Memorial

XLIV.Marjorie

“ARE you Marj?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Bonita Billingsley — a friend of Lucas’s.”

The woman was dressed in YSL. She was in her early 60s.

“Oh! Hello!”

“I’m from Ojai. I’m a Blind Sister!”

“Oh! Dear! Yes! Lucas said he drove up to see you.”

“He did, and made me very happy. So: how does it feel to be filthy rich?” she said, eyes agleam.

“Well, I don’t feel filthy just yet…but I’m looking forward to it!”

The woman had an easy laugh.

Marj invited her in.

She looked all around. “What a beautiful house! Is your husband here? I don’t want to interrupt.”

“He passed, about a year ago.”

“I am so sorry—mine did too. On the 18th, it’ll be 3 years. ‘18 holes,’ ” she said, whimsically. “He loved to golf.”

“So did my Hamilton.”

She admired Marjorie’s wedding ring, which the old woman never removed — a fire opal surrounded by diamonds that reminded her of “the color of my beloved India.” Once she said it, she sounded hopelessly pretentious. Marj realized how nervous she was; she wasn’t used to being social.

“You’ve been?” asked the visitor, with eager respect.

“Oh yes — but not in a while.”

“I’ve always wanted to go, but I guess I’ve been a little scared.”

“I’m planning another trip.”

“Well, maybe you and me should hit the road!”

Marj smiled — maybe so.

“My friend Cora and I call this ‘Widow Street,’ ” she said, bringing them back to commonground. “Cora lives next door. And there’s a gal across the way whose husband died just a few months ago — we’re not that close.”

“Fred had stomach cancer. The kids were there — all 4 of em, at bedside. But I was working, back east. I’m a sales rep. Well, I was. Not anymore! I really kicked myself that I wasn’t with him when he left us, but then Lucas—Mr Weyerhauser—read me something a great guru said. Yogananda. Have you heard of him?” Marj looked quizzical, but reflected back that same sort of civil curiosity the woman had earlier demonstrated. “He wrote The Autobiography of a Yogi.”

“Oh my, yes!” exclaimed Marj, involuntarily touching her visitor’s arm. “The Self-Realization Fellowship — I’ve been to Sunday services there. Beautiful.”

“Aren’t they glorious? Krishnamurti lived in Santa Barbara — that’s where we’re from, originally. Lucas showed me a passage in the book where Yogananda said that he wasn’t at his guru’s side when he passed and felt just awful about it. But then Yogananda realized it was the grace of God that allowed him not to be there at the end, to spare him the suffering of seeing his teacher die. (That’s how I think of husbands and all kind of folks — our own personal gurus, warts and all.) Well, when I read that, poof! It made everything all right. I felt 100 % better. The guilt just washed away. And I don’t mean to be sacrilegious, but I think it’s by the grace of God that we were selected for this marvelous gift. I just wish Fred were here to play with some of my new toys. He would love the new Lexus. My gosh — when you back up, a little TV shows how close you are to the car behind. Warning whoops and everything! Fred hated the way I parallel-parked!”

How strange — Marj recalled her neighbor going on about the very same thing. That’s how we seemed to advance, in America; if you heard about enough people having something, why, eventually you just had to have it yourself.

Bonita went on to say that she’d won an “enormous” amount in “the shadow” and there was a great big party being thrown in New York for the “Sisters”—in about 2 weeks’ time. Hadn’t Lucas mentioned it? (She made no bones about having a crush on him.) She said the Blind Sisters was the most exclusive “country club” in America, and the State of New York was chartering a jet to fly in the winners. Everyone was “bunking” at the Four Seasons here in LA the night before, so “we can all get to know each other.”

“There’s going to be a fancy dinner at Spago.”

“I hadn’t heard,” said Marj, with a smile.

“On Saturday! Did you apply for the Expedited Award Program?” The old woman was nonplussed. “I gave Lucas a check when he came up — for the Windfall Tax. Almost killed me to write it. But within 72 hours, the 1st payment was wired directly to my account, just like he said: $1,140,000. Marj, I nearly fainted!” The women cooed like pigeons. Then Bonita asked, “How much did you win?”

Marj didn’t want to say; a shyness born from her upbringing when it came to things like money.

“I hope my question wasn’t impertinent!”

“No! Not at all—”

“Oh, I understand!” she said, patting Marjorie’s hand. “I didn’t want to tell anyone about it — in fact, Lucas warned me not to, he was very serious about that — until I actually drew the money out. That’s when it became…real.” Her eyes teared up and Marj handed her some Kleenex.

