Most people will agree that trust is a very important part of love. In Beverly’s case, I don’t know which cancelled out the other. Did she stop loving because she couldn’t trust or did she stop trusting because she didn’t feel loved? Here is her story. You be the judge.

I’m sitting in Beverly’s kitchen, sipping tea and chatting. The TV is on with the sound turned way down so we can concentrate on watching her mom doing her thing. Ana, Beverly’s mother, sells skin products on one of those shop-at-home channels. She’s been doing that for over ten years, a real pro. I met Ana on a few occasions, always at Beverly’s.
“Do you really think there’s cactus juice in her products?” I ask.
Beverly smiles, “Mother says there is. Who am I to doubt my own mother? She’s been selling her wares for a long time and it has to do some people some good or they wouldn’t be buying it the second time around. As long as it sells I get to live here rent free.” “Here” is a sprawling one story older home on the outskirts of Scottsdale, Ana bought it years ago, and uses it as her business base. Cacti juices, home in the desert - it’s a good image for her products.
“Your mom looks good,” I sigh. “How old is she? She looks at least ten years younger than me, than you too for that matter.”
“True,” Beverly agrees, “she’s always had a fabulous complexion, maybe it’s because of her Asian lineage?”
“That and the fact that she’s so petite.” I look at Beverly, a good five seven.
“Mom is coming to town next month and I need to put together a very elegant party. She is bringing some investors because they are talking about going international. It’s such a bore, but it’s the price you pay for free rent.”
“Can I help? Please, please! It’s not like I have buyers and sellers lined up to look at properties. And I love your mom’s parties,” I say.
Beverly gives me a strange, serious look, the way you assess an item before buying it. “I guess I could use some help. I’ll have to cancel some classes.” She is talking about her yoga-meditation classes. Beverly teaches her daily classes in the front porch which she converted into a yoga studio by enclosing it with large French doors and installing air conditioning.
The rest of the house is off-limits to the students; they are allowed to use the powder room, period.
I’ve known Beverly for a long time; we became close after I passed the “bathroom test.”
This is now an inside joke between us, but unfortunately, with trust being such a big issue in Beverly’s life, it really isn’t a laughing matter. I’m not sure what caused this, but at some gut level; I feel it has to do with her father. The only time I innocently asked; “So, where is your dad?” she stopped whatever she was doing, gave me this long, somber look, and said, “I don’t know, and I don’t care to know.” Her voice was so cold and cutting I wasn’t about to mention her father again any day soon.
I come here when I need a refreshing course for my soul, because it is remote, in an urban sort of way. You can hear the birds, see the butterflies, and watch the occasional coyote stroll the grounds. The whole place smells of incense and clean living. I started out as one of her students, but now we are close friends. I’m hoping there is more to it than the “bathroom test.”
Beverly, who is mistrusting and suspicious of everything and everybody, keeps a large amount of glass marbles inside her guest bathroom’s medicine cabinet. This is not a novel idea; I’ve heard and read about it many times, although the thought of actually doing it never crossed my mind. Beverly claims that over 75% of the people using other people’s bathrooms will, at some point, open the medicine cabinet. I never did. She also keeps a huge toy snake, like a giant coil, in her linen drawer in the same bathroom. Once you let it out, good luck on making it small again. It’s not that she has a warped sense of humor; she has a phobia of some kind.
I remember once, she had out-of-state guests, and her mother asked her to make them feel at home until she got here. Since the house belongs to Ana, Beverly couldn’t refuse. Before the arrival, she asked me to go shopping with her; we went to some international market store, where she bought a dozen little golden bells on silk ropes. When we went back to her house, I helped her tie a bell to each inside door handle. That way, even at night she would know where her guests where coming or going. Bizarre, but also clever. That day, while securing the bells to the doors, we spoke about men, namely our former spouses. Beverly had two, one more than I did. But while I had been married a long time and had kids, both her marriages were brief and childless.
“My first husband was a dentist,” she said. “We met in college, my first year, and his last. In retrospect, he was a very nice man. I broke his heart.”
