The Wedding Machine (26 page)

“Now what did they say it was across from?” Ray glances over her shoulder at Kitty B.

“The Chuck E. Cheese,” Kitty B. says as she inspects her chicken scratch on a crumpled recipe card. “It's across from the Chuck E. Cheese and just to the left of the Pet Superstore.”

Kitty B. makes a face at Sis, who can't help but let out a giggle. “I know.” Kitty B. shakes her head. “How awful do you suppose it's going to be?”

“Let's just hope they don't insist on hosting the wedding,” Ray says as she reapplies her dark pink lipstick in the rearview mirror at a traffic light.

“It
has
come up.” Kitty B. checks her own lipstick in her compact mirror. “Marshall said he'd love to have the ceremony at his daddy's church, and Katie Rae hasn't suggested otherwise.”

Sis pats Kitty B.'s round knee. “Don't fret.” Kitty B. puts her hand on top of Sis's and squeezes it tight. Her knuckles whiten and her wedding rings catch the light. She can see clumps of cookie batter caught between the prongs that hold her solitaire in place.

As much as she likes Marshall, sometimes she wonders why all of their children can't find nice All Saints parishioners from Jasper to settle down with. Oh, she's not as bugged about it as Ray is. But she likes the fact that the gals all married men they either grew up with or knew of from a close distance. There was always something to anchor and connect them—either their parents were friends, or they attended the same college, or they were card-carrying members of some other upstanding Episcopal church in the diocese. The more she thinks about how Katie Rae and Marshall met over the Internet, the more uneasy she becomes
. It's peculiar
, she thinks.
If
the Internet had been around in my time, the gals might be strewn
across the country by now, married to men with different accents and
unusual customs. We might be dealing with snowstorms and terrorists
and mass transportation and who knows what else? Think of it!

Right after the Taco Bell, Kitty B. sees the church sign out of the corner of her eye. “There it is,” Ray says, turning the car toward a parking lot.

On the left end of the strip mall a brightly lit sign reads, “Christ on the Coast Cathedral.” The font reminds Kitty B. of the bubble letters Cricket used to write on her schoolbooks and her backpack and her plastic picture frames. The letters are in lavender, and beside them is an image of a rip curl wave with a bright orange cross rising out of the clouds above it.

Sis squeezes Kitty B.'s hand, and before you know it Ray waves her fingers in front of their wide eyes and rouses the gals out of the car. She leads the way toward the entrance, lifting her pointed chin and looking over her shoulder, reminding Kitty B. of Ray's mantra, “Let's rise above it all, gals.”

Shawna Bennington meets them at the entrance, which is an automatic door like the kind they have at K-Mart and Sally Swine. She steps on the metal foot pad and the door goes flying open.

“Come on in, ladies,” she says.

The reception area has two-toned walls that are a shade of grayish lavender and a dark violet. Faux ficus trees with waxy leaves flank a purple pleather sofa, and a faux fern in a plastic gold planter sits on the coffee table. There are glossy black-and-white posters in plastic frames hanging above the sofa and behind the vacant receptionist's desk. One says in bold block letters: “I'm free to choose life or death.” The other has an image of a large Band-Aid with a quote in the center: “It was good for me to be afflicted so that I might learn your decrees.”

Shawna Bennington's hair is blonde, wiry, and frayed on the ends like she's used the curling iron one too many times. She's wearing snug white pants and a white angora sweater with little gold sequins sewn into star shapes across the neckline. Her middle-aged paunch has gotten the better of her, and in her tight white getup you can see a muffin top that the Colony Bakery would be proud of. She's teetering on the clear acrylic heels of off-white leather boots.

She gives everyone big hugs and offers them all a piece of Doublemint gum while she leans over the purple receptionist counter and pages her husband, who answers his phone, “Pastor here.”

“I'm Katie Rae's mama, Shawna,” Kitty B. says, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “My husband is not feeling well today, so I thought I'd bring my friends. They're all helping me with the wedding.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,” she says as she crumples a stick of Doublemint between her teeth. “I mean the part about your husband.”

