My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding

by L. A. Banks

  In the past, The Club had been the site of winter balls, summer dances, spring fetes, autumn banquets, debutante cotillions, ladies' luncheons, gentlemen's smokers, high teas, and formal dinners to be­wail or celebrate the outcome of The Game. (The only Game, that glorious struggle for gridiron supremacy between Yale and Harvard, beside which conflict the Hundred Years' War was a mere bagatelle, a historical hissy fit.) Indeed, as I have said already, The Club was the setting for the final chapter in my sister Katherine's matrimonial history.

  Simpson changed all that.

  He was one of that chancy yet unavoidable subgroup within The Club's membership, a Legacy. Had he applied for admission indepen­dent of his ancestors, his own character, attitude, and finances might not have permitted the Committee to accept him with open arms. As matters and the bylaws stood, they were obliged to do so.

  Simpson was a rogue, a wild cannon, a smart aleck whose notion of an excellent jape tended to the exotic. It was this rather outre sense of humor that motivated him to bring back from his European travels a souvenir that changed both the fate and the face of The Club irrevocably.

  It was a sphinx.

  The sphinx in question was not of the Egyptian breed but Greek. Its leonine body did not stretch at ease upon the eternal desert sands but sat upright, winged like an eagle, poised for action. In retrospect, "it" is quite the wrong pronoun to apply to the beast, for it had a woman's head and pert, naked breasts. Moreover, lest you think that Simpson's sin against The Club was merely the donation of a some­what vulgar statue, allow me to provide enlightenment: This sphinx was real.

  None of us at The Club had any idea how Simpson managed to locate such a marvel, let alone transport her through Customs unmolested. We were too well-bred to ask, and Simpson was too much the slyboots to volunteer anything. He was one of those tedious people who believe that sitting on information like a broody hen upon the nest gives the sitter a mystical superiority over those not in the know.

  Simpson's sphinx was named Oenone, and she had her breed's taste for blood and riddles. Tradition taught that the monster could not tear you to bloody bite-sized bits unless you failed to answer her sole riddle, so it was all rather sporting, in a ghastly way. Since every­one at The Club enjoyed the benefits of a Classical education, we all knew the answer to the sphinx's riddle from the story of Oedipus: What goes on four legs at dawn, two legs at noon, three legs at sun­set? Man. Armed with this smug certainty, we agreed to Simpson's suggestion that Oenone be given prowling space on the back nine. It seemed wholly safe and somewhat piquant to permit her presence. It made The Club different.

  "Different" is not an abiding synonym for "better," as we discov­ered to our grief on the day that Oenone learned some new riddles. That was when the disappearances began.

  When we finally discovered why so many members were not re­turning from their appointed round of golf, Oenone took off for parts unknown. So did Simpson, but the damage was done: The sphinx's residence somehow had imbued our beloved Club with an otherworldly musk that attracted other mythic entities as capital gains draw tax vampires. These incursions made up for in ferocity what they lacked in frequency, for which we were as thankful as the circumstances allowed. How much comfort can one derive from the phrase Why, yes, we do have bloodbaths here at The Club, but not really all that often? The insecurity was almost as dire as the actual incidents: As with Democratic presidencies, we lived in constant fear, never know­ing when the next one would occur.

  This state of affairs tended to make most members think twice before engaging The Club as the setting for a grand-scale private af­fair like a wedding. Of what use the perfectly set table, the superbly prepared meal, if ultimately it would be befouled by an invasion of harpies? Moreover, mythology burgeoned with tales of weddings gone horribly wrong.

  The battle of the Lapiths and the centaurs at the marriage of The­seus' bosom chum Perithoos occurred when the caterer neglected to note that creatures half man and half horse cannot hold their liquor in either half. A bit too much of the grape caused one centaur to confuse the bride with a wedding favor. He attempted to carry her off and the melee was on.

