fighting you,” Vickie said. “My greatest fear centers around losing my hair right before I die in a smelly sweat.”

“I understand,” Vito said. “I’m sure it must be exhausting to you to be trying to keep some control over your life--especially now that you’ve decided to be a bride one last time. A bride is caught between two worlds. In one world, she must give love, and in other, she must receive it--it’s when we receive love that we aren’t in control.”

“What you’re saying is that I’m resisting your suggestion to cut off my hair as my one last great act of defiance? As a way to stay in control of something while everything else is falling apart?”

“You’re a dying woman,” Vito said. “It’s only natural that you’d be preoccupied with the infinite--your vision is focused on what’s waiting for you out there--but it scares you when you travel out there--it’s unknown territory, so you return to the familiar to reassure yourself. That’s why you’re fighting me about the direction we should go with your cut--it gives you a feeling of reassurance because your haircut is finite, and easy to grasp, therefore easy to control.”

“I must be going crazy,” Vickie said. “Because for a moment, there, you were starting to make sense. Why don’t you spit it out and tell me what you want me to do.”

“I want you to give me your hair,” Vito said. “I want you to surrender all of your hair to me.”

Vickie sighed deeply. “Go ahead,” she said. “It’s yours. I’m through fighting.”

“Are you sure?” Vito said.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “Go ahead, Vito, make my day. Cut it all off.”

Chapter 21

“I love Mulroney,” Vickie said, “but in the back of my mind I wonder if this wedding isn’t my way of making one last defiant gesture at my cancer.”

“I understand where you’re coming from,” the tailoress said. “It’s as though the cancer has the power to dissolve in an untimely fashion your sacrament of marriage--by getting married, you’re standing up to it.”

The tailoress and Vickie were in the hospital, in an empty patient room commandeered by the ever-resourceful Dee, fitting precisely to Vickie’s full figure the Flower of Ireland, in all its magnificence. The tailoress, a woman in the median span of life who called herself Afshaan and appeared to have hailed from India, having been raised there, and educated in Catholic schools, and of no small beauty herself, worked expertly and quickly through the various sections of the garment, correcting trouble spots on-the-fly while at the same time encouraging sympathetic discourse into the weighty matters of cancerous tumors and their effects on the great moments of life. Thus far, Afshaan had not permitted Vickie a glimpse in the portable three-way mirror, which stood in the corner covered with a sheet from the hospital bed.

“You’ve got to go with what you’ve got, that’s all I know,” Vickie said. “In a way, it’s really a battle with Mother Nature herself.”

“It’s a tough battle,” Afshaan said. “You can’t make Mother Nature do anything she doesn’t want to do.”

“True,” Vickie said. “Thus far, my battle with her has cost me a lot of energy--and most likely, I’ll lose anyway.”

“Don’t give up,” Afshaan said. “Sometimes, Mother Nature accepts our humble efforts and lets us win. I hope it goes that way for you.” Afshaan stood up, stepped back, and regarded Vickie with a close eye, walking around her three times.

“It’s finished,” Afshaan said, checking her watch. “And not a minute too soon. It’s almost midnight.”

“Tell me what you think,” Vickie said. “Before I look in the mirror, I want to hear it from you. Don’t hold back. I want the truth.”

“The truth is, your transformation is that of a goddess,” Afshaan said. “When you first walked in here, I sensed the possibilities, but now I must admit, your unmatched beauty is something I will remember always.” Afshaan stepped to the mirror and pulled off the sheet.

Vickie turned to the mirror and sucked in a quick sharp breath. She did not immediately recognize herself. It was as though, under the onslaught of heavenly images generated by the inlaid handiwork of the garment, her mind had lost the ability to hold its focus. Time passed. The radiant linen sparkled with life and energy as she turned this way and that, feeling the silky synergy of the cloth moving in close counterpoint with her breathing. Her eyes wandered over the garment slowly, gradually adding up its uncountable sum until at once the many facets sprang together as one, presenting her with an image of perfect purity and innocence, an angelic forming of eternal wholeness. She found herself in a space where the fullness of time enfolded her, and the music of the Flower of Ireland’s visual harmonies vibrated into the core of her heart and soul.

She came back to herself again as the door opened and Dee walked in holding the bouquet, followed closely by Mary-Jo, both women flushed, excited, shiningly sartorialized in little gold-sequined dresses.

“Oh my,” Dee said. “You’re beyond beautiful--I’d shriek with delight, but we are in a hospital.”

“It’s like a splinter of Heaven broke off and landed in this room,” Mary-Jo said.

“The waiting is over,” Dee said. “They’re ready for us in the chapel.”

“It’s time?” Vickie said.

Dee took her by the hand and led her through the door. The procession--Dee in front, Vickie in the middle, and Mary-Jo bringing up the rear, her job being to hold away from the floor the long, delicate train--made its way through the warm, dimly-lit hallways past the amazed faces of night shift personnel, arriving at the chapel door beyond which Vickie’s destiny in the form of a man in a gold tuxedo stood waiting. Music played. A solo violin. The Ave Maria.

“You forgot something,” Dee said, pinning the golden Tara brooch, and pulling down the veil. She handed Vickie the bouquet. “There. Perfection has been accomplished.”

Vickie stood beneath the veil, her heart beating fast, her thoughts suspended--there was no longer past or future--not at this moment--not with the door about to open and show her the path to Mulroney, her beloved, awaiting her at the end of her walk down the aisle. A silence filled her soul completely, as though there was nothing more to say, no more stories to tell. The door opened revealing a stunning, intimate interior world of shining gold, the results of many hangings of exotic fabrics combined with the largesse of a half-thousand of golden dahlias. The single violinist bowed up the wedding march and Vickie began stepping forward towards Mulroney, the big man standing stiffly at attention, eyes fiercely reaching towards her, his framework closely lieutenanted by a smiling Dalk. The big man consumed her eyes, to the point where she felt his life forces were pulling her towards him through the air, as though the solid world had evaporated, leaving only the two of them to complete their dance. A single white-hot stab of pain from the tumor shot through her upper abdomen, but she steeled herself and kept on marching to the singing strings of the violin.

We’ll never be so young again as we are tonight, she thought. We’ll be married and we’ll never regret it.

Mulroney stepped forward and steered her in front of Father Larry. She understood without thinking that she’d done all she could--her life had brought her to Mulroney. She found it enough, and was content, for the moment, to lay aside the dreams and fears of elsewheres and other realms.

The wedding had begun.

Chapter 22

“We’ll begin,” Father Larry said, “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Up close, Vickie noticed, Mulroney appeared--in spite of the brilliance of his shiny gold garments--pale and washed out somehow, as though the afternoon and evening of Dr. Lerner’s “poking and prodding” had been hard on him. His face, however, was set in a determined fierceness, like that of a downed hawk--injured, but still game for whatever lay ahead. A slight coughing noise from the corner of the tent drew her eye to the spectacle of Kilkenney glaring from his cage. Absurdly--somehow during the afternoon, the big man had arranged for his cat to be here at this most important moment.

Her attention refocused on Father Larry, who had apparently for some time been reading from Genesis. “Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother,” he said, “and shall cleave unto his wife and they shall be one flesh.”

Father read a psalm and a portion of the love chapter--Corinthians 13. He set his small wedding book aside and looked lovingly over his charges and beyond to the small group assembled, which included Vito, Scotia, and Afshaan. Vickie felt the pain in her back begin to spread and with a start realized she was losing feeling in her legs in the same manner as she had that afternoon. She braced herself inwardly.

“It is my great privilege to welcome and congratulate Vickie and Patrick here,” Father Larry said, “for by their committed action of coming together in this holy sacrament of marriage, they have shown us that life is so much more than a pilot episode for a possible future series. Mulroney and Vickie, here, have taught me that right here on earth, it is possible to forge a code of survival and love that I believe amazes even the angels, which are, no doubt, in strong attendance here at this early morning uniting of two souls.”

Oh no, Vickie thought. He’s going to be long-winded.

“The most heartbreaking moments of life,” Father continued, “often set the stage for our greatest triumphs--this marriage of Vickie and Mulroney is such a triumph. It is all the proof of heaven that anyone could ask, for we can see in their shining expressions a sweet message delivered to us here from a world beyond this one.

“The sacrament of marriage reminds us that we have a duty and right to be here on this earth--and a God-given right to freedom from the despair and loneliness we find facing us in the world outside.

“I want to say to the two of you, that this moment is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever encountered. In the days to come, whenever I’m feeling weary and indifferent to life, I will look back fondly on this moment and draw renewed strength from it for my own journey.”

Vickie sniffed the air, detecting a slightly sour scent. With alarm, she realized it was coming from Mulroney. Her mind reeled with the effort to contain her fear. She’d smelled that smell once before--at the death of her mother! She glanced at him, but he was still holding steady, albeit it seemed to her his face had paled considerably. Father Larry was droning on--would he never stop? She wondered if she’d make it to the vows.

“Within the bonds of marriage,” Father said, “we find the highest level of commitment. We are not seeking in marriage a life of comfort and luxury for ourselves--instead we are embracing the opportunity to sacrifice ourselves for one another.

“We do not take this commitment lightly--but instead, we do everything in our power to live up to the sacrificial spirit of marriage--we accept any amount of personal pain and suffering that God allows if it will serve for the good of our marriage partner.”

God help me, Vickie prayed. May my pain be of some value tonight.

“Mulroney,” Father said, “I want to charge you with the responsibility not merely to be a good provider for your wife financially, but also to be a shining example of spiritual providence to her.

“Vickie, I likewise charge you with the responsibility not merely to be a good wife to your husband, but to be also a source of light and faith to him, no matter what the personal cost to you.”

Yes, she thought. I will. No matter what the cost.

“I further charge the two of you,” Father said, “to conduct your marriage in such a manner as to continually point the way to God, recognizing that you have your example of Christian marriage to share with others--an example which should be an encouragement to anyone who comes to you in need of faith, hope, and strength.”

“Excuse me, Father,” Vickie said. “But I’m having a problem with pain.”

Mulroney put his arm around her. “How bad is it?” he said. She noticed a slight sheen of oily sweat covering his face.

“I wanted to be alert for the ceremony,” she said, “so I stopped taking my pills--I think I’ve made a mistake--it’s really starting to hurt me bad.” In spite of herself, her eyes welled up with tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m spoiling everything.”

“Why don’t we stop for a moment,” Father Larry said, “while somebody gets your pills for you?”

“No,” Vickie said. “I want to go on--but I wonder if we could hurry it up a little. Also, I need someone to hold me up--I’m starting to lose feeling in my legs.”

“I’ll hold her up,” Mulroney said. But in spite of his promise, she could feel his arm around her waist growing weak. She leaned against him to better her chances of remaining upright.

Father Larry moved closer. “Vickie and Mulroney,” he said. “Have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?”

“We have,” they said. Mulroney kept shifting his weight not to lose his grip on her. In the corner, Kilkenney was acting agitated. Perhaps he could smell the sour smell coming from Mulroney as she could. The pain in her back glowed hotter and hotter, shutting off the feeling in her legs.

“Will you love and honor each other,” Father Larry said, “as a man and wife for the rest of your lives?”

“We will.”

“Face each other and join your right hands and declare after me,” Father said.

“Dalk,” Vickie whispered. “Hold me up.” She felt her brother’s powerful arm slip around her waist, not only holding her upright, but lifting her clear of the ground. Dalk was solid as stone.

Father Larry began whispering the cues, guiding Mulroney through the vows.

“I, Patrick,” Mulroney said, “take you, Vickie, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.” His grip on her hand weakened to the point of soft, sweaty fragility, like a baby’s. He barely seemed to be breathing.

Father began whispering her cues, leading her on.

“I, Vickie,” she said, “take you, Patrick, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

Father Larry stood back. “What God has joined,” he said loudly, “men must not divide.”

Mulroney lifted her veil. There was something wrong. He was shaking badly, all color gone from his face, all strength from his mighty frame. Kilkenney bumped and thrashed and hissed loudly from his cage in the corner. Mulroney grabbed her face and planted a whisper of a kiss on her lips.

“I’ll see you in the morning, my love,” he said, and collapsed in a heap at her feet. Reflexively, Dalk reached for him, letting go of Vickie. Her legs dead to all feeling, she collapsed atop her husband. Mulroney’s eyes, wide and staring, looked through her to a place far away, a place--she realized deep inside her soul--where it was always morning. She felt the commotion around her, the screams of the women, the hands lifting her up, the wail from her own depths, all in a blur, the outpouring of which bespoke but one thing to all--one thing everybody understood.

Mulroney was dead.

Vickie felt the feeling return to her legs and with the aid of Dalk, shakily rose to her feet. The crash team swooped in and loaded Mulroney onto the gurney. They’d try to save him. It was in the nature of things that they should do so, should try to bring him back. But she knew it wasn’t possible.

“Yes, my love,” she said. “Yes. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Chapter 23

“I’m confused and frightened,” Vickie said. “Right now it’s all I can do to hold on to the memory of what it felt like to be human.”

“Dr. Lerner’s on her way here,” Dalk said. “There’s a chance they can bring Mulroney back. They’ve got him hooked up to the machines. Don’t you think we should wait and see?”

The brother and sister stood beside the limo at the entrance to the Medical Center, attempting to answer the question of what to do next, in keeping with the traditions of those who had occasion to frequent hospitals only to find themselves at the thresholds of unknowns. Dalk had finished loading a caged Kilkenney into the limo. A light rain misted the mercury vapor glare surrounding them, but a percolation of thunder promised imminently a larger delivery of the wet stuff.

“I’m going home,” Vickie said. “Dr. Lerner isn’t going to bring Mulroney back. Nobody is--he’s already gone--I felt him leave when he gave me the kiss. He went right out through the top of his head and took off into the sky. He’s not coming back.”

“Where is home for you now?” Dalk said. “Our old place in the Valley? Or are you, as Mrs. Mulroney, going over to your new place, which used to be Mulroney’s place, in Santa Monica?”

“I’m going back to the Valley,” Vickie said. “I need solitude right now. I’m not up to seeing the new place. I may never be up to seeing it.”

“I’m worried about you,” Dalk said.

“Worried about what?” she said. “Just because I watched my husband die at my feet, and I’ve had 6 hours of sleep in the last 24, and I’m at a standoff with food? The truth is, I have to go home and sleep. I’m too tired to grieve--that takes energy. At this point, I can’t feel a thing. I probably wouldn’t rush back down here even if Mulroney should come back from the dead. I’m too tired. If I could get my strength back, things would be a lot better. I could at least do the things I’m supposed to be doing at a time like this. I hope the others in our little wedding party don’t think it odd that I split from the scene right as Mulroney entered his hour of need.”

“No sweat,” Dalk said. “Everybody knows you’ve done all you can.”

“I realize how bitter I must sound,” she said. “I guess what worries me most is that I’m not feeling sorry for myself so much as I’m finding it harder and harder to come up with a reason for being here among the living myself. About all I can think of is that somebody’s got to stick around to take care of this stupid cat of Mulroney’s.”

“Are you sure I shouldn’t come with you?” Dalk said. “You might need me.”

“You’re staying here with the others,” Vickie said. “You can do more good here than with me. It’ll be a chance for you and Mary-Jo to spend some time together--sorry it has to be during a nightmare like this.”

“I’ll admit I’m stunned,” Dalk said. “I feel cheated, somehow. I loved Mulroney--and I never even got to wish the two of you good luck.”

“You’re such a rock,” Vickie said. “You were so calm when he collapsed.”

“It scared me,” Dalk said. “When something like this happens, it’s a shock. I guess we’re both in shock. It’ll wear off soon, and then we’ll do our crying.”

“Dalk,” Vickie said, “what on earth is happening to us?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I lost a friend and I met what may be my new wife. I don’t know where I’m at right now. The only thing I am sure of is that it’s a long way from here to ever getting back to normal.”

The wind began to gust, wrapping the Flower of Ireland tight against Vickie. Along with the gust came the previously threatened big fat drops of rain. Vickie stepped into the limo and Dalk handed in to her the little suitcase holding the folded train of the dress. He shut the door and she powered down the window. “Call me when Dr. Lerner’s through trying to do the impossible,” she said. She signaled to the driver and they pulled slowly away from the Medical Center. Vickie didn’t look back. The big fat drops coalesced into a deluge as the limo splashed through the streets of Westwood. She opened the window a crack and felt the spitting hiss of the water on her face.

