All That Was Happy

by M. M. Wilshire

  Beckie turned off Wilshire and entered the cusp of a district of older homes, choosing a country-style white brick mini-manse, pulling into the driveway, the car gliding underneath a canopy of acacia trees and into a surrounding garden--a woodland cocoon which sheltered the entrance from the intrusions of the urban neighborhood, a garden which, with splashing fountain muting the roar from the nearby Wilshire, lent an atmosphere of shaded solitude to the place. She turned off the car and stepped out.

  “Home sweet home,” she said. “It’s strange. I haven’t really heard that fountain since we installed it over five years ago. Now I can hear it clearly. At the time, Bernie didn’t want to buy it--but I wanted to make a strong, simple statement for guests. I wanted a bright spot in the middle of the shade--a place for birds to bathe and squirrels to drink.”

  They crossed the wide, covered porch and entered the residence, making their way past the huge living room--filled with comfortable couches, happy pictures, antique lamps and artful placements of candles--to the tiny, cramped kitchen whereupon Leah set about making a pot of coffee.

  “There’s some crumb cake in the cupboard,” Beckie said. “It’s funny, we were going to remodel this kitchen to better accommodate our plans for entertaining. We were going to draw some extra space from the living room and go with multiple work centers--I had a contractor plan out the island as a staging area which also housed the oven and the microwave. We were going for clean lines and a lot of wicker.”

  “You still can,” Leah said, setting out the crumb cake and a couple of plates.

  “How do I do that?” Beckie said. “How do I just keep on going with my so-called life? How do I learn to think for myself after twenty-nine years of thinking the way Bernie wanted me to? It’s just inconceivable that there’s going to be a life after this divorce. I’m going to die alone in this house--alone and friendless.”

  “I’m calling the pharmacy,” Leah said. “They’ll deliver your medicine and you’ll feel better.”

  “I don’t want to feel anything,” Beckie said. “Not now. Not ever again.”

  “Eat your crumb cake,” Leah said. “You need some sugar in your blood.”

  “You’re right,” Beckie said. “And I shouldn’t even be thinking about the future. I need to keep my mind on where things are right now. If I could simply do that, then I wouldn’t feel such a sense of overwhelming evil. But you know what really hurts, right now? It’s knowing that when it’s time to go to bed tonight, for the first time in twenty-nine years, I’ll be getting in that bed by myself--and it’ll be that way for the rest of my life.”

  “The prescription will be delivered in about an hour,” Leah said, hanging up the phone. “And you should try to eat something.”

  “The problem is,” Beckie said, “nowadays we all live too long. If we died when we were supposed to, Bernie wouldn’t have divorced me--he would have died by now. Instead, he did die--he died to me--he ended his life with me, but instead of going to his grave, where I could at least grieve over him, and respect him, he’s divorced me and is starting another life--he’s going to have a child! The child I could never give him!”

  Beckie’s tears, no longer held in check by the earlier shockwave of the serving of the papers, began to copiously flow.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Leah said. “What’s done is done--you can’t turn back the clock and do it over--but the future still belongs to you.”

  “We had a pleasant home,” Beckie said. “It just doesn’t seem fair. Yesterday, I was a wife, with a place in this community. Today, I’m a pariah. All our friends are going to treat me like a second class citizen. I’m so ashamed. I’m so alone.”

  Leah held her until the tears ran their course, tears which, like lava from a volcano, burned their traceways across the landscape of her soul, and of which there were plenty more where they came from.

  Chapter 3

  “Even allowing that you’ve been in the face of great frustration,” Leah said, “what you’re doing doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “Why should anything I do from here on out make sense?” Beckie said. “All I’ve done my whole life is make sense, and what’s it got me? It’s got me replaced by a younger female of child-bearing age, that’s what.”

  Beckie, glaring venomously at the world through the windshield of the Mercedes Roadster, was bidding good-bye to Leah for the moment, and preparing to depart for places unknown. She’d changed from her pantsuit into a scoop-neck, pale pink camisole and jeans, setoff by a pair of white platform wedgies. The cool of a spring evening was setting in; the convertible top whined into place.

