“So, what do I play?” Alexa asked. She sat slouched over, pouring through a hymnal at the organ. She was responsible for ensuring Vange’s prerecorded vocals were played on cue but due to the unforeseen delay, Nick requested she retreat to the balcony and play organ music to pacify the restless guests.
“Play the Prayer of St. Francis.”
“I don’t know any religious tunes.”
“Don’t you know any classical stuff? What about Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, you know Ode to Joy?” Thad suggested. He did not feel very joyous, but at least his bloodshot eyes were concealed behind little round sunglasses.
“Oh, yeah, good one,” she said, cracking her knuckles. Alexa hammered out the first few bars before messing up. “Hey, Thad, do you think two people can be loyal to one another, even after all this ceremonial bullshit fades from their memories?”
“Um, I think that’s the reason for all this ceremonial bullshit, so it doesn’t fade from their memory,” Thad said. “What, don’t you believe in happily-ever-after?”
“I want to,” Alexa said, studying the organ keys. “Did you know swans mate for life?”
“Well, you’re no swan,” he said, amazed at his sister’s unnatural longing to couple up for all eternity. Despite their dysfunctional origins, she seemed prepared to forge her own path into the unforgiving jungle of domesticity. “Just say no to the whole idea of matrimonial bliss.” Alexa laughed out loud and resumed playing the organ. Stooped over, she pounded away maniacally on the keyboard with her wavy hair dripped over one black eye, where Jack’s rock had hit her the night before.
Ascending footsteps sounded in the balcony, and Chelsea emerged at the top of the stairs. Despite her faint trace of a satisfied smile, she looked as tired and worn out as he felt. While she leaned against the railing with her back to the crowd, he inspected her bright fuchsia dress. It was the same horrific Scarlet O’Hara formal dress Alexa wore. They looked like Prom escapees.
Chelsea raised a fringed shawl and spun around witchy like Stevie Nicks. Her voice dripped with insularity, “Don’t I look positively Bo-Peep?”
“You’re pretty in pink,” he said and snapped her photo. “What’s up with the shawl?”
She lowered the out dated crochet shawl fall to expose the back of her arms, which were covered in purple bruises as it had taken all Thad and Ben’s might to pry her off Nick’s back last night.
“These black and blue marks make me look like a heroin junkie,” she said proudly. “I can’t wait for it to spread all over town I’m strung out.”
“Still no sign of Kate?”
“No,” Chelsea said. “I think Nick went to see if he could find her.”
The wedding party was causing their usual commotion directly below them at the back of the church. They had not yet begun to dry out from their drunken escapades. Although he was sure he was missing prime photo opportunities, Thad did not have the energy to trudge down the steps and stalk them like the Paparazzi.
Silently disapproving, Chelsea noted Thad smelled like a brewery, and it was too soon to be drunk. “Hell, it’s noon somewhere,” was his customary defense, which she found lacking and not at all amusing. Chelsea had fled the church foyer to escape Nick’s Frat pack along with the concerned intimates of the bride. Moreover, she was too hung over to listen to Kate’s father, who had taken charge of the informal gathering and his booming voice sent her scurrying for shelter.
The organ music only intensified her headache, and she longed for this heinous conjugal hell to be done with once and for all. “I don’t feel very joyous.”
“Still headed off to California?”
“If I can ever get out of here.”
Chelsea’s car was strategically parked like a getaway car across the street from the church. After the ceremony, she planned to speed away fast and furious before she eventually collapsed in a cheap roadside motel. Purely for dramatic effect, it was her intention to drive as far as she could withstand in the bridesmaid dress. Due to the culminating events of the past twenty-four hours, she looked forward to the long solitary trek across the country. Chelsea realized there was no point inviting Thad to join her because his ship appeared permanently and miserably docked in Portnorth.
“Don’t forget to write,” he said, busy checking a camera-topped tripod. “You write the best letters of anyone I know.”
Concerned, Chelsea blurted, “Thad, the sunglasses don’t hide the fact you’re drunk. Haven’t you heard, fear of failure is a manifestation of narcissism?”
