A Wedding on the Banks

by Cathie Pelletier

  “It was Christmas Eve,” thought Goldie. “And it was the old woman’s house, all gray and lonely. No one was coming. No children. No fat silly man in a sleigh.” And she wondered if the old woman was still alive.

  Goldie stashed the angel away in a dark corner of the attic. Then she fixed herself some Taster’s Choice and went to the window to stand. Her Christmas lights were ablaze in the snow, all the trapped diamonds brought to the surface and glittering. She wondered if Amy Joy was happy tonight, and hoped that she was. Amy Joy had been less mean than all the others. And Goldie also wondered if the old woman’s house was still standing, if she was still there inside, turning out treasures in her little factory. She could go there and live all her life and be happy, just helping the old woman. She would be like one of Santa’s elves. And Goldie would take all her boxes and boxes of Christmas lights and she would light up the whole place. She would light up the doilies and Easter eggs and cats. She would light it up like Disneyland. Or the North Pole. Someday, when Lizzie had an itch to travel, and Goldie had a few extra dollars to tuck inside her bra, she would go back down there. Just to see.

  THE MONTAGUES, MCKINNONS, CAPULETS, AND CLOUTIERS SHUN THE BALL: A GOOD TIME IS HAD BY THE REST

  “Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes

  Unplagued with corns will have a bout with you:

  Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all

  Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,

  She I’ll swear hath corns...

  You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.

  A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls.”

  —William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

  The Mattagash gym was well decorated. Behind the bridal table hundreds of pink and white Kleenexes, shaped into papery carnations and held together with bobby pins, had been taped to the wall. The real flowers, the IGA carnations, had been saved for the three vases that sat on the long bridal table. This was the same table on which Amy Joy had eaten her meals for three years of high school. Her freshman year she was forced to attend school in Watertown until Mattagash finally built their own in 1961. They added a few classrooms and then the huge gymnasium onto the grammar school of which Ed Lawler had been principal. Mattagash students would take great pride in this. They had been lost among the strange and sometimes snobby ways of the Watertown students. But after 1961 they would even have their own basketball team and baseball team. And there would be a place for wedding receptions if one could pay the ten-dollar rental fee. There was no longer any need to fill someone’s living room and kitchen to bursting when a wedding reception needed a place to be born.

  No one remembers now why, but for what seemed centuries, Winnie Craft, Claire Fennelson, and Girdy Monihan had been serving the punch at all socially acceptable receptions. They hovered about Winnie’s cut-glass punch bowl like fat hummingbirds, pouring, stirring, refilling. Ed Lawler had often thought of them as the three witches from Macbeth, but this was not an insight he could share, Mattagash being most suspicious of Mr. Shakespeare and his ilk.

  The three-piece band from St. Leonard had already been paid their fifty-dollar fee to provide a night of musical entertainment. They played away, totally unaware that the bride and groom were not present. Nor were any other members of the House of McKinnon, or the House of Cloutier.

  Lola pulled Randy onto the floor, anxious to show him off to Traci Monihan, Debbi Fennelson, and her first cousin Sheila Craft. Cradling her head in the pimply crook of Randy’s neck, Lola peered over his shoulder to scan the faces watching. There they were. Debbi. Traci. Sheila. Modern names compared to the Myrtles, Marges, and Ednas of the generations before them. Television and magazines had tossed aside the old-fashioned appellations and had brought to Mattagash names the old settlers had never before heard spoken. Names that ended in the letter i. These girls were the new breed now, and as they watched Lola dance, they exchanged glances and barbed comments. Lola knew what it meant. They weren’t going to look one bit impressed with her rich city catch. They weren’t going to give Lola that kind of satisfaction for free. Yet Lola knew that if one of them had been lucky enough to snag Marvin Randall Ivy III, she’d have done so without a second thought. Then it would be Lola’s turn to lean against the wall of the Mattagash gymnasium and feign disgust toward the bachelor-in-residence.

  “I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole,” Lola heard Debbi Fennelson say as she and Randy danced by.

