6 The Wedding (2 page)

“Anatoli?”

“Yes, comrade?”

“Are they worth all the pain and trouble?”

“Who?”

“Women?”

The Russian chuckled.

“Sleep well, my love-smitten friend.”

*
 
*
 
*

Sasha, formerly known as the Butcher of Minsk, lumbered with
his box full of experimental fireworks to the outskirts of town, a safe
distance from property and people should things go wrong. Horace Goodhead
pranced beside him like a schoolboy who couldn’t wait for the final school bell
announcing summer vacation had begun. Sasha and Horace had been working on
several sample pieces for a new fireworks display all morning and were now more
than ready to see the results of their labors. Sasha looked to Horace as they
trudged through the compost of rotting leaves and shared a knowing smile.

“I can’t wait,” Horace admitted gleefully. “This is going to
be great.”

“It was good idea of you to give fireworks as a present to
wedding party,” Sasha agreed. “I only hope that show is good.”

“Good? This is going to be fantastic. Once we work the last
of the kinks out, the display should be flawless.”

Sasha dropped his cardboard box in the dirt and together
they considered their arsenal.

“What to begin with,” Sasha pondered.

“We agreed that we wouldn’t set off any loud explosives
without first notifying the town,” Horace said, placing his hand to his chin in
contemplation.

“All we have are loud explosives.”

“And we can’t notify the town without giving our secret
away.”

“Why not firecrackers?
They aren’t
so loud.”

“They’re a little more like small sticks of dynamite, but
what the heck?”

Horace flipped open his lighter and held the flame steady as
Sasha selected five of his firecrackers from the box. Touching each fuse to the
flame, he distributed the tidy little bombs in a neat line several feet away. The
two men then stepped back several paces, just in case.

“Hey, I only see four fuses,” Horace pointed out.

“I thought I saw squirrel playing with last firecracker.”

The explosives went off in line as planned, producing a loud
crack with each detonation. One explosion occurred behind a nearby tree and was
accompanied by flying debris and a loud splat.

“No worries,” Sasha announced. “The squirrel carried
firecracker behind tree.”

“Yuck,” Horace responded, still not entirely used to rural
life.

“I give firecrackers two thumbs up,” Sasha said, smiling.

“Make that four,” Horace added. “As long as we note that
they should be kept out of the hands of hungry squirrels.”

“What now?”

“The pinwheel?”

“The pinwheel.”

Sasha bent down and removed the pinwheel from the box. It
was composed of a round piece of plywood with four rockets attached such that
the plywood would spin on its central axis when the rockets were ignited. There
was a hole in the middle of the plywood for use in mounting the pinwheel to a
stationary surface.

“Here,” Sasha said, handing a bolt, a wing nut, and a hammer
to Horace. “Go pound bolt into tree so we can mount pinwheel.”

Horace actually giggled at being given the task. After
choosing a suitable tree, he placed the butt end of the bolt against the trunk
and began to hammer. The bolt had been filed down to make one end pointy in aid
of embedding it in the wood, so the chore was relatively easy. After Horace was
done, Sasha stepped forward and slipped the bolt into the hole in the center of
the pinwheel. Using his lighter, Horace was given the honor of lighting the
fuses. Again, the two men stepped back several paces.

“Oh man, this is going to be great!” Horace exclaimed.

“Wait! Did you place wing nut on end of bolt?” Sasha asked.

Sasha looked to Horace’s hand as he opened it to see that
the wing nut that should have been used to keep the pinwheel on the bolt was
still in the palm of his hand. The men raced to the pinwheel in a mad rush to
abort the launch, but they were too late.

The rockets ignited in sequence and the pinwheel began to
spin at a furious rate, sending sparks flying in all directions and producing a
loud whirring sound. Soon the pinwheel began to wobble on its loose axis before
coming off the end of the bolt entirely and falling to the ground. To the
horror of the two spectators, the pinwheel didn’t just roll over and play dead.
Instead, it landed on its edge and began to pinwheel toward town.

“It’s loose,” Horace announced.
“Quick,
after it!”

Sasha and Horace gave chase but there was really no hope of
them ever catching up with the whirling dervish. They stopped running after
only a few meters and watched as the pinwheel proceeded down the center of Main
Street. The pickup being driven by the Braids managed to swerve and miss the
errant firework. No such luck for the communal Dumpster at the other end of
town. It could neither
zig
nor
zag
,
so the pinwheel embedded itself in its overflowing contents and soon ignited
the seepage from the old barrel in which Big John disposed of his used grease. The
fire spread quickly and soon the Dumpster and surrounding trash became a fiery
conflagration.

Sasha and Horace walked the full length of the street and
came to a stop when the heat of the blaze would allow them to advance no
further. Whisky Jack stepped out of the Lonesome Moose to join them.

“Nice job, guys,” Whisky Jack commented with a chortle. “What’s
your next trick, blowing up the general store?”

Whisky Jack began to bray a tuneless melody and shuffle his
feet to a count that only he could hear. The Braids walked up from behind, took
off her gloves, and began warming herself at the fire. The sun was out but the
wind was brisk.

“Boys, do we need to have another talk regarding the use of
explosives in town?” she asked.

“We’re awful sorry about this mess, Mrs. McIntyre,” Horace
said with contrition.

“Me too,” Sasha added.

“I guess we’ll just have to order another Dumpster,” the
Braids conceded. “I just wish the damn things would stop catching fire and
burning.”

“You mean this isn’t the first time?” Horace asked in
surprise.

The Braids simply laughed and shook her head as she walked
away back to her pickup.

“Make note,” Sasha said. “Attach wing nut to bolt or wedding
is disaster.”

