A Wedding on the Banks (21 page)

“In Mattagash, A.A. means Avon Anonymous. You ever seen how addicted some women is to that stuff?”

—Bob Mullins, Edna-Bob's husband

“Have you noticed anything strange around the old homestead?” Pearl asked Sicily. They sat together in Sicily's kitchen, catching up on the happenings in their lives. It had been years.

“Strange?” asked Sicily. “Not that I know of. But, Pearl, there's been so much strange stuff happening right under my own roof that I doubt I'd be able to recognize strange elsewhere.”

“I see,” said Pearl.

“What do you mean by strange?”

“Just strange.”

“Pearl, I'm glad you're here,” Sicily said. “I'm about to go straight through the roof. What am I going to do?”

“I don't know if there's anything you can do,” said Pearl. “I remember how I felt when Junior married Thelma.”

“How
is
Thelma?” Sicily inquired.

“Don't ask,” said Pearl.

“It's impossible to talk to Amy Joy,” Sicily said, and stared at her hands. “The past few days she's been getting things ready at the church, picking this up, dropping that off at the gym for the reception. So help me, Pearl, I've thought of everything from giving him poison to offering him money. But the truth is that I don't have enough of either one.”

“Poor Sissy,” soothed Pearl. “What heartache our children can bring upon us. But you don't know the half of it yet. Believe me,” she said. “Thelma's added twenty years to my life. You'll see.”

“And she's not even, you know,” said Sicily, “in the family way or anything. I checked the wastebasket in the bathroom and I know this for a fact.” Pearl made a face. Sometimes it was better to be the mother of a son.

“I tell you,” Sicily vowed, “I'm at my wits' end.”

“Well,” said Pearl. “What's his family like?”

“Who knows?” Sicily shrugged. “From what I understand they're no happier than me about it, although I can't imagine why. But Amy Joy told me that Jean's mother is all bent out of shape.” Sicily paused.
Bent
out
of
shape.
What would she pick up next from Amy Joy besides high blood pressure?

“This has actually caused me some physical illnesses,” said Sicily sadly. “I don't know how much longer my bladder can hold out, or if it'll ever be right again. All night long I'm going to the bathroom and that's just for a few drops.”

“What was it you came down with when Marge wouldn't let you marry Ed?” Pearl asked, her brows knitted in question. Sicily paused, then took a deep breath. After all these years, Pearl McKinnon still had a bone to pick, and worse yet, she was turning into the spitting image of Marge.

“I didn't
come
down
with anything, Pearl,” said Sicily sternly. “Good heavens. You'll make me sound like a hypochondriac.”

“Well, what was it, then?” Pearl pushed. “I remember it was some stunt. Well, no, I didn't mean stunt, what I meant to say was, oh, what was it?”

“I bought a bag of rat poison,” Sicily said at last.

“Rat poison!” Pearl laughed and squeezed Sicily's hand as though they were sharing the joke. “That's it! And you stayed in your room, not eating a bite of food. And every time Marge checked the bag, she noticed more poison gone! What did you do with it, Sissy? Did you throw it out the window at night? Did you hide it in your chamber pot? Marge and I never could figure it out.”

Sicily's eyes turned hard. “How old were you when you imagined you saw that woman-ghost?”

“Imagined?” Pearl asked, and thought for a moment. “You mean to tell me, after all these years, that you never believed me?”

“Well,” said Sicily. “I mean, for heaven's sake, Pearl. What was it you claimed she asked? ‘What time is it?' That's pretty farfetched. Ghosts don't care about time.”

“Claimed?” asked Pearl.

“Did I say claimed?” Sicily looked surprised.

“‘Are you my child?'” Pearl bit off each word. “Now what in hell is wrong with asking that?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Sicily. “Except that you weren't her child and it would seem like any self-respecting ghost would know that.” At Pearl's sharp intake of breath, Sicily made herself busy at the sink.

“Speaking of children,” Pearl said, “how many do you suppose Amy Joy will have? Them Catholics, remember, end up with families as big as baseball teams. And the kids all look like little dachshunds.”

Sicily leaned against the sink. Perhaps she should ask Pearl how Junior's oldest daughter was, the one with the crotch problem, even in public. Or maybe she could let it slip now, instead of after the wedding as she'd planned, that Winnie Craft had turned up on Sicily's sofa one day not so long ago with a clipping from the
Portland
Telegram.
Surely the Marvin Randall Ivy III of Portland who was arrested on marijuana charges must be someone else. Surely, Sicily would tell Pearl, Portland must be chock full of boys named Marvin Randall Ivy III. But before any more bickering could be done, Amy Joy strolled through the kitchen with Lola Craft at her heels.

