“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, peele
d 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.
A Small Matter Page 12
