Thank heavens all the wedding goings-on didn’t seem to ruffle Fiona. We’d been getting along fine and even taking time to practice our music together. My favorite new tune was something for just the two of us: “Liberty.” An old fiddle tune Fiona could play without even looking at the music, and I could follow along on my mandolin. I especially liked it because it sounded so merry, like a little bird singing. So many of those old fiddle tunes were mournful, but this one had such sweet notes. Took the edge offa all we had left to do.
We’d spent the better part of the next day moving the heavy stuff into our farmhouse. Including the table, which we set down near the front window. (I’ve always taken to looking outside during mealtime.) I didn’t want to think about how it came into being, but I couldn’t shake the memory of that day The Doctor showed up at my door. Fiona came over and hugged me. “I saw our initials, Rabbit, when I was polishing the table, getting it ready for our home.” She gave me a little peck on the cheek, and we went back to the truck for more.
After we’d emptied everything, she could tell something was still eating at me. I told her it was just the wedding commotion and Alex and too much family and I didn’t know what else. She went into what would be our bedroom after our honeymoon and came back holding something behind her back.
“I know you’ve picked up your suit and all, so you’re clothes are all ready for the wedding, right?” I nodded. “Well, I believe this will be just the accessory to set everything off.” She brought her arms forward and put that flowerdy hat of hers on my head, the same hat I’d borrowed the first day I’d met her, when I thought them con artists were after me. And just like that, I was back at the storytelling festival, reliving that day and how taken I was with her.
“Would you like to borrow it again?” she asked, fussing with the hat on my head to see which angle looked best. “We could add a veil so you could lift it when the preacher says we can kiss.” She started laughing at me, and before long, she was laughing with me.
47
Della
Mary Lou closed the store early on the wedding day. She’d made a cheerful sign, which she hung on the door before hurrying home to change in time for the four o’clock service. I worried customers would get angry (they’d done that plenty of times before) or feel bad they weren’t included, especially with the ceremony and reception in the meadow behind the store.
As guests started to arrive, I noticed a few I didn’t know. Likely Fiona’s friends from work. And I barely recognized Sheriff Horne in his civvies. Wonder who invited him? Surely he wasn’t crashing, I thought to myself. Oh well, thank heavens that wasn’t any of my business.
The dancefloor Duane built served double-duty for the ceremony. Mildred had dug out a large rug (looking surprisingly new) she’d stored in the barn and lined the perimeter with pots of chrysanthemums—adding color and a modest safety barrier to ensure no one fell off (which just might work given Mildred had forbidden any alcohol before or after the wedding).
Preacher Corky Cochran showed up well ahead of time. With such a perky name, I’d pictured a young man, but he had to be pushing sixty. In spite of the ill-fitting suit, he had a winning smile that put me at ease. Nigel looked striking in his tuxedo; needless to say he was the only formally clad guest, but he was taking his best man duties seriously. Fiona’s maid of honor was adorable, but then what else would you expect from the blessings of youth paired with a pretty silk dress?
And, of course, the bride and groom looked stunning—until the ceremony ended. Their faces registered nothing short of horror as Preacher Cochran grabbed one of them under each arm, turned them to face the guests, and pronounced, “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Mister and Mizzruz Vester Bradshaw Junior.” He was so proud for them, I doubted he ever realized how appalled they were. And whether out of prudishness or forgetfulness, he didn’t tell Abit he could kiss the bride. Well, the joke was on Corky; they’d started a couple of years ago without him.
After the ceremony, the band members rolled up the rug, took over the preacher’s place, and by five o’clock, the party was in full swing. We’d lucked out with perfect autumn weather.
I was glad Fiona and Abit hadn’t had a chance to change yet. I didn’t know when I’d get to see Abit again in a perfectly tailored suit. Hard to believe that was the same kid who’d sat so woebegone out front of Coburn’s when I’d first arrived in Laurel Falls. And Fiona—her hair in an elegant updo with white and orange flowers tucked here and there—looked lovely in her slim-lined ivory linen wedding dress.
