The head bartender, Burt Gilmour, an off-duty policeman, was surprised to see Len Walmsley order a rye on the rocks. As far as he knew, Len had sworn off booze ages ago, a rarity in Hastings County. This was a special occasion. Burt figured a man who’s marrying off his eldest girl deserved a stiff one, so he poured a double.
Len held the plastic cup in hand for a good few minutes before taking a sip. He was listening to one of Helen’s wrinkled uncles go on about the weather, how it was a bad year for cash crops. Len had a hundred acres, inherited from his father, but they were rented out to a neighbour. He’d taken a job at the feed mill. Helen’s uncle still farmed. From the sound of it, he had nothing else to talk about, mainly complaints, the farmer’s social staple. Len nodded in the right places. He could see the wall clock over the old goat’s head, the red hand slicing off seconds. At the five- minute mark, he raised the glass, held it under his nose long enough to take a deep breath, held the breath long enough to prove he didn’t need to go any further, he could stop right there, set the cup down and walked over to a table offering coffee and strong tea. But he didn’t, he took a drink. The uncle droned on. Len stopped listening but kept nodding. Somebody else came up to him, started a conversation and floated away, to be replaced by other people who started other conversations, all about the same thing, nothing and everything, a bit of a blur. Fine. He was taking it slowly, working on a refill, when Helen tapped his arm and said it was time to take their places. The meal was about to begin.
Beside every plate was a package of monogrammed matches, Florence and James Keith, August 30, 1969. The air conditioners laboured loudly to produce a faint change from the sweltering day outdoors. Just past five o’clock, the sun cast a glow through a row of narrow windows, causing every colour to ripen. At least that’s how Len saw the room, as a harvest of life, his and Helen’s. Her suit brought out the blue in her eyes. She was pale and, as everybody kept telling her, too thin. But he was pretty sure, at least on this day, she was not unhappy.
They were seated next to the head table, beside Bob and Val Keith. A stout woman in a fluffy dress, Val was used to letting Bob do the talking. Before he got into real estate, Second Lieutenant Robert Keith had served with the Hasty P’s and gone overseas for the war. He was wearing his regimental best. By the time the main course started he would be telling them all about Operation Husky, July of ’43, when he was one of 25,000 Canadians who landed on the beach at Pachino, Sicily, which was where he earned his medals. In the meantime, Len had no problem sharing hosting duties with a man in uniform. He was beginning to think Bob might not be so bad after all. Maybe the things people said about him were the things they always say about achievers. Maybe marriage would settle Jimmy down. At least Flo wouldn’t starve.
The priest said grace and welcomed everybody to the celebration, introducing Mr. and Mrs. Florence and James Keith. Girls from the CWL crew served the head table guests and the parents’ table. Everybody else had to line up, one row at a time, and fill their plates from a buffet near the kitchen door. Chicken and roast beef, both kinds of gravy, candied ham, mashed potatoes, turnips, peas, Cole coleslaw, moulded Jell-O salads (lime and raspberry) in various shapes, green tomato relish, dill and beet pickles, devilled eggs, and the talk of the night — a Waldorf salad, made from celery, grapes, sour apple and walnuts, served on a bed of iceberg lettuce with a mayonnaise dressing.
Helen noticed the extra effort the CWL catering committee had put into the dinner, a clear signal of good will. They hardly ever took a job outside the parish facility, but for her they made an exception. She hoped the gesture wasn’t laced with pity. Bob Keith was seated at her elbow and kept up a constant patter. Val listened with an expression that was hard to read, as if she might be deaf. Helen tried to make conversation — at least she thought about it — but Bob and Len left little air space. She didn’t object. She had nothing on her mind that needed saying.
Len was in a jovial mood. He took half an hour to make his way back from the buffet, stopping to soak up well wishes and pinch the cheeks of kids he hadn’t seen since they were in diapers. We’re practically childless, Helen thought. Patty Kate was a flower girl, so she was sitting beside Marlene at the head table. Luke and Roger had gone off to play with their cousins, and ended up sitting with them, one on each side of Gran, Helen’s mother. Mary Daly loved weddings. She was not one to judge. In her eyes, marriage and pregnancy were the normal destiny of girls, a blessing as long as everybody was healthy, and the drinkers stayed off the roads.