“It’s you and me now,” she said to Kilkenney. “I’m sure you’re tired of that cage. If you weren’t so big, I’d let you out to stretch your legs. When we get home, you’ll have the run of the house, I promise you.” She intercom’d the driver. “Stop someplace and pickup some kitty litter, a bunch of cat food, and a cat box.”

She could no longer breathe freely, it feeling as though there was a blockage in her lungs, a deep stabbing pain somewhere above her stomach but behind it, towards the back, which impeded inhalation beyond a certain point. She fished a small bottle of Black Jack from the limo bar and washed down two more Mulroney Specials before laying back on the seat, supine and immobile, waiting for the meds to kick in, meanwhile reduced to taking short, frequent breaths like that of a panting dog.

“I can’t face you yet, Mulroney,” she whispered. “I can’t face you lying in your bed hooked up to the life support machines. This isn’t what I bargained for. I can’t face cleaning up the mess you left behind. You big ape. You were supposed to take care of me. You were supposed to help me die. But I forgive you. I know God will have mercy on your soul. When you see Him, tell Him about me. Tell Him you left a widow behind and she doesn’t know what to do. Be sure and do that for me. Be sure and tell Him.”

The limo sped up as it merged onto the northbound 405 back to the Valley.

“Oh God, I am alone,” she said. As if to disagree, Kilkenney coughed and stirred. With a sigh, she gave herself up to rain, and rushing blackness, falling into a dark, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 24

It was nearly 5 a.m. by the time Vickie keyed open the front door on her Tampa Avenue home. Had anyone been watching, the sight of a woman in a bridal gown carrying a small suitcase--supervising the offloading from a stretch limo of a large cat cage--complete with large cat and all necessary supportive appurtenances to the care and keeping therewith--said sight and observation of the watcher might have seemed surreal to the point of giving rise to uneasy premonitions of things not right. A closer observation would have revealed the woman’s face to be drawn and shadowed in such a manner as to predict the possibility that a chain of death, begun elsewhere, would not be stopping elsewhere, but instead continuing on through the lives of woman and beast.

But there was nobody watching the surreal ballet of bride, chauffeur and feline, due in part to the early hour and more in part to the steady torrent of rain which bubbled down from the low-hanging clouds, filling the air with a low-grade, hissing rumble--a deluge which promised no sunrise--devoid, in fact, of any hint of crepuscularity--and which further seemed bent on overwhelming the massive network of Los Angeles’ concrete canals and deeply cut streets, the end result of which would be massive flooding on a grand scale.

Vickie heavily tipped and dismissed her driver, shut the door against the downpour and flipped open Kilkenney’s cage door. The cat departed in a flash towards whatever place cats go to get their bearings before taking on new realms.

Vickie set upon the counter a small suitcase into which was folded the magnificent Flower of Ireland bridal veil and train, diaphanously emblazoned with the image of the Blessed Virgin. Unlike Kilkenney, and therefore having no secret place to go to assess her new realm, she settled instead for removing her vial of Mulroney Specials from her bag and entering the living room, perching herself on the edge of the big red wing chair, her face without expression. She examined the pills. The capsules remaining numbered about fifty, but they were not all alike. Mixed among the familiar white-and-green specked caps were several unmarked bright green caps. The sheer sloppiness of Mulroney’s handing over to her a vial contaminated by various and sundry unmarked pills annoyed her, so much so that the annoyance rose quickly to a heated anger at the entire sorry mess of the previous hours of her life.

“Mulroney!” she cried. “You were supposed to live longer than that!”

The cat, having emerged from the back and coming towards her, but stimulated by her shout, veered away and skulked along the baseboard, mapping out his new turf.

“Okay, God,” she said. “I get it. You wanted to teach me a lesson. Well, what is it? Did you want to humiliate me at my wedding? Is that what you wanted? Was it enough for you? Or do you want me to go around in public wearing a Tee shirt that says I Went To My Wedding, But All I Got Was This Lousy Cat?”

The dark humor surprised her, forcing a bitter cackle. “It’s been a pretty horrendous day, God,” she said. “One I will always hold against you.”

A heavy sheet of rain rattled the windows in the kitchen, providing the tempo to a sweeping, painful feeling of utter abandonment. She stood up slowly, purposefully, entered the kitchen, peeled back the pop-off cover of a fresh can of cat food and spooned the smelly mixture onto a plate. Kilkenney, as though activated by radar, aroused by the prospect of a meal, fervently appeared beside her, rubbing himself against her priceless dress, now rendered ridiculous, having lost its martial form by the soaking it received from the rain. The cat displayed a mild ferocity around food, issuing from deep in his throat, as he rubbed, short, barking coughs which she now realized passed for a kind of purring. The big furball was trying to bond with her over his food plate! A feeling of tenderness mixed with revulsion rose within her and she found herself steeling herself against both fronts, becoming aware that her entire body was clenched like a fist, as though to become sympathetic to another living being at this, the darkest night of her soul, would be to enthrone the savage reality she’d witnessed at the altar, a reality Kilkenney had witnessed and shrugged off in favor of a can of stinking, overcooked fish paste.

No, she thought to herself, I will not embrace this animal. I will not feel.

She knew what she had to do, and saw no reason to delay any further. From a cupboard, she removed and uncapped a fresh bottle of Scotch, the good stuff, a single-malt heavy with accents of peat and salt air. Carefully selecting a clean jelly glass, she poured herself a couple of fingers and returned to the red wing chair, whereupon she sat herself down, opened her vial of pills, shook the entire contents into her cupped palm and crammed the entire lot into her mouth, washing down the obscene and deadly wad of them cleanly with heavy gulps of the scotch, each successive gulp more forceful than the last, as though she desired to personally prove to God Himself exactly how much she desired her own destruction.

“There you go, God,” she said. “I’m going to finish what you started.”

An odd silence filled Vickie’s mind as it attempted to comprehend the technical details of her suicide attempt. Would the pills do it? Had she taken enough to shut down her system? What was in the bright green pills? The survival part of her brain thus busied, she allowed the injured child inside herself to surface briefly one last time only to realize that in her own way, childishly, she wanted to hurt Mulroney for what he’d done to her--but he was gone, therefore, she’d hurt him by proxy--by hurting herself. Her suicide was a childish thing to do--but she was going to do it.

The oversized cat appeared in the living room and began to lick his paws and comb his whiskers. The sight of this sated creature in such a state of satisfaction revolted her. She arose and opened the living room sliding door to the storm.

“Okay, Kilkenney,” she yelled. “Move!” Kilkenney, unaccustomed to marching orders, walked slowly toward the opening, pausing to extend artfully a right hind leg, quivering it expertly, before taking up a position not quite at the mouth of the outside. He paused, sniffing carefully, before plunging through the opening and disappearing from sight.

She stretched herself out full length on the couch, arranging her wet dress carefully around her. She could at least be neat and presentable when they found her. There would be no note. Anybody who didn’t know why she was doing what she did didn’t have a clue about her anyway, so what was the point? The wind blowing chill wet gusts through the open door forced her to shiver and she wished for a blanket as she cursed her need to seek comfort even while dying, cursed herself for her weakness--for somewhere, deep down, still caring what went on.

She closed her eyes and as she did, a huge weight landed on her abdomen--the cat, wet and cold, coughing and blowing his stinky meat breath in her face which was, she realized, doubtless the same post meal routine he’d enjoyed with Mulroney. The foolish beast had simply replaced one human with another. He began immediately kneading her stomach, his heavy sharp claws prickling her skin. In a quick angry motion, she grabbed the table lamp behind her and brought it crashing down towards Kilkenney, but he--possessed of a strong brain and even stronger hind legs--easily bounded to safety, imparting a single, sour look in her direction before disappearing through the open sliding door into the storm. The lampshade flew off, shattering the bulb, sending fine filaments flying about. She shoved the lamp to the foot of the couch. This wasn’t going to be as neat and presentable as she’d hoped.

Jettisoning Kilkenney brought with it a modicum of guilt, and annoyance that her last moments on earth should be spent frightening a cat. The suicide should have been going smoother.

The room seemed to be growing warm at the same time as the edges of things were getting a bit fuzzy. What was in those bright green pills, the one’s mixed in with the painkillers? Judging from her body’s reaction, the bright green ones weren’t designed to quell pain, but rather to stimulate. Uppers! Would they do the job? And if so, how? Would they push her heart to the breaking point? Would she die in the same fashion as Mulroney, suddenly, as though an anvil had been dropped on her chest? She found herself impatiently tapping her fingers. Her mouth turned to cotton and her heart began to race, surprising her--was this what it felt like to commit suicide? One waited impatiently, nervously, heart racing, for the end? Was committing suicide akin to waiting irritably for some kind of cosmic bus of death to roll up to the stop, a little behind schedule, its doors wheezing open to reveal a sparse seating of hyped-out souls, flapping and twitching uncontrollably in their seats?

The unasked-for vision of the Death Bus freaked her out slightly and she closed her eyes, hoping to shift her mind to quieter venues, deciding impulsively to keep her eyes closed for the duration until she crossed the threshold into oblivion, but her plan was interrupted as a sudden rush of heat flew up her spine like the shock from a cattle prod and set off a high-pitched ringing in her ears. The bolt tightened her muscles to the breaking point, and she felt her lips peeling back in an intractable grimace.

She realized with horror where the shock came from--the broken lamp at the end of the couch--touching her wet gown, the live socket intermittently contacting the golden chains woven into the wet linen of the gown--she was being electrocuted!

Another heavy thump on her belly. The cat again! This time overwhelming her senses with the stink of wet fur, again coming on with the kneading and the clawing and the short coughs of unbearable fish breath. Would the blasted creature not let her die in peace? The room began vibrating faster and faster, at the same time filling with a greenish white light. She half-expected the finale of this electric-shock circus to be the sight of Jesus Himself, in a dripping white robe, coming in out of the storm, an angry look on His face.

A second thunderbolt raced up her legs, her resulting spastic rigor throwing herself and Kilkenney from the couch into an ignominious heap on the rug. The cat, trapped underneath her, netted by the heavy wet folds of the dress, let out a yowl and began to scramble, his fright summoning his immense strength which he used to force his way out of the trap. Using her for traction, his powerful rear legs clawed and ripped loudly open the midsection of the priceless dress and he burst clear, leaping high overhead, twisting in mid-air before landing in the red wing chair, which toppled backwards under the impact, sending Kilkenney scurrying once again through the open door and into the storm.

Her mind boiled over, trying to add up the sum of the number of this hellish universe while an electric hand reached into her soul. She rolled violently and shook off the electrocuting lamp and, aided by the high-powered stimulants in the green capsules, literally leaped to her feet.

Upon examining the huge rip in her dress, she saw clearly, underneath her bloodily clawed and lacerated skin, the lacerations patterned with the deeply etched and blackened wounds caused by the electrified golden chains, which had melted under the current and sizzled their way down into her flesh. She threw back her head and released a hideous scream, white hot, which left the room smoking. Grabbing the scotch, she took a desperate gulp from the bottle to slow down her acceleration, only to find the burning liquid igniting the powder keg below, exploding her insides everywhere, the dripping bile and bright green drops of the liquefied capsules further wasting her once priceless but now gutted, bloody and burned outer garment.

Apparently dying wasn’t going to be so easy.

Chapter 25

Vickie gathered the ruins of her gown about her and entered the kitchen, rummaging in the cabinet and coming up with a half-bottle of Pepto which she put eagerly to her lips and chugged. The pinkish, liquefied chalk instantly balm'd her raging innards. Looking around, her eyes reflexively catalogued a bunch of odds and ends that needed doing--there were dishes in the sink from yesterday’s breakfast. A large box of chocolate macaroons stood open on the counter, and there was that porcelain ding on the sink she’d been meaning to patch. Her eyes fastened on a small leather datebook on the dinette--she recognized it--Mulroney’s. He must have forgotten it yesterday when he’d shown up unexpectedly. She flipped it open to find a cocktail napkin scrawled with an address on Kling Street in North Hollywood. Underneath the address, Mulroney had made himself a note--Take Vickie to see Virgin Mary lady.

It seemed a thousand years since Mulroney had shown up at her front door inviting her to go with him to see a lady, of whom it was said, had a connection with the powers above and was healing all comers in the name of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Had it been only yesterday?

The note scribbled on the napkin was the salt in the wound of her life. She’d botched the suicide attempt and was beginning to realize she lacked the strength for another try. She began pacing the kitchen floor, understanding that she’d finally hit, on whatever scale of measurement one chose, the bottom of life--the place where nothing broke the silence, nothing lived, nothing told you what to do to get on with your life. Where there was nothing--not even nothing.

But I’m still alive, she thought. It’s rotten, but it’s not the worst--that’s still to come. That’ll be coming the day they lower my coffin into the draped hole on the hill, the drapes hiding the dirt they’ll cover the coffin with when nobody’s looking.

She went to the bathroom to comb her hair. It did not need combing--Vito had seen to that. The short hair was a shock, but it was her blood-soaked side that really set her back. She tenderly felt the area, realizing that somewhere in the tussle with the electrified dress and the trapped cat she’d torn open the butterfly bandage holding her biopsy incision together. She was bleeding like a stuck pig. Behind her, in the mirrored shower door, she glimpsed her back and gasped in horror. Her gown was in tatters, literally shredded by the action of the current melting the gold thread work running through the linen. The burning threads had sliced deeply into her skin, like the cuts from a whip. That she was feeling no pain was a tribute to the lasting power of the prior doses of Mulroney Specials.

She walked back to the kitchen where Kilkenney sat perched on the counter, his face in the box of chocolate macaroons. She’d never seen a cat eat macaroons before--it was a messy business.

“Well Mulroney,” she said. “For awhile there, we made a handsome couple. I wish I could say the same for me and your cat. If you’d lived a little longer, we might have covered some territory, the three of us.”

She picked up the cocktail napkin, scribbled with Mulroney’s last wishes for her life. She considered visiting the address on the napkin. Did it matter if she did, or didn’t? Outside the kitchen window, the lights of passing cars were hazy under the storm as the vehicles ushered in the morning commute, moving slowly along the flooded avenue, the water already at mid-hubcap. She missed Mulroney--she’d really grown attached to him, appreciated the way he’d glorified her without sacrificing his essential raw masculinity. She missed him so--why didn’t she cry or feel anything? Was it because she was too worn out? Or because she couldn’t actually fathom that he was gone?

On her finger was the ring. A solid reminder of what had evaporated in front of her only a few short hours earlier. In better times, there would have been more than a ring--there would have been a warm marriage bed full of love, and champagne and roses on the night stand. Here in the kitchen there was nothing but a view of dark water, bare trees, and a smelly cat.

“God,” she said, “I think there’s been a huge misunderstanding, here--I don’t like it where I am now. I’m not supposed to be here. This isn’t making any sense.”

She removed her ring, thought better of it, and slipped it back on.

It stays on from now on, she thought. These are my last weeks, possibly last days. I’ve experienced what was no doubt the worst day of my entire life. The ring stays on.

She thought of her mother and a lump rose in her throat. Mom had made the journey before her, was even now awaiting her on the other side--a distance not all that great, but apparently impossible to traverse until exactly the right moment. Until that moment, heaven and earth would fight you tooth and nail, even if it took a thirty pound cat and near-electrocution to force you to stick it out.

It had been a bad idea to come to the house. She realized it now. The house held too many memories. Here she stood in her old kitchen. Dalk was gone, translocated by the resourceful Mary-Jo into his new Santa Monica estate. Mulroney was lying dead in an ICU in Westwood, hooked up to Heaven-knew-what kind of machinery. No dignity in dying there. The kitchen was quiet save for the sounds of the storm outside and the implausible macaroon mastications of the cat on the counter.

Something had drawn her back to the house. She understood suddenly the importance of the cocktail napkin enscrawled with Mulroney’s hopes for her healing. An invitation from him to her to attend a miracle on her behalf. An invitation she, in her pride, had yesterday refused. Today, the message looked different against the hard flat landscape of her failed suicide attempt. Today, images of healing began to punctuate her thoughts. What if there was a chance?