“Don't be,” Kitty B. says. “My husband never feels well.” Kitty B.'s feeling a little nervous, and she hopes she doesn't spit out
every
thought that flashes across her mind. She's relieved when Sis comes over and pats her shoulder gently.

Ray looks at Kitty B. like she's got a screw loose, and then Sis interjects. “He's got that awful chronic fatigue syndrome. Are you familiar with it?”

“I am,” Shawna says. Her thin glossy lips form a shimmery “O” of concern as she chews her gum. “Marshall has told us all about it, and we've got him on the prayer list here.”

“Tell Dwight I need to meet with him about the revival music,” a voice booms down the hall.

“Here comes Pastor,” Shawna Bennington says, and the gals turn toward the hallway expecting to see a large man that will match his voice and the physique of his handsome son.

Well, wouldn't you know Pastor Bennington is as short as Sis, which is saying something. In fact, if they went back to back, she might have him beat by half an inch.

At first Kitty B. thinks he's talking to himself like a crazy man, but then she sees this metal contraption wound around his left ear, and she realizes it must be some kind of telephone.

“Gotta go,” he says, and though he seems to have ended his conversation, he keeps the piece around his ear. How odd.

“Hi there.” He puts his hand out to meet Ray, who is the tallest of the three.

Ray steps back and nods in Kitty B.'s direction, and the preacher says to Sis, “You must be Kitty B.”

Kitty B.'s still staring at the contraption wrapped around his ear. It reminds her of a
Star Trek
episode Katie Rae made her watch one time. Before she has a chance to correct him, he pulls Sis into a side embrace, kisses her cheek, and says, “We sure love Katie Rae.”

Sis pulls back fast and looks over to Kitty B., but Roscoe keeps holding her tight.

Kitty B. walks up so close that she can smell his smell—like Listerine, pencil lead, and aftershave. Beneath his cheeks are small, deep craters where he must have suffered some kind of awful acne as a teenager.

Sis tries to pull away, but he won't loosen his grip. Finally, Kitty B. reaches out her hand. “I'm Kitty B., Pastor Bennington. And you can sure bet we feel the same way about Marshall.”

Roscoe lets go of Sis. “Pardon me,” he says. Then he turns to Kitty B. “So you're the wonderful woman who gave birth to the love of my son's life!”

Shawna claps her hands together and smiles Kitty B.'s way, the small, gray piece of chewing gum peeking out from between her molars. Then she nods to her husband, who says, “Sorry for all the confusion, ladies. Let me show y'all around the cathedral since we're going to need a church in a few months.”

The Benningtons lead the gals down an officelike hall and then around a corner where four large faux wooden doors with metal handles open into a large amphitheater. A bright purple carpet lines the aisle. The walls are lavender, and the altar is this kind of awful plum mauvish with an acrylic podium and a big baptismal pool where Katie Rae told Kitty B. that folks get dunked quite often. There is a large overhead screen that has the “Christ on the Coast Cathedral” logo lit up in its center and there is the faintest music playing in the background. Kitty B. stops and listens until she identifies the tune. It's that “Shout to the North and the South” song Capers made them sing on their All Saints mountain retreat last year. It's one of the songs that camp folks like to flash pictures of mountaintops and rainbows on a screen alongside the words.

Once Sis told Kitty B. that as a musician she is relatively uninspired by these songs, as they can often be broken down into chords that resemble some old rock or Motown tune. “I much prefer the hymnal,” she confided.

To the left of the podium is a smaller stage where it looks like a rock band is set up. There are electric guitars, amplifiers, drums, a keyboard, and more microphones and wires than you can shake a stick at.

“You know we told Marshall and Katie Rae that we'd love to have the wedding here,” Pastor Bennington says, opening his stout arms and puffing up his chest as if he's offering them St. Peter's Basilica.

