I notice, slightly annoyed, that even Henry has fallen into this heaped enchantment. Henry! And, peeking out at the altar, I see both Zeb and his dad, mesmerized, too. Zeb’s dad even seems to have a tear in his eye. Zeb is looking, too, but it’s more of a sense of interest. A taking in. I wonder if one day he’ll be a painter. That seems like a fit. Irreverent but somehow in love with the world and all the myriad of treasures in it.
As Binky makes it to the altar the officiant clears his throat rather unceremoniously and begins orating his notes. I pretend to contemplate the names and songs in the program but am roused out of my ruse by a hush falling over the crowd, a shared silence and shock I haven’t heard since, well, forever really.
Even Henry stands like a stone.
I look up to see the last thing you would ever expect to see at an occasion as sumptuous as this.
There, do you see it? There, at the back of the chapel. An old man, an elderly man, covered in dirt and mud, clothes in tatters.
One by one each head turns to take in the man, until even the officiant, the bride, and the groom look back to see what on Earth has charged the ions in the room to this massive extent. As if an invisible dark cloud has just overtaken us.
The man comes forward, bent over, in silence. For some reason, everyone just keeps staring, allowing this stillness. Maybe to say something is to admit that it’s happening, and nobody wants to be the first one to acknowledge it, because it seems like a mirage.
Finally, the disheveled man reaches the front of the aisle, the altar, and he looks up to the officiant. A different kind of gasp now than the one reserved for the beauty of the bride. This, a horrified one. The man, his face bruised and bloodied. His left eye swollen, almost to the extent of not seeming like an eye at all.
Zeb’s dad protectively steps forward, stands in front of his bride and his son.
The man looks up, stunned, as if he had no idea where he was in the first place.
“Please, please, sir . . .”
The officiant breaks through. “What is it, my son? What has happened?”
“It’s . . . it’s . . .”
And then the man promptly falls to the ground.
4
I’M FAIRLY SURE this wasn’t part of the wedding plan.
Yes, we’ll have lilies, roses, posies, and hydrangea, all in different hues of white and ivory. Yes, we’ll have the guests’ greeting after the ceremony with champagne. Yes, we’ll have a string quartet begin fifteen minutes before the procession. And, also, if you don’t mind, I’d like a sullied, beaten stranger to collapse at the altar just as the nuptials begin!
But Binky is not pouting, she is looking concerned, just as her soon-to-be husband is, leaning over the wounded man with a glass of water. Zeb hands over a shawl, a kind gesture from one of the guests. The shawl is immediately put over the injured man, making him look like a crippled bird in a sequined gown.
After being sat up and tended to, the man revives. Looking up, meekly.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know what to do . . .”
“Please, what is the matter?” The officiant leans in.
“They’ve taken over.”
The officiant and Zeb’s dad share a look. What exactly does that mean?
Zeb stands, looking curious, next to Binky, who is the picture of concern. I have to hand it to her, most brides would not be enjoying this particular melodrama in the middle of their gorgeous wedding.
“I’m sorry, who? Who has taken over? Where?” The officiant leans in farther, puzzled.
“Ragged Point.”
There’s a stunned silence.
Now, for those of you who do not hail from this blustery part of the coast, Ragged Point is the beginning of the road to Big Sur. It’s a tiny hamlet of a town, consisting of only one inn, one restaurant, a gift shop, a gas station, and even a wedding chapel. Why does it exist? Welp, the million-dollar views seem to be the reason. It’s a romantic spot perched just before the treacherous winding road above the cliffs and is considered the gateway to Big Sur. It’s twenty minutes north of San Simeon on the PCH, making it the perfect hotel for tourists visiting Hearst Castle.
Now, the idea of taking over a town seems absurd, but not absurd enough that the guests, many of whom are actually staying in the one inn at Ragged Point, would not see this as seriously unfunny. It has been isolated before. During the mudslides. During the fires. After an earthquake. It’s not the best place to get a signal, whether you have Sprint, Verizon, AT&T, T-Mobile, or anything less than a satellite dish for a head. And it’s the kind of place where people generally leave their doors open.
But a town being taken over? In this day and age? I mean, this sounds more like a 1910 thing. Or even 1810. Them banditos have come and taken over the dadgum town! I mean, right?
And, also, what would you want with a town? I mean, there is infrastructure to maintain, community services to provide, water filtration maintenance. Sounds like a big pain.
Zeb’s dad keeps his voice calm. “Excuse me? I’m not sure I heard you correctly. Did you say—”
“Yes, yes, they’ve taken over the town! All of it. Everyone there locked up! The men, the women . . . even the children! Locked up behind the Blue Heron, they’ve got them in that shed like animals! It’s horrible. Just horrible. I tried to save them but . . . well, look at me. I’m an old man. ‘Old goat,’ they called me.”
“Who?! Who did this?”
“These men, a group of them . . . who knows where they came from? Now they’re just looting the place!”
A shudder goes through the crowd as everyone considers the fate of the women and children locked up behind the Blue Heron.
No, no, it can’t be. Something must be done.
