The Wedding Machine

by Beth Webb Hart

  Suddenly aware of the wide crease forming between her hips, Kitty B. turns to examine her turquoise linen dress suit in the hall mirror at the top of the stairs. She weighed in at one hundred and ninety pounds last month at the doctor’s office, and she’s not sure she can even sit down in the suit this year without it ripping open. She frowns at her wide hips and the gray in her long, stringy hair. She didn’t have time to get the newfangled Spanx that both Hilda and Ray promised would suck it all in, and her girdle is so old that it is literally crumbling at the ends, leaving a trail of synthetic threads from her closet to the top of the stairs.

  She suspects she won’t be able to squeeze into her mama’s sea-foam beaded gown that she’d planned to wear to Little Hilda’s wedding, so she’ll have to find a few hours to go to the plus-size shop outside of Charleston where the made-up fat ladies with their brightly painted nails come at her like a swarm of provoked wasps, piercing her skin with their questions, “Size sixteen, ma’am?”

  She used to be a size eight, and she even went down to a six right after she had her firstborn, Cricket. But when she lost Baby Roberta at three months old, cooking was the only way to calm her nerves, and it was the one thing she seemed to have a knack for in the domestic realm. So she baked and sampled along the way and woke up one day to find a size sixteen staring back at her in the mirror.

  One time when her youngest, Katie Rae, was in high school, she heard one of her school friends, Betsy Burnett, say, “I didn’t know your mama was expecting.”

  “She’s not,” Katie Rae said.

  Betsy Burnett blushed and covered her mouth. “Oh,” she chuckled, nervously.

  Now Kitty B. wobbles down the stairs, and there is a problem with one of her bone-colored Ferragamos too. One of the bows is catiwompas, busted by Honey’s paw one Sunday a few months back when she arrived home from church with the parish hall leftovers—a bowl of red rice and a Ziploc bag of poppy seed muffins. The Ferragamos are actually hand-me-downs from her mama. She inherited Roberta’s whole closet, but it’s too bad she can’t squeeze herself into half of those beautiful clothes anymore. Heavens, her mama could dress! Roberta Hathaway was as regal as they came in Jasper, with her tailored suits and the fine Italian pumps she bought during her shopping trips down King Street in Charleston.

  “I’m going,” Kitty B. calls to LeMar, who is slumped under the covers in the room across the hall from hers. They haven’t slept in the same room for over a decade now, and sometimes Kitty B. feels as though LeMar is more like a cantankerous older brother than a spouse. She hears the strain of the springs as he rolls over in the bed and yawns. “The coffeepot’s on and there are some slices of toasted banana bread on top of the stove.”

  He moans and clears his throat, and from Kitty B.’s angle all she can see of his room is the eyelet curtains filling out like hoop skirts as the island breeze pushes through the window.

  LeMar’s room smells like medicine and metal and urine, and it takes all she can muster to go in there each day, pat his soft, wide back, and say, “Time to wake up.”

  Well, she’s not even going to bother right now. She’s been up all night making petits fours and lemon squares to replace the ones lost in Ray’s collision, and if LeMar wants to lie in bed till noon and feel sorry for himself all day, so be it.

  Thank God Ray is okay. Kitty B. just doesn’t know if Little Hilda could get married without Ray at the helm of it all. If anything ever happens to her, the gals and everybody in their pack for that matter just might implode like an undercooked soufflé or a pound cake short of an egg.

  In the kitchen Kitty B. stacks the five Tupperware containers of sweets as a large palmetto bug crawls out from behind her sugar jar and scoots across the countertop. She slips off the Ferragamo with the catiwompas bow and takes one swat at him, but he scurries toward the oven and escapes in a crack between the stove and the cabinet. She leans over and checks the rat trap beside the refrigerator. She catches a river rat in there every few weeks, but she doesn’t dare tell the gals about that. They might not even eat her good food.

  She’s in a hurry to get these sweets in the air-conditioned car so they won’t lose their shape in the midday August heat. With the containers stacked up to her chin, Kitty B. nearly trips over Katie Rae, who giggles uncharacteristically on the porch steps with the cordless phone stuck to her ear.

  “Don’t be late,” Kitty B. whispers as the dogs run up and lick her knees, their wet noses leaving streaks of slobber across her snug linen skirt.

