A Small Matter (19 page)

She awoke with a jolt in the bedroom of the
Kling Street house. Kilkenney, forming a large ball, still sleeping
under the covers at the end of the mattress, warmed her feet with
his glorious fur-iosity. The bedroom door was opening. A couple
appeared in the open doorway, a man and a woman,
thirties-something, well-dressed, with sharp faces pulled back into
concerned grimaces.

“Who are you?” the man said.

“Who are you?” Vickie answered.

“This is our property,” the man said. “What
are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“I should ask you the same thing,” Vickie
answered. “The lady who rents from you--I’m staying with her. She
let me in out of the storm two days ago. Why don’t you ask her and
see for yourself? And shut the door while you’re at it. I’m not
dressed for visitors.”

“What are you talking about?” the man said.
“There’s nobody renting from us. Listen, lady, I don’t know who you
are, but you’ve got to leave. You’re trespassing. I strongly
suggest you get yourself together and go.”

“What are you talking about! I can’t just up
and walk out the front door! I have nothing to wear and no car! I
have cancer! But I’ll tell you what. Let me borrow your phone and
I’ll have somebody come and pick me up.”

Kilkenney picked that moment to emerge from
the foot of the bed and stretch. At the sight of the surprisingly
large beast, the couple backed away from the door.

“Get back, honey,” the man said. “She’s got a
Tasmania devil or something--it might be rabid!”

“This is getting too weird,” the woman said,
extracting an ultra-thin phone from her purse. “C’mon--don’t
antagonize her any further. We’ll leave her here and wait outside
until the police get here.”

“You’re right, honey,” the man said. “The
woman is obviously deranged. You know how these homeless are.
There’s no telling what she might do. We don’t want this to turn
violent. Look at her! She’s all scratched up and from the look on
her face, my guess is, she’s probably got AIDS. Let’s get out of
here before she pulls a hypo on us.”

The couple slammed her door behind them as
they hastily exited the house. Vickie, thus left alone, pondered
this new development. She looked heavenward. Somewhere up there was
the lady. The lady who said she was cured. Had it all been a dream?
She took a deep breath. No pain. Not only was there no pain, she
felt pretty decent. She laughed out loud. Maybe Theresa and her
tears of blood had been for real, after all. Theresa--Vickie’s good
Samaritan--who, for whatever reason, must have packed up her
statuette of the crying Virgin and split during the night, leaving
Vickie sleeping there alone to face whatever music might be playing
the next day.

Something caught her eye. The rosary, the
gift from Theresa, carefully hung on the doorknob, the crucifix
still swaying from the slamming of the door. She stood up to
retrieve it and examined it closely--there it was, the thick spot
of blood on the crucifix, like a drop of heavy paint. The rosary in
her hand gave her a sense of peace. Nothing heavy or overpowering,
simply a sense of relaxation over the knowledge that the recent
hours with Theresa hadn’t been a complete hallucination.

Vickie felt strong. The storm had passed and
it was a new day. Perhaps her battle with the tumor was over. If
so, she had other, more important work to do. Wrapping her sheet
tightly around her, she headed for the kitchen. It would be awhile
before the cops got there. Might as well see if there was any way
to make a cup of coffee--and, of course, if fortune was truly
smiling, there was always the chance of some of that terrific
leftover Mexican sweet bread.

Chapter 29

“I haven’t been hungry in days,” Vickie said.
“But I am now--and I’m talking about raw hunger, here, the kind
people lost in the forest have when they eat a lizard or a
bug.”

“Then we’re in luck,” Dalk said. “Du-par’s is
not in the habit of turning down hungry people. Of course, whether
or not you’ll score a bug all depends.”

Having earlier met the two uniformed cops and
straightened out the Kling Street incident with one clean surgical
phone call to Dalk, and having been joined by him, he providing
her, for the moment, with temporary clothing in the form of a pair
of regulation PD sweats, and a pair of old running shoes two sizes
too large, Vickie, in the jump seat of the Mercedes Black Diamond
Edition roadster, having sketched in for Dalk the details of the
prior twenty-four hours--omitting the fact that she believed
herself to be completely healed--was looking forward to traipsing
into Du-par’s Restaurant on Ventura Boulevard, a hair east of
Laurel Canyon, whereupon she expected to be served the best
breakfast in Los Angeles, complete with pie, for which said eatery
was famous throughout the Valley and beyond.