On a second glass of Baby Duck, Helen started to relax. She interrupted Bob to compliment Val’s outfit, which was chiffon, yellow and green swirls, with a matching jacket. Val had sewn it herself. Bob took credit for having bought her a top-of-the-line Singer machine. Yes, it was possible to make polite conversation with near strangers who, at least by association, would be part of the family, until death or some other catastrophe intervened.
Speeches followed the distribution of cake. As best man, Lorne had fashioned a few choice anecdotes about his newly married brother, aimed at positioning himself as wiser, older, a better cut from the same cloth. He hadn’t yet learned the comic potential of self-deprecation so had to be content with polite chuckles. Marlene’s valentine lips signalled approval.
Lorne’s under-performance handed Len an eager audience. When his turn came, he presented himself as a man on the ropes, introducing his brood one by one, detailing their foibles, the onerous cost to his health and bank account: Roger, Marlene, Luke, Patty Kate. Finally, the lady-in-waiting, who Len predicted would require a saint of a husband, a man with deep pockets. Then he turned serious, praised Flo’s qualities, her generosity, her loyalty and cooking skills. He said it broke his heart to see her go, his voice cracked. He paused long enough to make the crowd uneasy, then took a deep breath and added that if Jimmy treated her badly he could expect to be killed.
Len had rehearsed the line, counting on a laugh. Instead, it brought proceedings to a standstill. Silence, not even a cough, until Bob Keith raised his hands in the air and clapped — once, twice, three times, unleashing laughter and applause. Len forced a smile and dove for his seat. He was out of breath, thirsty. Helen slid her glass of water his way, and nudged him under the table.
3
Dance music was the only part of the wedding plans to galvanize the groom’s attention, one Flo had gladly handed over. It was Jimmy’s chance to put his stamp on the occasion. Anybody who had the temerity to suggest his wild days were over just had to show up at the Legion after ten. If the music was right, what else could go wrong?
He’d hired a DJ. Wally, a quiet, oversized guy with few friends, worked high school dances, private functions and the occasional bar gig, whenever management felt entertainment was worth the outlay. He had eclectic tastes and an impressive collection of vinyl. But the main reason Jimmy wanted Wally was security. He didn’t drink. He could be trusted with an armful of carefully selected albums from Jimmy’s personal collection. At the end of the night, Wally would drive Jagger, Lennon, Harrison, Dylan, Hendrix and the rest of the legendary crew home safely. Of course he’d be free to play a few of his own favourites. He could take requests, within the limits set by their mutual tastes. Mainly, he was to keep the beat strong and the volume high, build up to a blast, then play a stretch of slow numbers. If the heat dipped, crank it up again. Jimmy would be out on the floor having fun. Wally’s job was to pay attention, command the beat.
Music — specifically the anti-country, hopped-up, hard edge of rock — constituted Jimmy Lake Keith’s reason for living. Forced to choose between sharing a basement with his brothers and getting his own place where he’d be too broke to afford records, he had resigned himself to the storm-lashed prison of home. A blast from the clock radio woke him up at seven every morning. Most nights, he rose out of a stupor after midnight to the grind of a diamond-point needle coasting on the end of a song: his ears were that sensitive to silence. He’d quit school before graduation beca
use the garage had offered him a full-time job, and had a state-of-the-art radio that played nothing but great music all the time. Customers had been known to complain.
He hoped like hell getting married (“doing the right thing,” in his father’s words) wouldn’t mean he’d have to miss out on new releases. He’d already moved ten crates of albums into the tiny apartment he and Flo had rented in town. The dinner over, he was looking forward to losing the bow tie and letting go on the dance floor.
