by Ann B. Ross
“I’ll not tell you again,” I shouted when he stopped to get his breath. “Either get off that ladder and behave yourself, or I’m calling the fire department to bring you down!”
Chapter 38
I stomped back across the street, deciding he’d come down when he got tired enough. Either that or he’d fall, which would certainly put an unexpected climax to my beautifully planned wedding. I gritted my teeth at the thought.
By this time, all my guests were busily eating or resting.
“Lillian,” I said to her as I approached the tables. “Where did the Reverend Mr. Abernathy get to?”
“He right over there enjoyin’ himself.” She nodded in the direction of the sidewalk, where I saw the reverend ensconced in a wicker chair from my porch.
Satisfied that the reverend was being well attended, I asked, “What about Miss Morgan? Has she had anything to eat?”
“Yessum, she come out a while ago and got herself a plate. But don’t be surprised at what gonna happen next.” She smiled broadly, her gold tooth sparkling, and pointed to the porch.
I saw a squad of deputies, Lieutenant Peavey and Miss Wiggins’s boyfriend prominent among them, moving the piano out onto the porch. Miss Mattie Mae Morgan directed the proceedings, then when they had it where she wanted it, she sat herself down at it and commenced putting out some of the most foot-tapping music I’d ever heard this side of the TV channel Little Lloyd watched. I mean, she was rocking back and forth on the piano bench, banging on the keys for all she was worth. I heard Miss Wiggins comment that Miss Morgan reminded her of a three-hundred-pound Little Richard, an oxymoron if I’d ever heard one.
Drawn by Miss Morgan’s pounding on the keys, the Mexican guitarist drifted closer to the porch and began to add his brand of music to the general racket. One of the deputies urged him to join them, and the guitar player stepped right up and began to blend in with that rock-and-roll music.
“Who is that playing the guitar?” I asked, hardly expecting an answer.
Mr. Pickens, who’d come up behind me, said, “That’s Jesus.”
“Hay-who? How do you spell that?”
“You don’t want to know, Miss Julia,” he said, laughing at me with those black eyes.
Before I could pursue the matter, my attention was taken by Binkie and Coleman, who were dancing on the paved driveway. He was swinging her around enough to create concern for the state of her health. She didn’t seem to mind, having forgotten, apparently, her earlier queasy condition.
Then, as I watched, several more couples joined them, including Mr. Pickens and Hazel Marie, and Miss Wiggins and her deputy with the astonishing tie. Even Leonard Conover led out LuAnne, holding her close enough to put my errant imagination to work. Soon some of the Hispanic couples took up the beat on the sidewalk. Others, searching for more space, moved out into the street, swinging, dipping, twirling and dancing to beat the band. An unsuspecting motorist turned at the corner, then quickly backed up and sped away.
And still, Pastor Petree preached on.
As the afternoon lengthened into dusk, a spotlight from the television crew bounced around, then centered on Pastor Petree, revitalizing his efforts. Flashes from the sports photographer’s camera lit up first one side of the yard, then the other. He was single-mindedly making his way through the melee, caught up with capturing memories for Binkie and Coleman. Although I doubted they would need any special reminders of this wedding.
I walked over to the redheaded sports photographer, where he squatted to reload his camera, and asked if he’d taken any formal poses of the wedding party.
“Sure did,” he said, rising to his feet. “Not very many, though, since they wouldn’t stand still long enough. Too much going on. I tell you, Mrs. Springer, this is the damnedest wedding I’ve ever seen. And I’ll tell you something else.” He leaned close to share a thought. “I got some terrific shots of that preacher up there. They’ll be front page, for sure.”
“Oh,” I gasped, as my knees nearly gave way. It wasn’t enough to have Pastor Petree on television where he’d be here today and gone tomorrow. He was going to be in the newspaper where his picture could be cut out and put on bulletin boards and in scrapbooks. Our church was going to be a laughingstock, but before I could protest, the photographer had scampered off into the crowd.
