All That Was Happy

by M. M. Wilshire

  “Dr. Black,” Beckie said. “I--”

  “Here is what you are going to do, Beckie,” Dr. Black said. “You are going to get in your car right now, exactly the way you are, dressed or not, and hightail it over to my office immediately, do you hear me!”

  “I’m still in my nightgown,” Beckie said.

  “Throw on a robe,” Black said. “I’ll expect you here in ten minutes, and not a minute more.”

  “I can’t,” Beckie said.

  “You can overcome whatever obstacles you think you have in your life,” Black said. “The first step is to get in the car and get over here--once you’re here, if you still want to stuff that gun in your mouth, I’ll march you into the Ladies’ Room and help you pull the trigger myself!”

  The phone went dead in Beckie’s hand. The doctor’s harsh words had extinguished her emotional inferno, leaving her flat on her back in the ashes of her soul. There was no strength flowing anywhere in her body.

  I cannot go on, Beckie thought.

  Yet somehow, she did, as was attested to by the stares of the parking lot attendant, along with the various and sundry persons in the hallways and elevators she passed on her way to Black’s office, rational persons who stared at the loony lady in the tattered bathrobe clutching a large straw beach bag--from the top of which protruded the head of a tiny dog--as she shuffled past them on her way to a place where, hopefully, she would be able to draw from some source of natural power and replenish whatever had been taken from her by the singularly evil actions of Bernie.

  Chapter 10

  “I know when Bernie’s affair started,” Beckie said. “It was over Christmas--that’s when he gave me the roadster for an early Christmas present--he had it waiting in the driveway for me one morning wrapped with a big red bow. It was a guilt offering--he must have just started seeing Nolene and was trying to salve his conscience.”

  “People are like plants,” Dr. Black said. “They come in a wide variety of emotional colors, sizes and heights. Some are quite easy to dig up, because they have shallow roots. That’s how I see you, Beckie, with your beautiful face and figure, driving your exotic, fast car. You’re like a plant which presents a beautiful flower, but you’re roots are shallow. Bernie’s really not the issue here--what’s at stake is who you are and what you’re going to become.”

  “That’s a tad blunt,” Beckie said. “But you may be right--I’m a neophyte as regards knowing myself. I guess for most of my life, I’ve just wanted to be safe--even during the ‘60’s, I was never into doing drugs or trying new religions or any of that. What I was after was security--I’ve always liked knowing where everything is and where it would be tomorrow. That’s what Bernie provided me for twenty-nine years. Bernie provided security.”

  “I’m not saying there isn’t some value in a life spent just sitting around watching the paint dry on your soul,” Black said. “But where did it leave you? When Bernie pulled the rug out, you went into a free-fall. The problem is, you have nothing to catch you--no religion, no inner reserves, no sense of how to deal with evil, or bring meaning to that evil.”

  “I guess it’s time to face the fact that Cinderella, after her triumphant wedding to the prince, just got kicked out of the castle,” Beckie said. “All my life, I thought it was enough to simply have plenty of money and be a California blonde with a good tan.”

  “Is that why you want to kill yourself?” Black said. “Because you think you’re not enough anymore?”

  “There’s so many reasons,” Beckie said. “Part of it is to punish Bernie, part of it is feeling sorry for myself, part of it is running away from the pain, part of it is having no hope--the list seems endless. Or maybe it’s my way of crying out for help.”

  “No,” Black said. “That’s not why you want to kill yourself--you want to kill yourself so you can remain in control of Bernie’s life. You’re killing yourself --not because you can’t face life anymore--but to boost your own ego. You know that if you kill yourself, it will tie you to Bernie’s soul forever, and destroy any chance he might have of living a happy life without you. Your act of taking your own life is supremely selfish--you are, in effect, a spoiled brat--you married Bernie because you wanted security instead of love--for the past twenty-nine years, you’ve never truly loved Bernie--he’s just been someone you’ve used your beauty to imprison--like an insect--stuck through with a pin to a cardboard while still alive. You have lived a life of total, ruthless, manipulative selfishness, and now Bernie’s finally called your number, and you have the nerve to make him out to be the monster.”