  “Sour grapes,” Lola said to them, and Randy tilted his head back to look at her. His eyes appeared to be in need of a good bleaching.

  “What?” he asked Lola.

  “Nothing. I was just saying hello to some ex-friends.”

  “I’m down to my last joint,” said Randy. “Something has to be done. I can’t take this place straight. It reminds me of Bedrock on The Flintstones.”

  “What are you going to do?” Lola asked.

  “Well,” said Randy, “first we’re going to kill the other half of your pint of vodka.” Lola giggled. She and Randy would have a full life together, she knew. Already they had spiked their punch glasses, when they thought no one was looking, with the bottle Lola had hidden in her purse. Being a native, she should have remembered that someone is always looking in Mattagash. They were far from the only ones to indulge, but Lola and Randy were much too conspicuous, a fault frowned upon since the first settlers began hiding jars of liquor in summer kitchens during the winter months, and in barns during the summer months.

  Winnie Craft was keeping an approving eye on the dancing pair. She was the only one Lola cared to deceive. Like the rest of Mattagash’s youth, Lola had given up the old ancestors’ notion of flaunt not, but she still wanted no part of Winnie’s lectures. When Winnie ducked back into the kitchen for a refill of punch Lola sneaked the bottle out of her purse. She filled the two glasses while Randy stood in front, shielding her from the crowd with his skinny body.

  “Lola just poured whiskey into her punch,” Girdy Monihan whispered to Claire Fennelson.

  “Poor Winnie,” said Claire, “to have that wild boy hanging around.” Claire wished silently that Debbi had been quicker than Lola to secure what Mattagash was now referring to as a billionaire’s son.

  “We could go get the janitor while Winnie’s gone,” said Girdy. “But I suppose others are drinking, too.”

  “I suppose,” said Claire, and scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Debbi. She had known Girdy Monihan enough years to recognize a hint when it was thrown at her.

  “Then,” said Randy, “you’re gonna drive me to that piece of shit they call a motel.”

  “And?” Lola whispered, thinking Randy had lovemaking in mind. She was as sultry as any of those women she had seen on the big screen at the Watertown drive-in.

  “Then I’m gonna get my old man’s spare car keys,” said Randy, and swirled Lola around.

  “And?” Lola was breathless.

  “And then we’re going for a little spin in the Caddy.”

  “Really?” Lola was excited. She could only hope that Debbi and Traci and Sheila would have their noses pressed like dogs against the window of the gymnasium front door as she and Randy sped past in the dreamy Cadillac.

  “Where are we spinning to?” asked Lola.

  “Portland,” said Randy. “I’ve had it with Bedrock.”

  ***

  Albert Pinkham made several trips out to his snowy pickup to nip from the bottle of rum he’d hidden beneath the springs, and to let Bruce out to pee yellow holes in the snow. Let others keep an eye on their wristwatches and their drinks, men who had to be up by five o’clock and at work in the woods by daylight. Albert Pinkham was a free man, not just from Sarah Pinkham but from the occupational burdens suffered by his fellow Mattagashers. And the knowledge that the bridal suite, which had been paid for in advance, would be vacant all night long made him smile. Albert li
ked little inconsistencies such as that. He patted Bruce, who had curled back up in a neat bundle on the front seat. Bruce hated to miss special occasions.

  “You having a good time, old boy?” Albert asked his companion. “You having the time of your life, Brucie?”

  Bruce might not be having such a monumental time, but he could sense that Albert was, and he leaned away from Albert’s rummy breath and whined softly.

  “Sometimes you’re as bad as Sarah,” Albert said to his dog, and tipped back the cold bottle of rum, which would warm his insides in an instant.