Of course, there would be no healing. But it was his last request.

She went to her closet to change--the closet was empty! Somebody, in their well-meaning haste, had moved all her clothes out of the house along with Dalk’s stuff. She had nothing to wear but the bloody, torn, wedding dress.

She returned to the kitchen, closing the cocktail napkin with the North Hollywood address into the datebook, tucking it under her arm before grabbing her keys and, as an afterthought, picking up the suitcase containing the Virgin Mary-embossed bridal train before heading out the back sliding door into the storm and towards the garage.

Upon opening the car door of her red Camaro, Kilkenney appeared out of nowhere and leaped in, dog-like.

“Fair enough,” she said to him. “You might as well go along for the ride. After all, in the game of life and death, your vote counts as much as anybody’s.” She backed out into the alley and slowly made her way through the streets awash from the flood, steering the vehicle slowly eastward towards North Hollywood and her appointed destination with Mulroney’s Virgin Mary lady. The cat sat in the jump seat, remaining completely calm. It was a moment of almost unbearable intimacy--the first between them.

“Don’t get excited,” she said, “but I’m starting to like you. Only a little, though.”

Kilkenney didn’t overdo it when he heard this, choosing instead the self-effacing demeanor which made it appear that he hadn’t understood a word. He sat heavy in his seat, shoulders hunched, his voice low and purring, offering to her wounded mind and body the extreme virtue of his stolid, stoic support.

In that fashion, the pair slowly vanquished the flooded streets, coming at last to their destination on Kling Street, where, it had been said to Mulroney, as the song had once been sung:

There’s a stranger in town,

And she's healin'

She’s healin’ all the folks around.

Chapter 26

Kilkenney watched dolefully from the Camaro while Vickie stepped out into ankle-deep water and made her way around the car and up the sidewalk to the front door of the house. She’d brought the suitcase with her, reasoning that if she indeed was venturing into an enclave wherein the Blessed Mother was duly respected, and healing was indeed taking place, what better gift could she offer for her healing than the priceless wedding train which, like the whisper of an angel, conveyed so beautifully the essence of the Holy Mother.

The house was typically North Hollywood, a nondescript yellow stucco-covered box with a frayed brown lawn dominated by an aged and overbearing walnut tree. The windows were covered with decorative iron bars for repelling any predators who made it past a couple of faded wooden ducks beside the sidewalk who sat sentry over a terrazzo pot filled with rocks and the leafless stem of something she couldn’t identify. The two-step concrete slab serving as a porch sported a welcome mat, a ribbed rubber job, worn threadless in times past.

Vickie stood on the porch and couldn’t help but wonder why somebody’d taken the time and trouble to nail a small white plastic crucifix over the sill. The faded front entrance offered her a choice of push-button doorbell or brass knocker. She pushed the button and heard nothing and gave the knocker a couple of quick hard raps, preparing to camp out if necessary, but inwardly praying that someone would answer soon to save her from the slanting rain, which was now coming down like a monsoon.

Silently, Vickie started to cry. She cried for Mulroney and for her own drowned, bloody and wounded wretchedness. She looked down and saw the blood rivering from the wound in her side down the outside of her dress onto the porch, mixing with the water at her feet.

Someone did answer soon and she found herself face-to-face with a woman in a bright pink robe. The woman was Hispanic, in her late forties, and a bit thick, with placid brown eyes radiating compassion. Her persona, that of quiet inner strength, infused Vickie with a sensation of fragility, like that of a wounded bird. The woman said not a word at this apparition on her doorstep, but instead gently led Vickie by the hand across a living room entirely bereft of furniture to a breakfast nook off the kitchen wherein was staged a small plastic and chrome kitchen dinette, seating her carefully before quickly assembling on the table top various items of first aid and comfort, including a blue plastic first-aid kit, a pair of soft bedroom slippers, and a large white flannel sheet. Soaking a clean washcloth with warm water and mild soap, the woman began gently cleansing Vickie’s wounds, starting with the lacerations on her back from the electrified gold chains, slowly peeling away the now tattered and defunct Flower of Ireland gown, carefully maintaining Vickie’s modesty all the while by substituting for the gown the flannel sheet, which she loosely wrapped around Vickie’s trembling frame while she worked.

After a time, when Vickie was cleaned up to her satisfaction, the woman made tea, using a tea ball filled with a mysterious herbal material from a plastic pouch, and Vickie found herself carefully sipping the hot, tangy, aromatic liquid while the woman frowningly examined the puckered opening in her side from where the biopsy incision had opened.

“This should be cleaned out and closed up by a doctor,” the woman said. “The best I can do is close it tight with a gauze pad and adhesive tape.”

“Please,” Vickie said, “I don’t want the bleeding to start up again.”

“Here we go,” the woman said. She performed the closure, taping it tight before gently helping Vickie to her feet and leading her to a back bedroom, otherwise empty save for a blanketed mattress and box spring which sat on the floor without benefit of frame or headboard. “Please lie down,” she said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The blankets and pillowcases smelled clean and fresh. She stretched out, feeling vulnerable, yet relieved. Her newfound helper returned and offered Vickie a glass of cloudy white liquid.

“To help you sleep,” the woman said.

Vickie drained the glass, realizing as she did so, the oddity of surrendering herself to a stranger. Only a few hours before, such an act would have been unthinkable. But she was no longer operating in her old zone.

“Your wound indicates you had a biopsy,” the woman said. “What was the result?”

“Malignant,” Vickie said. “I have pancreatic cancer. My husband wanted me to come here--he said there was a chance of a miracle.”

“What is your name?”

“Vickie.”

“I’m Theresa. I’m a poor woman, but the Virgin has blessed me with a gift for helping others.”

Again the woman left the room, returning with a three-foot-tall statuette of the Virgin Mary, noting Vickie’s widening eyes.

“It’s okay,” Theresa said. “If you kiss the statue, you will get better.” She extended the face of the statue towards Vickie’s lips. There was a sticky reddish brown liquid seeping from the Virgin’s eyes. Vickie kissed the statue, and as she did so, the liquid dripped on her face. Reflexively, she wiped it with the back of her hand and examined it.

“This looks like blood,” Vickie said.

“The Virgin is weeping blood for you,” Theresa said. “That’s a good sign.”

“I have something for you,” Vickie said. “In my suitcase. Please open it.”

The woman opened the suitcase and drew out the train, revealing the Mother.

“Ay, Jesus, Maria y Jose,” Theresa said. “This is indeed a gift from Heaven.” The woman left with the train and returned with a small plastic rosary. “Here,” she said. “This is for you. It has a drop of blood from the Virgin on the crucifix.”

“Thank you,” Vickie said.

“You need rest,” Theresa said. “Sleep now. When you wake up, we’ll talk.”

Vickie put her head back and closed her eyes. The tender ministrations of the woman in the bright pink robe had induced within herself a sense of childlike security, the first she’d felt in weeks. She’d been prepared, upon her arrival at the house, to slide into her usual pit of self-loathing and recrimination over everything that had happened, but found that the negativity couldn’t get a spark, couldn’t get started in the presence of her benefactress. Never before had she felt she’d come to know anyone so fast, trust anyone so completely. But now she did. She’d been expecting a room full of little old ladies, heads covered in lace mantillas, reciting rosaries in front of a statue. She’d not been expecting the simple, solitary straightforwardness of Theresa.

Outside her window, a howling blast of rainy wind slapped the windows, accenting her sense of warmth and security under the soft but comforting weight of her blankets. She wasn’t sobbing, but she knew she was crying again. She cried for all the things in her life that had passed, and for all the things that would never be. Most of all, she cried for her mother and the torments she’d endured before her death. Vickie realized in the deepest part of herself that she loved her mother in a way that would never accept their parting. Her mother’s face appeared before her--a face young, unlined, peaceful, radiating love, a face that said to her Everything Is All Right. You Are My Beloved Daughter. Her mother kissed her forehead and then the lids of her eyes, sealing them shut.

An image of a Christmas tree entered her mind and she remembered a happier time when she’d helped her mother decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. She’d been a tiny child, but mother had let her help with the icicles, praising her greatly for her efforts to string the shining strands over the boughs. The shining strands formed into a sparkling waterfall in her mind, and she stood before the falls under a cloudless sky. The music of the falls was joyful, and connected to her soul in a way that brought forth mirth from the depths of her being. It was a laughing waterfall, running through her, bringing it’s waves of joy into her heart. The waterfall began to sing and was joined by voices from somewhere overhead, the voices merging with the water until the great intensity of the performance lifted her up and carried her skyward into the sun. She drank the sun eagerly into herself in a way which filled her with light.

Vickie slept.

Chapter 27

“I hope you don’t mind that I brought your cat in,” Theresa said. “He’s certainly a big animal.”

“I don’t mind,” Vickie said. “But I still don’t understand why you took me in. Most people would have simply called the paramedics.”

Theresa and Vickie sat talking together at the dinette while Kilkenney slept on a towel in a laundry basket on the kitchen countertop. Atop the dinette sat the statue of the weeping Virgin. Vickie realized for the first time that, apart from the bed she’d slept on, the dinette was the only furniture in an otherwise empty house. Wrapped in a heavy blanket from the bed, she was feeling somewhat better after a rock-solid thirteen hours of sleep. The day she’d slept through had given way to a crisp, cool evening, in stark contrast to the earlier storm which, leaving much devastation in its wake, had mercifully passed. The two women had shared a simple meal of Mexican sweetbread and even sweeter coffee and talked at length about the past several days of Vickie’s life, allowing Vickie the opportunity to unburden herself to this sympathetic stranger.

“You ask why I took you in,” Theresa said. “It’s because this place is my home, but it also belongs to Our Lady. When I saw you at the door, I felt Our Lady was telling me to take you in. This is not an ordinary place. You yourself have now seen the statue of the Virgin weeping her tears of blood. A lot of people have come here and many miracles have happened. They even came here from Channel 5 a few weeks ago--but the statue wouldn’t weep for them.”

“You speak very good English,” Vickie said.

“I learned my English in San Diego when I lived there for four years when I was a young girl,” Theresa said. “But I returned to Mexico to marry my husband. We came up here together last year, but it hasn’t gone well for us. I can’t complain. Everything is as it should be. Our Lady sees to that.”

“Where is everybody?” Vickie said.

“Unfortunately,” Theresa said, “They had to go back to Mexico recently. I have to stay here because I have a job and can send money home. If it weren’t for that, I’d probably be leaving soon myself.”

“Where does your family call home?”

“A little town called Alamos, in Sonora,” Theresa said. “You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s a place a few hundred miles south of Nogales where a stream runs through. It’s where the weeping statue came from, though, so I guess you could say Our Lady hasn’t forgotten about us.”

“Are people still coming here to be healed?”

“Truthfully?” Theresa said. “Nobody has come since La Migra rounded up my family. You’re the first visitor I’ve had in a week.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your family,” Vickie said.

“Thank you,” Theresa said. “But tell me--do you believe in miracles? I hope you do--you might need one to beat the cancer.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Vickie said. She examined her rosary, the one she’d received from Theresa as a gift in exchange for the priceless train. There it was--the spot of dried brown blood staining the crucifix. Was it possible that such a thing could harness the powers of Heaven on her behalf?

“Do you believe in miracles?” Theresa repeated.

“Yes,” Vickie said. “I believe in miracles. Perhaps this rosary will help me. Thank you for giving it to me.”

“You came here looking for a miracle,” said Theresa. “It’s the least I can do.”

“I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me,” Vickie said.

“I couldn’t help myself,” Theresa said. “When I saw you on my porch, something inside me told me to take you in and try to help you. Besides, I believe you’re a good omen. You’re an answer to a dream.”

“That’s the first time anybody’s called me that,” Vickie said. “What was your dream?”

“In my dream, my family and I were inside a cave, where somebody was getting married. We were all together and very happy. That’s why I took you in when you showed up in your wedding dress. You looked like the lady in my dream. I took your arrival as a sign that my dream of being together again with my family will come true.”

“You had a dream about a wedding,” Vickie said, “and the next thing you know, I was on your doorstep in my bridal gown. Perhaps that’s a miracle all by itself.”

“And you were wearing a torn and bloody bridal gown,” Theresa said. “Not only that, you bear on your body some of the marks of Our Lord’s passion. You have a wound in your side and stripes on your back. That’s why I think you’re an answer to my dream. You showed up from out of nowhere seeking sanctuary and I was able to provide it. The Lord will reward me--perhaps he will send me back to my family soon.”

“You’re a good Samaritan,” Vickie said. “I was at the end of my rope. I tried to commit suicide. I failed miserably. It was right after that I came looking for a miracle.”

“Once you’ve tried suicide and failed,” Theresa said, “your life will never be the same--but your life can be better than it ever was before. The brush with death can encourage you to learn a new way to live.”

“When I got the news about my malignancy,” Vickie said, “I felt terror as I’d never felt it before. It was a terror that had no solution--no matter who tried to help me, no matter who held me or comforted me--the terror filled my every waking minute. I think that’s part of the reason I tried to kill myself by taking the pills. I wanted the terror to stop.”

“Once you stop trying to control the uncontrollable,” Theresa said, “Our Lady will help you. But you must first learn to stop thinking only of yourself and begin thinking of ways in which you can help others.”

“I’m not so sure Our Lady will help me,” Vickie said. “Suicide is a mortal sin. Perhaps I’ve tied God’s hands.”

“God is not angry,” Theresa said. “He loves you. Your suicide attempt could also be viewed compassionately as your way to try to control the spread of the tumor. By killing yourself, you were killing the tumor as well.”

“You’re right,” Vickie said. “I don’t want the tumor eating up my body. I wanted to stop it. It has no right to be eating me alive.”

“Do you want to get well?” Theresa said.

“I don’t even know the answer to that anymore,” Vickie said. “I’m not sure I have a life to return to. When I left my husband, he was on life support at UCLA Medical Center. If they fail to revive him, I’ll have to make the decision to pull the plug. Once the plug is pulled, I have to fulfill my promise to him and seek treatment for my cancer--I’ll have to undergo chemo by myself, and that scares me. Part of me wants it all to be over, but part of me is deeply saddened that I may be passing from this world, and I feel like I want to stay. What scares me is that I don’t know which part is going to win. I don’t know if I’ll simply end it, or stick it out.”

“Why don’t you stay with me for another night?” Theresa said. “You can rest here and nobody will bother you. Later, perhaps you will take Our Lady’s tears to your husband. Perhaps Our Lady will speak to him and he’ll come back.”

“No,” Vickie said. “I’ve been enough of a burden already. I really should get going.”

“Going where?” Theresa said. “Out there is nothing but a big traffic jam and a lot of drying mud. No, I think you should stay with me.”

“I don’t want to be a burden to you,” Vickie said. “And I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

“This is my work,” Theresa said. “I am helping Our Lady. I receive a little money now and then when somebody gets healed. It keeps me going.”

“But now nobody is coming,” Vickie said.

“You’re somebody,” Theresa said. “You came. Perhaps you’re enough. If you get healed, you can make me a little present or something.”

“Okay,” Vickie said. “I’ll stay awhile. You’re right. There’s nothing for me out there. I need to use your phone to call my brother and let him know I’m all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Theresa said, “but I have no phone.”

“That’s okay,” Vickie said. “My phone is in the car.”

“I’ve got some bad news,” Theresa said. “Your car has been stolen.”

The news left Vickie feeling a bit stunned.

“It’s the neighborhood,” Theresa said. “I apologize for it, but the sight of the fancy red car must have been too much for the thieves.”

“I forgot to set the alarm,” Vickie said. “Usually I set it. But yesterday, in all the confusion, I forgot.”

“What’s done is done,” Theresa said. “Tomorrow, we can walk down to the phone and call your brother.”

“Walk?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have a car.”

“I’m going to lose my mind before all this is over,” Vickie said. “I’m sure of that.”

“We’ll say a rosary together,” Theresa said. “We’ll dedicate it to your miracle, and for your husband to come back. And then we need to get you back to bed. Sometimes, when you feel that all of life is too complicated, it takes rest to make things right again.”

