“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.
A Small Matter Page 4