“Hi, Aunt Pearl,” she said.

“Hello, Amy Joy,” said Pearl. “Boy, don't you look like the blushing bride.” Pearl glanced quickly at Sicily, who frowned.

“This is Lola,” said Amy Joy. “My maid of honor.”

“Speaking of such,” Sicily said, “I told Amy Joy she should ask Junior's daughter, the oldest one, to be a bridesmaid. But then we realized the dress probably wouldn't fit her right, what with the way she's built. What do they call that malady, anyway?”

Pearl searched her purse for a tissue and pretended not to hear this. Amy Joy went on through the living room and up the stairs with Lola Craft.

“That's a complete lie,” she told Lola when they were out of hearing distance. “I've no idea why Mama said that.”

***

Pearl and Sicily were back on better terms by the time the Ivys officially gathered at Sicily's house for a visit. It was to be a joyous time, a lull before the hectic wedding, when the bride and groom could spend a few hours with their own families before they bade them adieu. It was Saturday afternoon. Jean Claude would be off enjoying the stag party given by his brothers. As female stag parties were still light-years from Mattagash, Amy Joy had planned her own merriment at home.

“We got pizza now in this part of the world,” Sicily bragged to Pearl's family. Marvin, Junior, and Thelma sat on the sofa where Jean Claude had so cleverly danced just the evening before. Pearl filled the recliner and Randy thumped down on the bottom step of the stairs, now free from vomit. At each opportunity, his fingers found their way up to his crotch and he relieved some of the itch, which was constant now. Junior appeared to be more pale and tense than Thelma, who had awakened from a well-needed sleep only an hour earlier, remembering nothing about secretaries at the Albert Pinkham Motel. Lola Craft appeared again, having promised Amy Joy she would.

“I have to,” Amy Joy said when asked why she was spending her last Saturday night on earth as a free woman with her mother and those Portland relatives.

“They're icky,” protested Lola. “Let's stay up here in your room and drink this.” She pulled a bottle of already mixed screwdrivers out of her overnight bag.

“I know they are, but Mama is upset enough as it is,” Amy Joy said, and examined her silver streaks in the mirror. “I don't want her to go off the deep end at the last minute. And this get-together is her idea. Do you like this lipstick shade?”

What Lola really liked she discovered as soon as she and Amy Joy descended the stairs into Sicily's living room.

“Hey,” said Randy, as Lola sat a step above him. “How's it goin'?”

“Okay, I guess,” Lola laughed. How did she get this lucky? A
city
man!

“Amy Joy,” said Sicily. “What do you think of sending out for pizza? Pearl can hardly believe we got pizza up here in Mattagash.”

“You gotta order at least five big ones or they won't deliver,” said Amy Joy. “And you gotta buy your Pepsi at Betty's Grocery here in Mattagash.”

“On holidays,” said Lola Craft, “you have to place your order a day early or you don't get nothin' delivered.”

“Sometimes it's cold 'cause it comes all the way from Watertown,” said Amy Joy. “You gotta put it in the oven all over again.”

“On New Year's Eve you can forget it,” said Lola. “Petit Pierre's Pizza will only deliver around Watertown 'cause they get so many calls they can't handle them all.” She looked at Randy and blushed.

Junior had listened to all of this. It was obvious the territory was crying out for a little pizza competition. It was true that his mother had once wanted to combine the funeral home with a beauty salon and everyone had laughed. But a pizza joint, well, that was a hearse of a different color.

“Well, we'll order five large ones, then,” said Sicily. No matter how hard she tried, she always came off looking like a country mouse in front of the citified Pearl. “Get them with the works, Amy Joy, and whoever doesn't like whatever can pick it off. Yes, Pearl, we get pizza delivered right to our front door.”

“You ever get stoned?” Randy whispered to Lola Craft.

Not much further was said among the gathered. There had been more laughter when they had gathered that rainy September day in 1959 to plan Marge's burial. Now spring found them back at Sicily's, thawed out from a long winter, ill at ease with themselves, and without much merriment for the occasion. Sicily was numb with pain over the nuptials. The Ivys didn't care if Amy Joy married an Arab. Junior was numb with disbelief at seeing Monique Tessier in Mattagash. Thelma was numb from the Valium. Pearl was between fear over seeing ghosts the night before and anger that Sicily disbelieved her. Amy Joy was full of a bride's tension, and the warning voice of logic, which rarely spoke to her. Marvin watched Pearl and Junior and Thelma and wondered what would happen to his family if anything should happen to
him
. Randy and Lola eyed each other. It was one of those rare things that could only happen in movies or in Mattagash, Maine. It was a case of love at first sight. Lola finally looked away, and when she did, Randy took the opportunity to rake his fingers quickly across his genitals.

