Mother of the Bride (34 page)

“Why don't you two fellers shake hands?” Elvin stepped aside at the foot of the steps to let the ladies go first. “Be a nice touch.”

Domino slinked past, all legs and fur, winked at Gus and followed Cydney upstairs. Parrish plucked the handkerchief off his face and shouted at his daughter, “Put some clothes on while you're up there!”

When Elvin lumbered out of sight down the hallway, Parrish laid his elbows on his knees and looked at Gus. His sweater was spotted with blood. His lip had stopped bleeding but it was starting to swell.

“Do you want to shake hands, Munroe?”

“I'd rather wrap my head in aluminum foil and stick it in the microwave.”

“You aren't going to marry Cydney.”

“Why do you say that?”

He raised a hand toward the stairs, shrugged and let it fall. “Why would you want to?”

“On second thought, I'd rather wrap your head in aluminum foil.”

“Oh come on. She's my daughter but I'm a realist. She can't come close to Domino.”

“Apparently you can't either.”

“Our marriage is a business arrangement,” Parrish said loftily, but there were ruddy splotches on his throat. “She's good for my image and Gwen has gotten Domino a lot of modeling jobs. She's photographed her three times for the cover
oi Vogue.”

And she wouldn't give her own sister an inside photo credit.

“What's the real story, Fletch? Can't get it up anymore?”

That got him off the floor, but Gus figured it would. He came up swinging, so wildly all Gus had to do was stick his fist out and let Parrish plow into it. A fountain of blood gushed from his nose, his eyes rolled and he keeled over, sprawled on his back and out cold on the floor.

“Goll dang it, hoss. Cain'tltrustyounomore?”

Gus bent over, stuck his hand between his knees and sucked his teeth to keep from screaming at the agony in his knuckles. Elvin clumped down the steps in his off-duty lumberjack boots, crossed the living room and dropped to his haunches beside Parrish.

“He took another swing at me.”

“‘Magine he did, with you prancin’ around in your skivvies and lil' Miss Parrish wearin' nothin' but your shirt.” Elvin peeled up one of Parrish's eyelids, then pivoted on his heel toward Gus. “Reckon he'll live. Wouldn't bet the rent money on you, though.”

“Cydney and I are adults. We weren't expecting her father.”

“Even so, hoss.” Elvin rose to his feet, his voice grave. “I got no choice but to call the Crisis Management Team.”

“I'd best put my pants on, then.”

“I'd advise it.”

Kids taunted each other. Kids picked fights. He wasn't a kid, he was a grown man. He'd goaded Parrish the second
time. He'd knocked him out. Maybe broken his nose. He'd behaved like a bully. A thug.

That's what Gus kept telling himself, between sticking his hand in the bowl of ice he took upstairs and trying to clean himself up, but he just couldn't feel bad. He wanted to hit Parrish again when he thought of what he'd said about Cydney.

The one thing he did feel bad about was the word
fiancee.
He'd meant well but his stupid attempt at gallantry had put Cydney in a bind. He'd saved her an awkward moment with her father, but what about Georgette? And Herb and Aldo and Bebe and her bitch sister, Gwen? He didn't think Cydney had stopped to consider them when she'd suggested keeping up the pretense. If Parrish didn't believe it, why would they?

And that was another thing. Why was it such an outlandish idea?

Cydney was cuter than a bug's ear. Funny and sensual. Genuine, honest and sincere. He could do worse.

Maybe she could do better,
his inner voice said.
Think about that.

Gus did, scowling at himself in the mirror while he attempted to shave left-handed. His right hand was a mess. Swollen and throbbing, his knuckles stiff and already bruised. It took him five minutes to zip and snap himself into a pair of jeans. By then he'd been upstairs almost an hour. Forget buttons. He pulled on a gray sweater with a black band across the chest and stuck his feet into loafers.

He almost ran into Elvin in the foyer, as the Sheriff came through the front door. Before he shut it, Gus caught a look at the porch, almost clear of snow, dry down to the pavement drive and the pine tree that had come down in the circle lawn during the storm.

“Want to move the tree before the Team gets here?”

“They're here, takin' tea in the dinin' room with Miss Parrish an' her daddy.” Elvin stamped snow on one of Aunt Phoebe's braided rugs. “And the tree's took care of. Didn't need the truck or the tow bar.”

“You moved
a tree
off Cydney's Jeep bare-handed?”

“Wasn't much of a tree, hoss, and it was already broke.”

“You any good at moving pianos, Elvin?”

He explained and Elvin agreed to move Aunt Phoebe's grand into the great room. “Providin', o'course, that I don't hafta arrest you.”

