Fag Hag (Robert Rodi Essentials) (6 page)

All of Vera’s bridesmaids were willowy and thin except for Natalie, and she was glad she’d had the champagne because it emboldened her. Without it, she didn’t know if she’d have been able to stand there, maintaining the pathetic fiction that Vera’s bridesmaids were all a matched set in eggshell blue, when one of them was so clearly responsible for rather more of that color’s dominance of the altar than the rest.

Still, she carried herself gracefully and she’d been told before she had a pretty face, and besides, all these suburban girls had hairstyles that were about six years out of date, so who cared about a few extra pounds? Certainly not Peter. Every time she looked his way, he winked, or yawned theatrically, or pretended to be asleep, or crossed his eyes to try to crack her up.

She looked over the rest of the congregation. They all blended together, the same sea of heads she’d seen at every such gathering: the weepy old women, the red-faced, uncomprehending old men, the young marrieds feeling suddenly old at being on the other side of the fence now. She thought them all hopelessly mundane. Then, for the first time, she noticed her mother in the front pew, a look of regal composure on her face, and next to her a great sofa of a man with Mormon-cut hair, thick glasses, and a bad plaid suit. That must be Hank Bixby. He obviously hadn’t inherited his mother’s accessorizing gene. She regarded his dull, broad face with contempt, then swept her gaze across the church to rest again on angelic, ascetic-looking Peter, who, when he noticed that she was looking at him, pretended to pick his nose. There was no comparison at all.

After the ceremony, the wedding party returned to the altar for photographs, and Peter waited at the back of the church. He was clearly bored; he paced back and forth while the photographer, a flamboyant old queen, cajoled his subjects into a variety of poses, all of them “EX-quisite!” She felt such love for Peter now, for enduring this endless waiting on her behalf. How had she ever doubted that he would be here with her, beside her for her brother’s wedding? They were meant to be together! She remember the anxiety she’d had over that dreadful Morris character; in the end, he hadn’t been any harder to get rid of than the others before him. No one could really come between Peter and her. It was silly to consider it. In the end, he couldn’t help recognizing this, couldn’t help loving her, needing her, even—eventually—wanting her.

She was posing now with the rest of the wedding party. A geeky groomsman stood behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. She rolled her eyes. Well, it was a small duty, and soon over. Then she and Peter would be free to have fun, fun, fun.

C
ALVIN AND
V
ERA
’
S
reception was held at the Pump Room, one of Chicago’s oldest and most magnificent restaurants. Vera’s parents had rented out the entire place, and now it was filled with bouquets of flowers, graced by the sweet sounds of a local string quartet, and overwhelmed by an astonishing seven-layer wedding cake (carrot with white carob frosting, at Vera’s perverse insistence).

The moment they arrived, Natalie hustled Peter into the ladies’ room, hid him in one of the toilet stalls, and produced a vial of cocaine from her purse. It had been months since they’d indulged; Morris hadn’t approved, and neither of them had the budget for regular use. But this was a special occasion, and if Natalie was going to stand in the receiving line next to those twig-like bridesmaids, she needed some chemical courage.

They each snorted two tiny spoonfuls, one up each nostril, and licked the spoon clean. Then they stood in the stall giggling at the clandestine nature of the act, and waited for the pleasant numbness in the nose and throat that told them they were on their way to a high. Natalie popped the vial back into her purse, opened the stall door to check for visitors, and discovered one of her great-aunts at the sink, applying rouge to her time-bleached cheeks.

She gently shut the door again and gestured to Peter that he should be quiet; but after a few more minutes with no sound of the great-aunt’s departure, Natalie said aloud, “Oh, fuck it,” grabbed Peter by the wrist, and dragged him out, just as another guest was coming in. They didn’t stop to see what kind of reaction they’d caused, although they heard the great-aunt emit a little shriek; they just continued, laughing, into the restaurant, where Natalie helped Peter find his table.

“Here you are,” she said, lifting his place card. “‘Mr. Peter Leland.’ Let’s see who’s sitting next to you.” She picked up the card to the left. “‘Miss Emily Verzatt.’ Oh, my God, Peter—that’s the great-aunt we just left in the john!” Peter blanched, and she laughed and said, “Kidding. I don’t know who this is. One of Vera’s relatives, probably.” She looked at the next few places. “‘Mr. Gregory Romano,’ ‘Mrs. Gregory Romano.’ Oh, I’ve heard Calvin mention Greg—someone he works with at the bank.” She moved on. “‘Mr. Lloyd Hood.’ What a dreadful name! I don’t know him.” She reached the last place at the table. “Miss Patricia Kellogg.’ Oh, Peter, hooray!”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Patsy Kellogg is Vera’s friend from Hong Kong! My mom told me she canceled at the very last minute—she’s not coming! So you have an empty seat next to you, which means after the toasts I can leave the bridal table and come hang out with you during dinner!”

