by Ann B. Ross
“That building’s not on my mind today, Pastor, you’ll be happy to know. No, I’ve come to schedule a wedding.”
“Oh?” His eyebrows went up, then came together in a frown. “Are you sure? Perhaps we need to discuss other ways to deal with your loneliness. Widows, especially, are so susceptible, so eager to remarry that they don’t always make good decisions.” Then he smiled.
I stared at him until the smile faded from his face. “I hope you don’t think loneliness is the only reason a widow would remarry.” But he probably did, being unable to imagine older people in the throes of passion. He had a lot to learn. “Besides,” I went on, “it’s not my wedding we’re talking about.”
“Ah, I see,” he said, his eyes sliding away from mine. “Well, I hope it’s no time soon. The church calendar is full for the next two months.” He reached for his appointment book and frowned at it as he flipped through the pages.
“I don’t want the sanctuary; this will be a small wedding. The chapel’ll do us fine.”
“What date would that be?”
“Next Saturday, the first weekend in June.”
He shook his head, and kept shaking it. “I’m sorry; the chapel is already taken for both Saturday afternoon and evening. This is the busiest time of the year for weddings, you know.”
“Oh. Well, what’re we going to do? My two young friends only have next weekend, and if I don’t get a church and a preacher, they’ll go to the courthouse, and I just can’t have that.”
A smile started at the corners of his mouth, but he had himself in so much control, it didn’t get much further. I declare, with that pale complexion and the strained and pious look around his eyes, all I could think of was what a world of good a purgative dose would do him.
Then he straightened his shoulders and tried for a professional look. A dried shaving nick on his chin somewhat detracted from the effect. “Well, if I may suggest . . . well, as I said, the church is busy next weekend, but other ministers will be conducting those weddings. So, if you’d consider another place to have the ceremony, it just so happens that I will be free.”
That brought me up short, so I stood there cogitating. Having the wedding in a church was not the be-all and end-all. It could be held somewhere else, anywhere else, if that was the best we could do. I’d read of skydiving weddings, underwater weddings and, locally, there’d been a wedding in a Burger King restaurant, of all things, written up on the society page and everything. I’d always wondered if they’d reduced their Whoppers to a miniature size for the reception.
And there’d been perfectly lovely garden weddings and home weddings. . . . A smile broke out on my face, quivered and stopped at the thought of construction clutter detracting from a wedding in my home. Then I stiffened my spine, vowing to bear the burden of a less-than-attractive vista from my porch. Besides, having it in my living room, Binkie and Coleman’s meeting place, would be most apt and fitting.
“Good,” I said, making up my mind. “Put five o’clock next Saturday on your calendar, Pastor. We’ll have it at my house, and you know where that is. And I’d appreciate it if you’d have those workingmen sweep the street and the sidewalks before they take off from work Friday afternoon.”
“I’ll speak to the foreman about that. But,” he said, frowning, “five is not good for me. Could we possibly change to an earlier time?”
I pursed my mouth at another hitch in my plans, but I nodded my head. “I guess we’ll have to then, won’t we? Let’s say four o’clock. At least that way people won’t expect a full meal at the reception.”
“Good. It’s settled then,” the pastor said, making a note on his calendar. “I’ll look forward to conducting the ceremony.” He looked up and ventured another small smile. “It’ll be my first wedding here. Well, I must admit, it’ll be my first wedding ever. Something for my scrapbook.”
I took a step back, wondering if I was endangering Binkie and Coleman’s legitimacy. “You are legal, I mean, licensed to marry people, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, absolutely, by the presbytery, the synod and the state. Now,” he said, moving his magazine to search for a notepad. “I’ll need the names of the parties concerned, and we’ll have to set some times for the required marital counseling sessions.”
