The character of Myra I always thought was a version of my late mother. Actually, I am sure of it. There was a complicated, fascinating soul. But this particular event I know never happened, at least in this context, as the setting is Los Angeles and my mother had died long ago, in New York.
MYRA
Myra is never happier than when she is about to embark on a shopping tour for a new outfit.
The current occasion is the imminence of Easter Sunday and the concomitant Church services to commemorate, on this March 31, the Resurrection.
Now, let me say at the outset. Myra is deeply conscious of the mystical depths of her chosen religion. Still, she is a beautiful woman and very much in need of the peripheral benefits of her very visible emoluments.
Accordingly, she aspires to a kind of perfection in the manner of her dress when she is called upon to share her radiance before the multitude.
I find holidays kind of a trial which I must undergo--sort of a concession I must allow in order that I might benefit as amply as I do from a beneficence few men achieve in a lifetime of marriages.
One of the negatives is that I must accompany Myra on her forays into the centers of haute couture for a selection of major importance, as in this case, the Easter outfit. I hate shopping of any kind.
The other matter--one I learned never to articulate--is to mention Myra's predilection to accumulate outfits that hang in a well stocked closet of high fashion ensembles without ever having been worn.
"It's very simple," Myra explains. "I just could not find that one important accessory." Myra will never enter the stage upon which we "strut and fret" for proper recognition unless she is panoplied cap-a-pie, correctly.
It is judicious at this point of her explanation to nod as if in assent. I must confess that privately I do not find anything simple about the explanation. For example, last year's Easter outfit was rejected on the basis of the absence of that critical accessory. Why then do we not limit the shopping to this one missing item?
On the other hand, this particular selection was, and is, still the source of Myra's humiliation and long-term trauma at last year's Easter Mass.
At this point I must make mention of the church which is the setting for this story. I will not divulge its name, as it is a small sanctuary that does not seek notoriety. Those of you who read such publications as the Calendar section of the LA Times, and follow the peregrinations of the Hollywood elite, are sure to find a name or two among the congregants you would recognize. Certainly, the names of notables abound in the obituary section. It is here the faithful come on this annual day of the Resurrection of their God to worship and, coincidentally to lend color to the ceremony with their sartorial plumage.
I said earlier that Myra did not wear last year's Easter selection. I said, also, that it was missing an important accessory. Both are not true. Myra wore both and she was then and is now a resplendent image in my treasured collections.
She giggled like a little girl. "The hat," she chirped, as she placed the low crowned and very wide brimmed item upon her coif, "that was the missing accessory!"
Fellow males, those of you who chortle over the idiosyncrasies of the distaff side, be advised. There are glimpses of the divine that come rarely into our lives. Such was the radiance, though briefly, as Myra stood ready for her descent from Olympus into the world of mortals.
But her joy was premature, and short lived. Fate can make cruel interpostions on the limited pleasures we are alloted in our earthly journey.
There was a knock at the door. Myra answered. And there, framed in the doorway was our next-door neighbor, also arrayed for the coming celebration. She had come, she said, to offer us a ride to the Church.
There was a muffled gasp from Myra.
The neighbor was wearing the same hat.
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