  ***

  Monique Tessier had been forgotten by the gossips back at the church after Amy Joy had handed them such a platter of emotional goodies. But her reentrance at the Mattagash gym, in her sleek blue dress, brought back a wash of curiosity. Just who could she be? She was no one’s relative, it was determined, after questions ran like electricity among the Crafts, the Fennelsons, the Monihans. Some data did pour in when a Henderson remembered seeing her at Betty’s Grocery buying long skinny cigarettes, the kind women in TV commercials tended to smoke. And then someone from among the Harts remembered seeing a big beige Buick in Albert’s driveway, and a woman getting into it. Martha Fogarty was almost positive this woman was related to the Ivys, since she’d seen Randy Ivy getting a ride with her from Betty’s. Information was passed more frequently than cake and punch. When pudgy Junior appeared at the gym, peering nervously about, suspicions were confirmed. Maybe she was a cousin or something.

  “She don’t look like a cousin,” said Edna-Bob.

  “She don’t look like any member of a family,” said Girdy. “Not even a distant relative.”

  When Albert Pinkham reappeared, a slight slur to his words did not stop him from delivering the missing piece of the puzzle.

  “Yup. She’s staying at my place, all right,” he told the women who inquired. Not that it was any of their goddamn business. But Albert was in a congenial, rum-inspired, and neighborly mood. He would offer even more than they asked for.

  “She’s the Ivy secretary, here on business.” A secretary! Good heavens, but what woman who wasn’t going to be a housewife would be anything other than a schoolteacher! Schoolteachers were necessary and they were inward types. Secretaries flaunted.

  “I saw you leave and I figured you’d be here,” Junior whispered to Monique. “I’ll meet you outside in five minutes.”

  “Why?” asked Monique. She could tell he was angry. “I just got here. I intend to have some fun.”

  “Monique, please.” Junior’s attempted ventriloquy, to convince the locals he was not talking to this woman, was for naught. Besides, Monique was openly conversing with him.

  “Monique, you’ve got to leave this godforsaken town before the old man sees you.”

  “Let him.”

  “No, don’t let him,” Junior said. “You’ve no idea the jeopardy you’re putting my career in by turning up in Mattagash.” Monique almost asked if he had any idea the kind of jeopardy her career was in?

  “I knew your family wouldn’t be here, not after what happened at the church,” said Monique. “But I’m bored, Junie. I need a little excitement.”

  “Portland’s the place for excitement,” Junior insisted. “Not Mattagash.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you’ve forgotten this morning already?” Monique whispered the words. No, of course Junior hadn’t. As a matter of fact, his genitals tingled at her reminder. But enough was enough. Sex was a temporary thing, but his own funeral home would last forever.

  “This morning was a mistake,” said Junior. “And I shouldn’t be seen here with you now, Monique. I tell you, you gotta leave town.”

  Monique’s face flushed as she slipped her woolly winter coat back on and grabbed her purse. Junior pretended not to see her go.

  “Hello, I’m Junior Ivy, Pearl McKinnon’s son,” Junior said to several people, who already knew very well who he was. “Nice reception,” Junior told Winnie, Claire, and Girdy, who were still huddled around the punch bowl. Spacing his departure from Monique’s by ten minutes, Junior felt, would be enough to dissuade any suspicions. He forgot his own warning to her back in Portland. You can’t lay low in Mattagash. In Mattagash, D-Day would’ve flopped.

  Outside, the snow was still falling in thick flakes. All the cars belonging to the gatherers were white things, a yardful of small beached whales. Junior found the Cadillac. In just the short time he’d been inside, the windshield had acquired a thin blinding film of snow. Junior wiped it away.

  “This is like the goddamn Arctic,” he thought, and ran a gloved hand across the back window as well. Then he wiped the side windows. He didn’t notice, what with snow clinging to the tires, that his lovely hubcaps were gone.

  “Junie?” A ghostly voice, snow-filled and downy, came out of the shadows of the gymnasium and beckoned him. There she was, snowflakes clinging like little doilies to her hair, her shoulders glistening with wet, her blue coat turned purplish under the school yard light. A snow nymph, this voluptuous secretary, a snow goddess whose tiny footprints in the gymnasium yard would lead to some mythical birthplace, a mountaintop, a clamshell, the Ocean Edge Motel in Portland, Maine.

