“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.”
&
nbsp; “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.”
A Small Matter Page 6