“Counseling sessions?” I had a swift image of Binkie and Coleman being counseled by this wet-behind-the-ears, unmarried and unassociated associate pastor, and I almost laughed. They could counsel him about a few things. “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, Pastor. Binkie’s a lawyer and Coleman’s a deputy sheriff, recently promoted, so I don’t know that they’ll have time for any counseling sessions. But, since they’re both counselors of a sort themselves, I doubt they’ll need your full course, don’t you?”
“Well,” he said, somewhat taken aback. He glanced out the window, seeming torn between following church policy and wanting to put this wedding in his scrapbook. “I don’t know, Mrs. Springer. Rules are rules, so I must insist. It’s imperative that as an ordained minister, I satisfy myself that this decision for holy matrimony is within God’s will.”
I bit my tongue to keep from saying what I thought, which was that he wasn’t the one who had to be satisfied. The idea that a perfect stranger, even if he was clothed in a black robe every Sunday, would take it upon himself to pass judgment on two people’s readiness for marriage. Take it from me, Binkie and Coleman were past ready.
So I said, “We’ll work it out, don’t worry. I’ll write down their names for you, so you’ll know who you’re joining together. Now, Pastor Petree, is everything settled? I don’t want to have to be worried with this again.”
“Yes, I think that’s it,” he said, taking the slip of paper from me. “Oh, one more thing. I trust there’s no, uh, problem here? I mean, is there a reason for the haste?” Spots of red bloomed on his pale cheeks.
“Not a reason in the world. Don’t worry your mind about this being a hasty decision; I assure you it is not. Those two have been seeing each other for, I don’t know, a good long while by now.” Well, everybody uses euphemisms every now and then, so if he didn’t take my meaning, all the better.
I said my good-byes, mixing in my gratitude, and turned to go, relieved that I’d retained a preacher, such as he was.
“Ah, Mrs. Springer?” He cleared his throat as I raised my eyebrows. “If you don’t have your music already set, you might be interested to know that I can help you with that, too.”
“Oh, yes? What I know about music could be put in a thimble, so I’m going to need some help. What do you have in mind?”
“Well,” he said, a flush spreading up from his neck. “I play the guitar and sing a little. I’ve done it a number of times for friends’ weddings.”
A quick image of Pastor Petree leading Binkie and Coleman in their vows, then hooking a guitar over his shoulder and presenting a musical rendition before he pronounced them flashed through my mind. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the spectacle that would be.
“I, well, I’ll have to consult with the bride. She may’ve already asked someone. I appreciate the offer, though, and we’ll keep it in mind.” And I left before he could come up with another unseemly suggestion.
A guitar, I thought with a shudder. I just couldn’t go along with all the modern ideas cropping up in church services everywhere these days. If it wasn’t guitars strumming “Kum Ba Ya,” it was dancers cavorting in the aisle waving chiffon scarves. If they ever started that in my church, that’d be the day I’d take my membership elsewhere.
And it wasn’t just regular church services that’d suffered from the bending of the traditional rules that’d served us well for centuries. To my mind, weddings were where the worst seemed to come out, with people making up their own vows and such as that. Thank goodness Binkie was going to be too busy to think of doing such a thing. I’d hate to think of what she’d come up with.
Crossing the street on my way home, I thought about the strange i
deas that some people had of what constituted a wedding. As far as I was concerned, a wedding was supposed to be a ceremonial rite of tradition and high intent. But most of all, it was supposed to be a sedate and formal act, conducted with the utmost seriousness, and I intended to see that this one was exactly that.
Chapter 4
“Well, Lillian,” I said as I marched into the kitchen where she was preparing supper. “I’ve got it arranged, not exactly as I wanted it, but I think it’ll work. Where’re Hazel Marie and Little Lloyd?”
“They upstairs in his room, gettin’ him halfway packed up for when Mr. Pickens come. She plannin’ to stay for the wedding, though; she tole me she was.”
“Well, I’m not one to question manna from heaven, because we’re going to need her help. Mr. Pickens can just stay busy, as far as I’m concerned.”
