All That Was Happy

by M. M. Wilshire

  “That’s it,” Beckie said, rising from the stool. “We’re done. I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

  “It’s too bad,” Vito said. “My desire to sculpt you into a goddess has become overwhelming--but perhaps you prefer to go around look like a worn out surf bunny. But don’t blame me when, after you shoot your husband and the photographers are through with you, your hair is at the top of the joke lineup on Letterman every night for awhile. Go ahead--become the next Linda Trip--at least you’ll know why she finally broke down and got herself a decent cut.”

  Beckie sat back down. “You’re a thug, Vito,” she said. “But now I have to know--is it true what you’re saying about my hair?”

  “Some people don’t like change,” Vito said. “I sense you’re one of them. For many years now, your little surfer girl thing worked for you--that’s why you liked to keep your hair flowing. For you, your hair isn’t a style, but a magic talisman--something good must have happened to you long ago when you first wore your hair blonde and long, and you’ve kept your hair hanging there from your scalp like a big, overstuffed blonde rabbit’s foot ever since. But sister, I can tell you, whatever it is you had going, it’s stopped flowing.”

  “I had this style before I was forced to grow up,” she said. “And you’re right--I used to be one of those little surfer bunnies who spent all their time at the beach. Did you know I used to be a pretty fair surfer? I even appeared in the movie, The Endless Summer--not in the water, but I was one of the girls on the beach when Bruce Brown did the Mickey Dora footage in Malibu. That was the best day of my life.”

  “That’s why you’ve kept your hair long,” Vito said. “As a memorial to Mickey Dora.”

  “But after I married Bernie,” Beckie said, “my surfing life just kind of evaporated. Bernie was really kind of a geek--he never did any sports or hobbies--he preferred to pour himself into the work ethic--he taught me that life wasn’t just one big party--that a big part of growing up was being held accountable for my actions. So I put away my surfboard and spent the rest of my life working in the office. That’s why I’m going to kill him tomorrow--I made our tool business what it is--it was me, on the phone everyday to the suppliers, the shippers, and the customers, arranging everything. Sure, Bernie took the good old boys out to lunch and signed up the accounts, but after that, it was my efforts to deliver the tools on time that made him look good. And what was my reward? He just repossessed my car!”

  “Getting four bullets in the chest is probably the justice he deserves,” Vito said. “You’ll probably get away with it--nowadays, it’s okay to shoot a guy fifty times just because he’s reaching for his wallet in front of his home, but if you ask me, the guys who really deserve the bullet are the guys who rip everybody off by using lawyers and accountants to steal everybody blind.”

  “What I should do is use a knife, or a baseball bat,” Beckie said. “A jury won’t convict you if you slaughter your spouse with a knife--look at what O.J. got away with--he’s never missed a day of golf since--or look at Tanya Harding--she had Nancy Kerrigan bashed and she had to do was cry a few crocodile tears.”

  “Before you kill him,” Vito said, “no matter which method you decide to use--you owe yourself an evening and a morning of looking fabulous--can we get started on sculpting a new you?”

  “What are you going to do?” Beckie said.

  “Not me,” Vito said. “We--we’re going to take it down past the bleach, the damage and the frizz--and then we’ll sculpt you into a fantastic geometric cut--you’ve got a nice mix of natural blonde and light gray--I don’t think we’ll even need to add any highlights--If I’m right, it’ll come out a soft platinum--but I’ll have to go all the way down.”

  “You’re going to cut off all my hair,” Beckie said.

  Vito unholstered the large shears and grabbed a big hank of hair.

  “Say good-bye to Mickey Dora,” he said.

  Chapter 16

  “What is separation, anyway?” Beckie said. “What do people mean when they say they’re separated? Does it mean cooling off and then seeing how we feel? Or does it mean it’s over? I just can’t see that there are any clear cut rules. My husband left yesterday morning to go to work and he’s never coming home--I don’t even know where he lives now. He’s erected a barricade of lawyers between us. He even repossessed my wheels.”

