A Wedding on the Banks (25 page)

“Let's dance naked,” he said. “Like natives.”

“I gotta go help Amy Joy get ready,” Lola said. “Besides, Mama thinks I spent the night there. She might phone about something and want to talk to me.”

Randy leaned down and stuck his tongue in her navel. Lola pulled away in hysterics.

“That tickles!”

“I'm filling up the Grand Canyon,” Randy said. “I'm a big wave wiping all them little tourists away. Come here, little canyon.” He chased Lola about the room with his tongue stuck far out in pursuit. They fell on the bed and Randy pressed his groin against her stomach. A few more nits loosed themselves. It was the first genuine case of crabs to hit Mattagash, Maine, and the culprits were ready. They'd had a terrifying and tightly squeezed ride all the way from Portland, after leaving the amorous affections of Miss Leslie “Boudoir” Boudreau. They had been jostled, raked, and poked. They had managed the extra pressure of the potholes and the frost heaves, as well as Randy's lack of social inhibitions. But they had survived, a testament to their evolutionary durability. Now, like burdocks, like the cherry pits that robins eat only to shit them over new territory, thus spreading the silky cherry blossoms, the crabs lined up. They marched around the scrotum, dodging the rake of Randy's fingers that came at them. They arranged themselves in mindless formation. Their nits loosened from Randy's pubic hairs and reached up like the sticky hands of children. This was nature. They weren't as cute as kittens, but the crabs were entitled to their chance. When Lola Craft pulled herself up from Randy's warm embrace, she took some little visitors from Portland with her. Another kind of houseguest.

“Randy?” Lola stopped at the door and looked back.

“What, babe?” Randy's scrotum felt as if acupuncturists were at work.

“Were you serious about taking me back to Portland with you?”

“Fuckin' A,” said Randy. “And soon. We're almost out of dope.”

***

Amy Joy Lawler could not look at herself in the mirror at first. She was afraid to stare into her own eyes, at the truths which might be lying there, waiting like mousetraps. Planning a wedding was one thing. Following through with it was another. It was as if the plans kept your mind off the consequences. Now here she was, all the invitations sent, the corsages bought, the food dishes assigned as to which neighbors would bring what, a kind of community catering of casseroles, sandwiches, and pastries. The Mattagash gym was decorated with pink and white carnations made from boxes of Kleenex tissue Amy Joy had delivered to the lower grades at Mattagash Grammar School. This artistic job was usually reserved for graduation exercises. But everyone made an exception in Amy Joy Lawler's case. Peter Craft had picked up the three cases of pineapple juice so that his aunt Winnie could make Tropical Islands Delight punch, although the snow filtering down over Mattagash would make it difficult for locals to stop shivering long enough to appreciate a taste of the tropics. And of course, Sicily's wedding dress had been altered for the occasion. Amy Joy pulled the gossamer dress from its plastic bag and looked at it. The dress. This would be another shock for Sicily. But it was
Amy
Joy's
wedding, and that made all the difference. She hadn't starved herself for two months for nothing. When Nora Henderson did the alterations following Amy Joy's instructions, the dress had gone in as a floor-length and come out as a mini. Sicily would just have to understand that for the first time in her life Amy Joy had legs that were not dimpled. This would be the last time, as a single woman, she would be able to show off gams such as these. And she intended to go out of spinsterhood in a blaze of glory, of glorious snowflakes, her legs clad in white hose that was covered with tiny white roses. Let Sicily drop dead in her pew. It was 1969, not 1931, when the dress had first been used to lure Ed Lawler into an unwanted wedding. Amy Joy had heard Aunt Marge drop a few barbs about Sicily's indoctrination of the schoolteacher from Massachusetts who would become her father. She fingered the lace of her mother's wedding dress, now a third of its former length. Amy Joy had asked Nora Fennelson to save the amputated material in case Sicily had a hypochondriac fit of some sort. Amy Joy also realized that by the time her own daughter chose to wear the dress, styles might have changed again.