“You'll never take me alive, copper.”

“That's what they all say, hoss.”

He didn't think he'd be arrested. It depended on what Par-rish told the Crisis Management Team. Gus doubted he'd repeat the comment that provoked him. He might confess it to Bob Dole. To the CMT, never. Parrish lived in his pride and his image.

His face was puffy and his eyes bleary, but he looked pretty good for a guy who'd been punched twice and knocked out. The split in his lip resembled a zipper but his nose was the piece de resistance, a black-and-blue bulb smack in the middle of his face. Gus knew exactly what it felt like and smiled.

Parrish sat at the head of the table in navy trousers and a multicolored sweater. He lounged on one elbow in the armchair, a cigarette in a gold holder in an ashtray near his teacup.

“Here he is, ladies,” he said with a sweep of his arm as Gus came into the room with Elvin. “My assailant.”

“I believe that would be your alleged assailant,” chirped Cloris Figgle, wife of Clovis Figgle, the mayor of Crooked Possum.

She sat facing the door, a notepad and pen next to her Blue Willow teacup. Her little black church hat sat on her tiny gray head, its net veil plucked over her forehead. When Gus winked at her she blushed.

Eighty-something Mamie Buckles sat next to Cloris. In a white lace blouse and flowered stretch pants that sagged on her like Saran Wrap with a bad case of static cling when she got up to bring Gus a pint jar with a little chintz collar on it.

“Here you go, Gussie. A jar o' my prickly pear jelly.”

“Thank you, Mamie.” She had a face like a hedge apple and bright, snappy blue eyes. He kissed her cheek and she patted his chest. “If you end up in the big house—” she slid
Elvin a look that said he'd better not “—I'll fetch you your supper ever' night.”

“Sheriff.” Parrish stood up. “Are you going to allow this?”

“It ain't against the law to give a neighbor a jar o' jelly.”

In the case of Mamie's prickly pear jelly it probably ought to be, but Gus didn't say so. Parrish shut his mouth, sat down and reached for his cigarette. He took a puff, winced and pressed a finger to his mouth.

Cloris leaned toward him, peering at him with a raised finger so tiny it looked like a bird bone. “Is that the alleged split in your lip?”

“The split in my lip is not alleged, madam,” Parrish replied. “It's there for all the world to see. What is alleged is who put it there.”

“Thank you.” Cloris wiggled her little bird finger at him and picked up her pen. “I'll just write that down so I don't forget.”

A trill of laughter came through the swinging door. It was Cydney's and it gave Gus a zip up his back to realize he recognized it. She pushed into the dining room, carrying a tray with plates on it, cloth napkins and a platter of munchies, her head turned over her shoulder.

She'd put clothes on. Khaki slacks, a shimmery sweater the color of lime sherbet and woven brown flats. When she turned her head and her gaze fell on Gus, her laugh died. Her smile stayed but her eyes hardened and her steps veered toward the sideboard.

Louella Cantwell, Elvin's sister and the captain of the Crooked Possum Crisis Management Team, followed Cydney through the door. She was a nurse practitioner, warmhearted, good-humored. And God love her, in a forest-green pantsuit with a tunic top and a gold headband holding her glossy black pageboy, she looked like Elvin in drag. She carried a teapot tucked in a cozy crocheted by Aunt Phoebe. In Louella's hands it looked like it belonged to a child's tea set.

“Hey there, Gus.” She put the teapot on a trivet in the
center of the table and glanced at him over her shoulder. “How's your hand?”

“Fine, Louella. I'm icing it.” Gus stuck his right hand behind him and hurried to the sideboard where Cydney stood arranging the goody plate on a lace doily. He slid up beside her and reached for a cracker. A Ritz topped with cream cheese and a smoked oyster. “God bless Georgette.”

Cydney slapped his hand away. “You won't be needing those.”

“I didn't intend to hit him, babe. It just happened.”

“Twice? I came downstairs after you'd knocked him out and Elvin was helping him up.”

“I was provoked.”

“Dad says he was provoked, but he won't tell me what you said.”

“Coward. What I said is—”

“I think we should start now.” Louella tapped her spoon on her teacup. “Please sit down, everyone.”

She sat at the end of the table opposite Parrish, Cloris and Mamie on one side, Gus and Elvin with Cydney between them on the other.

“We always begin with a prayer.” Louella folded her hands. “Dear Father in heaven—”

“No offense, madam,” Parrish interrupted. “But I'm an atheist.”