As I began to tell Lillian my plans for the wedding, her frown got deeper and deeper. “You know what this mean, don’t you?” she demanded, when I finished describing how lovely the living room would look with candlestands and flowers, and maybe an arch over Binkie and Coleman as they said their vows in front of the fireplace. “It mean we got to clean this house from top to bottom, that wall need paintin’ where the door hit it when somebody sling it open, the livin’ room drapes need cleanin’, them dinin’ room chair seats need re-coverin’, and how you gonna seat everybody who gonna come, anyway?”
“Let’s not worry about all of that; we don’t have time. You keep this house in good shape already, and if a few things could use touching up, well, we’ll hope nobody looks too closely. We’ll get done what can be done, and let the rest go.” I sat down to start making lists of what could be done.
“What about the food you gonna serve? ’Cause I guess you gonna have the reception here, too.”
“It would be more convenient, wouldn’t it? Once people get parked, they won’t want to go somewhere else. We can lay everything out on the dining room table, finger food, not a full meal, which is a benefit of having an afternoon wedding. Even though it’ll be earlier than I wanted, thanks to preachers who overschedule. Well,” I said, with a sigh at the lack of cooperation I was running into, “it can’t be helped.
“Now, Lillian, we can put the wedding cake on the tea cart and roll it out when it’s time for the cutting. It’ll work; I’m sure of it.” And I added wedding cake to my list.
As one idea after another entered my head and a picture of a simple and elegant wedding began to emerge, I began to feel more and more excited. All my previous dark thoughts were being displaced by the happiness of the moment. Let this be a lesson, I thought, keep yourself busy doing for others. Which was exactly what I was doing.
Little Lloyd pushed through the kitchen door. “Hey,” he said. “Lillian, did I leave my Game Boy in here?”
“No, honey, I ain’t seen it.”
“Little Lloyd,” I said, my head bent over the list I was making, “Coleman wants you to sing a solo at the wedding.”
His head snapped toward me, his mouth open. Then, seeing a smile at the corner of my mouth, he grinned in return. “Nuh-uh.”
“Well, okay, if you don’t want to. But we’re going to find something for you to do. Run on now, and let us finish this.”
As he left, still grinning, Lillian said, “I’m gonna need some help back here in the kitchen to serve all them folks I know you gonna have.”
“Oh, Lillian,” I said, laying down my pen. “You’re not going to be back here in the kitchen. You know Coleman’ll want you as a guest, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. This is going to be a catered event. Although we’ll still need somebody to oversee the table, be sure the trays’re replenished and so on.” I stopped with a sudden happy thought. “I know. I’ll ask Emmett what’s-his-name, you know, Mr. Howard Connard’s man and James, who works for Sam. You wouldn’t mind them in your kitchen, would you?”
“I guess I wouldn’t,” she said, turning her head so I wouldn’t see how pleased she was at the thought of being a wedding guest instead of a wedding server.
“Good. Let’s get you a new dress for the happy occasion, too. Now, where’s the phone book? I need to get a caterer lined up.”
Lillian handed me the thin book, and as I thumbed through to the yellow pages, she said, “I hope you don’t get Miz Dolan, she not hardly able to make them party sam’iches no more. I don’ know she can fix for no big bunch of people.”
“I know she can’t. But, Lord, Lillian, Sarah Dolan’s made sandwiches for every party, reception, tea and coffee held in this town for thirty years. To tell the truth, I’m about tired of the same thing everywhere I go.” I ran my finger down the listing, short though it was. “No, I’m looking for that woman who moved here from Atlanta and started a catering business. LuAnne said she does some lovely things. What’s her name? Katie, Kate, something . . . oh, this must be it. Katie’s Kuisine.” I twisted my mouth, thinking it over. “I don’t know if I should engage somebody who either can’t spell or thinks such spelling is cute.”
“All you in’erested in is, can she cook. If she can and she know how to set a pretty table, I wouldn’t worry ’bout no spellin’. What we gonna have, anyway? ’Cause I need to know how much of them silver serving pieces to start polishin’.”