“I’m getting really worried,” Vickie said. “I’m afraid my pain will return. I’m out of medication.”

“You probably consider your pain as fixed and permanent as a chunk of stone,” Theresa said. “but Our Lady can take away your pain. The pain was her way of allowing you to come to terms with your own mortality.”

“But what if it comes back?”

“Then you tell me and I’ll go for help,” Theresa said. “Otherwise, if the pain does not come back, then you have to give the Virgin credit. Perhaps that’s what you’re really scared of.”

Vickie realized that she’d become habituated to the pain, accustomed to accepting as natural its insatiable desire to torment her. Now she was being led to break that habituation, to imagine that somehow, a statue weeping blood, or rather, the heavenly being whom the statue represented, held the answer to her problems. In the past, she’d invoked insurance companies and doctors to help her cope with the unknown. In one stroke, all that had been swept aside.

“I’m trapped,” Vickie said.

“No,” Theresa said. “You’re in a new place where you don’t know what’s going to happen. There’s nobody you can call. It’s just you and me and your cat.”

“You win, Theresa,” Vickie said. “I’ll stay here with you for awhile. Besides, it’s getting late. I should tell you, though, that I don’t know the rosary like I should. I hardly remember the prayers at the end.”

“It’s time you learned them again,” Theresa said. She began to pray, not grandiosely, but simply, and Vickie soon found herself preoccupied with the images of the mysteries, and the words, and the limitless possibilities of living beings and surrenderings to something other than cruel fate.

Chapter 28

“My child,” the lady said. “What is the matter?” The voice was honeyed, and bright--but soft--a whisper, but with an edge.

“Where am I?” Vickie said. “Is this a dream?”

She was sitting on a bright green lawn under the bluest sky she’d ever seen. There was nothing on the lawn save herself and the lady. The lawn stretched into infinity. Vickie decided it was a dream, but it was a nice one.

“It’s not a dream,” the lady said.

“Am I dead?” Vickie said.

“No,” the lady said. “You’re not dead. Now tell me, what is the matter?”

Vickie threaded her fingers together, examining her nails. She was still in the flannel sheet Theresa had wrapped her in. She examined the lady before her, a youngish woman wrapped in a flowing, pale blue cloth, her face placid and serene.

“I am dead, aren’t I?” Vickie said. “It’s finally over, isn’t it.”

“It’s not over yet. Now tell me, what is the matter?”

Vickie knew she had to answer. The lady seemed taller, thinner, brighter, somehow, than the folks back home, and mentally agile, too, prepared for whatever psychic approach Vickie could muster.

“I don’t know where to begin,” Vickie said. “Do I start with the death of my first husband or my second husband? Or do I begin with the death my mother endured under the tortures of cancer and chemo? I suppose I could start there, not forgetting that my dog, Sheebie, also died under the onslaught of malignant tumors. Or maybe I could begin somewhere back in my childhood, where these future horrors were shielded from me by virtue of my youthful innocence. You ask me, what is my problem? It seems to me you should already know what it is. After all, the view of things from up here is pretty much unobstructed. The weather’s perfect, and I imagine it’s always this way. Perhaps I should say quite truthfully, that this matter runs quite deep. My problem is that I was born and had to live on earth in a world full of pain and broken dreams. I could say that was my problem, but even that would be minimizing the real issue--which is cancer.”

“Cancerous tumors do not live forever,” the lady said, “but you will.”

Vickie allowed herself to drink in the presence of the lady, to feel herself enfolded in the aura of her. “I thought my life would be different, somehow,” she said. “When I was young, I had big dreams. I was going to use my talents to help the world. I was going to be revered and admired for so doing. But in reality, all I managed to accomplish was to grow older. I’ve made a proper mess of most of my endeavors to fulfill my dreams. Now it seems that not only can I not fulfill my dreams, it seems that I’m only getting in the way. I’m a nobody to the world because I can’t even take care of myself. I have cancer. That’s all I am now--a cancer victim--and nothing else.”

You’re cancer is cured,” the lady said.

“What?” Vickie said.

“You were healed by my tears.”

“I think I understand now,” Vickie said. “I know why I’m here talking with you like this. This is the last judgment, right? You’re asking me these questions to see if I’m eligible to go to Heaven. Last night I died in my sleep. I probably bled to death from the tumor and now I’m here.”

“No,” the lady said. “This is not the last judgment. And you’re not dead--you’re only sleeping. You came here to find the graces given to you with the gift of your cancer.”

“Graces?” Vickie said.

“Everything happens for a reason,” the lady said. “Even that which appears to you as evil has within it the seeds of good.”

“If only I could believe you,” Vickie said. “I guess you could say that I’m a bit jaded. When you asked me to tell you about my life, I felt ashamed, because I had nothing to tell, no grand account to give you. I have spent my entire life in baseless mediocrity.”

“There’s no such thing as baseless mediocrity,” the lady said. “Every life is precious, forged as it is on the anvil of earthly adversity. Your feeling of shame arises out of your pride, your belief that you didn’t measure up to some false earthly standard of behavior--which, by the way, is nothing more than thinly disguised selfishness--your lack of compassion for others has left you unable to solve the riddle of your disease.”

“You sound like Father Larry,” Vickie said. “I guess his talk with me has bled over into this dream I’m having now. I’m not really in Heaven, am I? I’m sleeping at Theresa’s house, recycling all the babble I’ve been hearing lately from all the do-gooders who want to help out the poor little cancer victim. But I have a question for you, even if you aren’t real. If I’m not dead yet, when will I be? How much time do I have before I die? And another thing. I have a cat. When the cat dies, does he go to heaven? And another thing--is there really a Pearly Gate? Or is that something somebody made up?”

The lady waved her hand and Vickie began to fall.

“Wait!” Vickie said. “Don’t send me back! You didn’t answer my questions? Who are you?”

She awoke with a jolt in the bedroom of the Kling Street house. Kilkenney, forming a large ball, still sleeping under the covers at the end of the mattress, warmed her feet with his glorious fur-iosity. The bedroom door was opening. A couple appeared in the open doorway, a man and a woman, thirties-something, well-dressed, with sharp faces pulled back into concerned grimaces.

“Who are you?” the man said.

“Who are you?” Vickie answered.

“This is our property,” the man said. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“I should ask you the same thing,” Vickie answered. “The lady who rents from you--I’m staying with her. She let me in out of the storm two days ago. Why don’t you ask her and see for yourself? And shut the door while you’re at it. I’m not dressed for visitors.”

“What are you talking about?” the man said. “There’s nobody renting from us. Listen, lady, I don’t know who you are, but you’ve got to leave. You’re trespassing. I strongly suggest you get yourself together and go.”

“What are you talking about! I can’t just up and walk out the front door! I have nothing to wear and no car! I have cancer! But I’ll tell you what. Let me borrow your phone and I’ll have somebody come and pick me up.”

Kilkenney picked that moment to emerge from the foot of the bed and stretch. At the sight of the surprisingly large beast, the couple backed away from the door.

“Get back, honey,” the man said. “She’s got a Tasmania devil or something--it might be rabid!”

“This is getting too weird,” the woman said, extracting an ultra-thin phone from her purse. “C’mon--don’t antagonize her any further. We’ll leave her here and wait outside until the police get here.”

“You’re right, honey,” the man said. “The woman is obviously deranged. You know how these homeless are. There’s no telling what she might do. We don’t want this to turn violent. Look at her! She’s all scratched up and from the look on her face, my guess is, she’s probably got AIDS. Let’s get out of here before she pulls a hypo on us.”

The couple slammed her door behind them as they hastily exited the house. Vickie, thus left alone, pondered this new development. She looked heavenward. Somewhere up there was the lady. The lady who said she was cured. Had it all been a dream? She took a deep breath. No pain. Not only was there no pain, she felt pretty decent. She laughed out loud. Maybe Theresa and her tears of blood had been for real, after all. Theresa--Vickie’s good Samaritan--who, for whatever reason, must have packed up her statuette of the crying Virgin and split during the night, leaving Vickie sleeping there alone to face whatever music might be playing the next day.

Something caught her eye. The rosary, the gift from Theresa, carefully hung on the doorknob, the crucifix still swaying from the slamming of the door. She stood up to retrieve it and examined it closely--there it was, the thick spot of blood on the crucifix, like a drop of heavy paint. The rosary in her hand gave her a sense of peace. Nothing heavy or overpowering, simply a sense of relaxation over the knowledge that the recent hours with Theresa hadn’t been a complete hallucination.

Vickie felt strong. The storm had passed and it was a new day. Perhaps her battle with the tumor was over. If so, she had other, more important work to do. Wrapping her sheet tightly around her, she headed for the kitchen. It would be awhile before the cops got there. Might as well see if there was any way to make a cup of coffee--and, of course, if fortune was truly smiling, there was always the chance of some of that terrific leftover Mexican sweet bread.

Chapter 29

“I haven’t been hungry in days,” Vickie said. “But I am now--and I’m talking about raw hunger, here, the kind people lost in the forest have when they eat a lizard or a bug.”

“Then we’re in luck,” Dalk said. “Du-par’s is not in the habit of turning down hungry people. Of course, whether or not you’ll score a bug all depends.”

Having earlier met the two uniformed cops and straightened out the Kling Street incident with one clean surgical phone call to Dalk, and having been joined by him, he providing her, for the moment, with temporary clothing in the form of a pair of regulation PD sweats, and a pair of old running shoes two sizes too large, Vickie, in the jump seat of the Mercedes Black Diamond Edition roadster, having sketched in for Dalk the details of the prior twenty-four hours--omitting the fact that she believed herself to be completely healed--was looking forward to traipsing into Du-par’s Restaurant on Ventura Boulevard, a hair east of Laurel Canyon, whereupon she expected to be served the best breakfast in Los Angeles, complete with pie, for which said eatery was famous throughout the Valley and beyond.

“We’ll have them fry some hash or something for Kilkenney,” Vickie said, referring to their traveling companion who’d fashioned a nest of sorts out of the sheet they’d stuffed behind the driver’s seat.

“He can’t eat in my new car,” Dalk said. “It’s enough that he’s allowed in the back. I really don’t want him in here at all. Did you see the way he rubbed his pheromones all over the back of my seat?”

The Mercedes barreled south down Lankershim Boulevard, through the impressive sub-strata of Universal City, a swelling, steel-shouldered, glass-faced extravaganza of tourist delights and hard movie deals, where too much money and power daily corrupted absolutely the Lilliputians who ran the place, and who oversaw the strapping down of the Gulliver of public consciousness.

“Dr. Lerner’s been going crazy trying to locate you,” Dalk said. “They’ve got Mulroney’s body moved to a private room. They need a decision as to how to proceed.”

“Proceed?” Vickie said. “You mean they want me to decide about shutting off the life support.”

“Well,” Dalk said. “If you’re going to have a heart attack, you might as well have it at a major hospital. The crash team did an awesome job--they managed to get him functioning on his own again. The only problem is, he’s in a deep coma. They don’t know if he’s really in there or not, but if he is and he chooses to come back, in Dr. Lerner’s opinion, he’ll probably find himself not too much the worse for wear.”

“So what do they need me for?” Vickie said.

“I’d rather have Lerner explain that to you,” Dalk said. “And I think we should eat first.”

“I am hungry,” Vickie said. “If I don’t eat something soon, I’ll be on life support.”

Dalk tapped the steering wheel nervously. “So how’s it going with you?” he said. “Everybody’s concerned about you. I’ve been worried sick. I went by the old house. It looked like you had a fight in the living room. Your car was gone from the back. I figured you’d been kidnapped. When they called and told me how they found you, wrapped in a sheet in an abandoned house, I thought for sure you’d been abducted.”

“It’s a long story,” Vickie said. “In a way, I think I was abducted--but not by evil forces. I certainly had a dream I’ll never forget. At least I think it was dream. One thing I’m worried about is that when my car was stolen, my purse was in it--that means whoever stole it has my address and the keys to my house.”

“They have your car,” Dalk said. “And of course by now, the car is either in Mexico or has been completely parted out. But the good news is, they didn’t get your purse--I’ve got it with me in the trunk. You left it behind when you rushed out of the house after your suicide attempt. Of course, that’s why I was so worried about you. I figured you’d been abducted because the living room was torn up as though there had been a fight and your purse was left behind. No lady in her right mind leaves home without her purse--unless she’s being kidnapped.”

“You mean I don’t have to replace all my ID? That’s a huge relief.”

Dalk turned west on Ventura, entering Studio City and wheeled into Du-par’s parking lot where they soon found themselves at a window booth in the comforting atmosphere of coffee perking and bacon frying.

“I was going to have your french toast, but instead I’m going to have pie for breakfast,” Vickie said to the server. “But I want two pieces at once, on the same plate. How about hot blueberry with a big glop of vanilla ice cream, and maybe some nuts sprinkled on top?”

“I’ll have a T-bone,” Dalk said, “fried, not grilled--burn it, no sides.”

“No bread, or fries, or anything?” the server said.

“Nada,” Dalk said. “Just bring the meat.”

“And two coffees,” Vickie said. “But not from the bottom of the pot.”

“Our coffee is urn-brewed, not dripped,” the server said. “It’s always fresh.” The server, a battle-hardened carryover from the old days of truckers and improper familiarities, cracked a firm pre-tip smile, called them both “dears” and trudged off to fill their order, returning in record time with the eats.

“I’m eating mine with a spoon,” Vickie said, as she dug in appreciatively to her hot-and-cold, globby mess. “Dalk,” she said. “I think my cancer’s gone.”

Dalk set his fork down carefully. “You’ve been through a lot lately,” he said.

“No,” she said. “It’s not what you think. When I arrived at Kling Street, the lady there dripped a bloody tear on my face. The statue of the Virgin cried the tear. It was the tear that healed me. This morning, I saw a woman whom I believe was Our Lady, and she confirmed the healing. I’m cured. And I feel great! There’s no heaviness in my lungs...no pain in my back, no fatigue. I’m hungry again. I feel like a new person.”

Dalk’s blank stare caused a few seconds of uneasiness.

“Dalk?” she said.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I need to get centered, here.” He sipped some coffee. “Okay,” he said. “I needed to get a grip on myself before we continue this. Vickie, you’re my sister and I love you. I’m going to stick with you. We’ll get you through this. But you’ve got to understand that you’ve had a tremendous shock to your system.”

“Dalk! It’s okay! I’m not crazy. I’m not somebody who’s dislocated their mental faculties. Look, I’ll show you what I’m talking about.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the rosary. “Look,” she said. “Right there, on the crucifix--do you see it?”

“See what?”

“The teardrop of blood from Our Lady! Last night, the Virgin Mary lady gave this to me. It has healing power.”

Dalk’s manner softened. “Look,” he said. “Yesterday, I had a long talk with somebody about you. She’s a real nice lady. A doctor. Her name is Dr. Sellers. She works at the Medical Center. I want you to meet her after we see Mulroney this morning.”

“You think I’m nuts. You don’t believe I’m cured,” Vickie said. “But that’s okay. You weren’t there--you didn’t see what I saw. I can hardly expect you to have the faith.”

“Let’s just eat,” Dalk said. “It’s hard to discuss this right now.”

The waitress returned to fill the coffee.

“Do you believe in miracles?” Vickie asked her.

“Sure do, honey,” she said. “Every day is a miracle in my book.”

“Can you please bring us an order of your corned beef hash to go?” Vickie said. “It’s for our cat, so maybe the cook can put a sardine or two on top for him.”

“Sure thing, honey,” she said, making tracks for the order stand.

“Look, Vickie,” Dalk said. “This business of your cancer and Mulroney’s death, or coma, or whatever it is, has confused things.”

“Cough it up, Dalk,” Vickie said. “You think I should see a shrink, right? This Dr. Sellers?”

“Right,” Dalk said.

Vickie swiped at her eyes with a napkin, determined not to cry. It was clear her transcendent moment and the resultant high feelings were drawing to a close. “I’m telling you the truth, Dalk,” she said. “Early this morning I rode a rainbow into Heaven and I saw Our Lady. Now you can accept it or not, I don’t care.”

