In a few short months, I’d be Mrs. Speyers.
I pushed the form over to the attendant, ignoring my bridesmaids, who had unified in sulking.
John pulled me into his arms. I pressed my cheek to his chest. “November eighth,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with quiet tenderness. “That’s the date.”
I really was a lucky woman.
The first call came in three days after we’d mailed the invites. It was Ausma, my ex-o-chem lab partner.
“Uh, Tara…?”
I wedged the phone against my ear with my shoulder as I typed up a resume. “Uh, Ausma?”
“Is this a joke?”
I accidentally typed “joke” into the resume, and the phone was slipping. I wasn’t cut out for multi-tasking. I pushed my computer aside. “Is what a joke? You mean my wedding? You were there for the proposal, so…”
“Oh God,” she said. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“I thought you’d gone crazy or something. And that didn’t make sense, because John seems to make you saner.”
“Is this about the wedding date or something? Because it’s not too soon. We’ve got this.”
“It’s not about the date.”
I felt a pang of dread. “Okay, what happened?”
“I think you should see this for yourself. I don’t want you to think I’m screwing with you.”
Twenty minutes later, I was wading through the crowd of whacked-out lawn art in Ausma’s yard; one of her roommates had welded it.
Her eyes were wide as she opened the door. “Come in.”
I tripped over more overly modern, or post-modern, or whatever random point in time in whatever dimension art like this might have been rational, into the living room. My invite was sitting on the coffee table on top of a pile of junk mail.
“What the hell…” I snatched it up, and my heart slithered down past my liver into my shoes. The invite was exactly as we’d ordered them, with the text in the goofy font John had chosen.
Miss Tara Faith McReynolds and Mr. John Edmond Speyers…
Below the text was another message in a rusty, blotchy spatter that could only be blood:
Grotesque.
Satan will hunt you down.
I thrust the card away, and it fluttered to the threadbare rug. A tabby-striped paw shot from under the coffee table and dragged it under, and by the tearing that followed, I surmised the cat had killed it. I was grateful for his assistance.
Ausma gazed at me with wide eyes full of pity and uncertainty.
“The envelope,” I asked. “Was it open?”
She shook her head and picked up the envelope from the table, handing it to me. The top had been slit roughly, but the flap was still sealed tight.
I turned it in my hands, examining it closely. “They could have steamed it open, resealed it with glue…”
“Who would do that?”
I rolled my eyes and snorted. “Plenty of racists in this town.” I stared blankly at the envelope in my hands. But who did I know that was not only this dirty of a trashpile, but also had the means and time to do such a thing?
There was only one evil I knew that was strong enough to pull this off, but I pushed that thought away.
Calls kept coming in that day, the next, and the next. Every last guest had gotten a postcard from Hell, with a personalized message written in blood:
The Beast will devour your heart, or He who sins dies a second death…
I sat beside John on the couch as he stared grimly at his phone. His cousin had sent him a picture of the invite their grandmother, a woman of seventy-six, had received:
Lying with animals is an abomination before God.
I closed my eyes, my pain and helplessness frothing up and boiling over.
“That’s…I can’t even. I can’t. This is too much.”
“It’s pretty messed up, I’ll give you that.”
His tone made my eyes pop open. His expression was guarded, and I winced. “I’m sorry. I know this is a hell of a lot worse on you, and your poor goddamn grandma…” I pounded the sofa cushions, my teeth clenching.
“Tara Faith…”
“Why won’t Mama die for good?”
John’s lips tightened. We stared at each other, that horrible night in the basement hanging between us, a tangible thing. John’s anger and pain roiled in the depths of his eyes, hidden behind a closed-off expression. I’d seen him wear that mask so many times out in public. Now he had to put on at home.
My eyes filled with tears. This is what Mama was trying to do: drive a wedge into our love and pound it hard into the cracks. Leach out all the good feelings and seep us full of the bitterness that had been her personal gasoline. I wouldn’t let that happen. It wasn’t my feelings I needed to think about right now. I needed to think about John, and his family, that sweet old lady who was expecting to get her beloved grandson’s wedding invite and instead got a vile note calling her an animal.
I sucked back my sobs and guilt, crawling into my fiancé’s lap and putting my arms around him. “I have to stop this, but I don’t know how.”
John stroked my hair. “I don’t know, either. For now, I think this stuff with the invites will settle down. Most people will still come, though a few might be too scared to.”
“I don’t blame them.” I buried my face in his shoulder. I didn’t want to dare a look at his face. “Do you really think this is the last of it?”
His heart pounded beneath my cheek, strong and rapid, almost in time with my own. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “It’ll blow over.”
John may have been even better than I am at wishful thinking and dodging questions, but we both knew the truth.
Mama was back, and she wouldn’t give up.
A woman’s figure is her best asset.
Chapter Four
Say No to the Dress
The next couple of weeks passed without anything else especially creepy or horrifying happening, except for Sally and Eileen trying to go behind our backs to the caterer and change the menu. John was right about the invites; people blamed it on some Nazi working at the post office or something, and when no more bloody threats were delivered, most decided it was worth the risk to come.
