by Lee Smith
People are coming up the hill now, parking at the bottom and walking up for the reception, everybody who’s anybody in town, and Myrtle looks with satisfaction at the long linen-covered tables laden with everything imaginable to eat. They had the reception catered, from Buncoe, an undertaking that involved three huge Negroes and a refrigerated truck, and was worth every penny it cost. Just look at the shrimp trees there, at either end of the table! But Mary June Grimes made the cake, she’s made every wedding cake for every serious wedding that ever happened in Booker Creek for fifteen years. It’s all she does. You have to ask her. She expects it, and has lots of friends. She makes the layers and sections one at a time and freezes them, and then brings it all to your house and assembles it there; the frosting takes hours. It’s exhausting to have to listen to Mary June while she frosts it. But worth it, too—you can’t get married here without one of her cakes. The wedding cake sits on a card table by itself, near the diving board, and it, too, is perfect.
“You need to get in line now,” Sybill tells Myrtle and Don. “They’re almost here,” as indeed they are, the tide of people surging up the hill now, exclaiming over the new curving driveway and the patio and the pool, and all the flowers. The flowers are really something, towering freestanding arrangements of glads as big as trees, placed strategically about the edge of the patio, and three floating arrangements of red roses in the pool, mounted on Styrofoam, anchored in place by weights. Only the sparseness of the green grass beyond, on the hillside, with the red dirt showing through, indicates that all of this is new. But daylight is fading fast, nothing but a kind of pearly luminescence hanging in the air now, and soon it will be full dark, so you can’t see how thin the grass is. This is the last long moment after the wedding, before the reception starts, this is the lingering last of the light.
“You all come on over here now and get in line,” Don calls to Karen and Karl, who come, and take their places. Karen is pretty, dimpling and plump in her pregnancy, veil askew. Even her dress looks lovely, although she insisted on making it herself out of one of Miss Elizabeth’s old lace tablecloths. Myrtle finally said she could do it, if she wouldn’t tell anybody except the family, and so she did, and she hasn’t. Kate and Theresa and Karl’s sister, the bridesmaids, wear pink, as does Miss Elva Pope, who is first in line.
“I’m going to hit the lights,” Sybill says in Myrtle’s ear and then she’s gone, off toward the house, Betty following. Sybill likes to say, “hit the lights,” she likes the urgency of a wedding, the intricacy of the timing, the general need for some precision all around. Which she, thank God, has been able to supply! Myrtle and Don could never have managed all this without her. “Speed is of the essence here in more ways than one,” she told Betty, who hooted, but it was true. And Betty is having a big time at the wedding, too. Sybill feels a lot better in general now that her headaches have disappeared, even though Edward Bing has, too. While she was down here at her mother’s funeral, he up and married his secretary, a dizzy blonde. Sybill can’t imagine why an old man like Edward Bing would want to do such a risky, undignified thing. But in her heart of hearts, she was relieved. Sybill pushes her way through the crowd and goes up on the screen porch and reaches under some wicker to plug in the lights.
“Aah!” goes everybody.
This is very satisfying to Sybill, who thought of these Japanese lanterns in the first place, and bought them at Western Auto in Roanoke. They hang all along the chain-link fence at the edge of the hillside, making the whole scene look like a kind of festival, which it is. Betty sends Sean around with two Bics, to light the candles, and then Sybill plugs in the underwater pool lights too, so the pool gives off a soft blue mysterious glow right in the middle of the whole reception.
“Aah!” everyone goes again.
This is also satisfying to Sybill, who goes to stand at the edge of the patio, hands on hips, and cries a little, there where nobody can see her. This is not sad crying, though; and it comes up from the bottom of Sybill’s heart, for just no reason at all.
Even Arthur looks reasonably decent, drinking champagne with that Mrs. Palucci. “Hello, Arthur,” Sybill says, and Arthur hugs her. Either he’s drunk, or ebullient, or both—with Arthur, it’s hard to tell. He keeps one arm tight around Mrs. Palucci, who looks imposing in a sort of turquoise jumpsuit. Arthur is now an ex-house sitter, with a new career. This new career is working at the One Stop, where big things are going to happen. Mrs. Palucci, it turns out, is tired of sick people, and has always wanted to run a restaurant. She also said, “What about a motel?” and Arthur finds himself fancying it. Arthur envisions himself in a little office, saying “Howdy, where you from?” to strangers. This plan seems to be fine with Nettie, who is not much interested in her business anymore. Nettie spends more and more time these days in her garden or just sitting out there in a lawn chair smoking Camels, and staring off into the smoke. If they turn the One Stop into a motel, she’ll have plenty of people to talk to, it’ll pep her up. Mrs. Palucci is peppy, all right. When Sybill said it sounds as if this plan will require a lot of get up and go, which Arthur has never been noted for, Mrs. Palucci defended him publicly on the spot, saying, “Well, Arthur is putting a great deal of energy into his courtship, at any rate.” Which is true. Arthur can’t get over it himself. He loves Mrs. Palucci and hates Sybill, for a second, as they all stand together looking at the pool, not because Sybill has said that he lacks get up and go, but because Sybill has seen his father’s face, even under water.
