A Wedding on the Banks (13 page)

Pearl thought it over quickly. Two cars. Thelma in one. She in another.

“Okay,” she said.

“That's my Pearly!” said Marvin. “That's my girl.”

“To hear Sicily talk about the wedding,” Pearl said, changing the subject, “maybe it would be better if Amy Joy
was
just getting out of jail.”

***

Thelma, on the other hand, packed everything, including her fox stole.

“Christ,” said Junior when he saw the fox's head hanging from the suitcase. “You can't wear that in Mattagash! People will be shooting at you!”

“Let them, then,” said Thelma, and packed a stapler.

Randy refused to go. He had grown to love his job of sitting in the coffee room, eating doughnuts, and keeping his mouth shut. All for sixty-eight ninety a week. His grandfather had even noticed, much to his own pleasure, that Randy had been taking a Bible to work every day. What Marvin did not notice was that the Bible was slimming down daily. The Bible was imploding, as though some biblical censor were at work, scratching out the ancient sex scenes and all that unnecessary violence.

“I don't want to go, and I'm afraid
that's it!”
Randy told Junior. “Them people are real hicks. It's like driving to the Lost Continent. Forget it, man.”

“No, you've got it all wrong,” Junior said. “It's not a case of ‘Forget it, man.' It's a case of ‘Forget it, Randy.' Now you go upstairs and pack, and I mean only things that are legal.”

“Balls,” said Randy. He stared into Junior's eyes. He was almost as tall now, though nowhere near as hefty. Yet it was a most frightening thought for Junior. “This is my little boy,” he thought, and his eyes misted. “This is the kid on the rocking horse.” He was relieved when Randy relented, for he had no idea what he'd have done otherwise.

“Lord love a duck,” said Thelma, as Randy stomped every step down the hallway to his room. “Are you packing
those
?”

“What?” asked Junior, and stared down at his hands. They held only the most essential items of underwear, neatly folded. He was notorious for packing only what he needed. An army packer, his own mother called him. He glanced quickly, a small peek so as not to rile her, at Thelma's burgeoning suitcase. A large sewing basket teetered on top of Thelma's Wooly-Bully bear from childhood. Junior would let the teddy bear pass, chalking it up to Thelma's lifelong insecurity. But did she think there were no needles or thread to be found in all of Mattagash? Well, maybe there weren't. But that still didn't explain the stapler. Or the flashlight. He looked again at the innocent accoutrements in his hand.

“Why?” he asked cautiously.

“Oh, nothing,” Thelma giggled. “Lord love the helpless, is all.”

***

Monique Tessier didn't take the firing lying down. At least, she and Junior were not in bed when he told her. They were sitting in her old Buick in the parking lot at the new IGA where they would be lost in a sea of cars. Monique's cleavage, legendary back at Wally's Service Station, where she usually tanked up and then checked her own oil, was now relaxing inside a buttoned-to-the-throat blouse. Junior was relieved. It would make the job less difficult.

“I'm sorry, babe,” Junior said and watched a shopper load her groceries into the trunk of a car in front of them, then send her shopping cart reeling in the direction of the little station where the other carts were corralled. So
that
was how carts wound up wandering aimlessly about the parking lot, annoying customers and looking generally homeless as dogs. He was about to comment to Monique about the rudeness of some shoppers but she stopped him.

“That son of a bitch,” Monique said, and slapped the steering wheel.

“Aw, Neeky, come on now,” said Junior, and placed an arm around her shoulder.

“Don't you Neeky me,” she said.

“All right,” said Junior. “Monique.”

“Why didn't he have the guts to tell me himself?” she asked.

“Look, all I know is that he called me in, told me he knew what was going on, and said it was time I put an end to it.”

“What did he say?” asked Monique. “How did he say it?”

“How?” asked Junior. Monique nodded.

“Word for word,” she said. “And don't lie to me.”

“He said, ‘It's time for you to fire the bitch.'” Junior spoke quickly.

“That spineless
corpse
lover
,” Monique said.

“Now, now. Come on, Neeky. Remember that it's my job you're talking about, too.”