While the tables were being cleared and moved along the walls, Flo slipped into the ladies’ room, took off her girdle and changed into her going-away outfit, a billowy flowered dress. Finally, she could breathe. Jimmy had seen it and said she looked like Judy Collins. He was waiting by the door when she came back into the hall, and led her into the middle of the floor for the first dance. Flo’s choice, Elvis, “Love Me Tender.” The lights had been turned down. Jimmy took it easy, small steps. As the day turned into night the heavy mood she’d carried around for weeks began to lift. The ordeal was over, signed and sealed. She could be herself again, smile without thinking smile. It didn’t seem phoney when she whispered I love you in Jimmy’s ear. His answer was to tighten his arm around her waist and press his cheek against hers, and she thought, this is our wedding, ours from now on.
As per instructions, Wally left no dead air between the King’s mournful waltz and Jimmy’s signature tune: “Sympathy for the Devil,” from the Stones’ latest album, Beggar’s Banquet. Aware of what was coming, he stepped back from his bride, lifted both arms in the air, and mouthed the opening lyrics to his orchestrated solo: “Please allow me to introduce myself . . .” The throng of relatives parted to make way for his crowd, rivals and friends. “Pleased to meet you, hope you get my name . . . I’m a man of wealth and taste . . .” Everybody he’d seen or thought of since Flo gave him the news was present. He was pretty sure this night would be legendary.
* * *
Wally’s repertoire gave some of the guests headaches. Drug music, Helen’s sister called it. Why didn’t they get a real band? What was wrong with Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, and the danceable Irish favourites? You know full well, Helen thought. Because the wedding was last minute, and local country cover bands were booked up months in advance. Why didn’t Marg go home if she wasn’t having a good time? In lieu of asking, Helen got up to make conversation with guests, which is how she found herself on the dance floor with Bob Keith, because Val’s legs were swollen from the heat and she’d never enjoyed dancing.
Bob, on the other hand, could do the jitterbug or the bossa nova or jive or a combination, as required. No matter what the music on offer, he believed a man put his arm around a woman’s waist, the other hand joining hers and held up in the air. The rest was a question of footwork. Dancing was the only task that rendered Bob speechless. He had natural rhythm and had taken the trouble to learn technique, but still he never relied on instinct. He thought he had to pay attention, which is why he couldn’t talk and dance. Helen had only instinct, and a deep need to let go.
From his perch behind the turntable, Wally noticed their footwork, the intensity between the newly linked inlaws. As soon as Jimmy stepped out for a smoke with his garage mates, Wally slipped on a Glenn Miller album he’d brought along as a joke. Like a burst of rain in the jungle, the change of tempo cleared the floor of shakers, twisters, swimmers, frogs, leaving room for Bob and Helen, who knew exactly what to do. A few other couples joined them, awkward at first, but enough to convince Wally that a follow-up from the bygone era was warranted.
Bob was surprised by how effortlessly Helen followed his lead even with tunes you could hardly call music. Once the saxophones hit, she changed gears. All it took was a danceable beat. Propelled by some coiled force inside, she flew. Her breath quickened, toes barely touched the floor. He felt like he was holding her up with one arm and one hand, while she was driving him on, their combined energy leaving no room for thought or other people.
Jimmy had never seen his father dance. It was not something his parents did. Standing in the doorway, he couldn’t take his eyes off Bob and Helen, the contrast between the old man’s ramrod posture, his studious expression and the fluidity of his feet. And Flo’s mother, of all people. She wasn’t smiling, but she sure was paying attention. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her smile. She was holding onto his father, who was staring into the distance over her head. You could see the connection between them. The heat. Man to woman. It was mesmerizing. Other people were watching too. The connection was that obvious. Something else was obvious: this was what his mother cried about when she was home alone and their father was “away on business.” He’d heard them arguing behind closed doors. You’ve got a woman somewhere, don’t you? He swore he didn’t but she said she had proof. Lorne had heard them at it too. He said she was crazy, lying, tormenting him. She was trying to make him leave. Jimmy believed his mother. He couldn’t stomach the old man. Watching him dance with Helen Walmsley reminded him why. They were other people out there, living other lives. He wanted to vomit. Instead he went over to Wally and put a stop to it.