As I began to look for Sam to see if he could stop the presses, I was stopped in my tracks by the racket coming from the porch. Miss Mattie Mae Morgan began hammering down again on the piano, while Lieutenant Peavey and several deputies gathered around her singing about somebody driving them crazy. I’d never seen such bodily movements that accompanied the driving beat, but deputies are usually in good enough physical shape to manage the most strenuous exercise. Too much of such music would drive me crazy too, but it stirred even Mildred Allen and the sheriff to take to the floor. Well, the pavement. Soon my driveway, the sidewalk and the street were a bouncing mass of whirling dervishes. If I hadn’t known better, having specifically ordered sparkling grape juice, I’d’ve thought them all intoxicated.
I found a gilt chair someone had brought outside and sank into it. Lillian brought me a plate, saying, “Eat!” Then she pulled up a chair beside me and began to sway with the music.
And still, Pastor Petree preached from the rooftop.
Mr. Pickens, no longer constrained by coat and tie, suddenly appeared at my side. His shirtsleeves were rolled up on his brawny arms, and the sight of all that hair made me slightly uneasy.
“I’ve been cut in on,” he said, looking back where Little Lloyd was engaged in gyrations with his mother. Then he held out his hand to me. “How ’bout it, Miss Julia? Dance with me?”
“Oh, Mr. Pickens, you know I don’t dance. I’m a conservative Presbyterian.” Besides, I wanted to add, I hardly know how since Wesley Lloyd had not been a dancing man.
He threw his head back and laughed, those white teeth gleaming under his black and bushy mustache. Gaining control of himself, he said, “I tell you what. I won’t tell anybody, if you won’t. Come on now. This is the only way I’ll ever get to lead you.”
“Go on, Miss Julia,” Lillian urged, taking my plate from my lap. “This might be yo’ last chance ’fore Miss Hazel Marie take him away.”
Feeling foolish and awkward, I let Mr. Pickens lead me to the driveway. “I declare, Mr. Pickens, I can’t dance to that tune. It’s much too lively.”
“Bet you can,” he said, smiling at my hesitancy. “Look, just stand there and sway till you get the rhythm, then move with it. Don’t worry about the steps; just stay with the beat.”
And before I knew it, he was pulling me this way and that, whirling me in a slow spin and catching me in his arms. I declare, it was exhilirating, if somewhat out of the ordinary for one of my usual decorous manner. Especially when Little Lloyd called out, “Look, Mama, Miss Julia’s dancing!”, which brought several couples to a halt to stare at us.
To my dismay, an audience spurred Mr. Pickens on to greater exertions and I had to avert my eyes from the swiveling of his hips. Thankfully, the tune finally wound down, with Mr. Pickens giving me a final twirl.
As he wiped his sweating face, I commented that he might consider his age before engaging in such vigorous activity again.
“Tell that to Hazel Marie,” he whispered in my ear, as he breathed a wicked laugh and gave my waist a squeeze.
From behind my back, Sam said, “Go get your own woman, Pickens. It’s my turn with this one.”
Grinning, Mr. Pickens gave a mock bow and said, “Thank you for the dance, Miss Julia.”
I brushed the air with my hand, having had enough of his teasing. “Sam,” I said, turning to him. “I am worn out from all this exertion.”
“It’s good for you, Julia,” he said, taking my hand and pulling me close. “Besides, I’ve put in a special request for a slow one. Now dance with me, woman.”
Unable to leave without creating a scene or, rather, another scene since we’d had the Lord
’s plenty of them already, I submitted to Sam’s leading. And, sure enough, Miss Mattie Mae Morgan swung into a fairly sedate melody, although accompanied by an inordinate amount of additional notes that I tried to ignore.
I suffered through that so-called dance, knowing I was stiff and awkward, and self-conscious because of it. But toward the end of it, I realized that it had gotten too dark for anybody to notice my lack of grace. And Sam was light enough on his feet to cover my missteps. I was grateful to him, and gradually let myself go loose in his arms. That brought up another problem, for I could feel him breathing and that didn’t do much to bring about a sense of ease.
“Sam,” I said, stepping away from him as the music drew to a close, “we should see about Binkie and Coleman. It’s past time for them to leave for whatever honeymoon they’re going to have.”