“That no-good
grave
robber
,” Neeky added.

“Look, this doesn't mean we can't still meet occasionally, sweetheart. We'll have even more freedom now.” Junior spied another shopper about to hurl her shopping cart out into the swirl of things. What the hell is it about these women shoppers, he wondered. Are they so pissed about conditions at home that they willfully abuse the IGA's property? Male shoppers would be different. Junior knew that if someone took a poll they would discover that 95 percent of all men parked their shopping carts in the rightful spot, and with the same care they took parking their cars.

“That
bone
sucker
,” said Monique, tearfully.

“I think that's enough,” said Junior.

“It's just,” Monique sobbed, “what am I going to do? I got payments, Junie. I got bills.”

“He's giving you two weeks' severance pay.”

“That's not the point. Where do I go about getting another job? After me and Tony got divorced, this is the only job I've had. How is that going to look on a résumé? Two years at Corpse City.”

“I wish you'd watch what you say,” said Junior, and focused his concentration on a group of pigeons pecking away at some littered food.

Monique blew her nose and inspected her face in the mirror. Lipstick came out of the purse and went to work immediately. A comb was employed. She looked like her old self, but she was still seething. She really had hoped Junior would divorce squirrelly little Thelma and marry her. Everyone knew the Ivys were swimming in money, and the funeral parlor business wasn't like Hula Hoop, Inc. It would be around as long as there were people around. Once married, Monique would never have to darken a single door at that god-awful place. She would have long, leisurely lunches with her friends, both male and female. She would have her nails done weekly at Très Nails!, and she would open accounts with the very best Portland stores. Kmart would not see her face again. Junior would see it rarely. Now look what had happened. The old fart. She had underestimated him.

But then, he had underestimated her, too. She was not done with the funeral parlor, yes, goddamn it,
PARLOR,
by a long shot.

“Junie?” she asked.

Junior had, in the few seconds' silence between them, watched three more women careen their carts out across the parking lot rather than park them! They were throwing carts about the place like the aluminum in old gum wrappers. Were they
all
on Valium? Was it a conspiracy that men had no idea was going on unless they sat for an hour in the parking lot? What did those lanky bitches think they had there? Bumper cars?

“Junie, take me to Mattagash with you.”

Junior forgot all about the brainstorm he just had for Valet Cart Parking, an idea he pondered on selling to the IGA, when he heard Monique's latest utterance.

“You can't be serious!” he all but shouted. “To my cousin's wedding?'

“Of course I'm serious,” Monique said. “Why should
I
have to stay home when
she
can go?”

“Because. That's why. What would you do in Mattagash? What would people say?”

“They wouldn't have to know.”

“Monique, you've never
been
to Mattagash. Believe me.
Everyone
would know.”

“But how? I promise I'll lay low,” Monique said, as she playfully tugged at Junior's tie.

“In Mattagash? Do you even realize what you're saying? There's no place to lay low in! D-Day would have flopped in Mattagash. It's a regular hotbed of communications. Forget it.”

Monique pouted. She would not let go this easily. Not on the old fart's life, she wouldn't. She had invested too many months to bow out gracefully. Big tears rolled easily out of their ducts. Junior was touched when he saw them.

“Oh, babe,” he said. “Cutie pie. Don't. Now come on. Be realistic. I'll take you to Boston when I get back. Maybe we can even spend the night there. In Boston a person can lay low.”

Monique burst into tears. All the facial repair she'd done earlier was washed away.

“No, I'm sorry,” said Junior, and patted her. “Cry if you want to, but when it comes to this, the answer is no.
N. O.
”

Monique stopped crying. What was this? A
man
denying her something? Was that what she could expect from her forties, only two years away? A fat
undertaker
telling her no, and then spelling it for her? Well, we'd see. We'd just see.

“I can't help but get sentimental about weddings. After all, a man only gets married three or four times in his life.”

