All That Was Happy

by M. M. Wilshire

  “Just deliver everything to your house?” Virginia said.

  “No--I’ll be at Vito’s Of Beverly Hills this afternoon,” Beckie said. “Send everything over there--I’m going to spend the rest of the day in my bathrobe. And why not? Elvis did.”

  “I understand,” Virginia said. “You’re a beautiful lady--you’re giving yourself a break. I’ll deliver everything personally to Vito’s and help you with trying them on--I’ll give you some variety--you won’t have to be bored with your clothes any more--I’ll make you something with a lot of sizzle, something that creates energy all around you--your new boyfriend will not know what hit him.”

  “I think we understand each other,” Beckie said. “An hour ago, I was ready to seek reconciliation with my husband--but he just declared war on me--I’m taking the gloves off.”

  “We’ll pull out all the stops,” Virginia said. “Just leave it to me--tonight you’ll be wearing a lace skirt and embroidered silk top, with some beaded sandals that will wake everybody up. Tell Vito’s to make sure they pull your hair back, and no braids or anything like that...I’ll put in some sexy lipstick, too.”

  “And so the pendulum swings,” Beckie said, hoisting her flute.

  Chapter 13

  “Stop at the little park on Roxbury,” Beckie said. “Mr. Boopers has some personal business to attend to.”

  The white Stretch, having entered the sacred, and somewhat pastoral, albeit highly security conscious Beverly Hills, where such stupendous vehicles cruising past the fabulous mansions were as common as Gucci bags, their number equaled only by the number of illegal immigrants who populated the various bus stops, who waited patiently for buses which ran slow and late, and who were vigilantly eyeballed on the half-hour by K-9 patrol cars equipped with savage dogs which never ran late. Beckie eyed nervously the simple people who dressed poorly and who were on foot and thus were ranked very low on the desirable persons scale by the highly wheeled legal citizenry of Los Angeles, who further ranked these so-called “illegals”--whose country was stolen from them by lawyers in 1846--on a social-desirability scale with the dead and dying who lay on the streets of Calcutta, these same Beverly Hills servants who stood at the bus stops and watched Beckie in her white limousine cruise past them, these same persons, who, after having served their daily indenture to the obscenely wealthy masters of world consciousness, who, having fed their masters and polished their toilets and bidets and kept their secrets, were then forced to return to the hostile, crowded warrens of the gang-ridden, burned-out, older, eastern section of Los Angeles, where they crammed themselves into roach-infested firetraps and gamely attempted to serve their families with whatever strength they had left over. The message of this dichotomy, of beautiful blondes in white limousines passing bus stops crowded with illegals was obvious to all--In L.A., poverty sucked big time.

  Mr. Boopers, upon the limo stopping at the park and the door opened to him, and finding some fresh grass and trees presented to him, concerned himself not with the social scale or economic status of any biped, legal or otherwise, near or far, but instead wasted no time in attending to his personal business, which he cleverly spring boarded into the additional benefit activity of boosting his own standing on the social scale by letting every dog who might be passing by, either shortly or even in the distant future, know he’d been there, and, not only that he’d been there, but also that he had enjoyed the run of the place while he was at it, ignoring the leash laws with impunity and marking as he did a territory quite large for a creature so tiny.

  This business finished, the limo once again took up its trek, winding its way past the security-walled mansions and on into the lightly high-rised commercial zone which began The Strip, passing a bank or two--these towers host to a few dark foyers where people like Elvis used to be sighted, and who, along with the likes of people such as Pat Boone, used to conduct their blue and white suede enterprises--buildings lining Sunset, buildings host to unspeakably evil financial workings performed on behalf of the Hollywood movers and shakers--buildings which had to be passed before the limo finally turned right onto Doheny, heading south for a block before pulling to the curb in front of the smartly restored 30’s Tudor day spa sporting the muted but elegant sign bearing to the viewer that they had indeed arrived at Vito’s Of Beverly Hills.