“How long does the pizza take?” Marvin asked.

“Well, it's thirty miles away,” said Sicily.

“One or two hours,” said Amy Joy. “They get a lot of orders and they can only put so many pizzas in the oven at one time.”

Sicily cleared her throat. The group waited.
One or two hours.

“Winnie Craft tells me that Vera Gifford dragged out all her Christmas lights last night and lit up her entire yard,” said Sicily. “They even stuck up that awful Nativity scene.”

“What?” gasped Pearl.

“The Giffords is crazy,” Lola turned away once more from Randy to report to the group.

“But
Christmas
lights?” asked Marvin. “Why?”

“Don't ask,” said Sicily. “Everyone in town knows that Goldie Gifford, across the road, bought about a thousand boxes of lights when they went on sale after Christmas. Why Vera is the one doing the lighting up I haven't the foggiest.”

“They're always up to something,” Lola said, and giggled as Randy touched a finger to the toe of her sneaker.

“Wasn't Vera a cousin to Chester Lee Gifford?” Pearl inquired of Sicily. Another thorn in Sicily's side. What Pearl was really saying was “Oh yes, I remember the last time that Amy Joy took it into her head to get married, to a
Gifford
.” When would the pizza arrive?

Sicily stared out the window as evening swept over the Mattagash River valley with a cold rain that threatened snow.

“Christmas decorations in April,” Pearl said with disgust. “What will the Giffords do next?”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Sicily. They had an hour and forty-five minutes to go. “Maybe they'll start seeing ghosts.”

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

Are you—Nobody—too?

Then there's a pair of us!

—Emily Dickinson

Red Ryder, the puppy who had become the resident dog at Pike and Goldie Gifford's house ten years earlier, picked himself up from the creaking front porch and ambled down the long drive. He had waited hopefully for the kids, whining at the bottom of the steps, until Goldie shooed him away.

“It's Saturday, Red Ryder,” she told him. “They won't be up for a couple more hours.”

At the bottom of the long Gifford drive, Red Ryder brought his hind leg up and clawed at a flea. The claws dug in deep, never having even heard of clipping, and some of the tension encased in the itch was relieved. Red Ryder spied a cat on Vera Gifford's front porch and wondered whether the chase would be worth it or not. Deciding against it, he ambled down the road.

Being a Gifford dog had its ramifications in Mattagash. That week alone Red Ryder had had thrown at him, by the descendants of the old loyalist pet owners, a high-heeled shoe, a torn sneaker, a Pepsi bottle, a yellow rubber ball, an Orange Crush pop bottle, a garden hose nozzle, three pieces of firewood, rocks of all sizes, a broken hairbrush, and a tiny purple Gideon Bible, which flew at him like a large plum.

“Look, it's Pike Gifford's old dog,” he had heard said a hundred times. “Run it off before it infects the whole place.” Such things Red Ryder had grown used to. And he didn't mind. As soon as the tossed torpedo made contact, careened off into the bushes, and the pain of it subsided, he was off again, wagging his tail, oblivious to the discourtesy.

It was in front of the Craft residence that Red Ryder stepped back to avoid a rather large rock that Winnie had found near her front steps and heaved at him.

“You go back to Giffordtown!” she shouted, and then went inside her house and slammed the door, taking Poo Poo, her poodle, with her. Poo Poo would have preferred to stay outside. She and Red Ryder had sniffed beneath each other's tails many times and had taken pleasure in such actions. But Poo Poo sensed a social taboo in the friendship she had with the Gifford dog and merely watched the turn of events through the glass of Winnie's front door.

Red Ryder turned away from Winnie Craft's large rock and into the path of a rumbling pulp truck, which hurled him quickly into the ditch. The trucker, Donnie Henderson, kept on his way, needing to get in as many loads that day as possible. Trips meant money. A dog was a dog. Besides, that was a Gifford dog. If it had been that queer little cotton ball that Winnie Craft worshiped, it would be a different matter. Donnie Henderson kept on, with his heavy load of pulp, for Watertown. Red Ryder lay on his side in the ditch of the only road in Mattagash and breathed painfully for a half hour until he died.