“All taken care of, Julia,” he said, his arm still around my waist as if there wasn’t a crowd of people to see it. “The car they’re leaving in will be here in a minute, but I don’t know if Binkie and Coleman can tear themselves away. They’re having too good a time.” He leaned down then and went on. “You’ve outdone yourself, Julia. This wedding beats all anybody’s ever seen; it’ll be the talk of the town for years to come.”
“Well, if you mean that as a compliment, I’m not sure it is one. Besides, everything that’ll make it memorable was not of my doing. I’d’ve preferred something a good deal more solemn. Still,” I said, brushing the hair off my forehead and looking around, “I guess people’re having a good time, and that’s what Binkie wanted.”
As we walked onto the grass, away from the resumption of what passed for dancing, Lillian came up to us.
“Miss Julia,” she said, “them caterers has fixed a great big basket of party food for the bride and groom to take with ’em, an’ it ready to go soon as they are. An’ I tole Little Lloyd to pass out them little bags an’ tell everybody to get ready to th’ow birdseed when they leave.”
“Oh, Lillian,” I said, “what would I do without you? Here, I’ve been out there dancing and leaving you to keep things moving.”
Before she could answer, a loud whomp, whomp pierced the air, bringing even Miss Morgan to a sudden halt. We all turned to look down the street where the racket was coming from.
Threading its way down the dark street, through the double-parked cars and street dancers, a sheriff’s patrol car eased toward us, roof lights flashing and siren whooping loud enough to stop the music and draw attention away from even Pastor Petree. In fact, as I watched the car approach, I saw the pastor’s foot slip as he turned to see what had interrupted his sermon. He had to grab on to the ladder to save himself from a sudden descent.
As the patrol car slowed to a halt in front of my house, its lights flashing red and blue streaks across the gathering crowd, its siren blasted out again, then died away in a long, piercing wail.
“What is that thing doing here?” I gasped, wondering what other crisis was at hand.
Sam grinned. “That thing’s going to start Binkie and Coleman on their honeymoon.”
Chapter 39
I was still gaping at the couple’s unlikely conveyance when Little Lloyd ran up, gasping for breath. “It’s gone, Miss Julia! It was there a minute ago, and now it’s gone!”
“Slow down, child.” I put my hands on his shoulders, feeling them heave with excitement. “Now what’s the problem?”
“That . . . that,” he got out between gasps, his eyes so big they were about to pop out of his head. Pointing toward the porch, he finally managed to say, “That basket of Mrs. Conover’s, the one with the birdseed bags that I was supposed to hand out. It’s flat gone!”
“Oh, it couldn’t be,” I said, straining to see through the milling guests. “It just got moved aside when they brought out the piano. Let’s go look for it.”
“No need, Miss Julia,” Little Lloyd said, shaking his head firmly. “I’ve looked all over, and I’ve asked everybody, even Miss Mattie Mae Morgan, and nobody’s seen it since Mrs. Conover set it out there.”
“Well, who in the world could’ve taken it?”
“I know who did it,” the boy said with a dark frown. “I bet it was that ole Dixon Hightower.”
I tried to reassure him that Dixon would not be mingling among so many people, but in my heart of hearts I was beginning to wonder. Twice Hazel Marie had thought she’d seen him. Maybe she had. Maybe Dixon was another uninvited guest, but one who was making free with a basket of birdseed bags.
About that time, I was distracted by the crowd turning with an audible sigh and a few catcalls, as Binkie and Coleman appeared on the porch. They were still in their wedding outfits, Binkie’s bare shoulders splashed with intermittent streaks of red and blue lights from the patrol car. A spotlight aimed by the driver of the car suddenly found them, lighting them up like movie stars, and I saw the television camera turn toward them. Coleman stood there in the glare, grinning with delight, his arm around Binkie as they acknowledged the crowd’s benediction. Even the worshipers of the woman on the wall drifted closer, smiling and waving at the happy couple.