“I'll say a special prayer for you, Mr. Parrish.” Louella closed her eyes. “Dear Lord, we ask Your guidance and wisdom—”

“I thought this was an intervention, not a prayer meeting.”

“Mr. Parrish.” Louella opened her eyes. Cydney shut hers and leaned her fingertips against her forehead. “Heavenly intervention is always welcome in our work with troubled families.”

“Ah. But what about intellectual intervention?” Parrish leaned on an elbow, the cigarette in his hand trailing blue smoke. “A concise and unbiased gathering of the facts. The cold, critical eye of logic and reason. The irrefutable reality—”

“That you're making a fool of yourself?” Gus suggested.

“The reality”—Parrish glared at him—”that my daughter is not this man's fiancee and he has no intention of marrying her.”

“Listen, you pompous sonofa—”

“You're right, Dad. Clever you.” Cydney pushed to her feet. “Gus and I aren't engaged. We're having an affair. He told you I was his fiancee so I wouldn't be embarrassed. It was a kind and lovely gesture. I'll always remember it. And I'll never forget what you said—'In a pig's eye.' “

Parrish took a last drag on his cigarette and rubbed it out in the ashtray. “The minute I heard it I knew it was horseshit.”

“That's because you're always right, Dad. Even when you're wrong you're right, and anyone who doubts that just has to ask you.”

Parrish sat up straight, an affronted frown on his face. Cydney swung away from him and nodded to Cloris, Mamie and Louella.

“That's my statement, ladies. It was lovely to meet you.”

Elvin stood up on one side of her, Gus the other. He wanted to go with her, but he wouldn't ruin her exit for the world. Elvin held her chair as she turned away, head high and shoulders straight, crossed the dining room and climbed the back stairs.

“I don't know you from Adam, mister, but I've known plenty of your sort,” Mamie said bluntly to Parrish. “You're a horse's petoot.”

“Mamie!” Cloris gasped. “It's the Sabbath!”

“My compliments, madam. You're an astute judge of character.”

The twinkle in Parrish's eyes said he thought Mamie was a character. An old, dried-up back-country kook.

“And you're a jackass,” she told him, then turned toward Louella. “I vote we let Gussie clobber him again.”

“Let's don't rush to judgment, Mamie. Let's ask a few questions.” Louella patted her hand and looked at Gus. “Is that what happened?”

“Pretty much.” He and Elvin sat down. “That's when I clocked him, when he said, 'In a pig's eye.' “

“You and Cydney aren't engaged to be married?”

“No, Louella. I ad-libbed that.”

“And not very well.” Parrish lit the fresh cigarette in his holder and blew smoke through his nose. “The look on your face gave it away. The abject terror at the mere thought of marrying Cydney. Can't say I blame you, but you need to work on your poker face, Munroe.”

“I was thinking I need to work on my right jab.”

“Gus,” Louella said sternly. “Now, Mr. Parrish—”

“I'd like to say something, Louella.” Cloris turned in her chair and looked Parrish in the eye. “I believe you think that you have to be nasty to show people how smart you are. I also believe you must be a very angry and unhappy man to insult your daughter in front of strangers. I feel sorry for you, and I will surely say a prayer for you, but it's my judgment that you're an awful man and I vote with Mamie to let Gus clobber you.”

Parrish sat a notch straighter, a startled, my-God-the-woman-has-a-brain flicker in his eyes. He wasn't the first person to mistake the citizens of Crooked Possum for half-witted, inbred hillbillies. He wouldn't be the last to misread their slower speech and pace, their faith and respectful manners for backwards, raised-in-the-holler lack of worldliness.

“But Cloris,” Louella said, “we haven't heard from Mr. Parrish.”

“Yes we have,” she replied tartly. “I've heard all I care to hear.”

“Gracious, ladies. Are you sure this is how you want to vote?”

“Did I mumble?” Mamie snapped. “Wore m'teeth so I wouldn't.”

“Cloris? Are you sure about this?”

“Absolutely,” she said firmly.

“Very well. I have your recommendation.” Louella looked down the table at Parrish. “I don't agree with Mamie and
Cloris, which I will note in my report, but I've been outvoted. I'm sorry.”

“Let me carry out the sentence for you, madam.” Parrish slapped his hand and laughed. “There. I've been chastised.”

“You ain't gettin' this, are you?” Elvin put on his Pm-the-Sheriff face and let Parrish have a good look at it. “This here is the Crooked Possum Crisis Management Team, duly empowered and granted full authority by the City Council to resolve domestic disputes by whatever means they deem appropriate. They jus' gave their recommendation. Now it's my job t'see to it that it's enforced.”