  The Trojan War began at a wedding. Achilles' parents-to-be, the hero Pelias and the nymph Thetis, imagined they could avoid future marital unpleasantness by not inviting Eris to their nuptials. Eris was goddess of Discord, not Good Sportsmanship, and so took umbrage. Her umbrage in turn took the shape of a golden apple inscribed For the Fairest, which she tossed into the midst of the wedding reception. The beauty pageant brouhaha that ensued among the other god­desses led to the no-win Judgment of Paris, the abduction of Helen, the ten years' siege of Troy, and the eventual death of the aforemen­tioned Achilles. To top off the ironic futility of it all, the marriage of Thetis and Pelias ended in divorce.

  We all wanted better things for Wylda.

  "I will speak to Hilliard," I said. "I will use all my powers of sua­sion, though for the life of me, I fail to see why this is necessary. The man is no newcomer to The Club. He knows our history. If I made no objection the very instant he declared Wylda's wedding plans, it was only because I was dumbfounded. What was he thinking?"

  "He adores his granddaughter," Middleton reminded me. "Love is blind and blinding. Perhaps the sweet child has her heart set on a Club wedding and he didn't have the will to deny her wishes."

  "Or the wish to terrify her by letting her know the reason why a Club wedding might not be the best idea," Porter added.

  "True," I averred. "She has led a very sheltered life. It is possible to visit The Club and never know the frightful things that happened there unless one is told."

  "I suppose there is a chance that Wylda's wedding won't attract the attention of any mythical monsters," Porter ventured, ever the optimist. "She's such a charming girl; I'd hate to see her disap­pointed, and it has been far too long since The Club last enjoyed a celebration that wasn't spoiled by chaos, bloodshed, and forfeited se­curity deposits."

  "Are you suggesting that we risk so very much on the chance that nothing will happen? That we gamble with Wylda's wedding?" Mid­dleton demanded, his snowy brows drawn together in an expression of the utmost severity. "I thought that you and I were in agreement, Porter: This marriage must not take place!"

  "Don't you mean this wedding!" Porter ventured to correct the elder gentleman.

  Middleton crimsoned, though it was impossible to determine whether it was with rage, embarrassment at his too-Freudian slip, or both. "Don't chop logic with me, sir!" he snapped. "None of my fe­male relatives ever needed to go to Europe to study art history!"

  I sorrow to report that at this instance Porter felt compelled to de­fend the moral probity of his sister-in-law, which he did by seizing upon Middleton's autumnal passion for Wylda and flinging it in that man's venerable face. From there on, the dialogue between Porter and Middleton degenerated into personal remarks concerning the extended families of both men. The longer I sat there, the stronger grew my conviction that some people did not require the interven­tion of either gods or monsters to make an ugly hash of their lives. When at last I could bear to witness no more of such unsuitable sniping, I made my excuses and left the table, the establishment, and the city of New Haven. I have no idea when Porter or Middleton noticed that I was gone.

  I made it my business to call upon the Austin-Cowles family within the week. I might have saved myself the trouble: Middleton was right.

  "It was Wylda's idea," Margot told me as we sat taking tea to­gether. She was attended by her husband and daughter-in-law, though the former Miss Scruggs might as well have been an um­brella stand for all the notice her in-laws paid her throughout my visit. "I wasn't happy with it, but she insisted: The wedding and the reception both will take place at The Club."

  Hilliard confirmed this. "We both tried explaining the situation to her—Simpson, the sphinx, and the way things have been ever since. She thought we were joking."

  A nostalgic look washed over Margot's elegant f
eatures. "Do you recall how it used to be, before that dreadful man and his blood­thirsty pet ruined everything?" she asked me. "The Club reception for your own dear sister's final wedding was one of the last sane events to be held there."

  At the mention of my sister's nuptials, the former Miss Scruggs gave a deep, heartfelt sigh. "I remember that," she said, her face radi­ant, her eyes luminous with dreams, her voice so soft as to border on the inaudible. "I never saw anything so beautiful. It was the most wonderful day of my life. I still dream about it."

  I was about to interject a polite remark in reply when Hilliard forged on as if his daughter-in-law had said nothing at all.

  "It's lucky that The Club's budget is firmly founded on dues and the occasional bequest, or by now it would be bankrupt. No one en­gages The Club for personal events anymore. Even though every Club affair doesn't attract mythic undesirables, no one wants to play the odds."

  "And yet, you are going to do just that, in three months' time," I pointed out.