  Beckie entered the back steps to find her new found friend of the night before, Scotia, waiting for her in a sweet-smelling, converted, brick-floored kitchen filled with candles and white ironstone pottery stuffed with lemons and limes. In the center of the antique wooden kitchen table, beside a magnum of champagne cooling in a silver bucket, was a magnificent centerpiece of white chrysanthemums.

  “You remembered my favorite flowers,” Beckie said.

  “I hope you like them,” Scotia said.

  “So this is where you work,” Beckie said. “It’s really quite charming. And the air is beautifully scented--it’s like an English country kitchen.”

  “This is where I make my daily bread,” Scotia said. “And truthfully--I love it here.”

  “I almost didn’t make it,” Beckie said. “My husband repossessed my car and left me stranded at the corner of Wilshire and Barrington in my bathrobe. I was lucky I had my Platinum Visa with me.”

  “I was wondering if it was you,” Scotia said. “When I saw the limo, I thought maybe we were going to get one more shot at Liz Taylor--she was riding in one the day she had her nail repair emergency. Can I pour you a glass of champagne? We’re serving a Pierre Jourdan Brut, from South Africa--it’s got the most bubbles of any champagne we’ve ever tried. Maybe it’ll help you forget about the loss of your personal coupe for awhile.”

  “None for now,” Beckie said. “I’ve got to keep a lid on the booze and maintain a clear head. Just to let you know, I’m expecting a delivery from Nordy’s sometime while I’m here--a personal shopper named Virginia is going to give me a hot new look.”

  “Be careful what you say,” Scotia said. “If Vito hears you’re looking for something hot, he’ll really do a number on you.”

  “I’ll just have him do a light trim and pull it back,” Beckie said.

  “Let me give you a clue,” Scotia said. “Vito doesn’t do light anything and he never pulls anything back. Before he’ll even touch your hair, he has to get the vibes just right. I once saw him throw the Lewinsky woman out of here when she failed to tune in properly.”

  “What do you mean?” Beckie said. “The guy just cuts hair spontaneously? Is he some kind of birdbrain or something?”

  “Not exactly,” Scotia said. “Vito’s no cowboy--he’s not going to rope you and run. Let’s just say he likes to work in an atmosphere of spiritual spaciousness--one thing I will say--you won’t leave here the same as you came in.”

  “She’s right,” a soft, high male voice behind her said. “I’m no cowboy. I don’t come in with guns blazing. I prefer flowers to bullets.”

  Beckie turned to behold a tight, wiry man in Reeboks and jeans, a lemon-silk jersey hanging loosely from his shoulders. His smiling face was crowned with a cap of artfully tussled, short, bleached curls.

  “Welcome to Vito’s Of Beverly Hills,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Vito.”

  He shook hands in the European manner, without force or pressure, allowing her to take the measure of his fingers, which felt spring-loaded.

  “What a cute little dog,” Vito said, reaching into the bag and drawing out a struggling Mr. Boopers. “Scotia, call somebody and have them deliver a taco or something for him--we don’t want him getting hungry and biting one of the guests. And put Mr. Fleas in the closet until the doggy goes home.”

  Beckie felt a laugh billow up and she let it out. “Mr. Fleas?” she said.

  “Our cat,” Vito said. “Pure bluepoint. He’s a terror. Last week he chewed the ear off a lady’s teacup poodle. I’m taking no chances with your tiny friend. You’re laughing. That’s good--it means we’re making progress. Earlier, I was taking bets with Scotia
that I could cheer you up, no matter what your initial mood.”

  “I’m up and down these days,” Beckie admitted. “My moods aren’t something a respectable bookie would take odds on.”

  “We’re going to start you off with a bath and shampoo,” Vito said. “After that a massage to relax you before you and I meet in my cutting room and see what kind of fire we can light under you about going for a new look.”

  “I was telling Scotia I’d really just like a trim.”

  “Hair styles are like cars,” Vito said. “You can drive a truck or you can drive a Maseratti--it’s up to you. But I won’t send you out of here in a truck--if that’s your choice, you’ll have to get that from the hair criminals at the mall.”