“We’ll have them fry some hash or something
for Kilkenney,” Vickie said, referring to their traveling companion
who’d fashioned a nest of sorts out of the sheet they’d stuffed
behind the driver’s seat.

“He can’t eat in my new car,” Dalk said.
“It’s enough that he’s allowed in the back. I really don’t want him
in here at all. Did you see the way he rubbed his pheromones all
over the back of my seat?”

The Mercedes barreled south down Lankershim
Boulevard, through the impressive sub-strata of Universal City, a
swelling, steel-shouldered, glass-faced extravaganza of tourist
delights and hard movie deals, where too much money and power daily
corrupted absolutely the Lilliputians who ran the place, and who
oversaw the strapping down of the Gulliver of public
consciousness.

“Dr. Lerner’s been going crazy trying to
locate you,” Dalk said. “They’ve got Mulroney’s body moved to a
private room. They need a decision as to how to proceed.”

“Proceed?” Vickie said. “You mean they want
me to decide about shutting off the life support.”

“Well,” Dalk said. “If you’re going to have a
heart attack, you might as well have it at a major hospital. The
crash team did an awesome job--they managed to get him functioning
on his own again. The only problem is, he’s in a deep coma. They
don’t know if he’s really in there or not, but if he is and he
chooses to come back, in Dr. Lerner’s opinion, he’ll probably find
himself not too much the worse for wear.”

“So what do they need me for?” Vickie
said.

“I’d rather have Lerner explain that to you,”
Dalk said. “And I think we should eat first.”

“I am hungry,” Vickie said. “If I don’t eat
something soon, I’ll be on life support.”

Dalk tapped the steering wheel nervously. “So
how’s it going with you?” he said. “Everybody’s concerned about
you. I’ve been worried sick. I went by the old house. It looked
like you had a fight in the living room. Your car was gone from the
back. I figured you’d been kidnapped. When they called and told me
how they found you, wrapped in a sheet in an abandoned house, I
thought for sure you’d been abducted.”

“It’s a long story,” Vickie said. “In a way,
I think I was abducted--but not by evil forces. I certainly had a
dream I’ll never forget. At least I think it was dream. One thing
I’m worried about is that when my car was stolen, my purse was in
it--that means whoever stole it has my address and the keys to my
house.”

“They have your car,” Dalk said. “And of
course by now, the car is either in Mexico or has been completely
parted out. But the good news is, they didn’t get your purse--I’ve
got it with me in the trunk. You left it behind when you rushed out
of the house after your suicide attempt. Of course, that’s why I
was so worried about you. I figured you’d been abducted because the
living room was torn up as though there had been a fight and your
purse was left behind. No lady in her right mind leaves home
without her purse--unless she’s being kidnapped.”

“You mean I don’t have to replace all my ID?
That’s a huge relief.”

Dalk turned west on Ventura, entering Studio
City and wheeled into Du-par’s parking lot where they soon found
themselves at a window booth in the comforting atmosphere of coffee
perking and bacon frying.

“I was going to have your french toast, but
instead I’m going to have pie for breakfast,” Vickie said to the
server. “But I want two pieces at once, on the same plate. How
about hot blueberry with a big glop of vanilla ice cream, and maybe
some nuts sprinkled on top?”

“I’ll have a T-bone,” Dalk said, “fried, not
grilled--burn it, no sides.”

“No bread, or fries, or anything?” the server
said.

“Nada,” Dalk said. “Just bring the meat.”

“And two coffees,” Vickie said. “But not from
the bottom of the pot.”

“Our coffee is urn-brewed, not dripped,” the
server said. “It’s always fresh.” The server, a battle-hardened
carryover from the old days of truckers and improper familiarities,
cracked a firm pre-tip smile, called them both “dears” and trudged
off to fill their order, returning in record time with the
eats.

“I’m eating mine with a spoon,” Vickie said,
as she dug in appreciatively to her hot-and-cold, globby mess.
“Dalk,” she said. “I think my cancer’s gone.”

Dalk set his fork down carefully. “You’ve
been through a lot lately,” he said.

“No,” she said. “It’s not what you think.
When I arrived at Kling Street, the lady there dripped a bloody
tear on my face. The statue of the Virgin cried the tear. It was
the tear that healed me. This morning, I saw a woman whom I believe
was Our Lady, and she confirmed the healing. I’m cured. And I feel
great! There’s no heaviness in my lungs...no pain in my back, no
fatigue. I’m hungry again. I feel like a new person.”