“I’m not ruling out what you say,” Dalk said. “Don’t get me wrong. When I was in Japan, I experienced a lot of strange things. My sensei, Toyama, would probably be the first to agree with you that you experienced something. But Vickie, we’ve been in an oven here. I am personally fried. I want you to be cured. I want you to be well. I’ve been scared stiff about you ever since you marched out of Dr. Bienenfeld’s office and refused to even discuss your options with him. Now maybe you got cured, and maybe you didn’t. But I think you owe me one. I’ve been with you through this. I want you to talk with Dr. Sellers to make sure we’re not missing something, here.”

Dalk’s look of consternation and dismay touched Vickie’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been very selfish lately. I’ve thought only of myself and my own anxieties. I never even considered what effect my news of being miraculously cured might have on you. Look, let’s finish our breakfast like two normal people. After that, we’ll go see Mulroney. I’m going to put the rosary on his forehead and let the bloody tear touch his skin. That’ll force him to come back and deal with his situation. He won’t be able to sit comfortably in Heaven after that--once that rosary hits his face, his soul is going to break out into a white-hot sweat unless he comes back here to us. After we see Mulroney, I’ll talk with your Dr. Sellers and let her examine my head.”

“One more thing,” Dalk said. “If you’re cured, if you truly are, then it’s only fair for you to let me take you back to Dr. Bienenfeld to have it confirmed. You know I’ll keep having my doubts until I hear it from him.”

“Deal,” Vickie said.

They finished their meal and gathered up the hash and sardines for Kilkenney. Thus fortified, they re-boarded the Mercedes and slid out into a clear, bright, fall morning, thick with dense commuter traffic heading over Cahuenga Pass towards Hollywood and the route towards West L.A. and the Medical Center. Kilkenney, stirred by the presence of meat and fish, muscled his way menacingly and single-mindedly forward between them, trying to get at the food on the floor at Vickie’s feet.

“I hate to say it,” Dalk said, “but we’ll have to let him eat in the car. We have no choice. The beast has paws the size of a man’s fists--he might decide to claw us to death if we hold him back from his breakfast.”

“He wouldn’t hurt a flea,” Vickie said. “He’s a big foot-warmer. When we get to Westwood, stop at a music store before we go to the hospital--there’s some stuff I need.”

Vickie felt tears stinging her eyelids, but she fluttered them back. It wouldn’t do for Dalk to see her disappointment in his lack of faith--his insistence on doctors. She didn’t blame him. He was, after all, only a man, and he hadn’t had the chance, as had she, to peek through the doorway to Heaven, to a realm beyond the one the big Mercedes currently cruised, a world of pizza’s and laundromats and designer boots, where men collapsed from failing hearts and women prayed them back to the world of light, pain and noise they called home.

She didn’t blame him.

Chapter 30

“Not to cast a shadow,” Dr. Lerner said, “even though he’s off life-support, even with some luck, the mathematical odds are heavily stacked against Mulroney.”

Vickie, Dalk and Dr. Lerner stood in the hall, away from Mulroney’s bed where he lay, hooked up to everything the techno-society in which he existed could throw at him to measure, if possible, the degree to which it could be positively ascertained, scientifically speaking, that he still had a soul.

“When we decided to get married,” Vickie said, “I promised my whole lifetime to him--I had no idea it would be so temporary. I was going to make it as good as I could while it lasted--but this isn’t how I’d planned it--I thought I’d be the one who went first.”

“Mulroney beat us all to the punch,” Lerner said. “Now, instead of being in a position to work within the known matrix of possible outcomes, and restore him to a better life, we’re in the unfortunate position of having to decide whether or not to work outside the envelope in an attempt to save what we can of him, or to simply let him go.”

“Let him go?” Vickie said. “You mean let him die?”

“It’s my opinion,” Dr. Lerner said, “that the risks are high he’ll die if we simply leave him as he is--that is to say, if we don’t operate and repair the blockage in his arteries. It’s probably only a matter of time before there’s a change for the worse. The longer he lays there, comatose, the faster his condition will degrade and the sooner it will be that his starving heart will once again give out. I should also probably warn you that if we elect to operate on him while he’s comatose, it’s probably not something covered by your insurance--unfortunately, it’s something you have to factor into your decision as to what you’re going to do.”

“Mulroney isn’t disposable,” Vickie said. “He’s not an economic issue. He’s my husband.”

“I assume then,” Dr. Lerner said, “you’re ready to sign the consent form for us to go in and make the necessary repairs.”

“I need to be alone with him for awhile, if it’s all right,” she said. “It’s not a simple decision. We’ve had a lot of setbacks lately. Yesterday I was sure my husband was dead. Now I have to decide if I want my husband to undergo high-risk major surgery while he’s still in a coma. It scares me. What if he’s alive in there, imprisoned inside his brain, screaming to get out? What if he’s hearing and feeling everything going on around him? I know Mulroney. He’d never consent to being a brain sitting inside a repaired, but unconscious body. If he’s in there, he either wants to be fully alive or fully dead. If we repair his body, but he doesn’t come back, that means he’ll wind up in a coma ward somewhere--stored like a vegetable. Mulroney’s a Catholic, a retired street cop. He’d never choose a life where his human nature was so drastically compromised. It’s terrible to say this--but whatever happened to letting people die? Where is it written that you people have to interfere with everybody the way you do?”

“Have the desk page me when you’ve made a decision,” Lerner said, turning on her heel and walking briskly away, denied, for the moment, the pleasures of the knife.

“I hid the boom box and the CD in the room like you asked me to,” Dalk said.

“Where did you hide it?”

“Under the bed--it’s cued up--all you have to do is press the Play button.”

“I’m so nervous,” Vickie said. “This had better work.”

“If it doesn’t, are you going to have Lerner go in?” Dalk said.

“Are you kidding me?” Vickie said. “They’d turn him into a vegetable--or worse yet, they’d lose him on the table and come out with a lot of sorry medicalspeak about why they couldn’t save him.”

“Think about it,” Dalk said. “This is the most advanced center of medicine in the world.”

“That doesn’t give them a license to banish pain and death from the planet,” Vickie said. “It means that they’ve been able to raise a lot of money from all the rich old geezers up in the hills who think these doctors can give them a few more years if they donate enough money to the research wing.”

Dalk checked his watch. “I’m meeting Mary-Jo in the cafeteria,” he said.

“I’ll meet you there in a few minutes,” Vickie said. “I’m going in now to see my husband.”

“Wait, Vickie,” Dalk said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have, knowing how you feel about him, but I called Toyama. With your permission, I’d like to have him try to bring Mulroney back. He’s fairly certain he can work a miracle.”

“Dalk,” Vickie said, “we already discussed how I feel about your sensei’s magic. He still thinks he can set out a plate of roasted mice and tempt everybody’s “fox demon” to come running out to the feast. I hardly think the hospital is going to allow your sensei to come in here with his gold amulets and do his “soul polishing”, or whatever it is that he calls it.”

“Vickie,” Dalk said. “Toyama's already here--he’s been here for the past two days, sleeping in the lobby and saying prayers for Mulroney. You know darn well you’re going to try a little magic yourself, with your magic rosary. What can it hurt if I have Toyama try his hand? We need a miracle here. After all, aren’t miracles the bridge between ourselves and God?”

“I’ll be honest with you,” Vickie said. “Toyama gives me the creeps. I’m sorry to have to say that, but he does. The man is obsessed with rats. Everything he’s involved in has a dead rat as part of the ceremony. Does he have his little rat bag with him? I bet he does.”

“It’s not a rat bag, per se,” Dalk said. “It’s got other stuff in it--and rats are highly revered in the Orient. The Chinese named a whole year for them. For Toyama, the rat is an important part of the nativity legend of Mahikari, inspired by the story wherein the spirit rat bites Mahikari’s toe after she painlessly brings forth the messiah.”

“I can’t believe you’d push for Toyama's services at a time like this,” she said. “I know you mean well, but I’m going to upchuck my blueberry pie if we continue this discussion. I’ll tell you what--I’ll try the rosary first. Everybody tells me I need more compassion in my life. Why don’t you tell Toyama that I appreciate him coming all the way down here and I’d be grateful if he’d stand-by to do his miracle in case I need a backup. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” Dalk said.

“I’m going in,” Vickie said.

“God speed.”

Dalk headed for the elevator and Vickie, holding herself in, daring not to waste her own freshly rebounded energy dealing with her own fearful emotions and thoughts, entered the room to begin the communion with her husband.

Chapter 31

She was shocked by the sight of him, and understood at once that all they had here was a 250 pound piece of whitish-gray meat--a lump of clay and nothing more. It was definitely not Mulroney. What was lying in the bed was a once-human bag of tricks waiting to be opened and played with by the fools who believed in pathology statistics and found no reason to regard entertaining themselves with living corpses an all-that-unusual form of employment.

A sense of unreality hung over the room where Mulroney was lying immobile. The big man who’d vaulted over railings and executed jukeboxes wasn’t here--in his place was something formed from the dust of the earth waiting for the breath of God bring it to life. Still and all, she’d come to do a job and had no intention of violating her sacred obligation to him--the attempt to hail his spirit one last time, wherever it was, for the purpose of enticing it back into the clay, towards the end that, thusly re-animated, Mulroney would be free again to enter the game of life as he’d once known it.

“Why me, Mulroney,” she said. “Why am I having trouble believing that this is really happening? Why am I numb at the sight of you? Why aren’t I sobbing and crying and screaming for you to come back? Why does the sight of you lying here like this make me so afraid?”

She thought perhaps he’d wag his head suddenly at her words, as though his presence in the room was an elaborate joke he’d cruelly staged, and grown tired of enough to quit pretending. When nothing happened, she made the decision to let it all out, for better or worse--it would be her last time to see him like this--of that she was certain.

“I killed you,” she said. “I can only ask you to forgive me for pushing you the way I did. I shouldn’t have insisted that we get married right away. I put too much stress on you. If I’d had a brain in my head, we would have waited. I would have stayed with you that afternoon at the hospital. I should have realized how scared you must have been, being in the hospital alone, undergoing all those tests, receiving your last rites from Father Larry. I should have stayed with you. It’s my fault that you’re not here with me now.”

“What hurts the most is, I need to talk to you about how I feel, and you’re not here to talk with me. Who’s going to take care of me the next time I fall apart over something?”

She felt unsure about herself at the moment, haunted by a feeling of being unprepared, of not having a clue as to how to truly cope with the situation. The enormity of the problem made it too big to grasp, too emotionally expensive to fully come to grips with in its entirety. Death, or the imminent probability of it was almost something, she felt, no human being should ever have to come to grips with. She was troubled by the feeling that there wasn’t enough time to fix the problem, time being, for the moment, a commodity which was doled out in amounts entirely too stingy for the job at hand. Gamely, she kept going, understanding that whatever it was she had come to do could not wait for the next visit--a visit which would probably never take place.

“When you checked out on me at the altar,” she said, “it produced a few side-effects. One of them was, I went home and tried to kill myself with the pills you gave me. I was angry at you for leaving me--I wanted to hurt you by taking my own life. I hope you won’t condemn me. I’m really hoping you’ll sympathize with me. I tried to kill myself because I wanted freedom from the pain. I think that maybe I intended to fail in my attempt--after all, I could have put a twenty-two caliber bullet in my brain, the way you once said you feared you might do yourself one day. But I didn’t kill myself, and I don’t really know why. Maybe I wanted more time to think about it. Perhaps I wanted more time to think about you, you big lug. Or maybe I wanted more time, period.”

She’d have been naive to think Mulroney heard her. Of course, she’d heard all the stories about coma victims hovering overhead in out-of-body experiences, watching everything around them. Something told her there was none of that going on here--but could she be sure? What did she, or the powers that be, really know about it? She’d have to have more faith--to continue to act “as if” he were with her, could hear her, could feel for her enough to do something about it and return to her.

“I’ll tell you what I didn’t want--I didn’t want to be deprived of your love and companionship for the rest of my days. I didn’t want to be left alone. You shouldn’t have left me, Mulroney. You shouldn’t have. One thing good came of it, I must admit. I learned from your death how deep my passion was for you.

“I have a sense of strangeness about myself now. I believe myself to be healed of my cancer. I feel better than I have in months. I don’t know if you were able to see what happened to me from where you are now. But I have changed. I don’t feel helpless anymore, but I feel very lonely now that you’re gone. I suppose it will be awhile before I can start my life up, you know--attempt to find something to do with myself--get a new job, travel, visit with friends, go out to dinner, all the little things we do to keep ourselves occupied. I suppose it will be awhile.”

Mulroney, kept alive by the high-impact innovations of the best minds in the country, his body flat and immobile inside his windowless chamber in the temple of healing, his vital functions monitored by the array of synchronized machinery, lay passionless and unmoved by her speech, preoccupied, no doubt, by the conflict within his breast, to wit--to beat the odds against his chances of freeing himself from the tangle of confused and downwardly spiraling chemistries his body had fallen prey to and thereby escape his deadly conundrum and return to the land of the living before it was too late.

Vickie, reflecting that if anything was going to happen, it was going to be because of a miracle, kissed the rosary, touching it to his forehead before placing it over his heart, crucifix down, so the tear of the Lady could contact his flesh. She retrieved the boom box purchased earlier from the music store from where Dalk had hidden it under the bed.

“We’re not going to throw you away, Mulroney,” she said. “But you’ve got to come back to me.” She got on her knees beside the bed and took his hand in hers. “This is your little girl out here, baby,” she said. “I need you back. I love you and don’t want to live without you.”

She pressed the play button on the boom box. The Beatles--She Loves You--began to blast--Vickie’s and Mulroney’s special song, dedicated to themselves the day he proposed--if anything would bring him back, that would be it.

“It’s you she’s thinkin’ of,” she sang.

She waited in the din, waited for her husband to feel the tears of the Lady, to hear the music of their song and press forward from across the veil and return to her. She waited for Mulroney, for his homing instinct to kick in and bring him back. She waited for him to put an end to the disruption his passing had created. She waited for him to put an end to her helplessness and hopelessness. She waited for a signal, a sign, that he understood and was on his way. She waited for a flutter of an eyelid, a flicker of a finger, a deepening breath. She waited for Mulroney to return to her and help her life begin again.

She waited on her knees until her knees went numb. She waited. The song came to an end. She waited some more.

But the big man never moved.

Chapter 32

“There is a time and place for patience,” Dr. Sellers said. “Once you’ve tried everything you can think of--but my feeling is you haven’t really tried everything, so it’s only natural you should want to shake Mulroney back to life.”

“I’m too angry to be patient,” Vickie said. “Something was ripped away from me--I’ve been cheated out of my destiny. I know I should be feeling deep sorrow over Mulroney being in a coma and all, but the plain truth is, I feel angry. I guess that’s why I was shaking him--I’m angry that he left me like he did--and right at the time when we could have had the most happiness together.”

Vickie had been interrupted at Mulroney’s bedside by Dr. Sellers, a grief counselor for the Medical Center who, at Dalk’s insistence, had sought Vickie out and caught her in the act of vigorously shaking Mulroney’s inert form. Sellers, a diminutive, elderly woman with graying hair accented by cheerful lips glossed an improbable shade of blue, had, at the sight of Vickie’s frenzy over the comatose giant, demonstrated considerable inner strength and took charge of Vickie’s outburst, leading her away from Mulroney and down the hall to the quiet comfort of a plush inner sanctum designed as a refuge for the downcast souls who were left behind to cope in the wake of a loved one’s illness. The two sat comfortably ensconced in deep leather chairs opposite a heavy marble-topped coffee table, where Dr. Sellers had, for over an hour, gently been coaxing Vickie’s account of the past three days from her and helping her come to grips with the high points as well as the low.

“All it takes is one good idea to solve an impossible problem,” Dr. Sellers said. “But it takes patience to come up with that good idea.”

“But which idea is the best one?” Vickie said. “Mulroney’s cardiologist, Dr. Lerner, thinks a good idea is to do the bypass while Mulroney is still in his coma.”

“That’s not so unusual,” Dr. Sellers said. “They open up a lot of chests in the emergency room while the patient is still unconscious.”