  Beckie swallowed hard and looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to offend--the truth is, I don’t know who or what I am anymore. I’m going through a divorce and I just started dating someone new, and tomorrow I’m meeting with my husband’s lawyers--the truth is, I don’t really feel up to any of this. If I had my way, I’d just go home and sleep.”

  “You’re crossing paths with a little bad luck,” Vito said. “But the right cut can give you the edge.”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Beckie said.

  “Sometimes it is,” Vito said.

  “You sound like an optimist,” Beckie said.

  “You’re depressed,” Vito said. “Now is the time to ask yourself--is there another way of seeing things? I’m no cockeyed optimist, but here in my salon, I can tell you that we can move you from where you are now, which is living in one dimension, into another world entirely--and it all starts with the way we decide to cut your hair. Now, we’re going to get you into your bath, and we’re going to get some tacos for your dog, and we’re going to make everything all right, okay?”

  Beckie nodded. As she followed Scotia towards the bath, she realized how miserable and worried she must have appeared to Vito, how lonely and depressed she must have seemed. He’d read her perfectly, was probably an expert on communicating with rich women such as herself who had too much time on their hands and too many problems to solve. She’d have walked out, but she lacked the courage, and there was one thing they’d forgotten to mention, and by that omission had thus secured her loyalty and allegiance.

  Neither Scotia or Vito had remarked on the fact that she’d showed up in her bathrobe.

  Chapter 14

  “Every woman on the verge of discovering her true self is a diamond in the rough,” Scotia said. “Or in your case, we might say she’s a white chrysanthemum about to bloom.”

  “But who am I?” Beckie said. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “If you think of life as money,” Scotia said, “Finding out who you are means being able to spend your life the way you want to, instead of the way somebody else wants you to. Look around you--how many people do you see living their lives the way they really want to? Are you?”

  Beckie, inside the tub room, submerged deep in the whirling suds of Vito’s marble bath, and feeling herself relaxing fully for the first time in the past 48 hours, found herself surprisingly open to Scotia’s philosophical ramblings, enjoying a sense of sisterhood with the girl who, as she talked, massaged Beckie’s long blonde hair with a rich shampoo, the strawberry scent of which mingled nicely with the heady nose ambrosia of aromatic soaps and lit vanilla candles upon her olfactory palette, the experience as a whole promoting a feeling of security which allowed her to explore some of the raw edges of recent events without incurring further pain. The tub room had a peace to it.

  “The guy I met last night,” Beckie said. “His name was Huntington--he’d been a big time Wall Streeter, but he abandoned it to buy a nightclub near the beach--if you ask me, he’s doing what he wants to do.”

  “That’s not it,” Scotia said. “It’s not a matter of what you’re doing, it’s a matter of how you’re doing it--if Huntington were truly free, it wouldn’t matter to him if he stayed on Wall Street or worked in a bar--he’s not free yet, if such a thing still matters.”

  “You’re saying as long as I want my broken marriage to be healed, I’ll never be free,” Beckie said.

  “I’m saying,” Scotia said, “as long as it matters to you one way or the other, you’ll never be free--it shouldn’t matter whether it’s repaired or let go.”

  “I’m not there yet,” Beckie said. “I may never be. I have made some progress, though. I’m no longer suicidal. I learned that much about myself.”

  “That’s a beautiful discovery,” Scotia said. “Sometimes, I think it’s kind of nice what we discover about ourselves when life is shaky.”

  “I discovered I’m not suicidal,” Beckie said. “But I am homicidal--I’m going to kill my husband for taking my car.”

  There was a pause, then an eerie quiet as Scotia shut the tub jets off and handed Beckie a large, thick towel.

  “Why?” Scotia finally said.

  “Why what?” Beckie said.

  “Why are you talking about killing your husband? It scares me when you say that--I don’t know if you’re speaking literally or just letting out your frustrations.”

  “Let me put it this way,” Beckie said. “Tomorrow we’re meeting at his lawyer’s office--I’ve made up my mind. I’m walking in there and I’m going to blow him to smithereens.”

  “You’re not kidding, are you?” Scotia said.