For a few hours afterward, as he began to stiffen in death, bemused residents drove by and saw what Poo Poo was keeping a watchful eye on.

“Someone hit the Gifford dog,” Amanda Henderson said to Mary Mullins. “Poor thing.”

“It's probably better off,” said Mary. “It was flea-bitten to the high heavens.”

“Pike Gifford's old dog,” said Peter Craft, on the way back to his filling station. “They'll probably serve that up on a platter tonight.”

Red Ryder lay on his side in the ditch of the only road in Mattagash and, as usual, paid no mind to the social barbs being tossed at him like bones. It was a phone call from Goldie's sister that brought the news to the owners. They filed out of the house as though they'd heard a fire alarm and raced the quarter of a mile down the road to where the body lay. Little Pee stayed home, although it was officially his dog. Only little kids and girls would enter such an emotional fracas, he decided, so he stayed behind. But when they were safely gone he cried aloud and hit his fists into the dirty pillows of the front porch bed.

Goldie, Priscilla, Hodge, Missy, and Miltie gathered around Red Ryder in a solemn circle, each sensing, even little Miltie, that there was some kind of justice in this. They were Giffords, after all, and all things, even things that were rightfully theirs, should be taken from them. Missy threw herself down on the body and buried her face in the tangled fur.

“Poor Red Ryder,” she sobbed, then, “Good dog. Good boy.” Other hands searched the fur, patted the head, positioned the tail comfortably behind the body. They had had him from his puppy days and he had never once minded being theirs. This was the thought that ran unspoken through their minds. Red Ryder was all theirs. He loved
them,
not Amy Joy Lawler. Not Lola Craft. But them. Missy. Miltie. Little Pee. Priscilla. Hodge. Pike and Goldie Gifford's kids. Now, like a chance from the future, like an opportunity, he had been taken away from them. Goldie pulled her children into the circle of her arms as if they were tiny ducks. She rounded them up and held them, made sure she touched each one.

“Listen,” she said, her voice ragged. “Red Ryder wouldn't want us to cry like this. He had a real good life with you kids and he loved every one of you.” She gathered them tighter. Missy's sobs were now uncontrollable and Miltie had hidden his face in the crook of Goldie's arm, which was growing wet with his tears. Priscilla stood stunned, unable to cry.

“Why didn't whoever hit him call us?” she asked Goldie.

“Nobody in this town owes us a damn thing,” said Goldie. “Nobody. If you can remember that, maybe one day you can get the hell out.”

They pushed Red Ryder aside, gently, farther down into the ditch, where he could have some privacy from Mattagash in his death, and then they walked solemnly home.

“I'll bring Little Pee back with Miltie's wagon to get him,” Goldie promised. “We'll bury him on the hill where he can always be close to you.” All five held hands, even Hodge, who had at first been embarrassed but soon gave in to the feeling of power he felt surging up from his wrist. They were
a
family
, and no one could take that from them. They felt the link to Mattagash as they walked. They came from the earliest settlers, too, just like the McKinnons and the Crafts. Hell, they were related fifty times over to everyone in town. Who, then, had decided that they would be the black sheep?

“And don't think for one minute,” Goldie said at the bottom of the hill, “that Little Pee ain't feeling none of this. He's cried his heart out by now. I just want all of you to know that. I want you to know that we're a family, and a family shares stuff.”

They climbed the hill rigidly, Miltie dragging back on Goldie's hand, Priscilla awkward and aloof. She had been a baby with Red Ryder and now he was dead. And she was, too, in a way. She had breasts now, and wild thoughts about boys, and was longing for her menstrual cycle, not knowing its inconvenience. Now she wished she had guarded Red Ryder every inch of the day. Had catered to his every whim. And in her sadness, she felt a vague longing, a sense that she should have guarded her childhood in such a fashion. They would both be safe now if she had, she and Red Ryder. They would be careening through the April fields, waiting for the river to warm for a swim.

“Another thing,” Goldie said, and halted halfway up the drive. Her children stopped silently around her. “I want you to know that I love you, each of you, equally. I want you to know that I'm proud of you. That I believe in you. I want you to know you're just as good as anybody else you'll come across in your lifetimes.”

The moment was awkward among them, but then the procession began again its climbing, up, up, up, as if the Gifford hill were some awful social ladder they were forced to ascend. The moment was awkward, but each child came away from it with a small item of respect, the first of its kind, and although they did not realize it at the time, none of them would be sorely burdened by it.

Vera watched the long line of humans climb the hill.