  “I just think it would be better if you waited until tomorrow,” Leah said. “Especially since you’re new to the medication you just took. It says right on the label that drowsiness can occur. C’mon back in, Beckie. You can wait a few more hours.”

  “Wait for what? For more punishment? I’ve already been found guilty on all counts of being a bad wife. Maybe I’ll feel differently later, but for right now, the thought of sleeping in that bed tonight is just too much for me. I can’t even face the thought of lying there alone in the darkness. I need some time alone to think. I’m going to take a drive, and then I’ll get a hotel room someplace.”

  “I don’t think you should be alone tonight,” Leah said.

  “I can’t face anybody right now,” Beckie said. “Not even you. I really need to be alone.”

  “You’ll wind up in a bar someplace,” Leah said. “A hotel will be too lonely--you’ll wind up drinking yourself into a coma. Or worse, dressed like that, you’ll get picked up by some creep--I can see it clear as day. Don’t forget, that guy who cuts off women’s arms is out again.”

  “I’m forty-nine years old,” Beckie said. “I don’t think I’ll be cruising the bars the day I get served my divorce. But if you’re right, if I do go to a bar, I’ll call you and you can join me.” She hit the gas and the powerful car skewed sideways before straightening out and exiting the driveway, heading back to Wilshire, turning east towards the 405 freeway and the Valley. The traffic was thick and barbaric in the thin, cooling, early evening light. It took her the better part of an hour to make her way north over the pass and back down into the San Fernando Valley. The light had faded into an urban glare by the time she turned off Sepulveda onto Saticoy and arrived at the single story Argon Tools warehouse, the business she and Bernie had built almost from scratch, slowly and painfully over the past twenty-nine years, the building she had spent most of her life working in, answering the phones and keeping the books until six months ago, when Bernie told her she could retire, that he would hire an office manager to replace her, one who was better trained on computers.

  She cruised slowly into the parking lot. Bernie’s car, his new silver Jag sedan, was parked in front. It was approaching 7 p.m. He normally knocked off at 7, she knew, and would be coming out soon. She parked beside the jag and opened her glove box and removed the Charter Arms revolver, keeping it gripped in her right hand. She put the seat back, closed her eyes and waited.

  Something awoke her--a scratching sound outside the car. She opened her eyes. It was dark, but the parking lot was well lit--and empty. She’d fallen dead asleep. Her mouth was thick and dry and her eyes felt scratchy and heavy, as though they wanted to close again. Somewhere in the middle of her dark, dreamless snooze, Bernie had come out, seen her sleeping inside her vehicle with a gun in her hand, and coolly driven off. She remembered the last time she’d seen him at the warehouse--had it been over a week? He’d been his usual self, constantly on the phone in his huge corner office, the one with the couch, barking orders to his secretary Nolene.

  Nolene. It was her. The sweet young thing had taken Bernie for herself. Nolene, a nice enough young girl, a college girl according to the agency, a girl who should have been working someplace else at something more important but who’d chosen instead to fill the Office Manager position for Bernie. Nolene, a girl with an Irish name but Hispanic good looks, a
girl who admitted to singing in her church choir but who’d one day shocked Beckie by showing her a tattoo of two snakes intertwined in the middle of her back--who’d been working for Bernie for only the past six months, who’d come highly recommended from the temp agency. Why hadn’t she seen it? Nolene wasn’t a temp anymore--she’d just been promoted to permanent. Nolene was pregnant with Bernie’s child. The thought of this, of a baby coming into the world with Bernie’s chin and nose, and perhaps Nolene’s hair and eyes, was too much. Beckie took the gun and inserted it into her mouth, feeling the acrid taste of the metal on her tongue, the ugly hardness of the short barrel on her teeth. She thumbed back the hammer, impressed with the smooth turning of the cylinder which brought into play the live round which would, momentarily, go rocketing through the roof of her mouth and into her brain. The hammer clicked into place and set the trigger. It was only a sixteenth of an inch away from releasing the bullet. She touched the trigger thoughtfully, lightly, amazed that this tiny sliver of steel could unleash a force that would end everything forever. She closed her eyes. She’d count to three and simply do it. One. Two.