  Katie Rae nods and waves her away. “Oh, I’ve got this thing later today,” she says into the receiver. “It’s where you go and gawk at all of the wedding gifts and ooh and ahhh over them. Rather obnoxious, if you ask me.”

  Before Kitty B. has to shoo away the dogs, they catch the scent of the next-door neighbor’s goat that bleats at them through the rotting wooden gate. In a flash, the canines tear off to sniff through the white picket slats where the paint is peeling off the soft wood in jagged strips.

  Oh well. Kitty B. looks back at her weathered home with its mold between the clapboards and its peeling paint and the muddy paw prints along the porch. There is a spot halfway down the screened door where Honey scratches and scratches until someone lets her in on cold nights, and there is a crack in the attic window where a magnolia limb fell onto the roof during a tropical storm last October.

  As she pulls out of the driveway in the Lincoln Continental that used to belong to her mama, she looks up to LeMar’s window to see Mr. Whiskers leap from the roof through the parting curtains.

  “Scat!” LeMar’s voice is so deep that she can hear him through the sealed car window and the blasting air conditioner that cools the melting makeup on her face. “Kitty B.! Get this cat out of here!”

  Katie Rae puts a finger to her other ear and walks out to the dock to continue her conversation with the first real boyfriend they think she’s ever had, and Kitty B. waves to no one as she turns the nose of the Lincoln toward the dirt road that leads to Jasper, leaving a swirl of dead oak leaves and one disgruntled husband in her wake.

  “Thank God for you, Kitty B.!” Ray says, greeting her at the door before striking an Ava Gardner–like pose. “Now don’t I look like death warmed over?”

  Ray’s deep purple eye, coated profusely in concealer and powder, can’t be hidden. Kitty B. gawks at it. Beneath the eye, a stitched-up gash traces Ray’s cheekbone in an awful blackish crimson.

  “Are you all right?” Kitty B. bites her lip and cringes.

  “It could have been a lot worse,” Ray says. “That air bag saved my eye, the doctor said. And Willy just happened along the same road right behind me. I didn’t wake up until I was in the Ravenel Hospital. They checked me out all over and sent me home around three in the morning.”

  “Oh, Ray.” Kitty B. shakes her head in disbelief. “It could have been terrible.”

  “It was—for the buck,” Richadene calls over her shoulder as she opens one of Kitty B.’s Tupperware lids and starts placing the iced petits fours on a tiered silver platter by the kitchen sink.

  “How did it happen?”

  “I can’t really say,” Ray says. “I was just driving home, daydreaming, I suppose, and the next thing I knew this enormous buck was striking a pose in front of me.”

  Cousin Willy pops his head in from the back garden. “Biggest one I’ve seen in years—over two hundred pounds. Bent the hood of the station wagon like an accordion.” He walks over to Ray and pats her shoulder. “Now take it easy today.” He examines her gash and gives her a kiss on the forehead.

  “I will,” Ray says. “Now go on. You know tea parties aren’t your thing.”

  “Only you, Kitty B.,” Sis says from the living room where she is pouring sugar into the china bowls at the tea stations, “could pull off making four dozen petits fours twelve hours before a tea.”

  Sis looks so fresh in her black linen pants and pink satin blouse with the mandarin neck. Kitty B. notices her newfangled slide
rs—what does Cricket call them? Mules? They have a sharp pointed toe, too narrow for an actual toe to fit, and a pencil-thin heel. Sis looks as though it could be her wedding gifts the gals will see while sipping tea, as if she has a whole exciting life ahead of her.

  “Look at your shoe, Kitty B.!” Ray points at the dirt-smudged ribbon that dangles by a thread from the top of her foot.

  Kitty B. looks down at the shoe and tugs at her skirt in hopes that they won’t notice how tight it is, but the crease pops right back, and she walks toward the utility closet. “Got any superglue?”

  “Oh, no, that will ruin the shoe.” Ray firmly shakes her head. “You need to take it to Floride—she’ll sew it on properly for you.” “Oh, Ray, I don’t care about that.”

  “Me neither,” Sis giggles. “I use a glue gun to put my buttons back on all the time, and do you see this spot right here?” She points to a moth hole in her black pants. “I just took a sharpie pen and dotted it so my skin looked black underneath right there.”