“And these men? What did they look like?”
“Oh, they were different. They were . . . I don’t even know if they were speaking English.”
“What language were they speaking?” The officiant leans in again.
Something about this irks Zeb’s dad. “Excuse me, I’m not sure I see the point in—”
“I’m just trying to figure out what we’re up against!”
And that is the first it dawns on anybody that we are up against anyone.
Henry turns to me. “‘We’? What does he mean, ‘we’?”
The men from the crowd seem to be moving forward, a tide of agitation. I can’t tell whether they’re worried about their hotel rooms and what might be in them, or about the people left in the town. Maybe a combination of both . . . ?
Suddenly the tide swells.
“We must do something!”
“We have to go down there!”
“What about the police?!”
That freezes the momentum. Oh, yeah, the police. Right. We don’t live in a postapocalyptic dystopian afterscape where every man must fend for himself. Not yet anyway. So, of course, there are police. And, if movies teach us anything, it’s that this is a job for the police.
“Right! The police! Call the police! Where are they?”
The man looks up. “We tried, all the phones are down. The wires cut. The one cell tower destroyed. That’s why I came here. Thank God you’re all here.” Now he looks up at the concerned bride. Binky, nodding in empathy. “I thought it would be closed today, this place. This is a blessing. Your wedding is a blessing.”
Zeb’s dad reaches a hand out to squeeze Binky’s hand. I think the squeeze means, “I’m sorry our lavish wedding is ruined, honey. But this is an emergency and thank you for taking it so well.” She puts her hand on his. Yes, it’s okay. The wedding is, indeed, ruined. But, also indeed, we have to help.
“Um, has anyone ever heard of a cell phone?” It’s a girl in the front row, someone’s annoyed daughter, obviously upset at having to be here in the first place. She takes out her cell and becomes increasingly less confident as she realizes it’s not working.
“Um, does anybody have a signal?” she asks, more polite now.
Zeb’s dad takes the floor. “Okay, so obviously there’s something wrong with the cell phone service. Maybe the weather.”
“Not the weather! Like I said, they destroyed the towers! Cut the lines!” The stranger yelps. Excited again. The officiant tries to calm him.
“What now? Does anyone have any suggestions?” Zeb’s dad looks around the room.
“What about the police in San Simeon?” a woman in the front row offers.
“Why, they’re here. Up here, don’t you see?” The stranger looks at her. Why does no one understand?!
And, of course, that’s true. As we look around it becomes obvious that this many people, at a gathering up at Hearst Castle, would amount to that kind of security. I mean, it’s not every wedding that takes place amid a bajillion dollars’ worth of art.
“So, they’re here. Of course they are.” Zeb’s dad turns to Binky.
“We have to help them.” She nods, resolved. Zeb continues. “Okay, everyone, let’s gather around. Can someone go find the police and security stationed around and tell them what’s going on?”
“I’ll go!” Zeb steps in.
“Yes, yes. I’ll go as well!” Henry steps forward, through the crowd.
“Wait, what?” I grab Henry’s arm.
“The least we can do is help round up the police. Who knows where they all are in this behemoth labyrinth.”
Now all sorts of people begin coming forward, volunteering themselves for service. Mostly men who seem somehow excited by all of this. Like they’re all turning to their wives and girlfriends to say good-bye, and going off to war. Most of the women are standing up, wanting to go with them, but somehow many of them are coaxed into staying.
“No, no, it’s not safe.”
“No. You have to stay here. It’s just, we don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“Please, you have to stay. This is not the time to have an argument about gender politics!”
I suppose I can see his point, although there is something strange transforming all the men in the room. Seeping into their blood. As if this is the moment they’ve been waiting for, dying for. A moment to be a hero. Yes, this is the chance!
A kind of befuddlement and resignation on the face of some of the women and children, being sat down and comforted. Somehow, in an emergency, everything has already been settled. Yet there is a resistance among them. A handful of women who are saddling up for this posse, too. One of them already ditched her heels and put on galoshes. (Did she bring galoshes in case of inclement weather? Genius!)
And even I, staring at Henry and Zeb hurrying out of the room, am wondering if I’m meant to stay here. Is that my role? Isn’t that what everyone else is doing? Or am I like that woman in galoshes? Hmm.
How to be a girl?
I look around at the stymied faces of the women and children around me. Safe. They are safe. It is settled. I look at Zeb’s dad, reasoning with Binky, who is resting on the front pew, stunned. No, no, Binky. This is not how the day was supposed to go.
Then, as if to settle it, drip . . . drip . . . drip. Drip drip. Drip. The final insult. Rain.
Binky exhales, resigned. Okay, now I am starting to feel sorry for her. And she is taking this all really well, considering. I’ve seen brides that would have hurled that old man into a planter.
The men and older boys seem to be elbowing their way out in droves. An exodus of exuberant heroism. An army of Dudley Do-Rights heading out to save the day! The resistance women are a little more serious, gearing up for whatever awaits them.
I catch Zeb and Henry hurrying out the back red velvet curtains next to the altar.