“Who’s afraid?” Thad asked, and he laughed from behind his little round sunglasses. He retrieved a flask from his pocket and tilted it in her direction. “Unlike some people, Chels, failure is not exactly something I run from.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “I better get back to the other crisis at hand. Promise me you won’t hurl yourself over the balcony, or do anything else equally moronic?”
“Suicide is not my style,” Thad said, and he captured her look of agitated boredom on film. “For posterity’s sake.”
Chelsea headed for the steps, and Thad called her name. He removed his necklace and tossed it to her. She studied the silvery blue rhinoceros at the end of the chain, and she remarked, “How odd, but thanks.”
“It’s always brought me luck,” he explained.
“Think you have any to spare?” she asked pointedly, and she descended the staircase to find her mother waiting below.
Ginny Norris looked stunning as usual. She wore a vaguely oriental-looking tunic dress to accentuate her curves. The blue-green dress made her hair look even more golden blond than usual. She was fond of the bright colors most women eschewed in terror if ever confronted with the option at the dark end of their closet. Ginny flashed her daughter a warm smile, and suddenly it no longer mattered to Chelsea her mother was having an affair with an employee less than half her age. It was not as if Ginny was trying to recapture a misspent youth, for she had lived each and every day of her life to the fullest. She reveled in all her fifty-plus years, and she remained as tastefully attractive as she had always been.
Chelsea spontaneously hugged her mother and held onto her closely, as if she were trying to usurp Ginny of her languid carefree attitude.
“Oh, sweetie, what a nice surprise.”
“I just needed a hug.”
“You’re not thinking of backing out of your California plan, or are you?” Ginny asked hopefully.
“No, mother,” she replied exasperated. “I thought we discussed everything last night. Remember, we both agreed?”
“You’ll only ever be satisfied pursuing what makes you truly happy, and I agreed to explain everything to your father,” Ginny finished, and she smiled approvingly. She knew it was no use reprimanding her only child about her life choices because Chelsea had always been her own most unforgiving critic. “Whatever you choose to do in life, you have my blessings.”
“Even if I become a Go-Go dancer in Hollywood?” she asked jokingly, but Ginny only nodded, as if to say, ‘Why not?’ Chelsea did not doubt her mother’s sincere unconditional acceptance, and they embraced once more.
“All I ask,” Ginny began, “is the next time you spend the night with some young man, you at least have the decency to invite him to stay for breakfast.”
Speechless, Chelsea flushed mortified.
“After you leave, I’ll see what I can do to encourage that boy to visit you in California,” Ginny offered. With a wink, she nodded in the direction of Ben who stood uncharacteristically calm awaiting the arrival of more guests to seat. “Why don’t you give him your aunt’s address, and drop him a line once in a blue moon.”
“Don’t worry, those were my exact intentions,” Chelsea said as she squeezed her mother’s hand. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Chelsea made her way to Ben, whose face lit up with a mix of joyous apprehension. He casually acknowledged Ginny with a friendly wave, and then he focused all his sole attention on her daughter.
> “I have something for you,” Chelsea said.
“What, another punch in the nose?”
“It can be arranged,” she said, slightly startled when he grazed her cheek with a small peck. In return, she indiscreetly kissed him flush on the mouth, but was careful to avoid his sore nose. Ben laughed awkwardly and backed safely away. “You look like an Asian mobster,” she said, and he posed toughly in his tuxedo with his hair greased back.
“Chinatown here I come.”
“Your nose definitely looks broken.”
“It doesn’t hurt too bad.”
“Nick really pasted you hard,” Chelsea said, and she pulled a small slip of paper from the front of her fuchsia gown. “This is my aunt’s address, where I’ll be staying near San Francisco. I want you to pay me a visit this winter after you finish all the houses you’re contracted to paint.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Seriously, Benjamin, it’d be good for you to take a vacation,” she said, feeling his attention waning. “Expand your horizons.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said, not disliking the idea.
She raised her thumb upwards toward the balcony. “Maybe you can even see what you can do about kidnapping our alcoholic friend upstairs.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“It’d be awesome,” she said excitedly. “You, Thad, and I could have a lot of fun.”