  “Dr. Black!”

  “If you had any kind of compassion,” Black continued, “you’d feel sorry for Bernie--do you really think a man his age wants to take up with a younger woman, and go through all that again? Can you imagine the guilt and remorse he feels for abandoning you? His life is ruined. But he had to get out from your smothering selfishness--you trapped him in his youth with your fiery beauty, but after that, for the rest of his life, you never gave him anything but lukewarm love--yet you demanded everything from him. Bernie’s the victim here. You know what’s killing you? Terminal selfishness, that’s what.”

  Beckie, her emotionally hammered pieces scattered all over the floor of Black’s office, worked hard at simply getting enough air in her lungs not to pass out. It was awhile before she had anything to say, and during the silence, she felt her mind attach itself to the white noise of the building hum, keeping her seething emotions in check, keeping her urge to respond violently to the Doctor’s lambasting to a minimum.

  “My favorite flower is white chrysanthemums,” Beckie finally said. “My mother used to keep them fresh on her dining table every spring. She once painted an old hotel dresser green and then stenciled it with white chrysanthemums for my room when I was growing up. She said that the flowers were a symbol of the warmth she felt towards those who entered her home. I guess, somewhere along the way, I never picked up what my mother was trying to impart. Somehow, I went in another direction--a direction without passion.”

  “It’s not too late,” Black said.

  “People used to laugh that Mom bought old hotel furniture and then refinished it,” Beckie said. “But she used to tell me not to be afraid to buy what I loved, no matter what anybody else thought. When I met Bernie, he was a fat little guy with a big square head and big thick glasses trying to grow his hair long and be hip--it was obvious he wasn’t ever going to be attractive. And I came along, with my scoop-neck Granny dresses and my long blonde hair and my dynamite figure and I knew that I could make Bernie do anything I wanted him to do--I was very cruel to him at first. When we started dating, I used to call him up at his parents late at night and make him stop whatever he was doing and go fetch something for me. If it was summer, I made him get me Rocky Road ice cream. If it was winter, he had to bring me a thermos of hot chocolate. When he’d arrive, I’d take it from him at the doorway and not even let him come in.”

  “In other words, the exact opposite of the warm friendship your mother had for people,” Black said.

  “My mother used to tell me that I should never pass up something I loved,” Beckie said. “She used to tell me that regret is a terrible thing. She said if I passed something up, I’d never find it again. Now I realize that she was right--I passed up love, I never loved Bernie--I liked his fat, froggy little self--but I never had the kind of romantic love for him that a woman should have for her man. Now that I’ve lost him--I’m filled with regret over what might have been.”

  “It’s always been your little party,” Black said. “You’ve always been the center of attention in your little world--well, now that the spotlight is off, what are you going to do?”

  “The first thing I’m going to do is stop trying to kill myself,” Beckie said. “And I guess I’m through vilifying Bernie for something that’s not his fault. But as far as the rest goes, I can see that this is not a job for your average, ordinary selfish, manipulating female--if you’ll agre
e, I’d like to keep working on myself.”

  “Once you seek a teacher,” Black said, “you’ll find the Universe itself opening up to you--everything will start to come into line.”

  “I’m a woman banished,” Beckie said. “And in my new exile, I’m not all that sure of myself. It’s funny--up to now, I’ve done whatever I pleased, whenever I wanted to do it without a thought for the consequences--now I’m afraid to do anything for fear it will be a huge mistake.”

  “Our time for today is almost up,” Black said. “But there’s a few things I think we ought to consider--I’ve heard a number of things today--one is, I’ve heard that you ignored the wishes of your mother to adopt a compassionate stance towards the people in your life. You also abandoned your religion and forced Bernie to do likewise. You’ve also realized that, deep down, you never loved Bernie. I’m going to ask you for a moment, to think the unthinkable--to imagine reconciling with Bernie.”