“Why did you two get divorced?”
“I got pregnant right away. It was a miserable pregnancy; I was sick a lot and he was just starting his practice. I lost the baby before the end of the term. It was a little boy. I filed for divorce the day I got out of the hospital.”
“You did? Why? Was it something your husband did?”
“No. Now I can look back and say, no, he was hurting as much as I was, but in my mind, I blamed him for everything; that made the whole ordeal easier to accept.” She paused and her eyes seemed to stare at some imaginary point in the distance; for a moment I could “feel” her pain, then it was gone and Beverly was back to hanging bells.
“So, what happened after that?”
“I didn’t want to move back with my mother, so I left my husband’s house with just the clothes on my back, got in my car and drove until I ran out of gas. For a few years, my life was a living hell. I moved around, stayed with friends, got into ugly relationships, then I moved in with an older gentleman who treated me like a princess. He was the one who encouraged me to learn yoga, he paid for my classes, sort of gave me an education. He also gave me an STD. Turns out I wasn’t the only princess in his life. My mother was trying to talk some sense into my head, but I wasn’t ready to listen yet. Every man I hooked up with turned into a disappointment, There was Joe; I found him in bed with the teenager next door. With Luis, while cleaning the bathroom, I found a used condom, and we didn’t use them. The last straw was Adam. He invited me over to his place for the weekend; I was so excited that I bought a lovely pink nightie for the occasion. We had drinks, foreplay, we went into his bedroom, he turned down the bed covers and there were obvious blood smudges on the sheets. We looked at each other, and he muttered, “Sorry, I scratched my leg, I’ll get clean linens.” I didn’t know what to do with myself; I went into the bathroom and right there in plain sight in the waste- basket is a soiled tampon. I grabbed my clothes and was out the door and in my car in my pink nightie.” Beverly looked at me, “Now you know why I don’t date. Make sure those bells are well-secured.”
“Yes, ma’am!” I didn’t ask about the last husband. I had an urge for fresh air. Poor girl. I still couldn’t figure out the connection between cheating men and the bells, marbles, etc. Was it plain phobia or deep fear? It turns out it was a little of both. One of the men she broke up with wanted revenge and came back to attack her in the middle of the night. He got into the house in spite of the alarm system, but it alerted the police, who arrived before her ex-lover could get to Beverly, who had locked herself in the bathroom. For months after that, she would cover the floors with pots and pans before going to sleep, a trick she learned from a friend in the police force.

Beverly’s house guests are arriving tomorrow and everything is ready. Her mother is bringing two guests, both male. Most of the party guests will be staying in the nearby hotel, but the two major investors will be at the house; Ana wants to make sure she is in total control. I’m on the phone with Beverly; “Are you sure you don’t want me to come early and help out?”
“No, you’ve done enough. Make yourself pretty and come to the party. Mom says one of the European investors is single and about our age, so spruce up your Italian; I’m not sure what language he speaks but I noticed how you Europeans always stick together.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I don’t have the nerve to ask if she got rid of her glass marbles and her golden bells, but I know her mother will have a fit if something goes wrong.
I see the lights and hear the music and the chatter even before giving my car to the valet. Whoa! Ana must be pleased, Beverly did a great job. And there is my friend, in a lovely pale blue chiffon dress, looking relaxed and smiling to me as I come up the pathway. I grab a glass of bubbly from a tray as Beverly walks me from guest to guest.
“Wait until you see Oliver,” she says.
“Oliver?”
“Remember the investor from Europe? The one who is single?”
Just then I see Ana. You can’t miss her ebony hair, pulled back into a tight, shiny bundle. She is talking to a tall man in a dark suit. Beverly gets all giggly on me and she presses my elbow to make me walk faster. We stop by Ana.
“Oh, so nice to see you,” Ana greets me, “Let me introduce you to Oliver Dalton.”