In short order, Fiona dispensed with the traditional back toss of the bouquet—a large assortment of meadow flowers with a plump Joe Pye Weed poking out of the center—to all the women interested in marriage. Cleva and I stood well out of range. When Mary Lou caught it, she winked at Sheriff Horne, and it finally hit me—he hadn’t been buying milk that day he saved my life; he was coming to see Mary Lou. I’d wondered at the time why he was suddenly buying groceries; he’d never paid for even a soda.
Cleva had borrowed back her old camera from Abit so she could make the rounds and capture the day for him. She was an old hand at getting people to stand together so she could take posed pictures; she also shot plenty of candids.
Finally, the feasting got underway. I was starving; I’d skipped lunch to help Abit find the ring, tie his tie, and calm down a bit. I headed over toward Alex, who was manning the grill, where juicy brats sizzled and Shiloh held court.
“What did the Zen Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor?” he asked the folks crowded around the grill. After a big bite of a brat, he had to swallow hard to get out the punch line: “Make me one with everything.”
He was high fiving everyone and laughing, a good bit more than they were. Elodie stood close by, acting (unconvincingly) as though she’d gotten the joke. I figured she was young and sheltered. Or so I thought at the time.
Everyone was howdy-doing and circling the tables Abit had constructed from sawhorses and plywood. The wedding cake sat in the middle of the largest table. Mildred had decorated a two-tiered chocolate cake with creamy white icing and real flowers tucked into green tendrils of piped icing. The rest of the table was filled with a variety of cheeses and cured meats I’d ordered, a smorgasbord of salads from Mildred’s kitchen, and breads and party sized-biscuits Alex had baked.
At some point, Nigel decided it was toast time. Something about his demeanor made me think he’d gotten ahold of some whiskey, but I saw Mildred looking at him rather lovingly, so he must have passed her sniff test. (She’d grown fond of Nigel over the years. His old-world politeness exonerated anything untoward from his wayward past.) He gave a robust whistle, and everyone stopped talking.
Nigel spoke to the beauty of transatlantic romances and raised what I assumed was a glass of sparkling cider to the next generation of that tradition. Aunt Chloe shared a story from Fiona’s life that was so moving, even that rowdy crowd went quiet for a few moments. Then she livened things up again with an Irish blessing: As you slide down the banister of life, may the splinters never point the wrong way. Alex offered a bittersweet toast about “our boy” and how he was looking forward to getting to know Fiona.
The rest of us chose not to offer a toast, either out of shyness (Mildred), orneriness (Vester), or tendency to cry at weddings (me). And no one could find the father of the bride.
Shiloh finished things off with a laugh when he proclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s been a very emotional day. Even the cake is in tiers.” Then he motioned for the band to begin, grabbed Elodie, and stole the dancefloor from the bride and groom. I could tell Abit was relieved he didn’t have to do one of those bride-and-groom solo numbers in front of everyone. Fiona stood with her hands on her hips, radiating more than a little sibling rivalry.
The Rollin’ Ramblers began playing “Roll in My Sweet Baby’s Arms” (without Fiona or Abit but with Sheriff Horne on guitar and Chloe on fiddle). When folks started dancing (well, more like jiggling to the music), F
iona pulled Abit to the dancefloor. She must have given him lessons, because he hoofed it across the floor with remarkable ease. Fiona raised up her dress and let her feet fly.
After a while, Alex turned grill duty over to Cleva, who kept time with her tongs while we danced to “A Good Woman’s Love,” a sweet bluegrass waltz that was just our speed. As we slowly circled the dancefloor, I was amused by all the little scenes playing out. Fiona danced with Andrew, while Abit stood by looking pleased. Nigel moved gracefully across the floor with Fiona’s maid of honor. And Shiloh locked Elodie in a tight embrace, even though the music didn’t lend itself to that.