  “I can’t,” Beckie said. “The gulf between us is simply too enormous--not only his sins against me, but mine against him! As of yesterday, the marriage died.”

  “You are both still alive,” Black said. “Life is for the living, not for the dead. Life is for being with the people you care about--it’s for tuning in and turning on to what’s important. Your former basis for living has been an unbalanced selfishness--I suggest to you that if you should ever make up your mind to pursue a compassionate vision of life, that all things would be possible to you. You could find it in your heart to love Bernie if you tried. You can stop being an alien in your own emotional life and become a lover and a friend.”

  “Dr. Black,” Beckie said. “This is going to sound crazy, and maybe I shouldn’t bring it up now, but last night I met a guy.”

  Black never blinked, but her mouth worked and no words came out--Beckie had succeeded in shocking the doctor with the news.

  “That’s an earthy choice,” Black said.

  “He’s younger by a dozen years, and he claims to be rich,” she said. “We’re having dinner together tonight.”

  “My mother always used to tell me,” Black said, “to butter my toast at the counter before I brought it to the table.”

  “What’s that mean?” Beckie said.

  “You figure it out,” Black said. “Our time is up for today.”

  Chapter 11

  “What do you mean my car’s not here?” Beckie said.

  “It was picked up by an agency,” the attendant said. “I’ve got a copy of the paperwork right here giving them authority to take it.”

  “You jerk!” Beckie said. “That car’s worth over a hundred and fifty grand--you just let somebody drive out of here with it?”

  Having left Black’s office and once again run the gauntlet of well-dressed people staring at her like she was crazy for still being in her bathrobe and clutching a tiny dog, Beckie, upon handing her ticket to the parking attendant, was stunned to learn that the car was gone.

  “I don’t think you’re the one to be arguing with me, lady,” the man said. “You being in your bathrobe, and with the little dog, and all--it doesn’t present a good case for your credibility. The paperwork here has a copy of the pink slip to the car. Maybe you had a fight with your husband, huh?”

  “My husband,” Beckie said, “is divorcing me--but it was my car--he gave it to me for a Christmas present only six months ago.”

  “You two having a little trouble? Perhaps he got tired of making the payments.”

  “Do you see a bank’s name on that pink slip?”

  “No, I guess I don’t.”

  “Why are we standing here discussing this? I’m freezing in this wind. I need you to call me a cab. That’s the least you can do. And don’t expect a tip. If you don’t hurry it up, I’m complaining to the building management.”

  “Complain all you want,” he said. “My cousin owns this building--how do you think I got the job here?”

  “Forget the cab,” Beckie said. “Call a limo service--get me a big one--a stretch Lincoln if they have it--and make it white. White’s my favorite color.”

  “You sure you got that kind of cash on you, lady? If you ask me, you look like you’re a few tacos short of a combination plate.”

  “There’s a gun in my bag,” she said. “It’s loaded with four hollow-point bullets. Now you can either call me a limo or you can make the 5 o’clock news on KTLA.”

  “Sure thing lady,” the man said, hurriedly dialing the number. He was used to dealing with strange people, what with his position as gatekeeper to the important building. He’d learned the importance of looking at things from the other person’s point of view--especially if they looked a little crazy, their favorite color was white, they had a stupid little dog in a bag, and claimed to be carrying a gun.

  Chapter 12

  “Where to lady?” the driver said.

  “Run me over to Nordy’s,” Beckie said. “And step on it.”

  The sparkling white stretch Lincoln caught the first of the late morning sun as the haze burned off enough to impart a hopeful cast over the hard-charging river of traffic on the Wilshire/405 overpass. Fed up with hearing about her imperfections, and pestered by a bad bout of worry regarding Bernie’s seizure of her car, Beckie had decided to clarify her anxieties about her tatty appearance with a trip to Nordstrom’s, the store which made it possible not only to climb any social mountain, but to purchase it, if one desired to, and have it delivered anywhere at any time of day or night. This service was routinely provided and each shopper had come to expect, upon entering the sacred shopping spaces, to find themselves the focus of the sort of highly focused, personal attention which rivaled that which a U.S. First Lady might expect to receive from her personal aide when choosing what to wear for an important night of diplomatic revelry in the Lincoln bedroom.