So, this is Oliver. “A pleasure to meet you.” He sounds like Sean Connery - my legs are weak - whoa, Beverly is right. I mingle, I chat, and I notice something different about Beverly, an inner glow. Is she happy to see her mother or is it something else? Dinner is served in the enclosed porch and the caterers did a wonderful job. I’m sitting at the same table as Ana and Mr. Dalton. Beverly’s assigned seat is at the next table, but she is hardly sitting, she moves around and checks on the servers.
Mr. Dalton is telling me that he flew in from London, a direct flight with British Airlines. His jet lag is beginning to show, he appears tired. “I actually have a headache,” he says.
“You should take an aspirin,” Ana says, “It helps me when I’m traveling.”
From the corner of my eye I notice Beverly motioning me over, so I excuse my-self.
“How is Oliver?” Beverly whispers in my ear. She is acting like a teenager and it hits me; she likes the Englishman.
“He is fine; he has a headache - jet lag. I need to get back before your mother misses me.” I’m on my way back just as Oliver gets up and walks away.
Ana says, “He is going to the bathroom to get some aspirin. That’s where Beverly keeps it, if I remember correctly.” And then it hits me, dear God, what if Beverly forgot to remove the marbles? CRASH! The noise is so loud that I assume he must have left the bathroom door open while going for the aspirin. The whole room is silent. I recognize the cascading of the marbles from the tile counter to the tile floors. Beverly, face pale, rushes toward the bathroom, her heels clip-clapping on the tile floors and then, bam! We all hear the scream and another crash. A different sounding-crash of a body landing on the tiled floor. Ana and I are off our chairs and on our way to the bathroom. Beverly is on the floor, her lovely dress in complete disarray; she has a pained look on her face and fire spitting from her eyes. She is swatting her arms like a windmill, fighting off Oliver who is trying to help her up; “You, you!” Beverly’s finger points and pokes poor Oliver’s chest.
I bend down and I whisper in her ear, “Your mother sent him in to get some aspirin.”
“Huh?” Now she is looking at me with a lost look in her eyes. She looks at me, at her mother, at Oliver, and suddenly she starts to sob. Great! Ana must be thrilled.
By the time the paramedics arrive, Ana has explained to Beverly why Oliver was in the medicine cabinet, Beverly apologized for the ugly names she called him, and we all had a double helping of bubbly. Beverly badly bruised her tailbone - and her pride - she will need to lie on her stomach for a few days, but all in all she is okay. Call me a chicken, but I figure this is a good time for me to keep busy and stay away for a few days.
When I come by one afternoon to say hi, I nearly drop dead when Oliver, in jeans and polo shirt, lets me in. I don’t ask what he is doing there; he is obviously busy removing the golden bells from the doorknobs. Beverly, on a chaise lounge, sips tea and smiles with the idiotic expression of a person in love.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“We are removing the bells,” Oliver says. “I don’t know which Feng Shui book Bev read, but it’s wrong. The bells do not bring good luck when placed on the doorknobs.”
“It could’ve fooled me.” I say, winking at Beverly. “I had no idea you were in town,” I add, looking at Oliver.
“Yes, still checking out some info connected with the business.” He speaks with the Connery voice and I can listen to him all day, but I won’t.
His cell chimes, and it’s Ana, so--Oliver steps away to talk shop.
“Do you need anything, Beverly?” I look at the tiny bells, glistening inside the cardboard box where Oliver put them. “Want me to take the box and donate the bells to the Thrift Store?” I ask.
Beverly doesn’t answer; she is avoiding my eyes. Then she takes a long breath and in a strange tone of voice says, “No, better I put them in storage, one never knows when they may come in handy.”
I nod, kiss her cheek, and walk toward my car. Then I turn around and wave to Oliver who is standing on the porch, “Bye Oliver, good luck to you.” He waves back and gives me a happy, oh, so happy smile. He doesn’t have a clue what the good wishes are for. I hope he never has to find out.

When he is late for dinner and I know he must be either having an affair or lying dead on the street, I always hope he’s dead. Judith Viorst

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