“Goldie looks just like the Pied Piper,” she said to Little Vinal, and then slapped his hand as he reached a finger into her frosting bowl. She had rubbered in on the last phone call and knew what had happened.

“They're boohooing more over that old dog than they did when Grammie Gifford died,” Vera said, and let the curtain relax.

***

Shortly after Red Ryder gave up the ghost and was safely buried on the Gifford hill, Irma arrived home for the weekend. She had barely had time to toss her purse onto the sofa and grieve the loss of the family dog when Goldie pulled her aside.

“Don't ask me why,” she said. “But I have the need to express myself.” Goldie held up a handful of Christmas lights Irma recognized all too well, having sold them to her.

“What's going on here?” asked Irma, and breathed on the heavy lenses of her glasses. “Aunt Vera's yard is all decorated for Christmas, too. Have you people gone crazy?”

“This is only partly for your aunt Vera,” said Goldie. “This is for the kids. It's for old Red Ryder. Let's go.”

It was past five o'clock and growing colder, so they dressed in heavy socks and sweaters and scarves and mittens and went out to decorate their home and yard. Even Little Pee finally left the kitchen window and came outside to help once he heard laughter and recognized what appeared to be real family camaraderie. It was strange for all of them to be caught up in a sort of celebration with Red Ryder just dead, yet it seemed right somehow.

There were strings of lights everywhere. Goldie had planned to show reserve when she decorated the tree that December, so as not to rile Vera or any of the other women who had fared so poorly at the sale. But this wasn't December. It was April. Goldie Gifford and her kids were a family. Families could do what they wished, as long as they stayed together. And it's true that a frenzy caught Goldie up in its clutches. She couldn't seem to stop decorating. Irma felt the same way, except for her the experience was almost a mystical one, stemming from the fact that with the weak muscle balance in her forever wandering eyes she saw, without her glasses, double. And temptation caused her many a time to take those spectacles off and behold the wonders. Just a slight tremor from the wind could make it all appear to be a dazzling light show. The kind they have in Las Vegas.

“How do you think that tree over there would look if we was to light it up, Prissy?” Goldie would say. Or, “Tack some lights around that window, Hodge.”

By nightfall the entire hill where Pike Gifford's house sat on the cold earth was ablaze in lights. There were strings around each and every window of the house. They covered the doors and eaves. A bright string of mixed colors ran from the front porch out to the garage, circled the door, lined the eaves, and lit up every illegal tire from Mattagash to Watertown. The mailbox was wrapped in lights. There was not an extension cord or an outlet in Goldie's house that was not working overtime.

“Good thing it
isn't
Christmas,” Vera said, looking up in astonishment at the hill afire in color. “If Santa was to fly over that mess, he'd think for sure it was New York City. He'd probably end up spending the holidays in Canada with the Quebecers.”

Pike Gifford rolled a tire up the hill from Vinal's and stashed it with the others in the garage.

“Nice job,” he said to Goldie as he surveyed the network of lights. “Good work,” he said to the kids, and hiccuped. They giggled. Pike teetered a bit, dazed by the splash of colors, as he reached for the doorknob. It used to be just past Thanksgiving that folks started looking forward to Christmas. Now Easter was barely over and they were already at it. So be it. Pike Gifford would not interfere with the social workings of the world if the world did not interfere with him.

When the job was finally finished, Goldie and Irma and the other children came in, chilled to the bone but satisfied with the creations they'd left behind in the soft, cold rain that was beginning to patter upon Mattagash. And they had left Red Ryder securely buried in the little mound that pushed up from the bank of the old river, beneath the clutch of pines, where he'd want to be, in the animal graveyard.

“Do you think the rain will turn to snow?” Irma asked, glancing out the window at the wet Christmas lights still blazing.

“Who knows?” Goldie shrugged. She made a large pot of cocoa, and Irma popped toast out of the toaster until she had buttered a foot-high stack. The children could dunk toast into their cups of cocoa. They could tell ghost stories. Goldie promised them this. And Goldie knew that when bedtime rolled around, when the children crawled into their flannel pajamas and said their prayers for Red Ryder, they would understand some things about themselves. They were Giffords, but they were as good as the McKinnons, and the Crafts. And they were a family who owned more Christmas tree lights than any other on the planet Earth.

“Is Santa coming tonight?” Miltie asked, wide-eyed, and laughter careened out the door of Pike Gifford's house on the hill, unheard by the rest of Mattagash.

“He just might,” Goldie said, and rubbed Miltie's curly head.