“But I can’t allow that,” Vickie said. “I have a different idea--I’m convinced if Mulroney doesn’t come back to life first, he’ll have no chance on the operating table. He has to come back and be present for the fight of his life. That’s why I guess I lost my patience and started shaking him--he’s taking too long to come back. Every minute he delays, the odds are going down. I’m in between a rock and a hard place--if I wait for him, and he dies, Dr. Lerner can say that I killed my husband by withholding permission for the bypass. But if I let them operate and Mulroney never comes back, then I’ll never forgive myself. So you can see why I’m out of patience. This whole thing has got me frazzled. I hate myself for not being strong enough to deal with it.”

“The first thing you’ve got to do,” Dr. Sellers said, “is to stop hating yourself and feeling sorry for yourself. The self-pity will only make the problem worse.”

“Why shouldn’t I hate myself?” Vickie said. “What good am I to anyone? I caused the problem in the first place. I pushed my husband into this coma. I’m jinxed. I’m already in hell. What makes the hell worse is that I recently had a glimpse of Heaven--it makes it all that more painful for me to be here.”

“When did you see heaven?” Dr. Sellers asked.

“Last night--I had an experience with another world--I was taken to a place that I believe we go after we die. When I came back, I found that my cancer was gone--I was freed from my death sentence only to find my husband facing his own version of death row. He’s been temporarily resuscitated, but I can see it won’t be long before what’s left of him will expire. I’m going to have to watch the man I love die--not once, but twice! If that’s not hell, I don’t know what is.”

“You believe you were healed of your cancer?” Dr. Sellers asked.

“I know it,” Vickie said. “I can feel the energy surging through my body. It happened when I was touched by the teardrop of Our Lady--are you Catholic?”

“I’m Jewish,” Dr. Sellers said, “But if you say you saw the Virgin Mary, far be it from me to argue the point. I’ve worked for this hospital for over fifteen years, and I know there are times when somebody gets better and the doctors have no rational explanation. If you say you’re healed, then so be it--although if you say it’s from cancer, you might want a confirmation of the remission.”

“My brother said the same thing--he insisted that I get a clearance from my own doctor,” Vickie said. “He’s still hung up on the system in that way.”

“Your brother seems to love you very much,” Dr. Sellers said. “His concern stems from that love--you’re lucky to have such a brother.”

“That’s part of why I think I hate myself right now,” Vickie said. “When I tried to kill myself, I felt ashamed, because he’d have to live the rest of his life with the shadow of his own sister’s suicide over him.”

“You’ve got a problem with your husband,” Dr. Sellers said. “My advice to you is to not aggravate that problem by adding to it. Don’t make it worse by wallowing in self-pity, anger, or lack of faith. Stop blaming yourself for your husband’s condition. This may sound odd, but you’re giving yourself too much credit for your impact on other people’s lives if you think you’re responsible for putting them into comas. Unless you have some secret psychic powers you haven’t shared with me. You said you experienced a miracle--well, I must ask you--where’s your faith? Why can’t your husband have the same experience? Or are miracles reserved exclusively for you?”

“Gimme a break, Doc,” Vickie said. “I know I’m not responsible, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that I somehow contributed to Mulroney’s demise. I did have faith--earlier, anyway, when I tried to bring my miracle to him. I placed my rosary on his chest and touched him with a teardrop from Our Lady--it should have brought him back, but he never moved. It drove me insane. It’s exactly like what happened with my mother when she died of cancer. First, she went into a coma, and then she died. Now, my own husband is lying comatose in a hospital bed, smelling like death, and the doctors are telling me that they still have work to do, that I shouldn’t give up hope--but no matter what they do, I get the feeling that he’s going to die like my mother did--then I’ll be alone. Can you blame me for feeling sorry for myself? Do you have any idea what I’m going to go through if he dies? I’ll be completely alone.”

“First, you’ve got to put your mother’s death behind you,” Dr. Sellers said. “the two incidents are unrelated--secondly, you don’t have to be alone. If it comes down to that, we can help you learn how to handle it. There are some great people who have survived the loss of a loved one who meet here every week to help the new survivors.”

“I’ve got to give you credit, doctor,” Vickie said. “I fully expected you to pitch for the status quo, to use your powers of persuasion to convince me to allow Dr. Lerner to open Mulroney’s chest. But you didn’t go that route.”

“I’m not here to tell you what to decide from a medical standpoint,” Sellers said. “I’m here because I believe that when you’ve got a big problem, you shouldn’t have to play it out all alone. Somewhere inside you is the answer--by talking with me, you may discover what it is.”

“Look, Dr. Sellers,” Vickie said. “I know you mean well. But forgive me if I don’t jump for joy at the news that after Mulroney dies, I can come back here and sit with a bunch of other grief-stricken folks and cry on their shoulders.”

“There is no right way for you to feel,” Dr. Sellers said. “You’ve been through a personal nightmare with your own cancer, and a second nightmare with the collapse of your husband. Your sense of confusion, anger, panic, loneliness, and grief may come and go. They may be very mild, or very extreme. The reason we offer group support is because you’ll need it. It’s a way for you to let your feelings and reactions happen in a caring environment. At first, your feelings are going to overwhelm you, but this will lessen over time--that’s why the group can help--you’ll have someone to talk to when you’re feeling overwhelmed.”

“You mean, like when I tried to kill myself? That kind of overwhelmed?”

“Exactly. If you’d had someone to call, things might have turned out differently.”

“Okay,” Vickie said. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“Your emotions are important,” Dr. Sellers said “They’re a large part of who you are. You want to give them a place to come out and be respected. If you’d had such an outlet, you wouldn’t have been trying to shake Mulroney awake like you did.”

“I envy you,” Vickie said. “You’ve spent a lifetime helping others.”

“I’m not saying you should accept the inevitable,” Dr. Sellers said. “I don’t want you to resign yourself to Mulroney’s death. As long as he has breath in his body, there’s a chance he’ll come back to you. But meanwhile, you’ve got to show some courage. You’ve got to hold on for your miracle. Remember, even though success isn’t certain, it’s still possible. Are you willing to take the emotional risk of believing in his recovery? Are you willing to set aside your self-pity for the time it takes to do everything you can to help him come back to you?”

“You’re asking me to make a sacrifice,” Vickie said. “To sacrifice myself for the greater good of my husband. You’re asking me to behave like a saint.”

Dr. Lerner laughed. “Why yes,” she said. “I suppose I am. Will you do it?”

“Okay,” Vickie said. “I’ll do it. And why not? I came from one miracle. There’s no reason to think there won’t be another.”

“Keep the faith,” Sellers said. “Faith never fails.”

Chapter 33

“First of all,” Vickie said, “I’ve gone and gotten myself into another heckuva pickle.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” Dalk said.

Vickie, Dalk, Mary-Jo, and Dalk’s sensei, magic-man and one-time business partner, Toyama, sat at table in the cafeteria of the Medical Center, where Vickie pointed out the recent processes and events which had combined to create her present predicament.

“I’m banned from further activities in this fun palace,” Vickie said. “I’m not allowed in Mulroney’s room anymore. Dr. Sellers finked on me and now they think I’m a danger to his health, because I shook him a little bit. When I protested, Sellers said that I better watch myself. Apparently, because I told her about my suicide attempt yesterday, she said she could have me locked up for observation for three days--she strong-armed me with that threat.”

“Wait a minute,” Dalk said. “Back up. What’s this about you shaking Mulroney?”

“I shook him,” Vickie said. “Dr. Sellers walked in on me and caught me in the act. It was bad timing--another three minutes and I think Mulroney might have snapped out of it.”

“Vickie,” Dalk said. “You might have killed him--all those wires and connections he’s attached to are there because he’s extremely delicate.”

“I’m sick of technology,” Vickie said. “Whoever said that life can be prolonged by a bunch of machines with blinking lights?”

“Hey look,” Dalk said. “Nobody’s saying the machines work all that well, but what else do we have? Mulroney’s experiencing some rather accelerated changes in his body right now, and somebody has to keep an eye on the store. Without the monitors, nobody knows whether he’s coming or going.”

“Mulroney is a human being,” Vickie hissed. “He’s not some mass-produced artifact. He’s not something to be measured.”

“You need to eat something,” Dalk said. “Try the chili.”

“Okay,” Vickie said. “As long as you don’t tell me it’s as good as my own chili.”

“Nothing beats your chili,” Dalk said. “But this stuff works on a certain level. For one thing, it has shredded beef and what appears to be real pieces of garlic. It tastes healthy enough.”

“I’ll get you a bowl, Vickie,” Mary-Jo said, rising and heading for the start of the cafeteria line. The place was filled to capacity with hospital workers eagerly chowing down on the stuff, as though it were some heretofore undreamt-of substance which, having been recently discovered, transported the humdrum act of lunch into a higher reality of sorts. A few eyes followed Mary-Jo, bestowing upon her frankly approving looks, she looking, as she always did, better than any other woman in the place.

“I’m sorry about all the trouble I’m causing,” Vickie said. “You’re supposed to be getting to know Mary-Jo in some romantic little Sunset Boulevard bistro, and yet here you are, eating bad chili in a hospital cafeteria. Under different circumstances, I’d be serving you a batch of my world famous prize-winning Lamplighter cook off chili. So tell me, how are you and Mary-Jo doing?”

“We’re managing,” Dalk said. “No, let me say that we’re more than managing--we’re doing really well, in fact. The truth is, our first night together was spent in the waiting room while they resuscitated Mulroney. It’s a night we’ll both never forget. We each took turns standing watch while the other slept. By early morning, when they gave us the news that Mulroney had stabilized, we had such a beautiful moment together. I have to say, Vickie, that whatever crazy impulse caused you to put Mary-Jo and me together the way you did, I’m becoming more grateful for it every moment.”

“Are you still going to marry her?” Vickie said.

“If it’s up to me, I will,” Dalk said. “She’s one-of-a-kind. Irreplaceable, in fact.”

“Dalk,” Vickie said. “I need your help.”

“Anything,” he said.

“Don’t promise until you hear what it is,” she said. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Even though Dr. Sellers threatened to commit me, before that, when we were talking, I think I saw my situation from a whole new angle. I mean, we actually talked about faith, can you believe it? Of course, she got me banned from Mulroney’s room--I can’t forgive her for doing that--but she did help me to see what I was doing to myself and to Mulroney. The good and the bad of it.”

“I understand,” Dalk said. “After all, what is good and what is bad is sometimes relative. I mean, you’re in the position of having to make a tough decision--and trying to decide on what to do involves deciding how much faith to place in that decision.”

“Exactly,” Vickie said. “I have to ask myself if my decision is an accurate reflection of reality--is it a good decision--should I stake someone else’s life on it?”

“Decisions are hard,” Toyama piped in. The little man, barely five feet tall, and thin as bamboo, rarely spoke, an attribute which caused those around him to listen carefully when he did. “When whatever we decide is ambiguous,” he said, “when the result of our decision can cause many possibilities--that is when we must fly above the black immensity of the problem with the wings of faith--and it’s hard work--it takes a great deal of energy to sustain our faith. The big problem is that the decision will not leave us unchanged--it will change us into something new, and we don’t know what the new thing will be.”

“True,” Vickie said. “But I’ve gone over this a thousand times since I saw Mulroney this morning. I think the decision I’m about to make is the right one.”

Mary-Jo arrived with Vickie’s chili, accompanied by a chocolate shake. Vickie set to work on her bowl actively, interspersing mouthfuls of the hot, spicy mixture with sips of cool, tongue-salving liquid ice cream.

“I didn’t think I’d be saying this,” Vickie said, “but this chili is the best I’ve ever tasted. That’s why the cafeteria is jammed. Whoever does the cooking back there has somehow stumbled across the ultimate secret of chili.”

“Not as good as yours,” Dalk said.

“Better,” Vickie said. “But thanks for lying--there’s a lesson here. The lesson is, we have to learn to be humble, and to accept change. We get into a rut, and suddenly, somebody cooks a better chili and we’re left behind. We start thinking our chili is the best, and pretty soon our pride turns our world static and lifeless--that’s why we have to swallow our pride and go forward, even if it means everything in our life will be overhauled.”

“Our ancestors and guardian spirits have brought us to this table,” Toyama said. “From now on, we must lay aside our self-importance. We must throw out the idea that science is everything and get ready to believe in things that cannot be touched or seen. After all--a man’s life is at stake.”

“He’s right,” Mary-Jo said. “The other day, when I met Vickie, she was tapped into some kind of a spiritual groove--I could see it in her eyes. When she told me I should marry Dalk, something inside me decided not to brush the idea off--I decided to take a chance--or, as Toyama said, I decided to believe in something that couldn’t be seen. I’d never seen Dalk in person--I made a decision to marry him without even knowing him. But the result has been miraculous.”

Mary-Jo took Dalk’s hand in hers and the two became momentarily lost in a gaze which held a fire between them. Mary-Jo broke the gaze and smiled at Vickie. “You’re a miracle-worker,” she said.

“I may not be a miracle worker,” Vickie said, “but I know somebody who needs a miracle--Mulroney.”

“You had an encounter with a statue of the Virgin Mary,” Toyama said. “One that sheds tears of blood. In the presence of her tears, your cancer was taken away. But you didn’t ask Mary why she is crying blood. I will tell you. Mary is shedding her tears over the fact that people today no longer perform miracles. Because of this, evil spirits are everywhere you look! That is why Mulroney lies in his bed. He is imprisoned by an evil spirit--a fox!”

Toyama's outburst shocked Mary-Jo, but not Dalk and Vickie, accustomed as they were to the tiny man’s rapid-fire observations on things of the spirit.

“I failed Mulroney when I went into his room,” Vickie said. “I placed my rosary on his chest, and made sure the tear of blood on the crucifix touched his skin, but I didn’t do it in faith--that’s why the thing didn’t work. I stayed in my pride and the pride kept me in my comfort zone--I violated Mulroney’s soul by not truly having faith that anything would happen--of course, when he didn’t respond, I became angry at myself and started shaking him.”

“Mary’s tears can still work,” Toyama said. “You need a tiny bit of trust.”

“I won’t get a second chance,” Vickie said. “Not since they banned me from Mulroney’s room. And I believe that Dr. Lerner will now take steps to cut Mulroney open without my permission. She was going to do the operation all along, she was just covering her bases by asking my permission. I realized that when her in-house shrink stopped by the room to check up on me. Dr. Sellers’ session with me was part of the protocol to protect the Cardiothoracic Division from a lawsuit--Lerner will open up Mulroney and if he dies, they’re off the hook. Dr. Sellers will simply produce an affidavit stating I wasn’t competent to give an informed consent, therefore, my consent to the surgery wasn’t needed.”

“This sounds a little paranoid to me,” Dalk said.

“Get real,” Vickie said. “They’ve turned the tables on me. At first, it was Dr. Lerner having to ask me permission--now it’s me having to ask her permission to even go in the room with my husband. Do I have to draw you a picture?”

“She’s right,” Mary-Jo said. “They’re going to operate on Mulroney and kill him--and run up a huge bill.”

“Lerner did mention something about the insurance not covering what she wanted to do,” Dalk said. “I hate to say this, but I think Vickie’s right. For us, it’s a big emotional thing to have a loved one lying in there in a coma, but to them, it’s just a chance to add a little something extra to the bottom line. What an outrage!”

“That’s why I need your help,” Vickie said. “There’s something we need to do. We need to suck up all our courage, as weary as we are. I need you to help me get back on my horse one last time--if the horse takes off, fine. If it throws me for a loop, then so be it.”

“Exactly what do you need us to do?” Dalk said.

“Where’s Mulroney’s Suburban?” she asked.

“It’s in long term parking,” Dalk said.

“Good,” Vickie said. “Give Toyama the keys and send him for it. Toyama, you bring the Suburban around to the side entrance on Tiverton, past the ambulance dock. Mary-Jo and I will go get Kilkenney and meet you there.”

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Dalk said.

“Right,” Vickie said. “I’m thinking we’re going to break Mulroney out of here and take him to a place where miracles are still possible. He can’t stay here--this is where the old money people have already constructed all the traps which we have no chance of avoiding unless we do something drastic.”

“This is completely illegal,” Dalk said.