“We’ll all help get it polished. I’ll have to look at what this Katie person offers before deciding, but certainly we need a tray of party sandwiches. Finger-size, of course, with some pinwheels and open-faced and different shapes and sizes. Something cheese, either a spread or cheese straws, or both. And, I think, since there’ll be men, we should have a standing rib roast with rolls and condiments to go with it. Oh, let me put this down; we’ll need someone to slice it at the table as people go around. Now, what else?”
“You need a fruit tray with some a that poppy-seed dressin’ for dippin’, an’ that big glass bowl filled with shrimps on ice. An’ some of them little tarts that make two bites for the ladies and one for the menfolk,” she said, as I nodded, writing fast to keep up with her. “An’ something hot in yo’ silver chafin’ dish, meatballs of some kind. Better put down toothpicks ’cause you ain’t got but twenny-four of yo’ good silver forks, which I know won’t be enough.”
“We’ll get out Mr. Springer’s mother’s silver. And her china, too. I don’t like the pattern of either one, but they come in handy for a big do. And that’s another thing, Lillian, we’ve got to decide how many people we can accommodate and let Binkie know so she can make her list. She wanted a small wedding, and I’m afraid that’s what she’s going to get.”
“I don’t know why you talkin’ like that. There been a hundred people in this house before.”
“Yes, I know, but those were coffees and teas when we could stagger the guest list. These people’ll be here all at one time, and they’ll have to be seated. It’s going to get crowded.”
“We could always put the ceremony on the TV and set up out in the yard and the porch and the garage, like Billy Graham do.”
I gasped in sudden dismay. “Lillian!”
“What! Law, what is it?”
“Music! I just thought of it. What’re we going to do for music? I don’t have an organ or a piano and, goodness knows, I couldn’t play either, if I did. What in the world are we going to do?”
“Why, just rent one.”
“Can you do that?”
“I don’ see why not. You can rent everythin’ else.”
“What about somebody to play the thing? With all those weddings scheduled at the church, I expect the organist and the pianist and the choir director have already been taken.”
“You can ast ’em, see if they know somebody else and, if they don’, Miss Mattie Mae Morgan at the Harvest House AME Zion church could do it for you. She a good piano player, I don’ know how she do with no organ, though. ’Course you might not want a ebony person playin’ in yo’ house.”
“Don’t be silly, Lillian,” I said, waving my hand. “If she can play any kind of instrument,
I want her. Just no accordions.”
I bent over my pad, jotting down the various ideas as they came to us. I always say that if you want things done right, you have to get yourself organized.
I lifted my head with a sudden thought. “Lillian!”
“What!” She jerked upright from the counter where she’d been leaning. “Law, what is it?”
“I just thought of something else. What kind of beverage should we serve?”
“Why, tea and coffee, same as always. And maybe some punch, lemonade or somethin’, in yo’ silver punch bowl, an’ I wisht you’d stop scarin’ me to death, yellin’ like that.”
“Punch,” I said, tapping my teeth with the pen. “I know what some people’ll expect at a wedding, at least for the toasts. And I do want something festive, but they’re going to have to be disappointed if they expect anything stronger in my house. Wesley Lloyd would turn over in his grave.” Not that I gave two cents for any disturbance of his eternal rest.
“Why don’ we serve some kinda punch that go with Miss Binkie’s color scheme? That what you us’lly do, anyway. You got recipes for pink, green and orange for when you have them Ladies of the Church meetin’s. And red for Christmas.”
“Yes, and I’m sick of them. None of them are special enough for a wedding, much less this one which has been so long in coming. Think about it, Lillian, they’re all made with ginger ale. For the pink, you put in strawberries; the green is made with limeade and food coloring; the orange is just ginger ale poured over orange sherbet until it’s a mushy mess. I mean, they’re the kind of things you serve to children and old ladies. I want something different and, well, special.”
Hazel Marie and Little Lloyd pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. “I didn’t know you were back, Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie said. “What can I do to help?”