“Where’s Buddy?” Mrs. Palucci says suddenly, and then she and Arthur go off to find him, her turquoise jumpsuit lost to sight in the growing crowd. Everyone’s eating and drinking a lot; the noise level rises, but Lord, it’s hot, and seems to be getting hotter. Mrs. Palucci and Arthur search the fringes of the crowd for Buddy, her son, looking for such things as hoses and rocks, which Buddy is drawn to. He’s been busy sabotaging stuff, already. For instance he broke the icemaker on Myrtle’s new refrigerator not ten minutes after he got here, but Myrtle doesn’t know it yet. Myrtle stands in line and smiles, shaking hands, kissing people on the cheek. Kissing people on the cheek is a new thing, it’s just hit town. Mrs. Palucci and Arthur search the bushes around the house, calling softly, “Buddy, Buddy—” Arthur thinks it would be interesting to hang around this kid, Buddy, and watch him grow up. There ought to be some interesting moments, over the years. Arthur thinks of his own girls, who he loves so, and kisses Mrs. Palucci behind the boxwood.
Everyone’s drinking a lot, the receiving line has broken up, Kate can take off her hat at last, and Theresa can rush back to stand next to Roy Looney. They’re in love. In the six short weeks she’s been dating Roy Looney, Theresa’s whole outlook on life has changed. In fact she wrote a new long poem named “Irony Sucks,” last week.
Lacy finds this amusing, or bemusing, it’s hard to say, just as she finds it amusing that it was she who suggested this band, Ernest Dodd and the Rhythm Masters, who have finished tuning up, finally, and are playing the “Tennessee Waltz.” Myrtle and Don wanted something more like Lester Lanin, some tasteful little combo, but Karen stuck to her guns and said well, as long as she was going to have a wedding, after all, she wanted some kind of traditional music. And there’s nobody more traditional than Ernest Dodd and the Rhythm Masters, with their big black cowboy hats and those black shirts with all the glitter. What will Myrtle and Don’s new friends from the Racquet Club think of this music? The Rhythm Masters are playing “The Yellow Rose of Texas” with lots of enthusiasm. Lacy drinks champagne. She’s writing her dissertation, and will be teaching a course in the fall, at Durham Technical Institute. It’s a start, anyway. Great Books. Lacy cannot imagine what she’ll say to her class: “Okay, this is a great book.” Still, it’s clear that since they’ve hired her, she must know something. And Jack? He’s still living with Susan, his graduate assistant, but he takes Lacy out to dinner every Thursday night. On these occasions, Jack is charming, attentiv
e: a beau. Lacy smiles. She doesn’t know what will happen. God, it’s hot.
That’s the only thing wrong here, it’s so damn hot, the men are taking off their jackets, and suddenly, too, there is dancing, which Myrtle and Don did not expect. The Rhythm Masters are catching on. It’s so original, for Myrtle and Don to have such a band! Karl and Karen are first in the hastily cleared space, joined by others. The newlyweds have just declared their intention to stay at the party, rather than “go away.” They can’t be convinced to leave. “It’s a real good party, sir,” Karl told Don. And watching them dance, pregnant Karen so light on her feet and her computer husband so handsome, Lacy, a little drunk already, says to Myrtle, “You know, don’t you, Mother would just die,” and Candy remarks, “She did.” But Sybill says that’s nonsense, Mother would be tickled pink, everything has gone like clockwork, which it has, thanks to her, and Don, winking at Candy, asks Betty to dance, and won’t take no for an answer. Betty hasn’t danced in eleven years, but she’s not bad. Sean is shooting off some fireworks on the hillside, and Candy explains to Myrtle, over the racket, that Tony bought them on his way up here, passing through South Carolina. They’re legal in South Carolina. Tony’s new girlfriend seems real nice. Nettie grins, and says goodbye, she’s got to get back to the One Stop, but the truth is that cut flowers always make her think of Millard Cline. Besides, she’s had all the bourbon she needs. Nettie hums on the downshift, driving the pickup off into the night. Clinus didn’t make it, of course, but he put a special sign up in honor of Karen’s wedding: KAREN AND KARL, TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. It is, too. That goes for everybody. The Rhythm Masters play “You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille.” Everybody’s drunk, and dancing. Candy dances with Mr. Constantine, Mrs. Palucci dances with Don, and Betty, now that she’s started, won’t quit—she’ll dance with anybody. The Rhythm Masters sing “You’re Ruining My Bad Reputation.”
Tomorrow, nobody will remember exactly who was the first one in the pool, but soon it’s full of churning bodies, pale flashing flesh beneath the water. Karen and Theresa, all wet, do the cancan at poolside, red roses in their teeth. Lacy’s Bill is diving: a flip, a back flip, a jack-knife, a swan. “Aah,” goes everybody. The Rhythm Masters attempt “Mule Skinner Blues,” which means they get to yodel. Lacy is pretty drunk; she smiles and shakes her head. Bill, diving, is darling. Old Ernest Dodd is darling. Strange that Lacy can’t remember his son, the Dodd boy, at the lake, especially since he was sweet on her. But then suddenly Lacy has an idea of him, outlined against the blue water, braced against the pull of the rope, his bright open face a shining blur in the rushing wind.
About the Author
Lee Smith is the author of fifteen works of fiction, including Oral History, Fair and Tender Ladies, and her recent Mrs. Darcy and the Blue-Eyed Stranger. She has received many awards, including the North Carolina Award for Literature—and an Academy Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters; her novel The Last Girls was a New York Times bestseller as well as winner of the Southern Book Critics Circle Award. She lives in North Carolina.