“Hooray!” he echoed.

“I’m going to drop my purse into the seat just to reserve it till then.” She wagged a finger at him. “Don’t you
dare
go rooting around in there for more blow!”

“Would I do that?” he said mock-innocently.

She traipsed across the restaurant, feeling incredibly light on her feet; it might have been the coke, but more likely it was Peter. She felt so sure of him right now, so certain of his undying devotion.

She took her place in the receiving line, between one of the eggshell-blue twigs and one of the groomsmen, who, by the way said “How extra-OR-dinary” to all the guests, she presumed to be gay; she decided to ask Peter his opinion later. It would be safe to do so; he had a full beard, and Peter abhorred facial hair.

As the line of grinning faces, half of them unfamiliar, all of them uninteresting, passed before her and shook her hand and exchanged with her the awkward pleasantries that were required on these occasions, she made it a point to check on Peter’s whereabouts every few seconds. He was at the bar now, ordering a drink; wait, he was laughing, sharing a joke with the bartender. Her antenna went up; the bartender was good-looking. Another face erupted into her field of vision and blocked the scene; she dispatched it with as much firm politeness as she could muster, and when it had moved on, Peter was no longer to be seen anywhere near the bartender. She heaved a sigh of relief.

All at once there was a new face, a broad, plain one burdened with thick glasses. She recognized the Mormon haircut at once. “Hello, Natalie. Your mother pointed you out to me at the church. I’m Hank Bixby.”

“Enchanted to meet you at last, Hank,” she said, extending her hand. He shook it, and his touch was clammy.

The line was stalled.
Goddamn it,
thought Natalie;
move, move, move!
She continued to smile radiantly at Hank.

“Your mother is a great lady,” he said at last.

“Yes, isn’t she.”

The line burped into motion again, carrying Hank Bixby away from her. She almost gasped in gratitude.

At long last, the receiving line had received all comers, and Natalie, her hand aching from having shaken so many others, made a beeline for Peter. Most of the guests had already taken their seats, and she was grateful to see that Peter’s table was full except for her seat, and that he looked desperately bored.

“Hello,” she said, in the exact cadences of an Oak Park matron; only Peter got the joke. “I’m Natalie Stathis, Calvin’s sister. I’m afraid I don’t know any of you, but Peter, here, is my date for the evening, so I’ll probably be joining you all later.”

“Hi, I’m Emily?” said a suntanned teenager to Peter’s left. “Vera’s cousin?” Natalie said, “How nice to meet you,” and thought,
She’s been put at our table to make her feel like a grown-up.

The man next to her got to his feet and said, “Greg Romano. I feel like I know you already—Cal’s mentioned you a lot. We work together. My wife, Brandy.” Natalie nodded, smiling graciously and thinking,
Couple of suburban dweebs.

Then a man with roughly chiseled features—attractive, though seriously balding—stood up and said, “Pleasure to meet you, Natalie. Lloyd Hood.” He shook her hand and she noticed his suit was a hair too big for him.

They all chatted amiably for a nanosecond, then Natalie excused herself. “I’m due at the table of the wedding party. So delighted to meet you all. Be back shortly.” She winked at Peter, and he mouthed the words
Don’t go
as he bulged his eyes out in alarm. She smiled and turned away.

The toasts to the bride and groom were predictable in their frat-boy smuttiness, but Natalie laughed at them all the same. The best man went on interminably, Vera’s father got embarrassingly emotional, and Calvin himself paid tribute to his bride in a jokey manner that Natalie felt sure Vera would make him regret on the wedding night. Then the priest recited a blessing, and that was predictable too. And then the Pump Room’s efficient staff filed in, holding salads in the air.

Natalie looked at Peter’s table and found him staring into thin air as the Romanos carried on an animated exchange with little Emily, no doubt about where she planned to go to college and all the conversational banalities that subject entailed. Lloyd Hood, too, was silent, one eyebrow cocked. He appeared to be only half-listening to the Romanos.