“I want the train as long as possible, though,” Amy Joy thought, and ran her fingers along the eight-foot wake of lace. She wished the weather hadn't turned into such an enemy on her wedding day. A white, lacy mini dress and rose-clung hose somehow clashed with all that snow. At least she had chosen a silky purse as “something blue.” In reality it was something to carry makeup in, and blue was the first color she scooped up out of the spring grab bag sale of pocketbooks at Mademoiselle Nicole's in Watertown. She put the dress away, under its brown plastic wrapper, when Sicily knocked on the door.

“Amy Joy?”

“What?”

“Can you open up a second?” Sicily asked. She was standing in the doorway with circles under her eyes and a slice of buttered bread in one hand, a bottle of Pepsi in the other. Amy Joy smiled.

“You can be the sweetest thing when you want to,” she said.

“I figured this might be the last time you ever ate your specialty in my house,” Sicily said. “In
your
house.”

“I've only been putting the butter on one out of every four times,” said Amy Joy. “But I don't suppose if I eat this butter now that it will show up by seven o'clock.” She took the Pepsi and the bread and beckoned for Sicily to come farther into the room.

“What's this, anyway?” Amy Joy asked, and waved the bottle of Pepsi. “I thought you hated to see me drink this. You said my front teeth would drop out before I was twenty years old.”

“Well, it's not exactly that bad,” Sicily said. Oh, how she wished her teeth
had
fallen out! Jean Claude wouldn't have given her the time of day then, and Sicily could always find the extra money to get her daughter a new set of choppers later on. When she was about fifty. “How are you feeling today?” Sicily asked.

“Why?”

“Well, I mean, this close to the big moment and all.”

“Nervous,” Amy Joy admitted. “How did you feel?”

“Nervous,” said Sicily. They smiled at each other, sharing a warm moment, a hard-found answer to a secret only brides could know, a secret about the fragility of human beings. Mothers knew that daughters were sure to feel it. Daughters were surprised to learn that mothers knew such things. A moment was shared, and a warm silence fell between them.

“Oh please don't marry that Frog!” Sicily cried.

“Get out!” said Amy Joy. “I mean
now
.”

“But, Amy Joy, you're ruining our lives!” Sicily screamed.

“
Our
lives,” Amy Joy said. “Will you listen to you? Lola Craft is coming over to fix French curls on the top of my head and I'd prefer that my maid of honor not see you throwing one of your conniptions.”

“This isn't a conniption!” Sicily screamed. “This is an emergency! Besides, what honor? There's no
honor
in this, and I doubt seriously that Lola Craft is still a
maid
!”

“You're making a fool of yourself,” Amy Joy said, and turned to face her vanity mirror. There it was again, catching her unaware, the pitiful face of childhood, longing to stay where it was.

“
I'm
making a fool of myself? All of Mattagash is laughing so hard it sounds like the ice running. Even the Giffords are laughing.”

“What has Mattagash got to laugh at, anyway?” Amy Joy asked, and sprayed a long silver streak down the right side of her hair. She hadn't planned to apply this now, only after Lola had planted a small band of curls high on her head. The decision to do so prematurely was to heighten the effect such an action would have on her mother, not on her hair.

“I wish now you'd joined the air force,” Sicily said. “I wish you hadn't been so overweight that they couldn't have put you into a uniform and dropped you somewhere over Texas.”

“Why don't you just stay home tonight?” Amy Joy said, and threw her hairbrush against the wall. “I don't want you at the church or at the gym!”

“Oh, is that right, missy?” Sicily grabbed the plate that held Amy Joy's small yellow field of hay. She reached for the Pepsi bottle, but Amy Joy whisked it away from her.

“Well, you might be jumping outta the frying pan into the fire. We'll just see. And don't expect to see me standing in the open door when you come crying back home.”

“I don't,” said Amy Joy, and took a large drink of soda pop. “I expect you to be snooping from behind the curtains or rubbering on the phone.”

“We'll see,” said Sicily. “You're gonna cry your eyes out to come back.”

“I doubt it,” said Amy Joy.