“Maybe, you never know,” he said, with a hint of distracted sadness. She slipped the address safely between the folds of his cummerbund, and two more guests materialized at the church threshold. In need of an usher to lead them down the aisle, they waited patiently for him to finish his conversation.
Forced to abandon her side, Ben smiled apologetically at Chelsea, and he tended to the latecomers. She watched him and felt something was amiss. In the course of their casual small talk, it was obvious whatever tension between them had dissipated. She wondered why he was being so polite. It was as if the intimacy they shared last night had dispersed with the dawn, and the light of the day had bleached out his feelings for her. Growing uncomfortable, she did not want to consider what might have transpired in the middle of the night after they said their goodbyes. She questioned whether she ever really held his full attention at all. Maybe last night’s stirring of mutual feelings for one another were a product of her overactive imagination.
“Bride’s side or groom’s?” Ben automatically asked the latecomers.
Both Deputy Czerwinski and Nyda looked tired and corpse-like. It took Nyda a few uncomfortable seconds to issue the words, “Groom’s side, please.”
Chelsea felt hopeful as she watched Ben escort the guests down the aisle, but Nick interrupted her all too brief circumspect moment of optimism as he charged at her while rutting in distress. Close to despair, Nick was distraught. “I couldn’t find Kate anywhere. A nurse from the hospital said Kate and Jack stuck around until around seven o’clock this morning, and no one has seen them since.”
Struck by the direness of the situation, Chelsea searched the sea of guests as if Kate was lurking unnoticed between the church pews.
Not far from the entrance, Ed Hesse verbalized what horrible fate might have resulted in his daughter’s delay. In ten more minutes, he vowed to load up his pickup with a posse of volunteers and start a search and rescue party for his missing daughter. Shayla was linked to his arm, and a tortured smile was etched across her bruised, swollen face. She wore a spaghetti strap purple dress with nude nylons and shiny red stilettos. Her tarnished hair was piled beehive high, and frosty eye shadow encircled her baby blues like a space-aged raccoon.
Mumbling under her breath she had bigger concerns than her stepdaughter’s whereabouts, Shayla left her husband’s side and gave up any pretense of caring about the fate of the doomed wedding. She tenderly wrapped a bare, saggy arm around Ben and informed him she was as ready as she ever to be accompanied one more time down the aisle.
Obligingly, he guided Shayla to her rightful position in the wedding-seat hierarchy. Having heard he preferred older women, Shayla shamelessly flirted as they made their way to the front of the church. She held her head high and assumed an air of dignity; after all, she was the wife of Edward G. Hesse, who was the father of the bride and chief engineer of a freighter.
“You know, Benji,” Shayla whispered in his year. “It’s a shame Vangie isn’t well enough to be here – she always loved a good party.”
He nodded sadly and thought it strange she should pick this inopportune time to bring up her daughter. Shayla reeked not only of stale cigarette smoke but also a hardened boozy complacency. Before she entered her designated pew, she turned to him tearfully.
“You’re her best friend, Benny. Maybe her only friend.” Then she added fiercely, “As little as my daughter talks to me, I know at least that damn much. I think she may even love you a little bit. Does it surprise you?”
Ben shook his head and uncomfortably turned away, but Shayla grabbed hold of his arm and steadied herself as she genuflected. Looking ahead at the hanging crucifix, she made the sign of the cross and said, “You’re a good guy, Benji. My Vangie is real lucky to have a friend like you. And maybe one day, we’ll be celebrating your wedding to her.”
Ben did not have the heart to inform Shayla her daughter was dead. It was Dr. Paull’s idea to keep the details confined to the few people who were actually in the room when Evangelica passed away as the news would ruin the wedding. As illogical as it sounded Kate readily agreed to it, and she made Ben and Jack promise not to say a word to anyone because she did not want to appear tasteless and tacky, getting married the same day her stepsister died.