“I heard some mention of that,” Kitty B. says, trying to catch her breath. Her mama would be absolutely horrified if she thought Katie Rae might get married in a place like this. Kitty B. can't help but move her eyes back toward Ray, who bristles her back as if she's just stepped barefoot on a pinecone. She walks over to Kitty B., squeezes her wrist in assurance, and says to Roscoe and Shawna in her strongest voice, “Well, we have a lovely and historic Episcopal chapel of ease in Jasper—”

Roscoe clears his throat and Shawna speaks up, “It's just that Roscoe
has
to marry them. He's been looking forward to this day for many years now.”

“Mmm hmm,” he says as he nods his head and pats the base of his acrylic podium. “We adopted Marshall more than thirty-four years ago this year, and we're more thankful for him than you can ever know.”

There is an awkward silence where Kitty B. can't help but hear her own breathing. Her ears are burning as though she's about to lose her balance, and she knows she's obliged to respond.

“I didn't know that,” she says. Of course, now it makes all the sense in the world. Marshall doesn't look a thing like Shawna and Roscoe. And his brain for science. He must have come by that from his biological parents.

“Oh, yeah,” Roscoe says. “He was born to a young gal in Bald Knob, Arkansas, and her kin attended our old church in Pyatt, and they knew about our troubles conceiving.”

“Well, that's a wonderful story,” Ray says, smiling her proper albeit slightly frozen smile.

“Indeed.” Kitty B. nods her head fast and furiously. She knows it's not all that important where they hold the wedding, but something is rather depressing about having it in an old K-Mart on the side of Highway 17. It lacks some sort of beauty or sacredness. She can't quite put her finger on it, but it just doesn't feel right.

Roscoe examines the tops of his black loafers and says, “There's more to see, ladies. Let's show them the meeting hall, Shawn.”

“All right.” Shawna rubs Kitty B.'s back. “We think it's perfect for the rehearsal dinner.”

The meeting hall is a big blank box next to the sanctuary. It's like a fourth-rate conference room with a black carpet, gray walls, and stains in the ceiling from where the air conditioner must have leaked. There is a small gathering of people in the corner who hold their hands together and bow their heads in prayer.

“Overeaters Anonymous,” Shawna whispers, the pop of her gray gum resounding in Kitty B.'s ear. “They meet here on Thursday mornings.”

Ray comes over and says to Shawna, “We certainly don't want to disturb them. I think we have the idea, don't you, Kitty B.?”

“Indeed,” Kitty B. says.

When they go out into the hall, Roscoe and Shawna invite them over to El Dorado for the Mexican buffet lunch, but Kitty B. declines, citing the need to get home and check on LeMar.

As they say their good-byes, Sis says, “One more question. Do you all happen to have an organ?”

Roscoe winks at Sis. “Naw,” he says. “Our services are contemporary. The organ went out with the typewriter, don'tcha think?”

“No, she doesn't, Pastor Bennington,” Ray jumps in to say. “Sis is the organist and choirmaster at our historic chapel of ease. In fact, she's played for hundreds of ceremonies. She's quite gifted.”

“Oh, my apologies,” Roscoe says. He comes over and squeezes Sis's elbow. “We keep forgetting that the whole world hasn't gone contemporary.”

“I'll tell you what we do have, though.” Shawna points to a little booth that overlooks the sanctuary. “We have our own videographer on staff, and he's agreed to do the whole event—ceremony, reception and all! Isn't that wonderful?”

Kitty B.'s simply too shocked to comment. She and the gals have always talked about the fact that they think the ceremony should
never
, under
any
circumstances be recorded. It's a Holy Sacrament, not some birthday or retirement party. Years ago the All Saints Vestry approved the Wedding Guild's request for a “no video camera” policy during weddings or any other church service.

All she can do is nod and wave good-bye. Shawna tilts her head to study Kitty B. as if she's some kind of a riddle; then she grabs Ray's arm and asks in earnest, “Is Kitty B. hard of hearing?”