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness…

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?…

What little town by river or sea-shore…

Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

—John Keats, “Ode on a Grecian Urn”

Weddings are almost as popular as funerals in Mattagash, Maine, and just as no one discriminates against a corpse, no one cares whether the bride and groom are an attractive couple, or whether they are well liked. All one really cares about is whether
she's
pregnant and how happy
he
is about the whole deal. But that Amy Joy Lawler, the missionary Reverend Ralph C. McKinnon's direct descendant, was about to marry a French Catholic added a twist to the ceremony. Everyone in Mattagash was curious to see how happy Sicily appeared throughout the event.

“Poor thing,” Winnie Craft had gossiped. “She's been practicing smiling all week.”

Two inches of late snow had come down upon Mattagash during that Saturday night. It covered up the frozen pepperonis and leftover pizza crusts. It covered up Freddy Broussard's tire marks where he'd had his rendezvous with death during his flight from the marauding Giffords. It covered all of Goldie's Christmas lights and promised to enhance the decorations further when evening fell and electricity surged through them once more. Snow buried the autumn leaves still clinging musically to the cement walkway circling Albert Pinkham's motel. It painted the creamy Cadillac a cool white. It piled playfully on the new mound in the old animal graveyard on Pike Gifford's hill. It heaped itself in fluffy lumps atop the outdoor pole lights in five of Mattagash's finest yards. It built up into a neat pile on the seat of Little Vinal's blue bicycle. It dusted the frozen leaves of Vera's premature tomato plants like a cold fertilizer. It turned black-shingled roofs into white ones and ate up the tar of the road. Only the surging Mattagash River was a match for the snow, as it gobbled up the helpless flakes and grew a little larger and mightier.

By the time noon arrived and several cars had spun their way to Watertown, or St. Leonard, the dark tar had emerged once more. By six o'clock, when Floyd Barry, the minister from St. Leonard, fitted his key into the door of the Mattagash Protestant church, several fat flakes were coming down again. By six fifteen, all the ringside pews at the church had been filled, and all the automobiles catching snow out in the large yard had on their backseats colorfully wrapped presents of pillowcases, sheets, towels, irons, ovenware, blankets, toasters, pot holders, lamps, candy dishes, cutlery sets, and a host of other housewares for two young people venturing out into matrimony.

The family pews still eagerly awaited the arrival of the relatives. Mattagash was anxious to get a good close-up look at Pearl McKinnon Ivy, gone now for over forty years. And it wanted to get a good look at that string of undertakers she had tied herself to down south in Portland.

The few Catholics stood about the entrance door, allowing Protestants the honor of sitting upon the chairs of their religion. They would take the leftover seats. Whispers fluttered like birds, like shimmering snow buntings, up and down the aisle, in and out of pews, around the IGA flowers arranged in plastic vases at the altar. Gossip flew like snowflakes.
What
will
Sicily
do? What does Amy Joy's dress look like? Are the Frog relatives coming? Does Pearl McKinnon Ivy look as old as she should, or has she had one of them city face-lifts? Will Lola Craft make a boy-crazy fool out of herself when the Frenchmen arrive? Will Amy Joy wear those ridiculous silver streaks? Will Sicily cry?
Oh, but weddings were almost as enjoyable as funerals, as delicious, as enduring.

“What a shame it had to snow,” Dorrie Fennelson said. Actually Dorrie Fennelson Mullins, but she had been married just eleven months and this new name hadn't had enough time to settle down in the memory banks of the locals. Dorrie Fennelson, Amy Joy's childhood friend, rocked her new baby.

“I really thought spring was here for good,” said Edna-Bob Mullins, Dorrie's mother-in-law. “Looks like she tricked us.”

“The old-timers called this a sheep storm,” said Girdy Monihan. “That's when their sheep'd be out grazing and suddenly, with no one expecting it, it'd snow again. They used to lose most of 'em.”

“I lost all my daffodil bulbs,” Edna-Bob said, as though they were more important than sheep. Edna-Bob had been given her burdensome name because there were two other Ednas in Mattagash, that being a popular name back in the teens when all three were born. This Edna's husband was Bob, so she was distinguished from Edna-Ray and Edna-Jim. The same was true of Martha-Will and Martha-John. It had served well for Sarah-Albert, now divorced from Albert Pinkham and living in New Hampshire, and for Sarah-Tom. If these women had minded the maleness of this roll call, it wouldn't have mattered. The town did the naming, and there was no stopping the machine.