  “I’ve been separated for a year, now,” Virginia said. “My parents still don’t know. They’re in Hong Kong--I haven’t figured out what to tell them. They don’t even know I had to go to work.”

  Beckie and Virginia--the young lady from Nordy’s--were reviewing Virginia’s choices of wardrobe which had been selected entirely by Virginia and delivered to Vito’s, where the entire collection was now spread out in a back room away from the clamor which took place in the converted living room and which was filled at present, with a half-dozen ladies having their wishes fulfilled as regarded that which made them feminine--their hair, face and nails--and which defined their essence as members of the female sex and hopefully rendered them sufficiently engaging to the males which inhabited their corner of the woods to assure everyone involved in the ritual that life as it was known in Beverly Hills would continue uninterrupted, at least for the rest of the day and perhaps possibly the week, before another visit to Vito’s would become, for many, an item, not of choice, but of necessity.

  “Do you get lonely?” Beckie said.

  “At first,” Virginia said, “I was glad when he left--I felt relieved. But later, I felt much lonelier than I had anticipated--I began to miss him, no matter how badly we used to argue.”

  “Right now all I’m feeling is anger,” Beckie said. “I was prepared to go through all the crying, and hand-wringing, and everything, and I’d started to do just that until he repossessed my car and left me standing there in public in my bathrobe--that’s when I switched to full-blown anger. Tomorrow, when we meet at the lawyers, I’m going to put four bullets in his chest.”

  “I understand that kind of anger,” Virginia said. “When my husband first left me, I felt so much anger that I set fire to my apartment. I tried to put it out with our fire extinguisher, but it had no charge left. I finally called the fire department, but before they got there, the whole living room was destroyed--I just told them I’d fallen asleep smoking, but I think the Inspector knows what I did--he tried to make me go out with him so he wouldn’t tell.”

  “My husband didn’t take anything with him,” Beckie said. “Not even a suitcase--I couldn’t believe it. It was like he didn’t even want anything that we’d had together--he wants everything in his new life to have no reminder of me. That’s another reason his life ends tomorrow.”

  “I was going to suggest the lace skirt with this port-colored silk cami,” Virginia said, showing her the delicately embroidered skirt. “But with that incredible short haircut, which, by the way, looks absolutely fantastic--no, it’s beyond fantastic--you look like a Greek goddess or something--anyway, with that incredible new look, I think we should go with this.”

  “Wow,” Beckie said. “Strapless. I’ve never worn anything like that before.”

  The garment in question, a short, flowing tube of white spandex covered in silver sequins, was presented to Beckie, upon which she tried it on and stood before the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

  “I’m wrestling with my feelings,” Beckie said. “I wish I wasn’t carrying the extra twenty pounds--do you think I can get away with it?”

  “It’s not something you’d wear to a PTA meeting,” Virginia said. “But you can get away with it if you have the right attitude--you’ll have to walk proud if you wear it--no tiptoeing around.”

  “Can I wear this on a first date?” Beckie said. “We’re going out to the Valley to a hole-in-the wall for some Mexican food. Don’t you think it’s a little too much for that?”

  “You’ve gone and done your hair,” Virginia said. “You’ve started the ball rolling--you might as well go all t
he way and see where it leads you--you’re starting a new life. No sense making it exactly like the old one.”

  “You’re right,” Beckie said. “Besides, this may be my last night out for awhile. After I kill my husband, I’m sure the police will want to detain me--I may even wind up sitting in jail for a year and playing on the Internet like O.J. did.”

  “You keep talking about killing your husband as if you’re really going to do it,” Virginia said.

  Beckie reached into the straw purse and pulled out the gun.

  “Each cylinder is filled with a half-jacketed 180-grain hollowpoint bullet,” Beckie said. “The kind of bullet that makes a small punch-hole going in, expands to the size of a fifty-cent piece once inside, and takes a bowl of chili with it going out.”

  Virginia stood very still, very quiet, a few shades paler.