  “Scotia,” Beckie said. “I’m absolutely not kidding. I’m going out tonight with a new guy, and I’m going to have one, final, really good meal with him at this great little Mexican place I know of. It’ll be me and my new date and my best friend Leah and her husband Ira. Then I’m going to get a good night’s sleep, take the limo over to the lawyer’s office, wait until we’re all seated at the conference table, and put four shots straight into Bernie’s fat little heart.”

  Scotia’s voice went high, urgent. “Beckie?”

  “Look,” Beckie said. “I’ve tried to get into the WE thing, and the sessions with Dr. Black and all, but I just can’t do it. I’ve been married for twenty-nine years to the same fat little businessman--that’s been my life. It’s probably a life few women would envy. I haven’t learned to do anything creative in all that time, haven’t explored myself, or ran marathons, or raised kids--the only thing I’ve done is collect little ceramic figurines--I’ve done that, maybe a bit too much--I’ve got over a thousand of them in the vault at Bekins. But that’s it. It’s too late for a woman like me to learn anything about how she fits into the universe. I liked being married to Bernie--I didn’t love him with the kind of passion I was supposed to have, but in my own way I loved being with him. I liked being financially secure. I was ready to finish it out to the end--what I don’t like is being left alone, and having my husband making a baby with his hot young Irish-Hispanic secretary. What I don’t like is being left standing in my bathrobe at the corner of Wilshire and Barrington without my car. What I don’t like is being summoned to appear by my husband’s lawyers so they can lowball me and take advantage of my disorientation and flimflam me into giving up what’s rightfully mine. Believe me, Scotia--I’m deadly serious when I say I’m going to send my husband to the afterlife tomorrow.”

  “But you never loved him?” Scotia said.

  “I respected him, and in my own way I loved him,” Beckie said. “But that’s beside the point. In fact, that may be the main reason I’m going to do it. You know, perhaps I have discovered who I am after all--I’m a woman in a killing rage--and let me tell you, right now it feels great. King Solomon had it right--there’s a time to kill. I’ll do the weeping after Bernie’s gone.”

  “I’m skipping your massage,” Scotia said. “This is getting too weird for me--I can’t handle the way you’re acting--you need to go straight in to Vito. Maybe he can do something with you.”

  Chapter 15

  “I should tell you,” Vito said. “That dog of yours makes a pretty poor Chihuahua--we brought in a couple of those chalupas from the
Taco Bell down on Melrose and he wouldn’t touch them--it appears his tastes are a good deal more sophisticated--we finally got him to eat a couple of jumbo quail we had left over from a party last night.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” Beckie said. “I wish all my problems were as small as that dog.”

  “When you’ve got a big problem,” Vito said. “The first step is to admit there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “You mean just forget about solving it?” Beckie said.

  “I mean, nobody ever solves a big problem by solving the big problem. They do it by solving all the small problems leading up to the big problem. When you solve the small problems, one-by-one, by the time you get to the big problem, it no longer exists, because big problems are just collections of small problems in the first place.”

  Beckie, sitting on a stool and draped with a black sheet in the windowless, mirror-less, soundproof cutting chamber, the top of her head the focus of a single spotlight shining down on her from the ceiling, had become immersed in a weighty, pre-cut discourse with Vito about her preparations for the direct assassination of Bernie at the lawyer’s office on the morrow.

  “I appreciate your trying to talk me out of shooting Bernie,” Beckie said.

  “I’m not trying to do that,” Vito said. “I don’t control where people’s lives flow--if you want to shoot your hubby, then go ahead--but don’t do it without getting a good cut first--after you spread his insides all over everybody in the conference room, there will be a lot of reporters and TV cameras--it’s going to come out that you were over here--I don’t want them talking about your haircut and saying I didn’t do my job.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Beckie said.

  “Hey, life is one big joke sometimes,” Vito said. “What concerns me right now is, I’m wondering how you’ve managed to even remain upright for more than ten minutes with that monstrous, frizzed-out, over-bleached, over-conditioned dust-mop weighing down your head?”