Pretty soon, Elodie was hanging all over Shiloh. When the band took a break, Fiona walked toward her sister, presumably to suggest a little propriety. In midstride, she shifted direction and started running toward Abit’s woodshop. I could hear strains of singing and wondered if that were the source of her fury.
In aid of men like Connolly, Barney, and McCann
to fight and die until they drive the British from our lands
I couldn’t believe how fast she made it up those mossy steps, two at a time, her dress pulled up again, this time well above her knees. Abit was right behind, and I wasn’t far off. I heard him ask, “Who’s Barney?”
“Not now, Rabbit. Help me get him out of here.”
Young and old, side by side, fighting day to day
there are The Army of the People. The Official IRA
Before I reached the top, Nigel came puffing up the steps, muttering, “V.J., I told you I rather liked the Irish, but this is going too far.”
By the time we’d all convened in the woodshop, Quinn O’Donnell was splayed on the floor, leaning against a table saw, drinking from a bottle of whiskey. He burped loudly and prepared to start another verse.
“Here, here, now,” Nigel said, lifting Quinn under the arms with surprising strength. “Come on, mate, have ye forgotten about the ceasefire?”
“What bloody sheeshfire?” he answered. “Not on ye life.”
“What was he singing?” I asked Nigel.
“The Official IRA song,” Fiona spat through clenched teeth. “And where in the hell did he get this?” she asked, pouring the last from a bottle of Jameson on the shop floor. I heard Abit let out a big sigh, knowing it would reek for weeks to come. Fortunately (at least in that case), Mildred never ventured into his shop.
Abit and Nigel finished moving Quinn to an old sofa in the back of the woodshop. I looked around for Alex, who was nowhere to be seen. I knew he was the culprit who’d set up the small bar for guests who wanted it, and he was wisely laying low. But who could have imagined a scene like that? Good thing Mildred was too busy at the reception fussing over Andrew, or she’d’ve taken her broom to Quinn and Alex and likely me, ruining the rest of the day.
Mercifully, everything ended on a good note. I even danced with Abit, one slow dance. We were both awkward, all his earlier grace with Fiona gone. I didn’t know about him, but it felt like sixth-grade dance class with Mr. Ellis. And yet that moment together seemed important, a rite of passage for two adults who loved each other, only now in a different way.
By nine o’clock, Abit and Fiona were driving to their honeymoon spot, and all the guests had gone home. (The Irish contingency had left not long after the IRA debacle.) Alex and Cleva and I turned our backs on the cleanup until the next day. In the meantime, the raccoons and deer were welcome to a fine feast of leftovers.
As we walked toward the front of the store, we stopped short. A strange sculpture loomed in the glow from the security light, rising from and surrounding the bench. I’d been concerned that customers would be angry about early closing, but after a closer look, I realized many had brought small gifts for Abit and Fiona and left them on the bench. His bench.
Elbert Totherow had shared a couple of jars of honey and one of sorghum syrup. Someone, I guessed Myrtle Ledford, had made two cornhusk dolls dressed as bride and groom. Homemade jams and piccalilli and potted herbs—even canned tomatoes—filled the bench. Some were wrapped in newspaper and twine, another in white typing paper with ivy vines encircling it. I turned on floodlights around the store and that plus the security light created enough ambient light for Cleva to shoot some decent photographs. They’d at least capture the moment. Alex wanted to help me box up everything, but I could tell it had been a long day for him. He and Cleva sat outside on an old bench while I carried everything inside.
I brought out a bottle of Champagne, and we sat on Abit’s now-empty bench together, enjoying the lingering moments of a memorable day. As we sipped our wine in contented silence, I thought about those gifts. Abit was of this place, one of their own. Some like Elbert and Myrtle had believed in him, but too many hadn’t given him much of a chance. Now that he had proven them wrong, it seemed as though they were admitting their mistakes and sharing in his joy. Those humble gifts were a shrine of sorts to human foibles and aspirations, misdeeds and forgiveness.