Natalie noticed that Patsy Kellogg’s place had been given a salad without regard to there being no one there to eat it, so once the entrée had been similarly served—roast duck, God bless Calvin and Vera—she slipped away from the wedding party and took her place at Peter’s side. “I’m joining you for dinner,” she announced. “And how are we all doing? Having fun?” She patted Peter’s thigh beneath the table.

“Uh-huh,” Emily said as she swept her long hair behind her neck, almost tipping from her chair in the process. Natalie noticed the nearly empty champagne flute at the girl’s place. Well, no wonder she was happy.

The Romanos and Emily then resumed their conversation—which was about triathlons, not college, as if it mattered—which continued throughout the meal. By the time dessert was served, Peter looked so desperately bored that Natalie decided it was her duty to bring the sparkle back into his eyes. She figured the best way to do that was to have a little fun at the expense of Mr. Lloyd Hood. She turned to him and said, “Lloyd, how did you come to be here?”

He met her gaze. “Oh, I’m an old friend of Calvin’s. I sold him his first gun.”

Natalie’s jaw dropped, and Peter muffled a guffaw. It was so seldom that
anyone
took Natalie by surprise.

“His—his—”

“First gun,” Lloyd repeated. “A Glock nine-millimeter semi-automatic, as I recall.” He paused. “I own a gun shop.”

“I—I didn’t even know Calvin had a gun.”

He smiled at her, and it was an infuriatingly patronizing smile. “Well, Calvin and I tend to travel in circles where
not
owning a gun is a remarkable thing.”

She stared at him, her lower lip just hanging there, like an awning. She was totally undone. She’d meant to tease this man, to amuse Peter, but now she had no idea how to proceed.

“Where is your gun shop located, Lloyd?” Peter asked, merriment coloring his voice.

“Armitage and California.” Peter raised an eyebrow and he continued, “I know, not what you’d guess. Everyone thinks gun shops are all buried on the South Side somewhere.”

“Kind of a yuppie neighborhood, though, isn’t it?” Peter asked.

“Most of my customers
are
yuppies.”

Natalie sat back and straightened the folds in her dress.

“How’d you get into that line of work?” Peter asked.

Lloyd shifted in his seat, as if uncomfortable about going on, but he continued all the same. “Well, it was pretty much a reaction against the attacks that’ve been made in this country on our basic freedoms. Everyone’s trying to curtail free speech, freedom to bear arms—I don’t know, I guess I just thought it’d be a pretty indelible statement of my ideological support of the Bill of Rights if I went in the opposite direction and opened a gun shop. I’ve always owned guns, myself, since I was a teenager.”

“What, you’re some kind of hunter?” Natalie asked, disgusted.

“No, I don’t hunt for sport. I have no real objection to it, but I don’t do it myself. I mainly go in for a little target practice now and then. Keep myself sharp.” He smiled. “Never know when you’ll need it.”

Peter was sitting with his elbows on the table and one of his hands covering his mouth; he looked casually attentive but Natalie knew him well enough to sense the epic grin beneath that hand.

“But Lloyd,” she continued, “don’t you think it’s been demonstrated so brutally in this country that guns are a plague?”

He shook his head. “No. The plague is organized crime, the plague is the welfare state. Guns are just the tools used by the spreaders of the plague.”

“But if we took away the guns—”

“We’d still have the plague,” he said, cutting her off.

Good God,
she thought, staring at him;
how can I ever have found him attractive? He’s a reactionary right-wing pig!

Suddenly Peter spoke up. “This country’s a democracy,” he said, “and it’s up to the people to decide these things, and a lot of people, a lot of intelligent and caring people, have decided that guns are dangerous and should be outlawed. So you really can’t place the selfishness of the gun lobby above the concern of the majority.”

Lloyd was wearing an excited look now. “Peter, I don’t even know where to begin to answer you. First of all, I certainly
do
put the NRA above the left-wing whiners, because the NRA is protecting a basic freedom of the American people, while the leftists are trying to curtail that freedom; maybe they really do believe that gun control, even outlawing guns, is a worthy cause, but that’s a subjective opinion, isn’t it? And since they’re the ones who are always insisting that morality is subjective, how can they reverse that opinion on selected issue like this one? They’re setting themselves up as moral oligarchs. Because you see, despite what you think, the majority of people in America
still
believe in the right to bear arms, so democratic principle isn’t an argument you can use against me. Aside from which, I’m not a great believer in democracy, anyway.”