Then, realizing she might have appeared vulgar, the guest grew contrite. “I’m sorry if I busted in on you.”

“It’s fine. It’s really fine!”

Now it was the old woman’s turn to feel sorry. The last thing she wanted was to come across as “hoity.” She reached out and patted Bonita’s hand.

“It’s just that I’ve been so happy!” said her visitor. “So excited—and I haven’t had anyone to share…”

Marj wanted to “open up,” but felt constrained for a tangle of reasons. She let Bonita talk, grateful for the compensatory rush of words.

“It’s just — I know miracles happen, but I never thought they would happen to me. I’m not a young woman but I’m not ready to die either. I want to go places and do things and meet people I would never have gotten the chance to meet. Do you see that car?” She pointed out the window. “It’s an SUV hybrid. I paid for it in cash. I have never paid cash for anything in my life. Can you understand? Do you know where I drove it today? To Children’s Hospital. I sat in the lobby awhile and just listened. I learned more about suffering in those few hours than I have in a lifetime, and my life hasn’t been a cakewalk. But I’ve never — knock on wood — had to suffer through the sickness of a child. I went to the bank and came back to the Ronald McDonald’s — where the families stay while their kids have the chemo — that same afternoon. Gave out little packets: $5,000 each. And the nurses who work so hard got their packets too, oh yes. They are unsung! You cannot imagine how that made me feel.”

Marjorie was moved, and quietly wept. She shared with Bonita what had happened to the liquor store owner and how she had tried to do her part; and given a gift to Cora when her dog fell ill. She felt a little awkward blowing her own horn — the sin of pride was on her mind — but the visitor was so full of life it was contagious. Bonita proclaimed them “kindred spirits,” old and wise enough to know how to spread joy with their great, good fortune, not to squander it, and that was a blessing from the Lord (“and Lucas”) Himself.

“I guess people like us, who were relatively comfortable before the shadow drawings, well, we tend to think, ‘Why did this happen to me?’ That nagging feeling that someone else was more deserving.”

“Yes! Yes, it’s true.”

The woman hit a nerve, and it was nice for Marj to be able to air things out.

“But it’s God’s way. I think that’s what Yogananda would have said. And it is God’s way how we choose to disperse those monies — we are His instruments. Well,” she said, standing, “I don’t want to preach at you! Or take any more of your time. I’m so sorry I barged in—”

“It’s all right, Mrs—”

She searched for the name.

“Billingsley. Bonita. And I certainly hope to see you at the Four Seasons — maybe before! I’m gonna give you my cellphone number; don’t know how to work the damn thing, but here it is, it’s a ‘917,’ don’t ask me why. (The area code.) Oh: you should talk to Lucas about the Expedited Awards Program — he’s not the pushy sort — well, he is but in a good way — because he knows how overwhelmed his Sisters can get at the news — the ‘1st blush’—it’d overwhelm anyone—and Lucas doesn’t like to foist things on people till they ask. And as much as he does tell us, I sometimes think he believes we’re supposed to find out the rest by osmosis. But I’m telling you, gal,” she said racily. “We are going to have one helluva time on that plane!” She reminded Marj of a character from an old movie — like a saloon girl, or some loosey-goosey roommate of Claudette Colbert. “I, for one, plan to get extremely drunk. I’m going to get drunk and stay drunk — for a month! On Baileys Irish Cream!”

“I’m a Baileys girl!”

“You are?”

“Keep it right by the nightstand.”

“Well, then!” She gave out a hoot. “We are going to get along gangbusters,” said Bonita, making her way to the front door. “But if I don’t see you, give me a call — here’s the number in Ojai too. Though I shan’t be there for long. My kids’re all grown and I have a very funny feeling it may be time for a Roman spring. The Roman Spring of Mrs Billingsley! I’m having my 7-year itch, only I waited awhile — it’s my 28-year itch!”

The women exchanged profuse goodbyes at the door, and as soon as she left, Marj ran to the mahogany bureau and took out the check to scrutinize it. There it was: $1,863,279.47. She was proud of herself for not having divulged the amount. Lucas Weyerhauser’s business card sat on top but this time she dialed his cellphone instead of the State of New York Blind Sister Beneficiary Hotline.

You have reached Lucas Weyerhauser. If this is regarding the State of New York Blind Sister Shadow Drawing, please press 1. If you’d like to leave a message for Lucas, please press 2. If you are a federally sworn merchant or vendor, please press 3.

She smiled like a schoolgirl then cut herself a piece of Marie Callender’s rhubarb pie.