  The scratching sound again. What was it? Was someone in the parking lot with her? It was annoying. She wanted to be alone to kill herself. She didn’t want some idiot witnessing it!

  The scratching continued. Her ears tracked the source. It was coming from a cardboard box set next to the light post. The box shook--there was something inside it.

  There was a terrible booming coming from somewhere. She realized with a start it was the beating of her own heart, going a mile a minute. She removed the barrel from her mouth and took a shuddering breath, feeling raw.

  She got out of the car, still holding the gun, and approached the box. Something was inside, scratching to get out, something not powerful enough to escape a simple cardboard box. But what was inside? A kitten? A snake? A rat? It could be anything! The box moved and she flinched. Gripping the gun with one hand, with the other she took the edge of the closed box flap and pulled it open, standing back, ready to blast the hell out of whatever sprang out.

  A dog stared back at her, tail wagging furiously. The tiniest dog she’d ever seen. A teacup Chihuahua!

  “Awww,” Beckie said.

  She’d never liked dogs, and had no use for the fools who did. But she couldn’t just leave this tiny, shivering, hairless creature sitting in the box, to fall prey to whatever insidious event might occur at some later time in the parking lot. She knew for a fact that the Valley was infested with gopher snakes and overpopulated with barn owls, one of whom would surely track onto the tiny sniveling beast at her feet. The thought of the horned, feathered machinery of the owl converting this living thing into a compact ball of hair and bones by morning made up her mind for her.

  “I’m going to pick you up,” she said. “But if you bite me, I’ll put you back in the box and blow your head off.” The creature allowed itself to be picked up. Her hands curled around its tiny rib cage and she felt its heart fluttering, felt the heat from its shivering body as its adrenaline flowed fast and hard, caught up in the excitement of the rescue, the release from the box. She got back in the roadster and set the beast on the seat, but it immediately sought solace in her lap.

  “I don’t like you,” she said. “But I feel sorry for you. I’ll get you something to eat but what happens after that I can’t promise you. It all depends on what I feel like, and I better warn you, I feel pretty awful. So don’t go planning out your future and imagine yourself all curled up in a little ball at the foot of my bed tonight.”

  She fired up the Mercedes and backed out of the parking spot. As she drove through the back streets towards the freeway, she wondered if she’d done the right thing by picking up the dog. A day ago, she would have asked Bernie what to do. He’d have known how to handle the discovery of the dog in the box. Then again, maybe not. Bernie probably would have simply backed over the box on his way out of the lot and left it for his janitor to sweep up. In any case, she wouldn’t be getting his input. In spite of her realization about Nolene and all that it implied, illogically, through her veil of anger, she felt somehow closer to Bernie than ever before, as though all she had to do was call him and he’d come tearfully back to her. The feeling dissolved in the darkening shadows as night marched slowly forward across the city, flushing out emotions she wanted no part of, feelings of being frightened--a fear of not making it to morning. Or of making it, and not knowing what to do then.

  She was alone.

  No, not quite. She now had a dog. It wasn’t much, but it was a lot more than she’d had an hour ago. She punched in a number on the cell phone and waited for the answer.

  “Dr. Black’s service,” the operator said.

  “This is Beckie--I just tried to kill myself. I put a gun in my mouth. I didn’t kill myself because of the Chihuahua in the box.”

  “Hold, please,” the operator said.

  “Beckie?” Dr. Black said. “Do I need to call an ambulance and have them come to you? Are you in trouble?”

  Beckie gripped the wheel and drove fast up the southbound onramp to the massive 405 freeway. “I was in trouble,” she said. “That is to say, I nearly killed myself but didn’t. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I don’t know if I’m going to kill myself or not. I almost did, and it was a lot easier than I thought it would be. If I’m going to kill myself in the next few minutes, I suppose it will be death by speeding into a bridge abutment. I can take the car up to a hundred and eighty and then just turn into the nearest pile of concrete. I guess that’s one option.”

  “Beckie, I’m at The Sandcastle, in Paradise Cove, do you know the place?”