—Irving V. Gifford, to his cell mate, after reading a letter from home

Amy Joy put her head back on Jean Cloutier's shoulder and listened to the music that was winging on invisible waves all the way up from WPTR in Boston. It was an unusual thing, this notion of unseen forces penetrating one's mind. Maybe ancestors could do that, too. Could send out messages to you, down the years, over centuries and lifestyles. But if that were so, Amy Joy's ancestors would be telling her
not
to marry this young French-speaking Catholic. At least according to Sicily, the ancestors would be highly peeved to be dug up and informed of the wedding.

“They're not rolling over in their graves,” she told Amy Joy. “They're
spinning
.”

The bright red Chevy Super Sport was parked in the darkness below Sicily's house, its nose pointed over the hill at the Mattagash River. The April night engulfed them, a lingering chill still in the air. But Amy Joy wanted the windows rolled down, and they were. The Mattagash, high with its April load of water, thundered along in front of them. Old Man River was what Amy Joy called it. Old Man Mattagash River.

“Woman, oooooooh woman,” Gary Puckett asked all the way from WPTR. “‘Have you got cheating on your mind?'”

“Putois?” asked Jean Claude, pensively.

“What?” Amy Joy leaned toward him and nibbled the lobe of his ear.

“Chalice!” said Jean Claude, and jumped. “Cut dat out! It makes me tickle, me.”

“It makes you what,
you?”
Amy Joy teased him. The French teacher at Mattagash High School, who lasted just a half year since Amy Joy and one other boy were the only Mattagashers interested in learning French, had told her that French-speaking people talk this way because that's how they actually speak in their own language. “They repeat the pronoun,” he had said, and from then on Amy Joy didn't laugh to hear this done.

“Putois?”

“What?” No biting this time.

“Do you tink dat your mudder she'll be hokay, her?”

“She'll be fine,” Amy Joy said. She was still angry at Sicily for her behavior earlier in the evening.

“Is it true that Catholics burn their dead?” Sicily had asked Jean Claude.

“How can you be so
stupid
?” Amy Joy asked.

“Well, I'd hate to see my future grandchildren go up in smoke one day,” Sicily had said. “That's the only reason I ask.”

“I hope she begin to like me some, her,” Jean said, and let his fingers intertwine with Amy Joy's.

“You're marrying
me,
Jean Claude,” said Amy Joy. “You're not marrying
her.
”

“Holy Shit de Tabernacle!” said Jean Claude. Just the thought of marrying his future mother-in-law caused such a rush of adrenaline that his English quickly comingled with his French, a habit among his generation.

“Ta-barn-nack is right,” said Amy Joy, and flung her head back on the seat for Jean Claude to kiss her. He pushed his tongue deep into her mouth, in search of hers.

“Talk about
French
-kissing,” thought Amy Joy, and let the blessed smell of Old Spice send her reeling.

A curtain panel moved gently in the kitchen window, overlooking the scene in the Super Sport. It moved gently enough that human breath could have propelled it. However, it was not Sicily's breath but the pinkish nail of her index finger that separated the curtain panels and gave her a ringside seat. What were they doing out there in the cool night?

“She's worse than an old tomcat,” Sicily said, and her own tomcat, Buster, left off his tedious licking to listen to her words. Sicily let the curtain flap back in place and plugged in the teakettle. It quickly began to hiss. A nice cup of tea would help to settle her nerves. Ed used to be irked when Sicily called it a
nice
cup of tea.

“What the hell is a
nice
cup of tea?” he would demand. “How would it be different from all other cups of tea? Do you realize that in twenty-five years of marriage, I've never known you to drink a cup of tea that wasn't a goddamn
nice
cup of tea?” Oh, he could be upset at the silliest things. Sicily hoped that it wasn't hearing her state one time too many that she was having a nice cup of tea that sent him down to the grammar school to plant a bullet in his brain. She missed Ed, but she had come to realize that what she missed most was the common ground they shared. She had long gone past any romantic elements and prevailed instead upon the companionship in their relationship. That happens sometimes. Most times, in fact. Sicily was no fool. She'd seen enough marriages in her day to take note. There comes a time when the honeymoon is over and the preacher's words ring true as bells.
Until
death
do
you
part.

