A Small Matter (12 page)

“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.”