48
Abit
We didn’t have the money for a proper honeymoon, but we were both happy enough taking the Rollin’ Ramblers’ bus to Lake Meacham up in Watauga County. Duane had cleaned it out and, to be honest, aired it out. (I saw him carry off a bucketful of empty beer cans.) It wasn’t like one of those buses the big bands had, but we had a bed and a fridge and a little camping kitchen. Duane added some fresh flowers in a vase he’d screwed in behind the driver’s seat (which would likely come to hold more than a beer can or two on future band trips).
I figured some fool would hide streamers with tin cans underneath the bus. Before we left, I did a quick check to see if I saw any tucked up there. I didn’t find any, but we weren’t a mile outta town when I heard cans clanking and banging against the highway. In that big bus, there was nowhere for miles to pull off. I drove on, kinda peeved, but when people started honking and waving, it was hard to stay mad.
We lucked out and found a spot on the lake with the mountains in the background. I took it as a good omen. I knew how easy it was to overlook the beauty I’d grown up with, but these days I wasn’t taking anything for granted.
Later on, we saw where Duane had stashed a bottle of Champagne in the fridge, along with some leftovers from the feast. Potato salad and ham biscuits and even a coupla slices of our wedding cake. We also found a card from Alex and Della with a big check made out to both of us. We sat there together, man and wife, saying a prayer of sorts we made up on the spot, taking turns recounting all the good things we had going for us.
49
Della
That wedding had been a godsend, taking my mind off my troubles with Christine and my worries about Alex. I think it did Alex a world of good, too. The day following the wedding, after all that stinking cleanup was done, I talked Alex into taking a walk with me. Jake was already in the car.
I couldn’t decide where to go, so I just drove. After a while, I found myself heading to the place where Jake and I took that fateful walk during the summer of ‘85. Maybe I wanted to expunge the bad memories it held, or maybe I just wanted Jake to see one of his favorite spots one more time. I didn’t know how much time we still had together. For that matter, I didn’t know how much time any of us had together.
“I’ve missed getting out in the wilderness like this,” I told Alex. “D.C. and even the metropolis of Laurel Falls can’t compare.”
The size and quantity of trees always surprised me, the sun barely making it through their thick canopy. I breathed deeply as we stepped on the walkways padded with needles, their pine scent released with each footstep. And while spring claims to have the best wildflowers (as much because they herald the end of winter), late-summer wildflowers match their beauty, especially the brilliant red cardinal flowers huddled along the creek bank and the carpets of asters hugging the path. We didn’t walk that far—neither Jake nor Alex was up to it—but it was long enough to revive our spirits. I hadn’t realized how much nature had become a part of my life. The rhythms of the city had
their merits, but they couldn’t match those of the natural world.
We left Laurel Falls a couple of days later, Jake in the back, Alex riding shotgun. We didn’t say much, both of us happy to cling to a fun time a little longer.
50
Abit
When we got back from the lake, I parked the bus where we always did between gigs. As I pulled in, I could see how folks had trampled the grass in the meadow behind the store. That brought up good feelings, remembering our wedding day and all.
It was late—we’d stretched our few days off as far as we could—so no one else was around. I was just as glad; I wanted this time together to last as long as possible. We headed home in the Merc, and everything looked grand as our headlights flashed on our new home. When we got outta the car, Fiona let out a howl when she landed in one of them damn rosebush holes. Millie and I ran over to her, but she said she was okay. We’d soon plant our own bushes.
The feeling I got being in my own house with someone I loved—and who loved me—well, I couldn’t put words to it. After we unpacked the Merc, we walked through the house together, admiring each room and talking about our plans for making it even better.
The only thing I could find the least bit wrong with the house was the way it sat on the land, making it cold of a morning. The next day, when Fiona asked me to build a fire in the woodstove, I went out to the woodpile and kinda jumped back when I heard that old hag in my head, screaming her curses at us. When I finally got up the nerve to light that fire, we were both holding our breath. Then we started laughing, especially Fiona, who’d done some kinda ritual to cancel the curse. We enjoyed our morning coffee right by the stove, not a burn on us.
Welcome the Little Children Page 18