“How low did the temperature drop last night?” Edna-Bob Mullins asked.

“Lola Craft is running after Pearl McKinnon's grandson,” said Girdy.

“Good heavens!” said Dorrie, and rocked her cooing baby on her knee. “Have you got a real close-up look at him? I think he's on some kind of chemical.”

“His mother takes medication all day, so it's no wonder,” said Girdy.

“Who told you that?” asked Dorrie.

“Winnie said Sicily told her, and then asked her not to tell.”

“Good luck with that,” said Dorrie.

“They're all packed into Albert's motel like a bunch of big shots,” said Edna-Bob. “They could've stayed with Sicily, but you know how Pearl McKinnon always had to make a big time of everything.”

“She made Sicily open Marge's old house, and even had a telephone hooked up,” said Dorrie, and hoisted the baby up to her shoulder where it burped loudly. “Them Gerber carrots make him do that,” Dorrie explained.

“I wonder what Ed Lawler would think of all this if he hadn't gone and shot himself,” Edna-Bob said.

“You know,” said Dorrie, “I barely remember him. And you'd think I would, him being our principal and all.”

“At least Sicily ain't seeing Chester Gifford walk in as the groom,” said Edna-Bob.

Dorrie belly flopped the baby across her knees and it farted, a social comment on the Giffords perhaps, bringing laughter in the church, and a redness to Dorrie's face.

The menfolk launched into a different kind of conversation, a sort of occupational gossip.

“Is that Jonsered chain saw any better than the Partner?” Donnie Henderson asked Teddy Monihan.

“Not much,” Teddy answered. “Leastways, I can't see any difference in my paycheck.”

“Who you cutting for now?” asked Bob Mullins.

“Old Man Henley,” answered Kevin Craft.

“I lost another skidder chain,” said Amory Hart. “I think there's elves in the woods.”

“I lost a chain saw and a toolbox,” said Teddy Monihan. “I'd come right out and say the woods is full of Giffords and leave the elves alone.”

“It's getting harder and harder to make a living nowadays in the woods,” said Teddy Monihan. “The upkeep on my equipment alone is about to send me under.”

“Well, if the Dickey–Lincoln dam project ever comes through,” said Amory Hart, “this whole area'll be underwater and we'll all be eating sandwiches in Connecticut.”

“That dam ain't never going through,” said Bob Mullins. “That dam's been in Congress for years, and it'll be in Congress long after you and me is gone.”

“Harder and harder for a man to make a decent living,” said Teddy Monihan again. “Makes you kinda understand the Giffords.”

“Whose Cadillac out front?” asked Bob Mullins.

“Belongs to Pearl McKinnon's son. It's been parked out in front of Albert's place.” Amory spit softly on the floor and then covered the foamy little mass with his shoe.

“Must be hard on gas, a fancy car like that,” said Kevin Craft.

“They can afford it,” said Donnie Henderson. “They got caskets stuffed full of money back in Portland.”

“This weather keeps up and we'll be having winter all over again,” said Amory Hart. “I heard on the radio this morning that it's been twenty-five years since we had a May snowfall.”

By six thirty the small Protestant church was bulging with new shoes, new neckties, new gloves, new dresses, new coats, new purses. The cars outside, with their prettily wrapped presents that would end up on the gift table at the gymnasium after the wedding, were slowly crusting over with snow. Energetic boys, wishing to be outside frolicking among the new flakes, were given stern looks by their mothers. Young girls tittered about their dolls and discovered each had dressed her Barbie in a splendid wedding gown for this special occasion. As all potential babysitters were in attendance, Mattagash babies were compelled to come along with their mothers. There were five babies, two sleeping, one laughing at his mother's tickling fingers, one staring with the blankness of newborn uncertainty at his father's yellow “Partner Chain Saw” cap. The fifth baby was Dorrie Fennelson's, and he was crying loudly and annoyingly. The only other wedding he had been to was when his mother married his father.