  Hilliard sighed. "If I could change the situation, I'd do it without a second thought."

  Like any properly bred person of a certain social standing, I loathed to soil my lips by speaking of pecuniary matters—off the Trading Floor, that is—but in this case I felt compelled to inquire, "Have you not, then, taken the simple step of refusing to pay for the wedding unless it is held elsewhere?"

  Margot blushed and for decency's sake averted her eyes from me the instant such mercantile words left my lips, nor could I blame her. Wylda's mother tensed visibly. Hilliard merely bowed his head.

  "Of course I have," he said. "To no avail. For some reason she re­fuses to disclose, it's appallingly vital to our Wylda to have her wed­ding at The Club. After all these years, that sweet, docile child has become a veritable tiger on this one point. She's determined to have her wedding at The Club or not at all."

  And there it was, my defeat. All further argument would be futile. There is no fortress more unassailable than the resolution of a hereto­fore submissive woman. Such creatures take all the willpower they have deferred during a lifetime of obedience, compliance, and meek­ness, gather it into one titanic mass, and focus it like a laser beam.

  "She's always been such a good girl," Margot said plaintively. "She's never really wanted anything from us until now. How could we say no?"

  They could not. We all knew it. The wedding would go on when and where Wylda decreed.

  As for how it would go on . . . that remained to be seen.

  As the date of Wylda's wedding drew nigh, The Club turned all atwitter. First there was the matter of the invitations. Those mem­bers who were included in the upcoming festivities wore satisfied smiles that were nonetheless somewhat wobbly at the corners. It was a privilege to be included at any fete hosted by that the Austin-Cowleses. No expense would be spared, no luxury be wanting. There would be lavishness without flash, sumptuousness tempered by sophistication.

  And yet not a single mouthful of the best Sevruga caviar would pass the lips of any man or woman there without the passing shudder, the momentary frisson of trepidation, and the hasty, sidelong glance in the direction of the nearest exit. In short, my fellow invitees and myself would enjoy dear Wylda's wedding under a cloud, for who knew when or whether the beautiful display would be shattered?

  Those members whose association with Margot and Hilliard was not close enough to procure them an invitation consoled themselves with many a goblet of Chateau des Sour Grapes: We wedding guests might dine on oysters, pate de foie gras, filet de boeuf, and truffles, but our excluded brethren were certain that we would be gulping antacid tablets with every second mouthful.

  I am convinced that the rumors concerning Wylda's fiance origi­nated with one of those embittered exiles from her approaching wedding. (It also might have been Middleton's doing. His unre­quited ardor for young Wylda had festered badly. Melancholia pos­sessed him, and each day seemed to sap a further measure of joy from his life. On the other hand, given his age, perhaps he simply had acid reflux.) Whoever began it, it spread rapidly. It was quite basic, as ru­mors go. No dark mutterings about the groom-to-be's latent vices, past debaucheries, ongoing addictions, or previous wives kept in fet­ters in the attic, merely this: "Why hasn't anyone seen this man?"

  The obvious answer was, of course, that Miles Martial had been seen, and not solely by members of Wylda's immediate family. Had not Solana Winthrop introduced them?

  But Solana Winthrop was only one soul, and a soul somewhat be­smirched by the blot of unanticipated art history studies abroad. What, the vile whisperers in corners demanded, what was wrong with the man, that kept him so shrouded in mystery?

  It was under these circumstances that I received a telephone call from Wylda's mother, the former Nora Scruggs, entreating me to bring Mr. Martial to The Club for dinner, or at least cocktails. To be frank, there were certain additional conditions in play at the time: My visit to the Austin-Cowles menage had left me somewhat smitten by the physical attractions of Miss Scruggs, and as the lady was not averse, we struck up a relationship of mutual benefit soon thereafter.

  "Please say you'll do it," my bourgeois beloved pleaded. "This would be the best way to smash those nasty rumors once and for all."

  "Certainly, yes," I replied. "But would it not be more appropriate for Hilliard to escort your daughter's betrothed?"

  Nora gave a small, plaintive cry. "He won't do it. He said that an Austin-Cowles doesn't let a bunch of blabbermouth rumormongers make him do anything; it would be surrendering. I tried telling him that this isn't some stupid battle, but he wouldn't listen. Darling, you're my only hope."