  “You shouldn’t tell things like that, Sis,” Ray says.

  “Loosen up, Mom.” Priscilla strolls through the kitchen in nothing but boxers and a black T-shirt that reads, “W” and in small letters below it, “IMPEACH THE PRESIDENT.” Kitty B. wonders what in the world that means.

  Priscilla’s hair has these kind of thick, knotted ropes that remind Kitty B. of oversized cocoons or the tubular hornets’ nests on the back of her house. Ray says they are dreadlocks, and she hates them to death.

  “Hi, Priscilla,” Sis says with her arms outstretched, and Kitty B. follows behind her to give her best friend’s daughter a hug.

  Priscilla smells like incense and body odor, like the hippie ladies that sell their crudely sewn dolls in the outdoor market in Charleston. When Kitty B. and Priscilla’s necks lock, Kitty B. squeezes her tight, and she can feel her sharp little shoulder blades jutting out between her fingers like angel wings. Then Kitty B. wells up with her usual child-sickness, relieved that it is happening now before the bride arrives.

  Sis pats Kitty B.’s back and Ray hands her a Kleenex. They know what this is about, and Kitty B. is thankful that they don’t pay her much attention.

  “Pris, have you showered yet?” Ray says.

  Priscilla sniffs under her thin arms and crinkles her nose.

  Ray presses at the black around her eye and winces. “The Hildas will be here in less than thirty minutes and the guests in less than an hour, honey.”

  Priscilla tugs at the back of her dreadlocks. She raises one eyebrow and says, “Tell me there’s a halfway decent coffeehouse in Jasper by now.”

  “Coffee!” Ray’s long, thin hands curl into two bony fists behind her back. “I’ve got coffee in the pot! Now grab a cup and get ready! You’re the maid of honor, for heaven’s sake!”

  Priscilla wipes her nose on her T-shirt, and Kitty B. notices that she has some kind of small, silver hoop earring through her belly button. Ouch! You’d have to hog-tie me to get that close to my belly with a needle.

  Priscilla walks over toward the coffeepot, which she lifts up and sniffs before pouring the contents out into the sink.

  “Well, let’s get to work, ladies.” Ray turns back to the gals. “Sis, you put the final touches on the tea service, and Kitty B., can you pour the ginger ale in the fruit punch and stack the crystal cups around it?”

  Priscilla scratches a blemish on her chin as she stares into the refrigerator, and Ray heads toward her and leans in close. Kitty B. can’t make out what Ray says to her, but in a few moments, the young woman walks slowly up the stairs toward her room.

  Ray points to the portrait in her dining room of Priscilla at five, in a pale peach smocked Easter dress carrying a bundle of daffodils from the backyard for the flowering of the cross at All Saints Episcopal Church. Kitty B. notices the dimples around the knuckles of the child’s soft, round hands as Ray says, “Where did that sweet girl disappear to?”

  Ray has outdone herself for the Tea and See. The floral centerpiece is so sweet and airy with the English garden roses and the pale green hydrangea, and there are similar arrangements in silver bowls and teapots and mint julep glasses in every little open space throughout the whole downstairs. The fireplaces are stuffed with fresh-cut magnolia limbs, and a large white bloom punctuates the center of each.

  “Look at all the gifts!” Kitty B. says, clapping her hands together. Little Hilda has received some gorgeous things. Probably on account of the fact that her father has been the doctor to everyone in the whole town for decades now. Angus has delivered every baby of Little Hilda’s generation and beyond and set a countless number of child-sized broken arms for which he always writes a prescription for “ice cream on demand.” He’s helped each one of their parents through the aging and dying process. And now he’s rescuing all the middle-aged women by dispensing hormones in record numbers as his gals endure the big change.

  The gifts are elegantly displayed on glass shelves throughout the living and dining rooms. Complete place settings of all three of Little Hilda’s china patterns, plus her silver and crystal pieces, are arranged on an antique card table in the center of the side piazza. Below each plate is a white linen place mat that Ray bought with Willy during their trip to Ireland last April.

  The food is presented on the finest compilation of their silver trays and bowls. It’s as delicate as the floral arrangements and includes Kitty B.’s petits fours and lemon squares as well as Sis’s shrimp salad and cucumber sandwiches and Ray’s cheese straws, praline pecans, and fruit kabobs dipped in white and dark chocolate.