I started to hope that maybe I’d been wrong and that this had nothing to do with Mama and my other family ghouls. Maybe an opposing party in one of John’s cases, or a girl jealous of my man, had gotten bored, but now they’d lost interest, and it was smooth sailing from here to the wedding.
I went in for my first dress fitting accompanied by Sally and Eileen. Eileen hadn’t seen it yet, and when the clerk brought it in, she gave a long gasp. “Oh my God, Tara, that’s so beautiful.”
“Wait until you see it on her,” Sally said.
When the attendant took me back into the fitting room, we ran into a snag.
“Ouch!” I cried. “That hurts. Stop.”
“Oh, goodness,” the clerk said.
I tried to breathe. The damn dress wouldn’t even button a quarter of the way up. I knew what the clerk was thinking, but it wasn’t true. “I didn’t gain any weight. If anything, I’ve lost some.”
“You look lovely, dear. I wish I had a figure like yours.”
I stared intensely at the chipped polish on my toes so I wouldn’t strangle her, because she was as good as calling me a liar.
When I slouched back out into the waiting room still wearing my shorts and flip-flops, my friends frowned. “It was too tight,” I said. “They took my measurements again, and we’re having another fitting in a week.”
“Oh,” Sally said.
They were silent as we walked out the front door.
“I didn’t gain any weight!” I insisted.
“No, of course not,” Sally said quickly.
“You look great,” Eileen agreed.
I’d never been much for dieting, but I lived on oranges and rice crackers all that week. I even pull
ed the scale out from under the bathroom vanity, wiped a year’s worth of grime off it, and weighed myself every night. John seemed afraid to say anything, which was probably healthy for him. He smirked and ate my portion of the mac and cheese.
On the day of the appointment, I’d lost three pounds, and I strutted into the boutique wearing a pair of brand-new booty shorts and feeling confident. As soon as I slipped the dress on, I could tell something wasn’t right.
“The sleeves are too tight!”
“Oh, goodness…”
The cap sleeves bit into my armpits and shoulders, and the clerk couldn’t even get the second button done up this time. I stomped my foot, trying to keep tears from coming to my eyes. “I’ve actually lost weight this week! This isn’t right.” I wanted to tear the damn dress off with my teeth, but the clerk helped me carefully remove it, then took my measurements again, her brow furrowing as she wrote them down. “These measurements definitely are bigger than the ones on last week’s sheet, but…that’s weird…”
“What?” The sulk in my voice was embarrassing.
“This isn’t my handwriting. I remember quite clearly that I was the one to take the measurements.”
A chill crawled up through my toes, spreading through all the places that were too thick for the dress. “You sure were.”
She gazed at me with faraway eyes, tapping her pencil against her lips, then shrugged faintly. “I’ll have a chat with the seamstresses. I’m not sure what happened, but we’ll have this taken out for you by Wednesday.”
I left the boutique without a word, my friends trailing behind in confusion. In my mind’s eye, I saw Mama sprawled in her easy chair with her cigarette and a diet Cuba Libre. “An elegant woman has a willowy figure, Tara, but you run around flaunting those bosoms like white trash. It’s grotesque.”
I drove those memories out with a pitchfork and turned to my mouse-silent bridesmaids. “Seamstress fucked up. We’re going back Wednesday.”
I wondered what new skullfuckery would transpire on that visit.
“Okay, I have to ask what’s up with all the oranges, Tara Faith.”
I peeled off a section and downed it, shrugging, while John watched me over his plate of chicken and rice.
“Don’t give me that shrug. You haven’t been eating dinner all week, and you’re about to turn orange from all that fruit. What’s up?”
I swallowed another section of orange. I couldn’t chew it much because my mouth was breaking out in sores from all that vitamin C. I asked myself why I was lying to him. “Well, it’s like this,” I said, and I told him about the dress fittings.
His brows inched closer and closer together. “Wait, you lost weight, but the dress was even tighter than before?”
I nodded, shredding orange peel.
“Put down that goddamn orange and have some chicken. You’re getting scrawny, and it’s not even for a reason that should make sense to you.”
“What’s that supposed—”
He was already up, pulling a plate out of the kitchen cupboard and loading food onto it. “Women, I swear to God.”
As I regarded the plate he slid in front of me, losing a battle with my good sense and the delicious-smelling steam, John’s phone rang. He leaned back and grabbed it off the breakfast bar, glancing at the screen. “The country club,” he muttered dryly, then punched the button. “Hello?” The seed of his scowl grew beyond all proportions. “What now?” As he listened, his head sank down between his knees, and he clutched his short hair in his hand. “Well, you know that’s completely ridiculous, right?”
I stirred my fork around in my food, my spine rigid.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid I must protest,” John said. “You’re making my fiancée and me suffer because of some racist criminal. I understand but…ma’am? You have yourself a damn good day then, okay?”
He jabbed the hang up button and sat there with his elbows on his knees, his head hanging.