As Binkie and Coleman came down the steps, I noticed the guests looking around for something to throw. Even though nothing was forthcoming, Binkie ducked and Coleman put an arm over his head. Yells from the deputies and, I’m sorry to say, from some guests who should’ve known better, urged them on to the culmination of their marriage, although in terms I’m unwilling to repeat.
As Binkie passed me on the way to the car, she stopped and hugged me. “Miss Julia, this has been the best wedding anybody could ever have. I wouldn’t’ve missed it for the world.”
She didn’t give me a chance to answer, for she was quickly on her way. But I thought to myself that if it’d been left up to her, she certainly would have missed it.
“Wait! Wait!” Miss Wiggins yelled, hurrying toward the car. “Put this in their basket.” And she thrust a large ribbon-decorated bottle through the window to the driver, who I saw was Deputy Moser.
I pursed my mouth at the nerve of her, but there was little I could do about it. I comforted myself that maybe Binkie and Coleman wouldn’t partake, thereby spoiling their wedding night with a stimulant.
Hazel Marie called, “Throw the bouquet!”
When Binkie reached the open door of the car, she turned her back to the crowd and flung her bouquet high in the air. Hazel Marie ran to get under it, but that pushy Etta Mae Wiggins leaped up and came down with it. Hazel Marie backed off in disappointment, but Mr. Pickens whispered something to her that picked up her spirits.
“Where’s the garter?” a group of deputies called out. “We want the garter!”
And before my very eyes and those of a hundred people or more, Binkie hiked up her dress and disencumbered herself of the blue garter with a little pink flower on it. Coleman stood there laughing, not at all disconcerted by his wife’s public display. He took it from her and whirled it around his head a few times, then slung it far and wide.
As it began to fall, deputies scattered away, yelling in mock terror, none apparently wanting to be the next to take a wife. I noticed Mr. Pickens laughing and cringing behind Hazel Marie, who was trying to be a good sport about it. I could’ve whipped him.
A laugh erupted from the crowd as the garter floated down and came to rest on Lieutenant Peavey’s rigid shoulder. He’d been standing on the side, above the fray so to speak, but the blue elastic fell on him like it had singled him out. Though I couldn’t see that any woman would want him, he was so unbending and set in his ways. Imagine living with such a man, I thought. Then I realized that was exactly what I’d done for some forty or more years.
As we laughed at Lieutenant Peavey’s discomfort, a louder noise than we’d heard before emanated from the throats of the worshipers behind us. I turned to see them running out into the street, their attention turned to some new occurrence. Their hands were stretched out, reaching up in the air as they shouted and jumped and snatched at the small, larg
e and odd-shaped things that were floating down from the top of the Family Life Center. As I watched, openmouthed, I felt a sprinkling like raindrops, only not at all wet, on my head and face. Brushing away whatever was raining down on us, I found my hand covered with birdseed. Birdseed! Falling through the air and strewing across the ground.
Hosannas or hallelujahs began to drown out the wedding festivities. The whole marital event threatened to become unhinged, as the crowd seemed to be going into a state of ecstasy or something. I looked around for Little Lloyd.
Coleman quickly pushed Binkie into the car and tried to close the door to keep her safe, but she popped back out, determined to see what was going on.
Lieutenant Peavey and his deputies, professional faces restored, began to spread out to see what was happening.
“Sam,” I said, clutching at his arm. “What is it?”
“Don’t know, Julia,” he said, frowning with concern. Then: “Look! What in the world is that?”
Then we all saw a sight that brought gasps and screams from the guests in the yard. In the soft light of early evening, the glare of the television lights and the colored streaks of the patrol car, bits of paper and streamers and shiny banners were flickering through the air, as birdseed peppered on and around us. Down past Pastor Petree it all came, falling into the outstretched hands of the crowd below.
Our guests milled around, bride and groom forgotten in this new attraction, watching and wondering at what clearly seemed a miracle you could put your hands on. In fact, some of the guests ran out to join the worshipers and began snatching at the fluttering objects raining down from the Family Life Center, like they believed manna was falling from heaven.
Before I could grab his collar, Little Lloyd dashed out into the street to join the general melee, where I saw Binkie’s flower-bedecked head bobbing up and down in the crowd.