Once the music stopped the crowd breathed a sigh of relief because no one felt especially joyous, despite Ode to Joy was the only song the organist seemed to know. As Ben shot a look upwards toward the balcony, Mrs. Paull caught his attention, and he gladly abandoned Shayla for Nick’s mother. As usual, Anne Paull was a picture of pragmatism, and she was surreptitiously put together in her mother of the groom formalwear. She resembled a hearty New Englander too caught up with the rigors of everyday existence to indulge in the wasteful pastime of artfully dolling oneself up.
Ben leaned close, and Nick’s mother asked, “Has she arrived yet?”
Ben shook his head no.
“I don’t understand, this isn’t at all like her,” Anne Paull said concerned. “Doesn’t Jack know where she is?”
“He’s not here either.”
“Perhaps we should intervene,” suggested Anne to Dr. Paull, “before Kate’s father makes an ass of himself?”
But her secret ex-husband gripped her wrist and in his take-charge fashion he reassured, “There’s no cause for alarm. I spoke with her early this morning before she left the hospital.” He looked exhausted and assumed a tone of voice that implied he knew what they did not. “She’ll be here, there’s no doubt about it. Just give her a few more minutes.”
The doctor followed Ben to the side, and he whispered, “If she’s not here in 5 minutes, I’ll go find her. Where’s she keeping the wedding dress?”
“Chelsea’s mother’s house, I believe.” Ben said, and he nodded in agreement. He thought it should be written down somewhere in an instruction manual that a silent nod was the universal usher response. Walking back to the vestibule, Ben observed Ed Hesse with his hands outstretched.
Ed bellowed, “Two more minutes we’ll give her, and then I’ll unleash the hounds.”
Chief Engineer Hesse wore his wrinkled tuxedo well, and he even looked dignified, which was a far cry from the cartoon he resembled in his everyday cowboy boots, ten-gallon hat, and silver belt buckle the size of Texas. Shayla was fond of young pop country music, southwestern decor, line dancing, and cowboy living. She dressed her husband to fit the part because it made her feel closer of realizing her dream of living on a Ponderosa of goats and chickens.
Hiding behind Jackie O-sized sunglasses and wearing a trench coat, Tristana stumbled through the front entra
nce of the church. Weary but undaunted, she sighed with relief after realizing the ceremony had not yet started. Her long blown out, Eighties hair was cut to mere inches from her scalp. She had taken the shears to her gothic curls before going to bed.
Tristana gave her brother a mechanical squeeze and said casually, “Hey, baby bro.”
“Your hair?!”
“Like it?” Tristana asked, messing it up with her blood red fingernails. “I did it myself.”
Nick shook his head annoyed, but he was largely unfazed. The short hair actually looked good, and with the exception of her augmented breasts, she looked pixie-ish.
“Surely, I can’t be the sole reason for the delay,” said Tristana presumptuously. “You’re too kind.”
“No, it’s Kate.”
“Kate?”
“She hasn’t arrived yet,” Chelsea explained, who wondered if she should try lopping off her own hair for dramatic effect.
“Hasn’t arrived yet?” Tristana repeated. “Well, shouldn’t we call her?”
“We don’t know where she is,” Ben piped in.
“Don’t know where she is?”
“Oh, for chrissakes,” Nick spewed. Anger unbridled, he demanded, “Ben, escort the echo to her rightful pew.” Then Nick turned to his sister and commanded, “Take off those glasses and that coat. You look like a ridiculous 1940s gumshoe detective.”
“Anything for you, baby brother,” Tristana said. She returned her DynaTAC cellular phone to her handbag, and slung her jacket over his shoulder as if he were her own personal coat rack. “You do what you must, but if I were you, I’d spend these last few stolen moments thinking about whether or not I was really up for making the biggest mistake of my entire life,” she said severely and flashed him a smile. “But thankfully, I’m not you.”
“I-I never knew you felt that way,” Nick stammered.
“Well, you never asked,” she answered, from behind her sunglasses. Without unveiling her bloodshot eyes, she made her way through the vestibule and loitered idly smoking outside the church. Tristana was pleasantly surprised when Alexa crashed into her. The younger girl backed nervously away due to her drastic new hairstyle, and Tristana shot Alexa a look of lingering longing as she trailed after her back into the church.
Trying the Knot Page 33