When Pearl, Sicily, Winnie Craft, and all the Ivys filed in and took their places in the front pew, a constant drone of words hung over the crowd. The finely tuned gossip buzzed in the old church.
Look
how
heavy
Pearl
McKinnon is now. Ain't her son fat? The whole family's stuck-up. Is that her son's wife? Did somebody drug her or something? Look at the grandson's eyes. Has the daughter-in-law got some kind of animal around her neck! Is it alive? Is Sicily gonna pass out?

When Monique Tessier slipped in the front door and was given a seat by an enchanted high school boy, the gossip shifted gears and modulated.
Who
is
she? She ain't from Watertown.
Monique took off her heavy winter coat, a burdensome accoutrement that would have already been packed away until next winter had she stayed in Portland. She wore a light blue woolen dress with a gossipy neckline.
That woman ain't wearing a bra! Has she no shame? The potholes will teach her a good lesson. She looks just like Elizabeth Taylor. Oh, who do you suppose she is!

By a quarter to seven, when none of the Watertown participants in the wedding had shown up, the gossip modulated again, into a shrillness that was bouncing off the walls inside the tiny church.

“Where are they?” folks whispered, and then pointed to the empty front pew on the groom's side.

“Probably took a wrong turn and ended up in the swamp,” Donnie Henderson said to Bob Mullins. “You know how Frogs are!”

Sicily and Pearl spoke briefly to each other, stirring up even more interest behind them. The waves of whispers beat as steadily against the beams of the Protestant church as the ancient river, which had brought the beleaguered ancestors of all gathered.

“Did our ancestors come here to worship God as they wanted to?” Amy Joy had asked Sicily, one Thanksgiving Day when she'd just returned from a school play about the vicissitudes of the Pilgrims.

“Pine trees,” Sicily had answered her daughter. “They come here for pine trees.”

Lola Craft had loaned Amy Joy her red maxi coat to wear over the mini wedding dress and then she had driven her to the back door of the Protestant church in the Crafts' big 1968 Oldsmobile, which had been the most respected car in Mattagash until the Cadillac breezed in. In Floyd Barry's office, Lola had pampered Amy Joy's curls and inspected the silver streaks.

“Your makeup looks real good,” she assured the bride, who was squinting into the tiny mirror of her compact.

“What time is it?” asked Amy Joy.

“Six fifteen,” said Lola. “You nervous?”

“Hell yes.”

“Me too.”

“Is everyone out there already?”

The maid of honor came back from peeping out at the flock from behind the curtains to report to the bride. It was Lola's bridal task to be of any service to Amy Joy, to help ease her stress. And one day Amy Joy, as matron of honor, would cater to Lola's every temperamental nuptial whim.

“Jean Claude's family ain't here yet,” said Lola.

“Is
he
?” asked Amy Joy.

“Nope. At least I can't see him. Randy's in the front row, though.” Lola beamed. When she married Randy, her matron of honor would also become her first cousin. It didn't matter that she and Amy Joy were cousins a dozen times already, back there in the entangled generations of their ancestors. This was a straight-out,
noticeable
relationship.

“Did you talk to Jean Claude today?” Lola asked.

“No,” said Amy Joy, and began nervously to finger a silver streak of hair. “It's bad luck for the bride and groom to see or talk to each other the day of the wedding.”

“I thought it was bad luck to see each other,” said Lola. “I didn't know about talking.”

“I talked to him last night, just before his stag party.” Amy Joy opened the small overnight case she'd brought with her. It held her high-heeled shoes. She'd worn sneakers so as not to slip and fall on the snowy steps. It also held makeup, panty hose, spearmint gum, the Clairol silver spray, and two Pepsis.

“You want one of these?” Amy Joy found her bottle opener and pried the cap off her bottle. “It'll calm your nerves.”

“Naw, I don't guess so,” said Lola. “Not unless you got a bag of peanuts to dump in it. It's real boring without peanuts.”

“No peanuts,” said Amy Joy. “How do I look?” She slipped off the maxi coat and posed for Lola. The maid of honor caught her breath.