  Junior followed her over to the Buick, now buried beneath a thin blanket of snow.

  “You’ve got to leave town when the snow stops,” he pleaded.

  “Please,” she said. “Just talk to me. I’m so lonely tonight. Weddings do that to me, even when they don’t take place.”

  Junior sat in the passenger seat, as he’d done that afternoon in Portland when he’d tried to cut the cord and loose himself. Monique started the car, then let her cold fingers trace his cheek, the neckline of his shirt, his pouting lips. Junior felt that tingle again, more a quiver, a quick streak of electricity coursing through him. He was a fat fish flapping on shore, and Monique knew it.

  “If I have to remind you every ten minutes of your life,” Monique whispered, “about what you’re giving up, then I will.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. A snowy shiver went through Junior as goose pimples sprouted on the surface of his skin. Monique put her hand on the hard lump beneath his zipper.

  “Oh God,” Junior moaned. “Remind me.”

  Ten minutes later Junior pushed himself up and looked down on Monique where she lay in the backseat, her hair splayed about on the upholstery. Snow blinded all the windows of the car.

  “It’s like being in a white cave, isn’t it?” Monique asked. “A snow tunnel.” Junior said nothing. He’d done it again. He’d been led by his penis, as though there were a ring in it, across the snowy school yard, into the old Buick, and then onto the spongy backseat. He was no more than a high school boy with menacing hormones. He was a tethered bull. Maybe his father was right. If Junior didn’t get his rabbit raisins into a meaningful pile, he would never become the entrepreneur he wished to be. After the fact, Junior was able to look at Monique with some objectivity.

  “This has got to end,” Junior said. “I’m gonna have to get my family together and concentrate on them and business.” Monique was huffed. How dare he, after they’d made such eloquent, albeit rapid-fire, love? She wished she could take it all back, as though a sexual encounter were akin to a cup of sugar or a borrowed book. But she couldn’t. Once again, he’d used her.

  “Junie?”

  “No, Monique.” Junior zipped his pants up over the large ball of his stomach. “If I have to have a heart-to-heart talk with the old man tomorrow, I will.”

  “What do you mean?” Monique wanted to slap his chubby face as hard as she could. But that would be a blunder. She knew very well that Marvin Sr. had dragged his son all the way to the ends of the earth to break the spell she had cast over him.

  And she also knew that absence made the heart forget, especially in Junior Ivy’s case. Food seemed to be the only constant there.

  “I me
an when we go to the funeral home tomorrow in Watertown, I’m gonna tell him how you came up here without my permission. I’m gonna tell him before he sees you and gets the wrong idea. I got a business at stake here.”

  Junior knew Monique was seething when he got out and slammed the door. Let her seethe. He needed to discover some way to circumvent her sexual power over him. Maybe he should buy a few girly magazines and a box of tissues to keep in the men’s restroom at the Ivy Funeral Home. A trip to the bathroom every few hours would help keep Monique’s charms on ice. Or better yet, he might get one of those blow-up dolls, anatomically correct but without all the hang-ups real women have. Blow-up dolls don’t take Valiums or chase men from one end of Maine to the other in battered Buicks.

  “Now I mean it,” Junior said when Monique rolled down her driver’s window and looked sadly at him. “I will never get inside your car again, so don’t plead.”

  “Who’s got your car?” Monique asked, instead of pleading.

  “What?” Junior spun around in time to see the creamy Cadillac swirling out of the snowy yard. “Don’t!” he screamed. What kind of awful déjà vu was this? Could he never visit relatives in Mattagash without having his car stolen or, worse, wrecked? Junior had lost a delicious Packard to Chester Lee Gifford, who demolished it badly enough to die in it. Chester Lee totaled himself the night he totaled the car. Junior ran, with his belly jiggling and his breath coming in short grunts, as far as the road. But the car was too fast for him. He watched its snowy taillights as they disappeared around a bend in the road.

  “Excuse me,” Junior said, and rapped on Monique’s window. “Would you give me a lift to my mother’s house?”