“And that is a problem because?” Vickie said. “This is Los Angeles, not Topeka. Think of it this way--only the rare few will make some sort of memorable contribution to the earth and its populations. We’re not those rare few--we’re just the little people who happen to believe that one extra-large little person named Mulroney is important enough to risk our lives for. There’s no going back now. We’ve all made a proper mess out of most of our endeavors to fulfill our dreams--now we have a chance to make a difference. I don’t care if it takes a crucifix or a plateful of Toyama's roast mice to do the job, but we’ve got to bring Mulroney back. When I received my cancer diagnosis, I realized that the world didn’t need me after all--but now I realize that I need it--I need to live here as long as I can with the man I love. I’m willing to fight for the privilege. Are you with me or against me?”

Toyama stood up, adjusting across his shoulder his “rat bag” he always carried with him everywhere. “Give me the keys to the Suburban,” he said to Dalk. “I am just a plain and ordinary old man, and a pretty young girl has asked a favor of me. It would be impossible for me to refuse her.”

Dalk handed him the keys.

“Mary-Jo?” Dalk said.

“I feel a miracle in the air,” she said. “Count me in.”

Dalk raised himself up, his short, powerful frame and thick hands suggesting a power useful in setting straight any number of unwieldy situations, including the one before them. How he would transport a comatose two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man out of the hospital without being stopped nobody rightly knew, but nobody doubted that he could.

“No sense in letting one of life’s great moments slip away,” he said. “Sensei, please bring the car around. And don’t dawdle--I’ll be there with Mulroney in ten minutes. And I may be in a hurry.”

“Thank you, Dalk,” Vickie said.

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “This one’s for Mom.”

Chapter 34

“I think I made a few enemies back there,” Dalk said. “It was pointed out to me by several persons as I was on my way out that I had no legal rights regarding Mulroney, especially considering the life or death nature of his situation. I think their objections were magnified by the fact that although I hadn’t signed the necessary consent forms--which meant, in a way, that legally I didn’t exist--I had in fact--despite my uninsurable, legal non-existence--obtained actual and physical custody of Mulroney by virtue of the fact that he was slung over my shoulders.”

“I think the guard lady at the exit called the police,” Mary-Jo said. “She was on her portable radio right before you pushed her down.”

“I’m sorry I had to push her, but she was reaching for her pepper spray,” Dalk said. “I can confidently predict that I’m in a lot of trouble. This thing has civil suit written all over it.”

“Toyama, take us to the 405 and head back to the Valley,” Vickie said.

After having loaded Mulroney’s heavily blanket-wrapped and inert form into the tail of the vehicle, the Suburban had exited the hospital dock with all hands on board, Vickie in the jump seat, presiding over the crew while Toyama piloted the heavy vehicle slowly through the narrow, hilly, ivy-edged back streets bordering the UCLA campus, picking his way through the jaywalking students who mindlessly wandered to and fro between the campus and their novelty-filled housing warrens.

“Speed it up, Toyama,” Vickie said. “Listen, people, there’s a lot at stake here. Our first task is to get Mulroney someplace where he’ll feel comfortable. I’m open to suggestions, but my vote is to head over to The Lamplighter.”

“You want to take Mulroney to a bar?” Mary-Jo said.

“Not just any bar,” Vickie said. “It’s his bar. It’s a place he feels comfortable and safe. We can lay him out on the pool table in the back room. I know it sounds odd, but we’ll have everything we need there--not to mention total privacy. It’ll give us time to work on his situation.”

Toyama gunned it across Sepulveda and headed towards the onramp.

“Toyama, you ran the red light!” Vickie said.

“You told me to speed it up,” he said. He hit the gas and zoomed up the off-ramp, merging into the spectacular, elevated flow of northbound 405 traffic paralleling the mountain denseness of the Santa Monica range to the west. “We’ve got company,” he said. “A black-and-white just pulled in behind us. A CHP.”

Dalk twisted in his seat. “He hasn’t lit us up yet,” he said. “Probably running the plates first. Or it could be a coincidence. Toyama, stay in the right lane. We’ll get off at Mulholland. If he follows us, we’re probably going to be stopped. If we get stopped, don’t everybody wig out--act normal.”

“He put his lights on,” Toyama said.

“Floor it!” Vickie said.

“No!” Dalk yelled. “Toyama, put on your blinker, like you’re going to pull over, but keep moving until you make the Mulholland exit. Then pull over, but keep the engine running, and I’ll get out and show him my badge. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Or maybe he was parked on the side of the freeway above the onramp where he could see you run the light. If that’s all it is, I can show him my brand-new LAPD Sergeant’s badge and he’ll let us go--after all, I’m a cop, and Mulroney is an ex-cop. If we’re lucky, we can get a consideration here and the whole thing will turn out to be nothing. I’ll get out first so he doesn’t approach the car. Everybody remain calm--we’ll probably get through this okay.”

“I’m scared,” Mary-Jo said. “I can’t believe I let myself get sucked into this. What are the charges for something like this? What if he isn’t stopping us for the red light? What if all the cops are on their radios right now, closing in on us? Is this kidnapping? How are we going to explain this?”

“Quiet,” Vickie said. “We all need to stay calm. Dalk’s right--it may turn out to be nothing.”

“Awww!” Dalk said.

“What?” Vickie snapped.

“My badge--it’s missing. I had it on my belt when I went in to get Mulroney--I thought it might keep people from questioning my actions. It must have come loose when I struggled with the lady guard at the exit. That means they have it--and they know who I am! Not only that, I don’t have my wallet with me--I left it in the Mercedes!”

“Let Toyama get out and explain,” Vickie said.

“Toyama has no license--he’s here in the country illegally!”

“You never told me that before!” Vickie said. “What’s he doing driving?”

“Should I pull over, or not?” Toyama said.

“I don’t know,” Dalk said. “If he’s responding to the kidnap alert, we’re in a lot of trouble, here.”

“Toyama,” Vickie said. “Hit it!”

“No!” Dalk yelled. “We can’t outrun him! We have to wait and find out why he stopped us!”

“He might lie to us until his backup arrives,” Vickie said. “He might believe you’re a cop who’s possibly committed a serious felony. This is insane! We don’t know! Maybe it’s Toyama's stupid red light. We don’t know, but it doesn’t matter--we can’t afford to be stopped no matter what. We’re at the crossroads. There’s no going back. Listen to me--we’ve got four-wheel drive and he doesn’t--it’s muddy over there in the mountains--we can lose him on the first slick dirt road. I know these trails like the back of my hand. Jack and I hiked every last one of them. They’ll never find us in there. Now you’ve got to trust me! We can’t let them arrest us--if we do, we’ll lose Mulroney for good!”

“Listen to her, Dalk,” Toyama said. “This is a very bright woman, who sees clearly the paradox she faces. There’s an old Japanese proverb--The Only Way to Keep the Gas Tank Full is to Never Go Anywhere--But Standing Still is Not an Option.”

“Whatever that means,” Dalk said. “We also have a saying--In For a Penny, In For a Pound--hit it, Toyama!”

The Suburban roared to life, its three-hundred and ninety horses stampeding for all they were worth. The results were so spectacular at first, nobody dared to breathe. Toyama raced around the cars on the off-ramp and blew off the red light before sliding onto Mulholland heading west, tires smoking, brutally engaging the curves and straights in a striking display of daring, ignoring conventional wisdom regarding the capacity of the human body to withstand g-forces. Kilkenney yawped loudly as a surge of anticipatory energy flooded his caged body. Vickie eyed the speedometer needle, planted squarely on 110, the information crashing in on her senses, she understanding that one-hundred-ten-miles-per-hour on this road, in this vehicle, was theoretically impossible, and yet it was happening. Toyama, the Japanese master, somehow on a different plane than everybody else in the known universe, perhaps from a lifetime of meditation, or a hundred thousand hours of working under the forced-pace, high information-input rates of martial arts combat sparring, had morphed into the world’s greatest driver and lost the CHP pursuit car completely, the cop in the car behind them suffering some unseen and unexplained breakdown of human performance under the heavy load of attempting to keep up with the wide-eyed little sensei behind the wheel of the flying three-ton machine.

Slowing, finally, before being directed by Vickie to turn off Mulholland onto a posh Bel-Air residential street, heading south once again, Toyama made his way past an orderly hodgepodge of mini-mansions which sat atop the westerly running ridge which neatly divided the Valley from Greater Los Angeles. Vickie co-piloted the Suburban purposefully to the end of the block before instructing Toyama to hop the curb, thereupon crossing a muddy, plowed firebreak before swinging onto the rain-slicked fire road leading into the heart of the sweet, damp mountains. Toyama's superior driving skills had rendered their evasion from unjust arrest a done deal. It was awhile before anybody spoke.

“Nice driving,” Dalk said. “But we’d better keep it moving. If the CHP saw us go in here, they’ll be sending Air Support by for a look any minute.”

“Our best chance,” Vickie said, “is to ditch the Suburban at a place I know up ahead and head down to the bottom of the canyon on foot.”

“Are you crazy?” Mary-Jo said.

“I’m being practical,” Vickie said. “We’ve felony-evaded the police. I don’t have to tell you what that means.”

“Yes you do,” she said. “What does it mean?”

“It might mean dogs,” Dalk said. “It’s what they use to chase felons who escape into the mountains.”

“What?” Mary-Jo said. “We’re going to be chased by police dogs?”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Dalk said. “They won’t bite you unless you move.”

“I’ll say there’s nothing to be scared of,” Vickie said. She reached into the glove box and pulled out Mulroney’s revolver--if some stinking dog tries to bite me, I’ll give him some of this!”

“Help!” Mary-Jo cried.

Dalk, adjusting carefully the blankets before unloading Mulroney, again slung the big man across his shoulders and headed for the steep ravine leading to the bottom of the canyon.

“Somebody grab the cat,” he said, without looking back.

Chapter 35

“I can’t do this,” Mary-Jo shouted down at the departing crew. “The clouds are building up again and it’s going to rain. I have a fear of snakes. I’m scared and I’m going back.” She stood next to the Suburban at the edge of the muddy fire road in her hot-pink platform wedgies, a portrait of uncertainty facing the vast wilderness of primeval territory which divided into two distinct halves the mighty metropolis of Los Angeles--a wilderness home, as it were, not only to Hollywood producers, with which she was familiar and unafraid of, but also to other types of animals, which she was afraid of, including mountain lions, coyotes, skunks, bobcats, spiders, scorpions, bats and not a few poisonous snakes.

“It’s okay, Mary-Jo,” Vickie shouted from somewhere down below, her body already obscured by the thick hillside brush. “Take the Suburban south down the fire road--in about five or six miles, you’ll come out in the hills north of Sunset. Head back to Dalk’s new place and wait for us there.”

“How will I know where you are?” she said.

“We’ll call you.”

“I’m sorry, Dalk” Mary-Jo said. “I hope I’m not disappointing you. Good luck!”

“I love you!” he shouted. The three most important words on earth echoed up from his position, and greatly helped take up the emotional slack between them.

A moment passed before the party descending down the well-worn, rooty, deer trail heard the muffled rumble of the Suburban above them--the echoing roar growing fainter until at last they were alone with themselves in the middle of the mountain.

“Mary-Jo has sold over 300 homes in Pacific Palisades and Santa Monica,” Dalk said. “But she’s never been in these mountains. She’s seen the wilderness, of course, at least the beginnings of it from where it abuts the backyards of rich people’s houses, but she’s never actually been out here personally.”

“Don’t apologize for Mary-Jo,” Vickie said. “She’s a trooper--we can’t blame her for not wanting to come. She wasn’t dressed for the occasion. Besides, she’s afraid of snakes.”

“They’re all hibernating,” Toyama said.

“What difference does it make what the slimy things are doing?” Vickie said. “When you’re scared of snakes, you’re scared of snakes--it doesn’t matter if they’re underground--in fact, that makes it even more frightening, knowing they’re somewhere underneath your feet, waiting to spring out at you from their slick little holes.”

“Back to the subject at hand,” Dalk said, his breathing labored as he carefully picked his steps, “do we have a plan, here, or were you simply planning to force me to wander through the mountains forever with Mulroney on my back--which, I might add, I can’t keep up much longer, no matter how much meditation I’ve practiced. And may I say, Mary-Jo was right--the way those low clouds are closing in, we’re going to be caught in another downpour. I don’t want Mulroney’s blankets to get wet.”

“I know where I’m going,” Vickie said. “And don’t worry about the rain--we’re going to a nice, dry cave--can you keep going a little farther without collapsing?”

“I can make it to the bottom, if I’m careful,” Dalk said. “And maybe a little further after that.”

“There’s a Chumash Indian site at the bottom of this ravine,” Vickie said. “It’s a place Jack and I used to come all the time when we really wanted to get away from it all. Not many people know about it--it’s got a waterfall, and a cave behind the waterfall--we can hide from the rain behind it. We’ll make Mulroney comfortable in the cave. If we get hungry, we might find a few steelhead trout in the stream.”

“Steelhead trout in the middle of L.A.?” Toyama said.

“The good news is,” Dalk said, “we’ll probably make it to the cave before the rain starts falling. The bad news is, we could find ourselves washed out to sea by a raging flash flood at any time after it starts falling.”

“I think we’re alone,” Toyama said. “I don’t think that CHP ever saw us make the turnoff. He’s probably chasing his tail. He doesn’t know where we are.” Toyama struggled to keep up, he being in charge of the leashed Maine Coon, said beast not buying the idea of a linear descent to the bottom but choosing instead the ancient, safer method of jumping behind every bush before proceeding, and requiring a fair amount of leash untangling and coaxing to continue to the next one.

“We better hurry if we want to make the cave,” Vickie said. “It’ll be dark soon.”

The party of four, plus cat, scurried down the trail, engulfed by the universality and impartiality of the wilderness world, the roar of the stream bed growing louder as they neared the bottom, the rushing water offering to them its indiscriminate invitation, not asking what they were up to, or expecting anything from them, its cushioning sound enabling them to focus on something besides the rampant anxiety each of them felt for their comatose friend, who, separated from them by the uncrossable gulf of unconsciousness, accepted their assistance and their agenda without judgment, or any other thing.

Chapter 36

“Apparently, the Chumash, when they sat around their fire at night,” Dalk said, “drank a lot of Bud Light. I find that surprising, because I always thought they lived off the land.”

The cave behind the waterfall, accessed easily across a pathway of well-placed boulders, the room being itself of a decent size, and presently dry and uninhabited, in addition to serving as the repository for several hundred crushed, empty beer cans, also served as a venue for visiting graffiti artists, who, perhaps while sitting by the fire and singing the traditional Chumash folk songs, suddenly sensed the need for something greater and thus created the high-color ethereal gobbledygook which covered every exposed surface.

“It was never like this when Jack and I used to come here,” Vickie said.

“That was before all-terrain vehicles,” Dalk said. “Now any punk can come here.”

The roar of the falls feeding the wellspring of the canyon stream, now swollen from the recent rains, had a lyrical quality to it which lifted the spirits of the group, lessening among them the feeling of being separate from one another and encouraging feelings of interconnectedness with all things as each individual began to feel their emotions gently coaxed into line with the timeless music of the water--in short, it was a great place to hang out, and, weather permitting, resurrect somebody.

“Give me that gun,” Dalk said. Vickie handed it over--he took it, fitting it into his belt.

Toyama stirred the fire pit and upon finding a few dry branches in the back of the cave, aided additionally by a few discarded cardboard beer boxes, proceeded to light a fire, helped in the process by a gold Zippo. Kilkenney, upon seeing the flames rise, hissed and danced upon his leash until Vickie, having pity, cradled him in her arms, stroking him soothingly.

Dalk carefully cleared space beside the fire and laid Mulroney gently out, carefully adjusting the blankets to ensure his friend’s warmth and comfort.

Vickie set Kilkenney on his feet. “That’s it,” she said. “I’m setting him free. From now on, no more leash, no more cage--no more civilization.”

The cat poised without moving, sniffing the air briefly, waiting for enough information, his heavy cerebellum processing the million-or-so possible previously genetically stored responses to being held captive in a cave with four people who’d built a fire. The calculation complete, he sprang forward, exiting the cave in the speed of an eye-blink without saying good-bye.