  The tea stations at both ends of the dining room table are comprised of pots, creams, sugars as well as cups and saucers from the Mottahedeh china that they each received for their wedding presents, and the punch station has crystal cups that Ray bought at an estate auction in Walterboro. Kitty B.’s Mottahedeh pattern is “Duke of Gloucester,” Ray’s is “Blue Canton,” and Hilda’s is “Tobacco Leaf,” on account of her mama’s Virginia plantation ancestry.

  Sis handles the mint julep and iced tea station, where the enormous collection of silver mint julep glasses and goblets that she inherited from her father’s mother is set up on the antique sideboard along with lemons and fresh mint and delicate linen napkins with her grandmother’s monogram.

  “Don’t you love how the silver goblets fog up when they’re filled with ice?” Kitty B. asks no one in particular. She tugs at her skirt, glances toward the front door, and sees that Miss C. is back in business less than twenty-four hours after the wreck.

  “Cousin Willy and Justin superglued Miss C.’s arm on sometime in the wee hours,” Sis says.

  Kitty B. walks over to the foyer to examine the statue closely. The sleeves on her pink dress cover the crack. A mini pomander of pale green hydrangea, a smaller version of the one made for the bride, dangles from Miss C.’s concrete wrist by a white satin ribbon.

  “Martha Stewart doesn’t have a thing on us!” Kitty B. says.

  Ray winks at Kitty B. and beams with pride, despite the strain on her gash, as she hands Kitty B. a corsage that includes a rose, a piece of a hydrangea, and three sprigs of lavender sweet pea.

  She hands her a stick pin. “Put it on.”

  “Me?” Kitty B. says.

  “Of course,” Ray says, pointing to Sis, who is pinning hers on in the hall mirror.

  “One for every hostess.”

  “Mama would be so proud,” Kitty B. says, and in her mind’s eye she sees Roberta nudging God on the elbow and pointing down at the gals. “Now how’s that for southern hospitality, Lord?”

  When the doorbell rings, Kitty B. opens it to find the petite and beautiful Little Hilda standing in its center in a strapless pale pink and white seersucker dress. She’s wearing the elegant strand of pearls they helped Hilda pick out at Croghan’s in Charleston for her debutante ball four short years ago. Little Hilda is so lovely and delicate that she takes Kitty B.’s breath away.

  “Hi, Miss Kitty B.,” L
ittle Hilda says as Kitty B. stares into her face, unable to utter a word.

  “Don’t you look lovely,” Ray interjects, sliding the pomander of pale green hydrangea onto Little Hilda’s minute wrist.

  “Thank y’all so much,” she says, looking to each of the gals. “Especially you, Miss Ray, for hosting this and for putting everything together.” Then she tucks a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear and blushes. “Mama’s running late.”

  Sis swats the air, “That’s okay, honey. We know your mama very well, and we wouldn’t expect it any other way.”

  Little Hilda grins before whispering, “Did y’all know that she still sits in a hot tub for an hour after putting on her makeup for it to ‘soak in’?”

  “No, not the Princess of Jasper?” Ray says cutting her eyes at Sis. “I can’t imagine her spending more than, say, a half hour letting her makeup soak in.”

  They laugh at Hilda’s expense.

  “Well, there must be something to her lengthy grooming procedures,” Kitty B. says, patting Little Hilda on the back, “because she’s always the most gorgeous person in the room.”

  “Besides the bride,” Sis says, hugging Little Hilda tight. “We’re so happy for you, sweetheart.”

  Kitty B. tears up again, and Little Hilda reaches out to squeeze her hand. She’s probably the most sensitive one out of all of their children, which surprises the socks off Kitty B., considering she was reared by the self-centered daughter of the dictator of Jasper.

  “It’s okay,” Little Hilda says to Kitty B. as she dabs her eye with one of Sis’s linen napkins. “I understand.”

  Next Cricket and Katie Rae arrive, and Kitty B. is delighted to see that Katie Rae found a skirt, not to mention a little lipstick. Those boys that she’s meeting on the computer have got her primping for the first time ever. Kitty B. doesn’t care what people say about the evils of the Internet, she’s thanking the good Lord for online dating services!