“Death from boredom,” Winnie Craft said one time to Sicily, about her own marriage to Fred Craft, and the two had laughed. It was probably true of city folk as well. Men and women have a tendency to settle in with one another like old oaks, too well rooted, too stubborn to transplant.

“Instead, they keep a close eye on the acorn,” Sicily said, and lifted the curtain panel one more time. She let it flop back quickly. The interior light had burst on in the Super Sport and Sicily could see Amy Joy gathering up her sweater and her purse and giving that Frog a good-night kiss. She had been bringing him in, right into their house, every chance she had since she announced her plans. And she expected Sicily to talk to him!

“But I can't understand a single thing he says,” Sicily had protested just that morning when Amy Joy had shamed her for her manners. “I'd talk to him if I
could
. Of course I would.” Well, now she was talking, all right. Now she was asking him important theological questions about Catholic cremation rituals. See how Amy Joy liked them apples.

When Sicily heard the front door slam, she pretended to be busy with her teacup. Amy Joy came into the kitchen and draped her sweater about a chair.

“Hi,” she said.

“Oh, hello there,” Sicily answered, and her cup rattled dramatically on its saucer.

“Making tea?” Amy Joy asked. Sicily heard that little ring of sarcasm known so well to mothers.

“Of course I'm making tea,” she said. “Why else would I be out here in the kitchen?” Amy Joy smiled that little smile, also well known to mothers, and then went to browse in the cupboard. Sicily dunked her tea bag slowly as she took a quick inventory of her daughter. Amy Joy was looking slimmer by the day. Gone was the plumpness of childhood upon which Chester Lee Gifford had so cleverly hitched his wagon. If Sicily could just snuff out the marriage plans, maybe one day she could even convince Amy Joy to have that Pepsi bottle surgically removed from her hand.

Amy Joy took a can of corn from the pantry and opened it. She put it in a pan to heat.

“She'll eat that with one slice of bread and butter,” Sicily told herself. “She's done that since childhood. She's had her one slice of bread and butter before bed. Except
I
used to butter it for her, and then cut it into four squares, and she used to munch the squares slowly, one at a time, counterclockwise. But she used to drink milk back then, not Pepsi.”

“Where's Puppy?” Amy Joy asked of the family's large dog.

“I don't know,” said Sicily. “If he's not on the sofa, I don't think he come in yet. Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Amy Joy. “It's just that I thought I saw him peeking out of the kitchen window just a few minutes ago.”

Sicily ought to take Amy Joy right now, across her knee, and let her have a good old-fashioned Scotch Irish spanking. A Protestant one at that. She hadn't had the opportunity to know her own mother. Grace McKinnon had died a few days after giving Sicily birth.
She
died
of
birth,
is how the old-timers described the malady. Sicily had always hated to hear this fact conveyed, as it had been over the years.
Died
giving
Sicily
birth.
It was not an easy fact to live with. It was the word
giving
that bothered her most. As if, by being
given
life, Sicily had
taken
life. But if Sicily had known her mother, she would have obeyed and respected her.

“I wish I'd had a mother myself,” Sicily said. “I would to this day give my eyeteeth for the opportunity to have a mother of my own.” Then her nice cup of tea in hand, she went off up the stairs to bed.

Amy Joy dished her warm corn into a bowl. She buttered one slice of bread and cut it into four squares. Sicily used to do that for her. It was her midnight snack when she was a child. And she'd kicked her legs happily beneath the kitchen table, long after Sicily had crawled back into bed beside Ed. She'd dangled her legs and pretended that each square was a field of yellow hay, like the ones around the house.

“I've eaten a lot of hay in my lifetime,” Amy Joy thought, as she ate the first two squares, counterclockwise. She was now remorseful for tricking Sicily into the joke about spying out the window. The truth was, Amy Joy was lonely for her mother's company. Sometimes, at least before the betrothal, they had been more like friends, playing dominoes until after midnight, doing crossword puzzles from the
Bangor
Daily.
Sometimes Sicily surprised Amy Joy with what she remembered from school. Puzzle words like
tine
and
supple.
Old-fashioned words that Amy Joy had never heard before. There were many good things about Sicily that Amy Joy would miss.