I pried my clenched teeth open. “They canceled?”
“Someone called in and said I’m an Islamic terrorist,” he said from between his knees. “They had to cancel so I didn’t start Jihad at the buffet, I guess.”
I sputtered before I could stop myself, then broke out in full-on laughter. He glanced up at me and shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” I said, shoving my fist in my mouth.
He shrugged and leaned back in his chair, smoothing his hair with his palm. His eyes met mine, and he did a double-take, then scooted over and gathered me up in his arms. “Don’t cry, Tara Faith.”
I wasn’t sure when I’d started blubbering, probably halfway through laughing, but he was right. My cheeks were wet.
“I’m so tired,” I said. “I just want to marry you. I don’t want to put up with my mama’s bullshit. This is crazy. And it isn’t fair.”
“I know,” he muttered.
I dug my fingernails into my palm. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you put up with my bullshit too.”
“No, no, it’s okay, Tara Faith. It’s okay.”
We held each other, and I quieted down a bit. “I don’t know what to do,” I said.
“I know what we should do,” he said. “Start calling people. It’s probably too late to have the wedding this weekend, but if we go in tomorrow and get the license, we can have it next weekend. All we need is a place and someone to perform the ceremony. The guests will understand. And if your dress isn’t ready, wear jeans.”
I sniffed. “Sally and Eileen will crap their diapers.”
A grin wound its way onto his lips. “I’m sure you won’t kill the plan for that reason.”
“Naw, they’re big girls and can change their own pants, but…I mean, is this bullshit gonna stop once we’re happily married?”
He smiled sadly, tucking a tendril of my hair behind my ear. “These spirits are trying to keep us from getting married. We’re not gonna let that happen. Once they see they’ve lost, they’ll go back to Hades and stay quiet. It’ll merely be the regular amount of bullshit to deal with after that.”
I smiled back, but I couldn’t help but notice the faint crease in his brow. I probably had one in mine too.
Mama was so vile they kicked her right out of Hell and she had nowhere else to go.
Chapter Five
Spider Inside Her
We announced the change via email and word of mouth, because we weren’t about to traumatize people with new invites. With the exception of one of John’s aunts, who said he shouldn’t put himself in danger because of some white lady (which, if I’d been less biased, I might have agreed with), his family seemed even more determined to make the wedding happen given all the problems we’d had.
Rosine, John’s mama, had picked up my dress from the boutique. It had somehow shrunk again, and Rosine, being the badass she is, had managed to get a refund of half of the purchase price. She was taking the dress out herself. I was satisfied that woman could defeat the Devil single-handedly and would never let her sewing fingers be influenced by evil.
As for the location, John’s parents offered to have it at their place. We were iffy on that notion, because what if my damn demon-family burned the house down?
“We could drive out and have it in the middle of the woods,” John suggested, his tone dry as dust.
“Why don’t you crawl out there by your own self and have a wedding?” I said, smacking him lightly on the cheek. He giggled and caught my hand, then pulled me into his arms. We stood holding each other, the somber mood that was becoming our default settling back over us.
“We’ll have it at my parents’,” he said. “It’s as safe as anywhere.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“It’s gonna be okay, Tara Faith.”
We were telling ourselves this over and over. Even if my family had been alive, there’d be no way they could have done more to ruin our wedding, short of actual murder. And knowing my family, murder was still very much on the table.
A knock
at the door made us break apart and look at each other quizzically. The knock came again, and fear panged through me. What was the emergency now? I jogged over to the door and jerked it open as the third knock came.
I had expected the police or someone else with horrible news, but it wasn’t quite that bad. Sally and Eileen stood there with garment bags and boxes and excited expressions that meant they’d managed to complicate things even more.
“Let us in. You’ve gotta see this!” Sally exclaimed.
I stood aside, and they paraded in with their stuff. I hadn’t even finished closing the door behind them before Eileen started gushing. “Even though you were no help at all, we were still able to get bridesmaid dresses on short notice.”
“Mmm hmmm,” I said. John began to slink away down the hall, but I gave him a sharp look. If I had to deal with this shit, so did he.
The girls pulled their dresses out. They were powder blue, their skirts a frenetic poof of ruffles that ended right above the knee.
“Those are so...” I tried to keep my mouth shut, but it came out. “Are you guys gonna perform a ballet?”
John coughed. Sally stomped. Eileen pursed her lips.
“I’m only joshing,” I said. “Those are pretty. I love them, and they’ll match perfectly with my sash.”
“And that’s not all,” Sally said. She set the dress down, plopped on the couch, and pulled one of the boxes over. “Even with the date moved up, you don’t have to skimp on decorations. Eileen and I found the perfect centerpieces.”
“They light up,” Eileen said. “Little LED lights that fade from blue to purple to white and back again. Your colors!”
“Oh Lord,” I muttered. Luckily, they didn’t hear, because Sally was noisily yanking the tape off the cardboard box. She pulled out huge wads of packing paper, tossing them all over the floor, then reached inside to grab something.
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