That Melvin Bray

Chapter 1 My Little Biddy April 3, 1953 Remember to look through the windshield and not the rearview mirror, because you’ve already been there. —Lea Shaver, an ex–Miss Texas It was my favorite time of year and a perfect, cool, crisp fall afternoon in 1989. Lizabeth had joined me on the cozy little patio behind her office. The golden leaves of this Indian summer were swirling all around us, gently falling to the ground. The warmth from the heat of the chiminea created a toasty, serene respite for us. “Hey, you know what we need?” she asked. “Yeah, a hot, giant java,” I answered. She called out to Paula, her assistant, to fill our special order. “Wow, we’ve been hit by the fall, Magg-Pie, and it doesn’t hurt a bit! I was hoping you were going to show up for this particular visit. I’m really glad to see ya!” “I know—me too. It’s just that when you came out to Austin to visit me in June, you kept insisting I come to Boston this fall and talk about family stuff. Being a shrink and all, you know all too well that most of us are in therapy because of our families! I’m surprised you don’t hear about more calls to 911 saying, ‘Help me! I’m in a family. Get me outta here!’ For me, therapy is like a really easy game show where the correct answer to every question is ‘Because of my father.’” “Well, Maggs, ‘features alone do not run in the blood; vices and virtues, genius and folly, are transmitted through the same sure but uneven channel’—so saith Hazlitt,” she explained. “He would saith that, huh? Well then, I choose the part about genius and virtues myself, and neither of those is of my father, I assure you, Dr. Benis, MD!” “Sarcasm sounds good on you, Maggs. You should try it more often; it’s good for the soul.” “Well, I’ve spent so much of my life consumed with him and all the what-ifs that I’ve developed a chronic case of misfit such that I’m not quite comfortable in my own skin. As you know, I pretend a lot. I feel like I’m somebody I don’t know anymore. Maybe I do need that personality transplant you promised after all! I even joined a book club just to get a discount on self-help books because that’s all I’ve ever bought. There was one I read about a woman who cured her cancer with positive thinking. Shoot, I don’t have enough real happy thoughts to get rid of a pimple. Then I read this other article that said the symptoms of stress are eating too much, impulse buying, and driving too fast. Are they kiddin’? That’s my idea of a perfect day! “Seriously, though, I’d just love to remove this cloak of dishonor he imprisoned me in so long ago, ya know? You told me once, ‘Whether you think you can or you think you can’t, you’re probably right.’ I’m still working on that one. Since I saw you last, Lizzy, I’ve been so apprehensive. Ya know how you can dread something and yet be excited about it at the same time—the fear of finally facing it and the unknown?” “Hey, Maggs, I know exactly what you mean, and that’s precisely how I felt about my first kiss. Now, maybe I should, but I don’t even remember my first kiss. However, I do remember the first good kiss!” “Oh Miss Priss, you’re too much.” I laughed. “Well, I just want you to finally make peace with your past, Maggs, so you won’t screw up the rest of your blessed life.” “Ya know, somebody told me once that true blessedness is a good life and a happy death,” I answered. “Well, I’m all over that one, which brings me to this one: it’s never too late to have a happy childhood, but the second one is up to you and no one else, Maggs. It’s not Mission Impossible either. “The recovery of lost innocence is amazing to behold and can be likened only to a loving mother taking in the sweet breath of her newborn for the very first time. It’s the feeling of springtime. ‘Hope springs eternal,’ as they say, dear, and despite having been through so much yourself, you possess a beguiling innocence and always wish to help others, especially if it’s to offer that hope. I caution you, though, Maggs—you just can’t live your life acting against your will, for someone else’s desires. You’re just too damn nice!” She stopped abruptly. “Hey, hey now, don’t be goin’ round tellin’ that—I’m tryin’ to live it down. Hummm, and that’s not Hazlitt—that’s Lizzy. Where do you get all these little pearls of wisdom anyway?” I asked. “Maggie, you of all people know what was required for me to get that little MD after my name: four years of undergrad, four years of med school, and, finally, four more years of psychiatry residence training. And after all that, I have to put up with being called a shrink.” She pouted. “Oh, boo hoo, poor Dr. Shrink, MD, and all I had to do was play for four years in undergrad and then two years in grad school, having fun learning to draw and paint like Picasso, right? And for just six years, I got three letters to your two! Yeah, MFA: mighty fine artist—that’s my degree. I’m pretty smart for an ole girl from a little one-stoplight town, or was it two?” I boasted. “Well, let’s face it, my dear master of fine arts, since I can’t draw a straight line with a ruler and couldn’t tell you who painted what, when, where, or why, I really do admire you for your career choices and all you’ve accomplished in your cultured world of art. You’ve done quite well for yourself, and I’m damn proud of you! Heck, I’m proud of both of us! “I’m not complaining. I knew my choices would require a long, tough haul, but I figured I was just the one to do it, and I thank my dear mother for planting the seed very early on. Ya know, she used to tell me if anyone ever asked me to play doctor, I was to tell them I have to wait until I grow up. Maggs, we both know that I too am pretty smart for an ole girl, so I did exactly as dear Mother advised. I waited until I grew up to play doctor. Ah, think about it, Maggs; I can’t remember ever making a mistake. I thought I did once, but I was wrong. Heck, as far back as I can remember, I thought why not be the kinda woman that when your feet hit the floor each morning, the Devil says, ‘Damn, she’s up!’ “Yeah, Maggs, we’re vetted, baby—nothing to do with horses either! We’re certified, bonafied, and masterfied—wouldn’t you agree?” “Yep, but you left out petrified, Doc. Ya know the last thing I wanta see on your mantel is the first prize award for Best Dried Arrangement,” I added with a little of that sarcasm she had spoken of earlier. “Oh, you may be right; that’s awful! Okay then, let’s start with you, Maggs. From the outside, your life has always resembled a woman who has been living the American dream. You were born; you grew up, went to fine schools, and achieved your professional goals. Plus, along the way, you got married and had two great kids.” “Heck, it sounds to me like you’re describing the four stages of life. And just for the record, Lizzy, I had those two great kids so they could grow up and have all the things I couldn’t afford, and then at some point, I’m gonna move in with ’em—don’t tell ’em, okay? I have learned, though, what the four stages of life that really count are. One, you believe in Santa Claus. Two, you don’t believe in Santa Claus. Three, you are Santa Claus. And four, you look like Santa Claus. I rest my humble opinion, Dr. Benis.” “Funny, but I’m serious, Maggs! Let’s face it—all this breeding, brains, and beauty, and still I’m over forty and single with no kids and two cats, but at least I do have the knowledge to figure out why. I mean, let’s face it—I’m a head-case doctor already. So what’s my problem? Hey, maybe I’m not ready to know my own truth yet. Actually, that probably has more to do with a book I read way back in my Learning How to Be a Shrink 101 class titled The 10 Best Ways to Prevent Divorce: Don’t Get Married,” she teased.