A Wedding on the Banks (29 page)

“I predicted this mess when they took the snow fences down too early. We'll be lucky if an avalanche don't bury us all.”

—Girdy Monihan, town pessimist, to fellow punch servers at Amy Joy's wedding reception, May 1, 1969

Albert Pinkham drove the three hundred yards from the Mattagash gym to his motel in a zigzaggedy line, doing his best to follow the last set of tire tracks before the snow filled them in. It was just after eleven, but he had abandoned the party an hour earlier than everyone else. The full effect of the rum, the sweaty closeness of dancing bodies all around him, the reverberating gossipy words of the women, had caused a notion to go to his brain. There was a very good chance, Albert realized, that he was drunk.

Back at the gymnasium door, Albert had steadied himself to gaze around at the snowy lumps in the yard, the camouflaged pickups. There were only six pickups parked about, with their hollow boxes filling up quietly with snow. The rest were cars, and even though he was smoldering with Puerto Rican rum, Albert Pinkham could still tell snowy pickups from snowy cars.

Bruce watched the road carefully. Albert knew that if he veered too far to the dangerous right Bruce would bark loudly and snap him back to attention. But he managed to keep the weaving pickup on the road that wound away from the gymnasium and on toward the welcoming Albert Pinkham Motel sign, now layered in snow. Warm yellow lights burst out of number 1, the Ivy castle these past few days.

“Spoiled sons of bitches,” Albert muttered to Bruce, and pulled the trusty rum bottle from its wiry nest beneath the seat. He drank a long drink from it, then passed the bottle over to Bruce, who turned away from the smell to stare out the window at the snow-tipped trees.

“Oh, excuse me,” said Albert. “I forgot. You don't drink.” Albert snorted laughter through his nose and Bruce whined expectantly. He had seen Albert Pinkham, his master, in such condition only a dozen times in their ten-year relationship. Sparse as they were, Bruce disliked these times. Once, Albert had even passed out on the sofa, after Kevin Craft's marriage, before filling Bruce's water bowl and leaving him a healthy serving of chunky IGA-brand dog food. When Albert Pinkham got drunk, Bruce was subjected to a dog's life.

“The old barn builder,” Albert whispered. “Ain't no one anywhere today can build a barn to match the ones that old son of a bitch built.” His eyes misted. “Ain't no one even wants a goddamn barn anymore.” He struggled with the door handle, and the door flew open so smoothly that Albert teetered out after it. He launched headfirst into the snow, where he felt the quick, heavy impact of the ground against his temple. It didn't hurt a bit.

“But it's gonna hurt like hell in the morning,” Albert joked to Bruce, who had jumped, whining, to the rescue. Bruce licked his owner's face, licked away the fragile flakes and the little red trail of blood that had popped like a spring from beneath the skin of Albert's temple.

“Ha ha,” Albert giggled, and tried to lift an arm to push the dog away. “Ha ha ha. Bruce, don't, boy! That tickles.”

“Oh, Mr. Pinkham,” a voice rang out from across the yard. “Yoo-hoo!” It was Thelma Ivy, leaning precariously out of number 1. “Mr. Pinkham, we'd like breakfast in our room tomorrow.”

Even in his stupor, Albert was aghast. How many times that day alone had he asked Thelma Ivy to show him, on the Albert Pinkham Motel sign, just one place where it said restaurant.

“Anything you want, Miss Ivy,” Albert lifted his head to say. “We aim to please.”

“Continental, if you don't mind,” said Thelma, who seemed not at all surprised that the proprietor was flat on his face.

“Continental. Oriental.” Albert waved his arm. “You just name it.”

“Thank you,” said Thelma, and disappeared back inside number 1.

It was ten minutes later that Albert Pinkham adjusted his key into the lock of his door and swung with it, as it flew open, into his own warm kitchen. He had left the bottle outside, in cold shards on the ground next to his spill. He had another one, by God, the one that deer hunter from Boston had given him. Albert found it on the bottom shelf of the cupboard and broke its seal.