“I’ll miss him,” Vickie said. “He was the heart and soul of Mulroney. Those two were each one of a kind--big, powerful, but capable of true tenderness--and misunderstood by the world around them.”

“I’m calling Mary-Jo,” Dalk said, unholstering his phone and leaving the cave.

“I had my doubts up there on the road,” Vickie said to Toyama. “I started to feel that I was running away from my problems. I almost decided that we should take Mulroney back to the hospital and turn him over to Dr. Lerner and let fate take its course. What scared me was the thought that we might be doing more harm than good by taking Mulroney away from the hospital environment. I mean, what if his system crashes? There’s nobody here who can bring him back.”

“Everybody has a time to die,” Toyama said. “Until that time, nobody can take your life. When that time comes, nobody can save it. This society lives under a delusion that we are separate from one another--the truth is, we’re all connected. We’re all made from the same stardust. The idea that doctors save us is a way we have of saying that we can cheat death if we want to--but it’s not so, so stop worrying about the choice you made. Whether Mulroney lives or dies isn’t up to us--it’s up to God.”

“Thank you,” Vickie said. “I know you and I haven’t been all that close over the years, but I think I’m starting to appreciate your point of view.”

“That being said,” Toyama replied, “with your permission, I must get to work.” With that, the little man began rummaging in his bag, producing, among other things, a series of shiny golden amulets, some colored feathers, a roll of aluminum foil and--as a piece de resistance--a large, gallon-size clear plastic Ziploc bag which contained three dead rats coated in cooking oil, the disgusting sight of which aroused within Vickie the acute dislike she felt for all vermin, living or dead.

“I’m going outside to scream bloody murder,” she said, “and then to hurl.”

Toyama paid her no mind, his attentions focused on the job at hand--a miracle, one sorely needed by Mulroney, no matter what the source, a feat requiring the full harnessing of the thaumaturgical practices of his religion in the face of his skeptical company. He did not blame them for their skepticism towards his magic--they were, after all, possessed by the evil spirits of Western technology and scientific thinking, and could not therefore be expected, while under the influence of such powerful illusions, to understand the true nature of the wily fox before him.

Chapter 37

“How’s Mary-Jo?” Vickie said.

“Worried,” Dalk said, slipping his phone into his shirt pocket. “She’s not going home--instead she’s driving over to the hospital to talk with Dr. Lerner--I advised her against it, but she insisted. I fear she’ll be arrested if she identifies herself with our abduction efforts, but she wants to try and negotiate something with the Medical Center so we won’t all go to prison for the rest of our lives.”

She’d caught up with her brother, who’d wandered a dozen yards or so down the stream bank to a spot where, in times past, somebody’d had a house and garden, of which still remained half a brick fireplace covered in a thick tangle of climbing roses.

“I bet a hundred years ago this was a great place to have a home,” Dalk said.

“I guess we both know Mulroney isn’t going to make it,” Vickie said.

“Where’s your faith?” Dalk said.

“I realized the truth when I saw your sensei pull out a baggie full of rats,” she said.

“Never reject a possibility because you don’t agree with the method used to obtain it,” he said.

They both sniffed the air at once, their nostrils assailed by the smell of burning hair.

“He’s foil-roasting them over the fire,” Dalk said. “He thinks if he cooks them properly, the evil fox spirit will come out of Mulroney to feast on them.”

“It’ll never work,” Vickie said.

“Maybe it will,” Dalk said. “In Japan, they do this kind of thing all the time. After it’s over, they write out the testimony of the healing and pass it around. I’ve read some amazing testimonies.”

“I should go in there and stop it,” Vickie said. “He’s stripping Mulroney of the last of his dignity.”

“Toyama deserves his chance,” Dalk said. “He’s sacrificing more than any of us today to be here. We’ve taken steps that’ll undoubtedly incur a police investigation--when that happens, I’m afraid we’ve seen the last of my sensei.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you ever wonder why Toyama came to L.A. with me?” Dalk said. “Why he’s been willing to live in the back room of a dingy commercial storefront dojo in Panorama City for all these years?”

“I thought he had to because he’s got no head for business,” Vickie said.

“Toyama's an outlaw,” Dalk said. “He’s wanted by the Japanese police. That’s why we left Japan--he killed a guy--the guy was somebody important. When the PD checks us out for kidnapping Mulroney and evading the CHP, Toyama will be sent back to Japan to face a kangaroo court--he’ll spend the rest of his life in a Japanese prison.”

“I’m sorry,” Vickie said. “I had no idea. Why did he kill the man?”

“Toyama was asked to perform a ceremony for a politician’s sick wife. He got there too late, the wife had already died, and the politician’s son pulled a knife on him. Unfortunately, Toyama hit him in the mouth a little too hard and the guy croaked. Toyama can’t forgive himself for not exercising more control.”

“He acted in self-defense,” Vickie said.

“He killed a politician’s first-born son,” Dalk said. “In a case like that, there is no defense. He tried to repay his debt to the family by turning over all the money he’d made over the years, but the father wanted blood repaid with blood. He was going to let them arrest him until I convinced him to get out. He’s been living in a self-imposed exile and poverty ever since, trying to purify himself--what makes it worse is, his magic left him when he killed the guy--until his magic returns, he’ll never be free of his guilt.”

“I feel like a fool,” Vickie said. “I’m ashamed of the way I’ve made fun of him all these years.”

“He came with us today to help Mulroney because you’re my sister--he’s risking his future to help you--that’s why you shouldn’t interrupt him. If Mulroney revives, Toyama will be set free.”

“The poor little man--he’s in there right now,” Vickie said, “roasting his mice and waving his golden amulets over Mulroney’s body.”

“If Mulroney expires,” Dalk said, “Toyama will take on all the guilt for it--he’ll probably commit suicide--it’ll be the only way he can expunge the guilt honorably.”

“If Mulroney dies, we may all be brought up on murder charges,” Vickie said. “I’m beginning to think we better take Mulroney back to the Medical Center before it’s too late. This whole thing is starting to make me ill.”

“We better go back to the cave,” Dalk said. “It’s getting dark, and the rain is kicking up again.”

“I’d forgotten how quickly it gets dark in these canyons,” Vickie said. “But let’s stay out here another minute or so--I want Toyama to get his full measure.”

“If you’re serious about taking Mulroney out of here,” Dalk said, “I’m going to have to call somebody in to rescue us. Getting Mulroney down the hill was one thing, but I don’t think I’m strong enough to carry him back up--it’s too dark to see and this rain will make the trail way too slippery.”

“I’ve ruined everybody’s life,” Vickie said. “You, Mary-Jo, Toyama, and even Kilkenney’s--and I was only trying to save my husband. I’m cursed, and everybody around me is cursed. I experienced a healing, and I thought if I could spare Mulroney the rigors of surgery, I could bring him back--now I’m feeling like a first class fool. I climbed high on the tears of the Virgin, and now I’m falling back to the bottom.”

“We’re in a muddle, all right,” Dalk said. “But nobody’s to blame--especially not you--we were all in a hothouse of emotion over this thing. We acted rashly, foolishly. But our intentions were noble--sometimes you have to stand up for what you believe.”

“We thought we were running towards the answer, but in reality, we were running away from the problem,” Vickie said. “Dalk--make the call--get us out of here. We’ll hide Toyama someplace before they get here.”

They were interrupted by the grinding, whup-whup-whup-whup-whup of a helicopter’s rotor blades.

“It’s too late,” Dalk said. “The police are here. Let’s go wait inside the cave. I want to have my back against something when they send down the dogs.”

“Dalk,” Vickie said. “Wait.”

“We can’t wait,” he said. “We’ve got to get some protection or we’re going to get bitten all to smithereens.”

“Dalk,” Vickie said. “My cancer is back.”

“What?” he said.

“It’s back,” she whispered. “Help me Dalk--the pain is so great. Help me. I can’t feel my legs...”

His quick movement saved her from tumbling, unconscious from the pain, into the stream. Somewhere above him, interspersed with the din of the Air Support unit, he could hear a dog barking. Scooping her up, he walked carefully back to the safety of the cave. Although he felt the pressure of the police presence on the mountain, he didn’t run--the world at the bottom of the canyon had grown much too dark for that.

Chapter 38

“It’s the Spiral Nebulae,” the lady said.

“I’ve never seen anything so glorious,” Vickie said.

She was on the infinite grassy plain standing next to the lady beneath a vibrant night sky, the focused energy of the whole projecting, by degrees, an increasing awareness within her, an awareness which churned faster and faster until she thought she would explode upwardly into the Nebulae itself, her glorious absorption by it compellingly irresistible.

“It’s a different time horizon,” the lady said. “It exists in the future to keep you from being overwhelmed by your present events. If you look closely, you can see your future self in it.”

“I can see myself in the future,” Vickie said. “Not as I am now--but as I wish to be.” She turned to her benefactress. “My Lady,” she said, “you’re bleeding from your hands.”

“The Stigmata of Saint Francis,” the Lady said. “My hands weep his blood for you--the blood which will draw you forward to the well of compassion.”

“I was healed and now I’m not, and my husband is dying,” Vickie said. “Your tears didn’t work.”

“His life will be spared by your prayers and your compassion,” the Lady answered. “Those are the true tears of the faithful.”

“I don’t understand,” Vickie said.

The Lady touched her with the stigmata of St. Francis and stepped back, dissolving the infinite plain with a roar. Vickie opened her eyes. She was back in the cave, the rushing water pounding in her ears. Pain like she’d never before known raged deep within her. Dalk and Toyama sat beside her. Mulroney’s body was stretched by the fire, his bare legs and chest exposed, a roasted rat on each thigh and one on his chest, the smoking carcasses bound by golden amulets. Two brightly colored feathers protruded from between the toes of his right foot.

“Help me!” she cried.

“Hang on, Sis,” Dalk said. “The cops’ll be here soon. I can’t give you anything for your pain. If the pain is too great to bear, Toyama can put you to sleep.”

“No,” she said. “I’ve got to stay conscious. I understand the truth now. I received the touch of St. Francis. It’s important. Move me closer to Mulroney, and get me my rosary.”

“Toyama,” Dalk said. “Move your rats.”

“No,” Vickie said. “Leave them--they belong there.”

They positioned her with her head on the great man’s chest next to the roasted rat and put the plastic rosary in her hand. Carefully, she placed the crucifix next to the rat on Mulroney’s chest, over his heart.

“Forgive me, Mulroney,” she said. “I’ve been selfish. My desire to think only of myself has put you in great harm. When I found out I was dying, I thought only of myself. I never even considered what you might be going through. I took your money and your hand in marriage and when you collapsed I was angry--angry at you for taking something away from me. My tears have never been for you--they’ve been only for myself. Mulroney, I am heartily sorry for having offended you by my selfishness, and I ask you to forgive me.”

Vickie began to weep, the tears flowing from the river of pain running through her, dripping from her face onto Mulroney’s chest. The tears dripped over the crucifix, dissolving the bloody tear of the Virgin, creating a water and blood rivulet which crossed over his heart.

“Oh God,” she said. “Give me the compassion I need. Give Mulroney back his life. Take me--not him.”

A blinding light suddenly filled the cave, pouring in from the world outside, fracturing through the waterfall into a thousand colors, transforming the air around them into a heavenly glory.

The helicopter searchlight. Directed to the spot by the cops and dogs outside the cave. A loudspeaker blared above the roar of the waterfall, above the barking of adrenalized dogs, close and eager to charge.

“This is the police,” the echoey voice said. “Come out slowly from the cave. I repeat. Come out slowly from the cave, one at a time, with your hands showing. If you do not come out, we will send in the dogs. I repeat. If you do not come out, we will send in the dogs.”

Dalk removed the revolver from his belt and pointed it toward the mouth of the cave.

“No dog is going to bite my ass,” he said.

A dark, quick movement entered the cave--the hurtling body of an animal.

Dalk fired reflexively--and missed--not a dog--Kilkenney--flushed from hiding by the presence of the dogs, seeking the safety of the cave, his giant body streaking towards Mulroney, landing on his thighs, hysterical from the dogs outside and the gunfire inside, releasing his adrenaline by raising up on his hind legs and tearing into a roasted rat.

A pair of massive, bristling German Shepherds entered the cave in answer to the gunshot. Dalk fell atop Vickie, shielding her. The beasts lunged towards them, fangs spread wide. Kilkenney stood up tall to greet the first dog, the foil-roasted rat falling from his mouth, his paws the size of a man’s hands open, with wicked claws extended--a cornered mini-lion, with no way out, his sincere ferocity giving the first canine pause, and in that pause Kilkenney made his move, with devastating results, sending the dog hurtling back through the falls with thirty pounds of terror ripping up his face.

“Oooos!” Toyama yelled, closing with the second dog. The beast rose confidently to the attack, and in that nanosecond of overconfidence failed to avoid the little sensei’s lightning-fast hammer blow to the ribs, knocking the big dog into the air, the bodies of man and dazed beast coming together like two minor deities in malevolent contention, the beast’s flashing teeth sparkling in the blinding white light from the searchlight as the two rotated across the floor of the cave towards the falls in a surreal ballet, their outburst carrying them, finally, through the curtain of shining waters and into the streambed outside.

“Dalk,” Vickie said.

“I’ll protect you,” he said. “Stay down in case some idiot starts firing.”

“Dalk!”

“Stay down!”

“Dalk! Listen to me! Mulroney’s eyes opened!”

Together, the brother and sister separated and looked into Mulroney’s eyes, where the fire of life was once again burning.

“He’s trying to say something,” Vickie said.

“I can’t hear him,” Dalk said.

Vickie put her ear to her husband’s mouth. “Go ahead, darling,” she said. “I’m listening--I’m here for you, baby. Go ahead. Talk to me.”

From deep within Mulroney’s throat, a harsh whisper issued forth.

“Get ... that ... stinking ... rat ... off ... my ... chest.”

Epilogue

“I’m sorry I took so long to get back to you,” Vickie said. “But I had some things to take care of last week. My husband had a bypass yesterday at UCLA.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Dr. Bienenfeld said. “Sometimes it seems like everything happens at once.”

The woman before him seemed changed somehow, he thought. It wasn’t the short hair. No, it was something in her eyes. He realized it was the absence of fear in her face, and a feeling he got from her that was hard to define--she presented a confident connectedness to her surroundings that was a far cry from the angry, unfocused woman who had sat before him only a week ago, dazed and frightened, asking him questions about her dog.

“Was your husband’s bypass successful?”

“They had him up and walking this morning,” Vickie said. “He’s done a lot of griping about the pain, but he’s already admitted to me he feels better than he has in years.”

“They do wonders at UCLA these days,” Bienenfeld said. “Now, with your permission, we’ll begin discussing your options for the treatment of your pancreatic tumor.”

“I’m ready,” Vickie said.

“We’ll start by going down the hall to meet Dr. Wellborn. She’s going to discuss with you your pain management program, and plan a strategy to help you prevent other complications from the cancer. Later, I’ll introduce you to our counselor, Judy Wallace. She’ll introduce you to a wonderful support group. Believe me, a support group can work wonders. It helps take some of the burden off of your closest family members.”

“That’s important to me,” Vickie said. “In fact, the reason I’m here is for my husband.”

“It sounds like you’ve got the best reason in the world to want to get well,” he said.

“I guess so,” Vickie said. “Are we talking about surgery, chemo, radiation, or what?”

“In your case,” he said. “We may start with a small laparoscopic surgery, then move on to radiation, and finally to chemo. I think we’re in time to work towards a complete remission using one or a combination of all of the above. It’s fortunate for us you didn’t take too much time deciding to seek treatment.”

“It wasn’t an easy decision,” Vickie said. “But now that I’ve made it, I feel it’s the right decision.”

“When you first left my office last week,” he said, “I was concerned--but I knew you’d be back. Most people just need a few days to think about it.”

“I did a lot of soul searching last week,” Vickie said.

“As well you should,” the doctor said. “After all--it's no small matter.”

THANK YOU FOR READING!

M. M. Wilshire

A True Independent Author

cityofangelsdreams@comcast.net

Table of Contents

A Small Matter