  “I’m sorry,” Beckie said, putting the gun away. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “That’s okay,” Virginia said. “Forget about it.”

  “Everything these days is about boundaries,” Beckie said. “Everybody always wants to know who’s responsible for what, and how everything is going to be done. When my husband walked out on me, I realized I didn’t have the strength to spend the rest of my life wrestling with him over all the issues surrounding the disposition of the business we’d created together. I didn’t have the strength to watch him with the child he’s having with his secretary. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to handle it--so tomorrow, I’m going let my gun decide everything for both of us.”

  “We’d better decide on some shoes,” Virginia said. “Do you like these silver platform wedgies?”

  Chapter 17

  “There’s no law that says being loved is an absolute necessity for being happy,” Leah said.

  “I’m not sure what love is, anyway,” Beckie replied. “Is it something real, or something imaginary?”

  At midpoint in their dinner, Beckie, Huntington, Leah, and Ira were halfway through the second round of Gold Margaritas, the first round of potent golden slush having already been quickly sucked down to quell the fires from the homemade, freshly toasted tortilla chips dipped in a fresh, peppery salsa that convinced the tongue it had just been pressed onto the surface of Hell. They’d all met at the hole-in-the-wall, Taxco Mexican Restaurant, which, although in the middle of what many considered a culture-free zone, that is to say, conditions surrounding the Van Nuys restaurant rivaled that of the worst slums of Bogota--served what was possibly the best Mexican food in the city, if such a thing could be said to exist, and had served it for the better part of thirty years without changing the menu a whit.

  Huntington, it being his first time to visit the joint, initially approached his plate as though it might be exceedingly poisonous, but after a first, tentative bite, proceeded to quickly make a good job of consuming with gusto the savory, gravy-soaked platter of chili rellenos, plated alongside a greasy, dripping taco lying atop a lake of mashed beans soaking in melted cheese, the entire affair topped off with a hot tamale such as could be normally found only in places south of the border where the girth of a man was still a measure of his importance. At Taxco, lard ruled, and lard, in spite of the bad press it received from the Richard Simmons crowd, was mighty tasty stuff.

  “I think love is real,” Huntington said to Beckie. “But that doesn’t mean it’s good. What gets me is why people assume that love, once they get hold of it, will fix all their problems.”

  “I think love can run up quite a tab,” Beckie said. “And sometimes, when the bill comes due, we find out we don’t have the resources to pay it. When Bernie had me served yesterday, that was the bill for our twenty-nine years together--I’m still picking myself up off the floor over that one.”

  “Beckie,” Ira said. “I just want you to know I’m very ashamed of my brother. The mess he’s caused by taking up with his sleazy concubine is unforgivable. We all have to make choices in this life, and I must say, I’m totally against the choice Bernie made.”

  “Thank you, Ira,” Beckie said. “By the way, do either you or Leah know where he’s staying?”

  Ira and Leah exchanged slightly uncomfortable looks.

  “Oh, don’t tell me!” Beckie said. “He’s not at your place in Agoura!”

  “The bum came to us yesterday afternoon and begged us to let him sleep in the guest room for a few days,” Leah said. “I was against it, but Ira caved in.”

  “I should think you would have sent him on his way,” Beckie said. “Especially you, Ira--Bernie’s your brother. Don’t you think you could have at least sent him to a hotel out of respect for me? The way it stands now, it looks like you are siding with Bernie! What I don’t understand is--why he isn’t staying with his tramp?”

  “Beckie,” Leah said. “I don’t know if now is the right time to tell you this. On the way over, Ira and I discussed breaking the news to you. Ira was against me saying anything, but I think you should know, Bernie broke it off with Nolene.”

  “What are you talking about--what do you mean, he isn’t seeing Nolene anymore? She’s having his baby.”

  “Actually,” Ira said, “she’s not having his baby. It seems that Nolene lied to Bernie about being pregnant with his kid.”

  “Did he fire her?” Beckie said.

  “Not exactly,” Ira said. “--she still has her job, but he’s ending the relationship.”