  “Yeh, I know it,” Beckie said, “it’s where they used to shoot The Rockford Files.”

  “Why don’t you drive out and join me for a drink? We can have a bite to eat and take a walk on the beach. There’s a lovely full moon coming out. Will you join me?”

  “What kind of a shrink are you?” Beckie said. “I’ve never heard of a doctor inviting a suicide case for a drink and a walk on the beach.”

  “I’m just a friend,” Dr. Black said. “Can you come?”

  The freeway was lightly trafficked--the big Mercedes would make good time.

  “In an hour,” Beckie said. “And I’m bringing a friend.”

  “A friend? What’s her name?”

  “It’s a he,” Beckie said. She blew out a breath and broke into long, deep sobs. “He’s just a little guy somebody abandoned. He’s sort of in-between names right now. I guess we’re both sort of in-between nowhere and nowhere.”

  “I’ll see you in an hour,” Black said. “I’m looking forward to meeting your friend.”

  “Wait,” Beckie said. “I’m going to give my friend a name. It isn’t right that he doesn’t have one.”

  She looked down at the dog, who continued to shake uncontrollably in her lap. A name drifted into her mind from somewhere out there, and the name fit perfectly.

  “Okay Doctor,” she said. “My friend has a name--I’m calling him Mr. Boopers.”

  “I’ll see you in an hour,” Black said.

  Turning off the Santa Monica freeway onto Highway 1, Beckie felt the glow of familiarity, enjoying the feel of the roadster as it sailed along the ocean. Mr. Boopers continued to shake, and do small things with his paws, twitching an ear or two repeatedly in the process of adjusting.

  Mr. Boopers was right to be a little nervous. After all, he’d had a tough day, and there was no telling when or how it would end.

  Chapter 4

  “We call ourselves WE,” Dr. Black said. “WE is an acronym for Women Empowered--we’re a support group of women who live in Santa Monica and the Palisades who are dealing with issues surrounding men. We deal mainly with divorce and abuse. We meet here at The Sandcastle once a week.”

  The fast hop down the 405 to the Santa Monica Freeway behind her, Beckie, in the big roadster, had made record time up the Pacific Coast Highway to Paradise Cove Road, a
narrow, winding finger of asphalt which transferred her from the bluff to sea level and the entranceway to Paradise, the way guarded, not by a gate of pearl or any such material, but rather instead by the more typically hum-drum guard kiosk, where Beckie had picked up her ticket to paradise and idled past a jumble of trailer homes and into the parking lot of The Sandcastle, which perched at the edge of the oceanic eternity of the Pacific, and was privy to, on this particular night, the thundering of storm-inspired sizable waves sparkling under a refulgent full moon. The spray of the waves, aided by a stiff offshore breeze, reaching her face even from her sheltered position behind the restaurant, had inspired her to open her trunk and pull out a heavy windbreaker and, as an afterthought, a large straw beach bag before she’d proceeded into the comfortable square archeology of the restaurant, a popular place, not known for its food, but rather for being where it was, which was on a beach-access portion of the Malibu coastline, beach access being a rare thing, as most of it had been purloined previously from the public by the rich and famous--who inhabited their Herodian lairs strewn like golden dominoes along the beach--and whom the public generally adored and therefore allowed them their slight indulgence of stealing a bit of beach.

  Black, extending her hand in invitation to Beckie to join them in the restaurant booth, introduced two women--Scotia and Betty.

  “The tradition started last Fall,” Betty--a well-appointed, matronly type--said, “when a few of us in the group decided that we needed to take at least one night each week and devote it to something more important than watching our husbands act out their rage fantasies on Monday Night Football, or worse, massage their greed glands while watching Regis Philbin and his geek parade insult the nation’s intelligence. We start with drinks and dinner and, weather permitting, we take a nice stroll on the beach after--which I think we’ll do tonight, albeit it’s a bit windy. As everybody here knows, I always go wading after dinner, no matter how cold or windy it is--it’s my way of challenging the universe, or something. But anyway, we’re glad you’re here--I think you’ll find the food here is decent, and the conversation’s wide open--no holds barred.”