“Duly noted,” Horace replied. “I sure am glad that Chuck is
out of town.”

“Yes, is best if Mountie Chuck Goodhead does not see this.”

As the fire began to die down, Sasha and Horace returned to
retrieve the remainder of their fireworks, leaving Whisky Jack to cackle in the
light of the smoldering embers.

*
 
*
 
*

“Mary, Mother of God, what is that?”
Father White gasped, squinting out the window of the community room. “It looks
like a burning bush.”

His eyesight wasn’t very good. Bushes aren’t usually box
shaped.

Father White wasn’t supposed to be there, but when he had
heard that Reverend
McNab
was coming to town to
discuss the possibility of officiating at our wedding, he had invited himself
along to get in his licks about why he should be the one to marry Chuck and me.
I got the feeling that he missed doing weddings since probably no one in their
right mind would let him officiate anymore.

Compassion had forced me into lying that I had planned to
talk to him next Sunday when it was his turn to preach in the Gulch.

“It’s not a burning bush. The Dumpster at the market is on
fire again,” Reverend
McNab
said with mild interest.
He pet Max’s head. I give him credit for not being nervous with my wolf.

“So it is,” I agreed, recognizing the four silhouettes that
had gathered near the flames. I would have felt compelled to rush out and
organize the idiots, but the Braids
was
there already
so I knew matters were well in hand.

“Well then, lass. Have you thought about which scriptures
you would like read,”
McNab
asked, seating himself
again and getting back to the matter at hand.

Neither minister had raised an eyebrow when I told another
whopping great lie about Chuck and me having a civil service in Winnipeg and
wanting this wedding to be held “in the eyes of God.” I think Reverend
McNab
might have seen through me, but Father White was
smiling benevolently at my choice of words.

“What about First John?” the reverend suggested.

I blinked and then pulled in my scattered wits. He probably meant
1 John 4:16-19
—
So
we have come to know and to believe the love that God has
for us.

“That’s
a nice one,” I said.

“Or what about Corinthians?”
Father White said. “You can’t go wrong with Corinthians.
Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or
rude.
”

“Also a good choice.”

“Or
Ephesians,” suggested
McNab
, looking sly.

“No
Ephesians. Nobody does Ephesians anymore,” I said firmly. That was the one
about wives submitting to husbands. It seemed best that I take control. “Chuck
is fond of Ruth. You know the part about
your people shall be my people
?”

Both
men beamed.

“Very appropriate, lass, with him coming to live here.”

“You
might also consider Matthew—
Therefore
a man shall leave
his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife
.”

“Perfect,”
I said, just to get things over with. “Father White, you’ll do the verses from
Matthew and Ruth? You have such a lovely voice.”

“Gladly.”
He looked pleased with the compliment and his consolation prize.

“Reverend,
you’ll do the ceremony?” It seemed the lesser evil. At least he wouldn’t call
anyone a bad name and threaten them with hellfire.
Probably.

“Of course.
Now, let’s talk about readings from friends. And did you say that it
is Horace Goodhead who shall be giving you away? Has he been saved?”

It was
all I could do to throttle a groan. Max sighed for me. He’s good that way.

It did not surprise me to find Wendell waiting on the wooden
bench outside my cabin. Max had begun to ululate the moment we left the
community center and he often does that when Wendell is nearby. Wendell’s
uncle, Old Thunder, had passed away last autumn and Wendell had been spending
more time in town since then. Usually he went to the Moose, but often he came
to visit Max and me.

“Want to come in for some tea?” I asked by way of greeting.

“Sure,” he said, giving Max a quick ear-rub. Wendell raised
Max when he was a pup and still had his sire. Max’s dam had recently whelped
and there were new puppies.

“I heard the Janus brothers were in town.”

Janus, for the two faces of God’s representatives. Wendell
wasn’t terribly fond of either man, but he followed the old ways and was
therefore considered by them to be a godless heathen.
Which
was unfair because he definitely had a god.
Or maybe several.
We never really discussed it.

“Yes. They’ve come to talk to me about the wedding.” I knew
I sounded glum and tried to find a smile as I pulled the tin kettle out of the
coals. It was nearly June but nights were still nippy and I had left the fire
banked after baking some scones.

“Oddly enough, that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about
too. You have options, you know. You needn’t do this, if you don’t want to.”

I froze for a second, the kettle in one hand, teapot in the other.

Wendell and I had been an item—very briefly—the summer I
came to the Gulch. We were still fond of each other though there had been
nothing romantic between us for years. Still, I had a bad moment when I feared
that he might be trying to talk me out of getting married.

“You know that I have been studying with the people.” He
went on. Wendell meant his native tribe, the
Brokenhead
,
who were part of the Ojibway people. Wendell had opted to live away from the
birthplace, for reasons unexplained, but since his uncle’s death he had been
visiting them more often, sometimes traveling with Linda
Skywater
,
the Bones’ common-law wife, when she went home for visits. “I would be honored
to perform the
Wiidigendiwin
for you.”

I began pouring hot water into the teapot. I didn’t know what he had
just said, but he apparently wasn’t trying to talk me out of marrying Chuck.

“The what?”

“The Ojibway marriage ceremony.
I’ve been
studying to become a
Midewinini.
”

“Oh. Well. See, the thing is, we are kind of set already.” Wendell’s
face fell and I rushed on. “But I still need friends to do readings. Maybe you
could lead us in a prayer.”

Wendell began to look happy again.

“I could do that.”

“Good. Is there something traditional for a wedding, or do you write
your own?” I put the lid on the pot and let it begin to steep. Wendell likes
his tea strong.