“Here's to you, you city son of a whore,” Albert toasted the donor of the blessed bottle. “You couldn't hit an elephant in the ass at ten feet,” he added. Bruce ran to the sofa as Albert staggered to the kitchen drawer and slid it open. There beneath the nickels and pennies, the pencils and paper clips, was the tintype of the old barn builder. More of his face was missing now, wasn't it? Albert tried to focus. A bit of the right cheekbone was gone, almost the entire left pupil, a good part of the nose. The old barn builder was disappearing by the second.

“Please come back,” Albert whispered, but the tintype didn't answer. Only Bruce whined a pitiful response. Albert put the picture down on the table and then opened his refrigerator. He took the carton of eggs, eight of them still growing out of their paper cups. He took the half pound of bacon and a bottle of orange juice. From the cupboard he added a loaf of white bread and a can of Folgers coffee. He staggered to the door, Bruce following out of curiosity.

At Thelma's door Albert kicked twice. If Junior Ivy could kick doors, by Jesus, Albert Pinkham could too. Thelma opened it. Expecting Junior at any minute, she was still in her housecoat. Her eyes were lined with her trademark dark circles and her hair fluttered in unruly wisps.

“Lord love a duck,” said Thelma, as Albert kicked the door wide open. She screamed, then ran back to cower on her bed.

“You want breakfast in bed, miss?” Albert said, in his best proprietor's voice. “Well, the Albert Pinkham Motel is here to serve you.” Then, amidst the shrill echoes of Thelma's screams, Albert splattered the room with eggs. They ran like mutant daisies down the walls. He slung all the slices of bread, large snowflakes, at Thelma before he opened the orange juice and poured it about on the floor. Thelma clutched a pillow to her head. The bacon buzzed above her, stuck to the wall like strips of brown tape, then dropped to the floor.

“Coffee?” Albert asked. The grounds came at her, a brown swirling snowstorm. Thelma was thankful that she had not been so quick to give up her Valiums that day, despite her promise to Junior.

“Enjoy,” said Albert Pinkham.

He stepped out onto his cement walkway, an engineering idea that had occurred to him after seeing Atlantic City's famous boardwalk on TV. He looked at number 2, the bridal suite, with snow piled up on its knob, with nothing but silence coming from the box springs within. A wave of loneliness washed up inside Albert Pinkham, mixed with a little nausea. He followed the building, as though the shingles were braille characters, around to the back, to where number 3 blared its yellow light out at him.

“Violet,” Albert whispered. Bruce was not there to whine in memory with his master. He had stayed behind in number 1 to helpfully clean up the strips of bacon from the floor.

Albert knocked gently and Monique Tessier, expecting Junior, opened the door in a gossamer yellow negligee, which glowed around her shapely body like a halo.

“Violet?” Albert whispered. All he wanted, he tried in vain to tell this vision, was what she'd promised him that autumn afternoon, ten years earlier, as the red and orange leaves of a dead year piled like colored rain on the roof.

“Mr. Pinkham!” Monique scolded. Her eyes were large as her nipples. Albert could barely decide which he should gaze at as she spoke. “You're drunk!” Monique tried to close the door again, but Albert's work boot lodged itself into the crack.

“Please, Violet,” he said. “They're all gone now. Sarah, Belle, Mama, Daddy.”

“I don't know what you're talking about!”

“Granddaddy's gone, too,” Albert said. “I'm the only one left now, Violet.” He reached a thin arm inside the crack of the door and touched Violet's velvety one. She was warm, cozy as autumn. She was on fire, with pink walls flaming all around her, with rose petal walls looming.

“I need you,” Albert said. “I only want what you promised.” Monique Tessier opened the door.

“Come in,” she said, and stepped aside. Albert had difficulty lifting his heavy boots although inside them his feet felt light as a dancer's. His legs, however, were heavier than the trees he had refused to cut, all those years ago. He staggered past Monique Tessier and into number 3.

“Thank you, Violet,” he said, as Monique brought a J. C. Penney's brass table lamp down with genuine force on Albert Pinkham's head.

Albert fell out across the floor of the room, seeing only pink stars in his last seconds, knowing only that Violet La Forge,
the
slut
, had tricked him again. Monique Tessier held a hand to her mouth. It occurred to her that perhaps she had been a tad too hasty. Perhaps the motel owner was richer than he appeared. She was reminded of newspaper stories about country bumpkins who had buckets of gold stashed in their wells or beneath the shit piled up in their outhouses. Crusty old men who slept upon mattresses stuffed with silver dollar certificates. But no, surely every single female in Mattagash would be in heat for Albert Pinkham if this were true. Junior was right. This was not a town in which one could successfully stage a secret.