From that point on, Jimmy stayed on the sidelines, kept an eye on Wally, the other on the clock. He’d counted on getting stinking drunk, but as the evening progressed, drink was the farthest thing from his mind. He had a Coke, then another. He was powerfully awake, as if he owned the room and was waiting for something to break. It didn’t take long for the music to drive most of the older guests to side tables, or home. The party was going strong. He spotted a few characters he definitely had not invited to the dance. Flo had drifted off with the girls from high school. He circled the room, found her asleep at a table, head resting on his rented jacket. He wandered away. Time passed. Then she was standing beside him, wearing the jacket, her bouquet held high, ready for the toss. People gathered around. Her best friend Ann was the lucky one.
“Time to go,” she whispered. He was relieved to hear it. They had taken a motel room half a mile away, and would be leaving for the honeymoon/fishing trip on Sunday afternoon.
“Give me a minute,” she said. “I’ll say my goodbyes and be right back.”
He helped himself to a beer at the bar. Judging by the stack of empties, he guessed the event was a roaring success, and it was far from over. He caught Wally’s attention, gave him the nod. Everything was under control. He asked about the bill. The bartender smiled, waved his hand. “Your old man took care of it before he left.” Then he asked if Jimmy had seen anything of Len Walmsley.
“He got himself powerfully drunk. I’m tempted to call the detachment,” he said. “Guess we better get some-body to keep an eye out.”
Jimmy shrugged. It wasn’t his problem.
4
Wally put on a cheesy drum roll for their departure. As they headed out to the parking lot, Jimmy caught the whine of a Gene Pitney tearjerker. He started having vague second thoughts about leaving, but Flo was striding toward the Mustang.
When they got in, she said: “I’m worried about Dad.
Nobody seems to know where he is.” Jimmy turned the key, revved the motor.
“He had an awful lot to drink. Mum’s furious. He can’t handle it, you know. I mean, at all.”
Then she should have kept a lookout instead of showing off on the dance floor, Jimmy thought. What he said was: “Maybe your mother drove him home.”
“No, I’m pretty sure the car was still in the lot. I don’t know where she is. She disappeared.”
He could tell something was eating Flo. Her head got itchy when she was anxious. Finally, she said: “Oh, Jimmy. Damn it. You’ll have to turn around and go back home. I mean, to the farm. I forgot something important.” “What? You mean now?” She nodded.
“What did you forget?”
She sighed as if somehow he should know, or shouldn’t ask. Then she said it was important stuff she really needed on the honeymoon, and it wouldn’t make sense to have to go back in broad daylight. They wanted to sleep in, have breakf
ast in bed. Remember?
The heat had died down slightly, and with the windows open, once they picked up speed there was a breeze. The Walmsley farm was a twenty-minute drive away from the Legion. As they came to a fork in the highway, she told him to take the shortcut.
“This way’s faster,” he said. It was paved highway. The shortcut was a private lane over a hill, winding and full of potholes.
She insisted on the dirt road, told him to slow down, which is when he noticed she was watching the side of the road, one hand pressed against the window, shielding her eyes from the dash lights as she peered into the dark.
“Dad tends to walk when he’s drunk,” she said. “You think he’d walk all the way home?”
She nodded. “He’d try.”
It struck him as too funny that a man who a few hours ago had publicly sworn to kill him if he got out of order was now drunk and wandering around the countryside, or had fallen into a ditch. People said Len Walmsley had a mean streak. He used to be a heavy drinker. A few years ago, a hired man had bled to death in his barn. Some people thought Len was behind it. Well, times change, and times change back.
“Stop the car!” Flo ordered. He did. She reached over and turned off the headlights. There was a vehicle parked up ahead, just off the road. It was black, which is why he hadn’t noticed. The old man’s Lincoln — the thought nailed him, as if it had been sitting in the back of his mind, ready to pounce. He wanted to back away, but Flo had already opened her door. He grabbed her hand, reached over and pulled her door shut, so the automatic light went off.
Mankind & Other Stories of Women Page 6