  There was nothing she could do about her initial appearance as she made her entrance into the store, but, once inside the safety of its doors, she was absolutely certain that she could effect a transformation which could range anywhere from the predictable to the sublime, depending on her whim. That, plus perhaps a little champagne and a cheese Danish or two, might help to offset the dark clouds of emotions hovering just offshore of her soul.

  “Not the front entrance,” Beckie said. “Let me off around back. I don’t want the whole world seeing me like this.”

  Once inside, Beckie was immediately hailed by an attractive young Asian woman who called herself Virginia and blinked not at any suggestion of Beckie’s apparel that she was perhaps less than in her right mind. At Nordstrom’s, a customer was a customer, and as such, considering they drew as their clientele from among the wealthiest residents on the planet, were accustomed to the noble practice of treating every customer as a potential Queen.

  “I need a whole new me,” Beckie explained. “I just got served my divorce papers and I’m still struggling for air--I’ve got a date tonight with a much younger man. We’re probably going into the Valley for Mexican food. What do you suggest?”

  “With your figure,” Virginia said, “we can go hot or cold--we can go backless, or go with a big slit up the side of the skirt, or whatever you want--we can have you looking like a school girl or like Sharon Stone. You tell me. Do you feel hot or cold about tonight? It’s whatever you want--come this way and I’ll show you. Do you want some champagne?”

  “Please,” Beckie said. “And whatever you’ve got for a snack. You still serving those little cheese Danish's?”

  “We’ve got a great chocolate eclair, everything low-fat,” Virginia said, “or you can have some macadamia nuts--everybody is on the Atkins diet and they’re all eating macadamia nuts and fried pork skins.” Virginia pointed to the comfortable chair where Beckie should sit, and left her there, like a queen on a throne, waiting for the presentation of the outfits by Virginia and her support staff.

  A helper brought the crystal flute of champagne along with a silver dish of miniature, bite-size eclairs, a couple of which Beckie
stuffed into her mouth before sipping eagerly of the champagne, noticing the way the chocolatey creamery of the pastry, aided by the acidic but fruity bubbles seemed to sweep away the unpleasant taste left in her mouth by recent events.

  “Do you like the champagne?” the helper said.

  “Mmmph!” Beckie said, nodding her head vigorously up and down.

  Virginia returned with a rack containing several choices. “What are you going to do with your hair?” she asked.

  “I really don’t know,” Beckie said. “I’m working on building my confidence and self-esteem ever since I got served my divorce papers yesterday--I’m actually just trying to learn to relax enough so I don’t go insane. I mean, take last night, for example--I met a new guy and he came over and we talked and everything, so I agreed to see him again tonight, but meanwhile, my husband just repossessed my Mercedes, and I was stranded right there on Wilshire and Barrington in my bathrobe.”

  Virginia did not attempt to reply to this, but instead chose from the rack a beautiful, port-colored silk camisole top.

  “I can’t do this,” Beckie said. “I can’t shop for clothes right now. Look, Virginia, here’s my Platinum card. I’m going to grab a plate of these eclairs and I’m getting out of here. I thought coming here would help me to relax, but the harder I try to relax, the more tense I feel. Here’s what I need you to do--I need you to put together a half-dozen outfits for me, everything from red-hot to ice-cold. I mean, shoes and everything. I’m leaving it all up to you. The main thing is, I need a whole new look, my favorite color is white, and I’m not sure I trust my own judgment any more--just keep in mind that tonight I’m seeing a guy who’s about twelve years younger than I am, and tomorrow I have to attend a meeting with my husband’s lawyers--the main thing is, I don’t want my husband to see me wearing anything he’s ever seen me wear before.”