And I realize I am meant to stay here.
That is what I am supposed to do.
But, you see.
I’ve never, ever been any good at doing what I’m supposed to.
5
THE RAIN IS coming down now, lightly, as if flirting with the idea of really opening up. The sun is starting to set but you can’t see it through the clouds; on a clear day you can see every last inch of it sink regally into the ocean, staring out miles and miles over the Pacific, cutting little half-moons in the ocean. But this day doesn’t get that kind of blessing. This is a day for madness.
And madness it is, staring out below at the myriad of landings and driveways, the lights and motors of the panoply of cars and trucks on their way down the rolling hill, down from the castle on its perch to the hoi polloi roads below, where the roads lead to streets and the streets lead to highways all the way to the rat races to the north and to the south, San Francisco or Los Angeles, choose your poison.
But the chaos below could rival either metropolis in its current state, everyone running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Bedlam.
And as the lights, motors, cars, and trucks roar down the hill to Ragged Point, I find myself looking around from my perch, finally seeing what is around me. I seem to be in a kind of tangential Roman colonnade. Down below me I can see Henry and Zeb running, yelling to all the men they see who look even vaguely like they are security detail. I mean, I think that last guy was a janitor, really.
They disappear on the other side of the decadent Roman columned pool, out to find more guards, although it does seem like pretty much everyone has been rounded up.
As the sound of the engines wanes down the hill, a kind of quiet takes over. As if all that was just a mad hallucination and we are back to normal once again. The mist is falling over this mini mountain, but it doesn’t seem to mind, both the rain and the night enveloping it.
As usual, the cold comes faster than you think when the sun dips down. I’ve lived here my whole life and it surprises me every time. Mark Twain said the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. Nobody ever believes it until they get here. How this cold will chill you to the bone, this wet cold off the ocean, up the cliffs.
I realize I’m starting to get maudlin; sometimes this weather does it to you. It’ll just sneak right up next to you, tap you on the head, and make you depressed. Like a magic trick.
I resolve to go find my brother and Zeb. Once I find them I’ll feel better.
But there is something strange.
I don’t know how to tell you this.
So, when I turn the corner, from under the colonnade down to the steps, there’s a view from here over the particularly insane black-and-white-bottomed pool surrounded by Roman architecture. As if you just happened to step into ancient Rome at the height of the empire. Except not. Except half the world away in a place that’s now just a museum and testament to a rich man’s folly. But there, standing near the pool, leaning against a white Doric column—is Binky.
Of course she’s crying. I bet you could fill that entire pool with just the tears out of her waylaid bride’s eyes. She turns back, and I duck down behind a column because I am not insane, are you kidding me? How awkward would that be? “Hi, um, sorry about your wedding getting ruined by a bedraggled stranger.” No. I am not doing it. As she turns back . . . she stares out over the Romanesque pool. Vacant. Like nobody’s home. And this is a feeling I can understand.
I want to say something to her. To make it better.
But what would I say?
What would I do? Offer her a gift card to Target?
What am I even talking about?
Poor Binky.
This is just the worst day of her life.
I should go console her.
Okay, fine.
I’ll do it.
Welcome to my world of awkwardness.
6
I TRY TO make my way down to Binky but manage to slip and nearly kill myself. I guess these rain-drizzled colonnades get pretty slick. I save myself with the world’s most uncoordinated gesture and I can only hope Binky doesn’t notice my ridiculous body spasm. My words of consolation won’t work after that.
&nbs
p; But when I look up, she’s still in her own little world. Staring down at her hands, at her engagement ring. Her shoulders shake ever so slightly in her butterfly-sleeve Russian lace. Still crying. Alone in the rain on her wedding day, not even a coat on her shoulders. I guess she doesn’t even care at this point. Maybe it’s like, “Well, I threw the biggest wedding of all time, it was a fiasco and now I don’t care if I get pneumonia and die.” I mean, sure. And, let’s be honest. This wedding really must have cost a fortune.
Maybe I’ve been too judgmental of Binky. Maybe something about her perfect everything was annoying to me. Maybe I was being protective of Zeb. Maybe I didn’t give her a fair shot.
I will help her. I will stop being so selfish, insecure, and weird, and step right up to the plate. Put my big-girl pants on and march down there and make this woman feel better, right now!
Suddenly, I’m ashamed of myself. How selfish am I? My mother would not be proud of me for hesitating. She would get that look on her face of sad disappointment that would absolutely break my soul. She gave me that look once when I didn’t want to give away my Duplo Legos even though I hadn’t even looked at them for five years. “But, honey, some other little girl could play with them. Someone who didn’t have any toys.” I can feel my cheeks flush just thinking about it.
Okay, okay, no more funny business. I will go over there and make the bride feel better right this minute!
I resolve to be the best person I can be, exhale, and march down there, but it’s too late, she’s already heading back inside, probably to clean up her tears and be a good hostess. I catch one last glimpse of her, through the doorway, her makeup melted with tears.
Henry & Eva and the Famous People Ghosts Page 3