  My tender feelings for Nora restrained me from pointing out that the social niceties are a battle. It was easier to give her what she wanted.

  I met Miles Martial at the train depot on a Saturday afternoon in late May. It was a traumatic encounter. Some people are blessed—if that is the proper word—with the ability to invade the space they occupy. I am not speaking of those theatrical individuals who flaunt, posture, and play to the cheap seats with every move they make. Anyone can draw attention to himself by making a scene.

  Miles Martial belonged to a different breed, monumental with­out being melodramatic. He was a tall, brawny, well-built specimen of manhood, but as the polite lie goes, size is not everything. He was also handsome enough to dazzle. The sight of him, bronzed and blond, with steel blue eyes, perfect teeth, and a profile pur­loined from Michelangelo's David, filled my heart with a nauseat­ing swirl of personal inadequacy and overpowering envy. In that moment I knew that no ordinary human being could ever see Miles Martial so much as behold him. There is a difference, as vast as it is subtle.

  I also knew, in quick succession, that

  1. I wanted to punch him in the face, for no other reason than because it was there.

  2. Every man at The Club would share my feelings.

  3. Were we fools enough to turn impulse into action, he would sidestep our blows easily and then, with insouciant grace, show us the way it should be done, i.e., accurately and painfully.

  4. Every woman at The Club would behold Miles Martial and immediately desire the slaughter of dear, sweet, accursedly lucky little Wylda.

  5. This was going to kill poor old Middleton.

  Miles leaped into my car the instant that I pulled up at the depot, a grin in my direction his only greeting.

  "Mr. Martial?" I said, just in case I might have picked up the wrong person by mistake. (Ah, fleeting hope, swiftly dashed!)

  "Bingo," he said, pointing his index finger at me pistol-style and vocalizing a passable gunshot sound effect as he brought the thumb hammer down. He even went so far as to blow invisible smoke from his fingertip afterward.

  My attempts to make light conversation during the drive to The Club met with mixed results. When 1 asked him whether the trip from New York City had been pleasant, he replied, "New York? Is that where I came from? Oh, right, right. Hey, buddy, you've gotta excuse me, I'm a l
ittle snafued these days. Lots of travel under the old belt. I just flew in from the Middle East yesterday and boy, are my arms tired." He filled my automobile with raw laughter.

  It was a relief to rid myself of the man, even if only for the time it took to give my vehicle into the care of a parking valet. Miles Martial did not wait for me but bounded through the front doors and proceeded to take The Club by storm.

  As it was a Saturday afternoon, the place swarmed with golfers and tennis players. His effect on the crowd was approximately what I had anticipated and yet, despite the amount of smoldering envy his physical perfections kindled, he somehow managed to create his own admiring bar-room coterie in the short time it took for me to rejoin him.

  I should have been pleased to note how readily he had made his so- • cial conquests, but I could not do so with a whole heart: There was something vaguely disquieting about Wylda's beau. Although the tran­quil surface of a pond reflects the silver beauty of the moon, that is no guarantee against it teeming with alligators. A smattering of caution would determine whether you came away from the encounter with a haiku or a bloody stump where your right hand used to be.

  I regret to say that, at the moment, I did not express my uneasi­ness to anyone. I had done my duty by pleasing Nora; I needed to do no more.

  There is something about weddings capable of thrilling the least ro­mantic heart. Mine was no exception. By the day of her daughter's nuptials, the relationship between Nora Austin-Cowles (nee Scruggs) and myself had reached a certain level of physical intimacy, but that signified little. Ordinary alley cats can claim such amorous familiar­ity. When the lady demurely asked me to act as her escort, that was a truer gauge of my status in her eyes than a score of unclothed, oiled, and raucous hours spent together. It gave me sweet hope that I might yet see the light of matrimony at the end of the somber tunnel of bachelorhood.

  The morning of Wylda's wedding dawned bright with sunshine tempered by an understandable miasma of anxiety. Many a guest's neck was wrenched painfully as high-strung souls strove to keep one eye on the nearest exit at all times.