“I'll be leaving here soon,” she told herself. “I'll be leaving my childhood home forever.” Breathing was now difficult, and Amy Joy reminded herself to breathe slowly to avoid hyperventilation. It was a horrible thing to want to leave, to desire to go off and test the new places of the world, even if they were in Watertown. And it was another thing to want to stay. It was an emotional tugging, this going-out-on-one's-own business.

Amy Joy heard Sicily stomping around upstairs. The bathroom door slammed and, minutes later, Sicily's own bedroom door.

“She's pretty keyed up for a woman who's only got a few weeks left to live,” Amy Joy said to Buster the cat, who was begging for crumbs. She left a square of field uneaten, for the first time since she could remember. The truth was, and Amy Joy had to admit it, she was having second thoughts. Or
tots.
Whatever they were, in whatever language. She would even like to tell Sicily of them, to ask her advice, but she knew she couldn't.

Amy Joy knocked on Sicily's door. It was ajar, so she pushed it open at the sound of her mother's voice.

“I just came in to say good night,” said Amy Joy, and flung herself onto the bed next to Sicily. Her mother was reading, and quickly slid the book under a pillow. Amy Joy waited for the right second and then whisked her hand in after it. As Sicily fought to grab the book from her, Amy Joy held it high and read aloud,
“Troublesome Teenagers: The Key to Discipline.
” Sicily fought harder for the book. “‘By Dr. Rosalind K. Wooster, Child Analyst and Mother of Five'! Oh Mom, I'm not a teenager.”

Sicily slipped the book back to safety under her pillow.

“Nevertheless,” she said and smoothed the blankets over her. Amy Joy laid her head on Sicily's shoulder.

“What's different in here?” she asked.

“Different how?”

“I don't know,” said Amy Joy. “But there's something different.”

“Well, you tell me,” said Sicily, and tried not to notice the silver streaks in her daughter's hair. They lay side by side in silence.

“I miss you,” said Amy Joy.

“I miss you, too,” said Sicily.

“And I miss Daddy.”

“Me, too.”

“Can we be friends?”

“Will you cancel the wedding?”

“Okay. Let's stay enemies.”

“Amy Joy, your trouble is that you've always been too headstrong. I just wish you'd take things slow is all,” said Sicily, and discovered to her horror that she'd been lovingly twirling one of Amy Joy's silver strips around her own finger. She let it loose.

“What is different about this room?” Amy Joy asked again.

“Honey, you must be imagining things,” Sicily said. “Remember when you thought the troll from the Billy Goats Gruff story lived in the flush? You peed standing up for weeks. Your father said people at school were gonna think you were a boy.”

“What's that?” asked Amy Joy, and pointed at a beautifully wrapped box sitting on the floor under Sicily's bedroom window. The occasion paper was definitely wedding. Small bride-and-groom couples smiled happily from all over the box. The bow was magnificent. Sicily was an artist when it came to gift wrapping. Amy Joy was pleased. Her mother was coming around.

“Is that for me?” she asked Sicily, and Sicily nodded. Amy Joy hugged her. She had always known that if she was firm with Sicily, things would work out. What had she bought them? The box was fairly large. She cuddled up to Sicily and planted a small kiss on her mother's hand.

“You can be the sweetest thing when you want to,” she said.

“So can you,” said Sicily, and hugged back.

Sicily had lifted her window two inches to let in a bit of April's balminess. She had covered the bed with an extra blanket. April's nights were most welcome after the winter, but they were terribly chilly. There was still snow in the deep woods and along the edges of the trees. Sicily liked to sleep cold. The heavy pressing of an extra blanket soothed her. She pulled it up over Amy Joy as well and thought how nice it would be if her little girl, the one who ate a slice of bread and butter every night, would fall asleep there in the bed beside her. Sicily was about to suggest that Amy Joy take off her boots and jeans, and slip into bed with her. Spend a loving mother-daughter night, the way they used to all those times Amy Joy was afraid of the dark.