Dalk’s blank stare caused a few seconds of
uneasiness.

“Dalk?” she said.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I need to get
centered, here.” He sipped some coffee. “Okay,” he said. “I needed
to get a grip on myself before we continue this. Vickie, you’re my
sister and I love you. I’m going to stick with you. We’ll get you
through this. But you’ve got to understand that you’ve had a
tremendous shock to your system.”

“Dalk! It’s okay! I’m not crazy. I’m not
somebody who’s dislocated their mental faculties. Look, I’ll show
you what I’m talking about.” She reached into her pocket and pulled
out the rosary. “Look,” she said. “Right there, on the crucifix--do
you see it?”

“See what?”

“The teardrop of blood from Our Lady! Last
night, the Virgin Mary lady gave this to me. It has healing
power.”

Dalk’s manner softened. “Look,” he said.
“Yesterday, I had a long talk with somebody about you. She’s a real
nice lady. A doctor. Her name is Dr. Sellers. She works at the
Medical Center. I want you to meet her after we see Mulroney this
morning.”

“You think I’m nuts. You don’t believe I’m
cured,” Vickie said. “But that’s okay. You weren’t there--you
didn’t see what I saw. I can hardly expect you to have the
faith.”

“Let’s just eat,” Dalk said. “It’s hard to
discuss this right now.”

The waitress returned to fill the coffee.

“Do you believe in miracles?” Vickie asked
her.

“Sure do, honey,” she said. “Every day is a
miracle in my book.”

“Can you please bring us an order of your
corned beef hash to go?” Vickie said. “It’s for our cat, so maybe
the cook can put a sardine or two on top for him.”

“Sure thing, honey,” she said, making tracks
for the order stand.

“Look, Vickie,” Dalk said. “This business of
your cancer and Mulroney’s death, or coma, or whatever it is, has
confused things.”

“Cough it up, Dalk,” Vickie said. “You think
I should see a shrink, right? This Dr. Sellers?”

“Right,” Dalk said.

Vickie swiped at her eyes with a napkin,
determined not to cry. It was clear her transcendent moment and the
resultant high feelings were drawing to a close. “I’m telling you
the truth, Dalk,” she said. “Early this morning I rode a rainbow
into Heaven and I saw Our Lady. Now you can accept it or not, I
don’t care.”

“I’m not ruling out what you say,” Dalk said.
“Don’t get me wrong. When I was in Japan, I experienced a lot of
strange things. My sensei, Toyama, would probably be the first to
agree with you that you experienced something. But Vickie, we’ve
been in an oven here. I am personally fried. I want you to be
cured. I want you to be well. I’ve been scared stiff about you ever
since you marched out of Dr. Bienenfeld’s office and refused to
even discuss your options with him. Now maybe you got cured, and
maybe you didn’t. But I think you owe me one. I’ve been with you
through this. I want you to talk with Dr. Sellers to make sure
we’re not missing something, here.”

Dalk’s look of consternation and dismay
touched Vickie’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been very
selfish lately. I’ve thought only of myself and my own anxieties. I
never even considered what effect my news of being miraculously
cured might have on you. Look, let’s finish our breakfast like two
normal people. After that, we’ll go see Mulroney. I’m going to put
the rosary on his forehead and let the bloody tear touch his skin.
That’ll force him to come back and deal with his situation. He
won’t be able to sit comfortably in Heaven after that--once that
rosary hits his face, his soul is going to break out into a
white-hot sweat unless he comes back here to us. After we see
Mulroney, I’ll talk with your Dr. Sellers and let her examine my
head.”

“One more thing,” Dalk said. “If you’re
cured, if you truly are, then it’s only fair for you to let me take
you back to Dr. Bienenfeld to have it confirmed. You know I’ll keep
having my doubts until I hear it from him.”

“Deal,” Vickie said.

They finished their meal and gathered up the
hash and sardines for Kilkenney. Thus fortified, they re-boarded
the Mercedes and slid out into a clear, bright, fall morning, thick
with dense commuter traffic heading over Cahuenga Pass towards
Hollywood and the route towards West L.A. and the Medical Center.
Kilkenney, stirred by the presence of meat and fish, muscled his
way menacingly and single-mindedly forward between them, trying to
get at the food on the floor at Vickie’s feet.