  Beckie looked around helplessly, her action drawing the attention of the drink waiter.

  “I wasn’t calling you,” she said to the waiter, “but as long as you’re here, you better bring me another Margarita.”

  “I think we could all use another,” Ira said.

  This new reality carried with it a certain freaky wavelength which began resonating unpleasantly within Beckie as she realized the awful truth--Bernie had left her--not because of another woman--but just because he wanted to. Somehow, the abandonment had been tolerable when she’d understood the justification to be the Oldest Reason In The World--another woman. But the thought of her husband of twenty-nine years of marriage who, after having dabbled in the wares of another chick and who had subsequently taken out divorce papers on his wife as a result of the comparison, her husband who’d vowed, at one of the nicest chapels in Los Vegas, twenty-nine years before, to love, honor, cherish, and obey until death did he part, this husband, having dilly-dallied around with some chick half Beckie’s age, had simply gone off to live at his brother’s house and repossess her car, and arrange for her to face a phalanx of his high-powered Century City lawyers in the morning--all this without a word from him spoken directly to her, his choice being the intermediaries of his brother and sister-in-law, her best friend, Leah.

  “Why hasn’t Bernie even called me?” Beckie said.

  “He’s too proud,” Ira said. “He told me he’s not going to go around with his tail between his legs.”

  “Why did he take my car, did he tell you that?”

  “It had something to do with Nolene,” Ira said. “Apparently he gave the car to her.”

  “He gave my Mercedes to his secretary?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ira said.

  “I’m going to be sick,” Beckie said. “Please excuse me.” With that, she got up and made tracks for the powder room, quick-stepping along the tile breezeway and through the door marked Banos Damas, praying that she’d make it on time.

  Chapter 18

  “I guess you could say that what began as a terrifying and stressful situation yesterday, has become quite a bit clearer tonight,” Beckie said. “You guys are all against me. What shocks me most is you, Leah--doesn’t the fact that we’ve been friends since high school mean anything to you?”

  “Please don’t feel betrayed because we took Bernie in,” Leah said. “After all, he’s Ira’s flesh and blood--I had to respect Ira’s wishes. I’m caught in the middle between the two brothers.”

  The two ladies, sitting together on the little couch in the anteroom inside the Banos Damas, were a
ttempting to find a common ground upon which the energies of the long-standing friendship could be put to work to sort out the various issues which had just arisen, issues regarding loyalty of friends versus loyalties of blood relations, issues complicated by the giving of elaborate presents to overactive teenage office workers and seductresses, the whole of which had overwhelmed Beckie to the point where she’d been forced to empty the contents of her stomach, an unpleasant occurrence at best, but one that now left her drained and dispirited and not looking forward to continuing the evening, or anything else.

  “I guess I’m really being forced to face reality today,” Beckie said. “I have to confess something, but you’ve got to promise it stays between you and me.”

  “You know me, Beckie,” Leah said.

  “I was going to murder Bernie tomorrow at the lawyers,” Beckie said. “I was simply going to march in and blast him four times right in the chest with my little snubby.”

  “For real?” Leah said.

  “For real,” Beckie confessed.

  “That concerns me,” Leah said. “Any other woman making that claim, I could dismiss it, but you--what with your training and all--it’s a threat I think I might have to take seriously.”

  “Trust me,” Beckie said. “I’ve changed my mind. After hearing what I heard tonight, I guess you could say I’m not as angry at Bernie as I was before--I think my urge to kill arose from the constant thought of him and that little concubine of his having a kid together--now that Bernie’s backed away from the situation, it sort of took away my rage.”

  “I don’t know why he took your car and gave it to her,” Leah said. “But when we get home tonight, I’m going to confront the little weasel about it and see that he gets you another car--a woman can’t be left without a car in Los Angeles--it’s unthinkable that he should do that.”

  “What’s worse,” Beckie said, “and not that it matters anymore, but that car had my wedding ring in it--I flung it somewhere in the back seat yesterday!”