“Mr. Pinkham,” Monique said, and pushed her toe against Albert's side. “Are you alive?” She tried to pull him, by one booted foot, out of her room. But Albert's drunk body had settled inside its bones with the same certainty as the massive ice chunks along the Mattagash River. Albert was dead weight.

Monique was about to panic. She feared what Junior would think if he found Albert in her room. She was close, very close, to securing Junior for her own, and then money would fly.

“Please leave my room,” Monique said loudly, in case even the snowflakes were Mattagash spies. “Now!” she warned. A rattling sound broke out of Albert's mouth, followed by a small waterfall of spit.

“Dammit!” said Monique.

Something had to be done before Junior returned from reporting the Caddy missing. Monique pulled on a sweater and a pair of sweat pants. She put on her ankle-high boots and trod next door to Randy's room. The light was off, but then, Monique knew, all of Randy's lights were out these days. He hadn't even questioned her vacationing in Mattagash at the same time as the Ivys. There was no response to her knock, and there were no telltale tracks going into the room. Even the
snow
was a gossip bag in Mattagash, Maine.

Monique returned to number 3 only to find Albert Pinkham still unconscious on her floor. But she had formulated a plan. Women without
means
always have
plans
. She wrapped a white bath towel about her head, hiding her luxurious chestnut hair, and pinned it snugly. She dug in her purse for her sunglasses and plopped them over her lavender eyes. She looked at the ghoulish image in the mirror. Mysterious,
yes
. Deathly,
maybe
. Elizabeth Taylor,
not
on
your
life
.

At number 1 Monique was saved the problem of knocking on the door. It was wide open, allowing a trail of wind-blown snow to cascade into the room. Having consumed a half pound of bacon, Bruce bounded past her, in search of what might be left of his master. Monique was shocked at the condition of Albert's second most-rented room. It was in a culinary shambles.

“Hello?” Monique said. “Anybody home?”

When no one answered, she stepped inside. She could hear mouselike noises coming from the bathroom. She stepped over the bread and splattered eggs and peered around the corner at Junior's wife, who was leaning against the washbasin. Thelma Parsons Ivy had just washed a couple more Valiums down and was beginning to feel a calm settle about her stomach and her senses. So what if Albert Pinkham had assaulted her with breakfast items. He was only expressing himself in a most creative way. Men should go to war in just such a fashion. Women could clean up behind them.

“Hi there,” Monique said, and Thelma heard the throaty words bounce off all the noisy bathroom acoustics. She looked up to see a person in dark glasses and a terry-cloth turban peering at her with great interest.

“Ahhh!” Thelma screamed and threw Albert Pinkham's water glass, one that had been filled with jelly just months earlier, into the bathtub. The glass bounced twice before it broke in a crescendo of tinkling tones.

“Don't be afraid,” Monique assured her. “I'm your neighbor. Around back.”

Thelma stared at her with suspicion. No one said this was Mr. Rogers' neighborhood, but she knew this woman, didn't she? Where had she heard that voice before? Was she one of the models on
The
Price
Is
Right
?
Let's Make a Deal
?

“What do you want?” Thelma asked.

“I need you to help me,” said Monique. “Mr. Pinkham has had an accident in my room.”

“He had one here, too,” said Thelma.

“Can you come help me get him into his house?”

Thelma knew, with Valium certainty, what was in the air. A spy! Junior had sent some Mattagash spy to test her. Well then, let the games begin. She would simply dust the snow off the gauntlet and take that sucker up.

Back at number 3, Bruce was sitting at Albert's head and whimpering sadly.

“You take that leg and I'll take this one,” the spy in the turban instructed Thelma. Bruce growled in disapproval and startled Thelma so that she dropped Albert's foot.

“Be careful,” she warned herself. “Try to remember that this is a test. This woman is a spy. This dog could be one, too.”

“Okay now. Pull!” Monique said, and Albert's body moved off the floor of number 3, over the hump of the doorway, and out onto the cement walkway.