Every Bride Needs a Groom

by Janice Thompson

  “Well, Mama, you didn’t think I’d bring home a gal who didn’t like peaches, did you?” Jasper looked offended. “I know a good girl when I see one.”

  “I believe you do.” Mama shook her head and looked at all of the girls. “I still can’t get over the fact that all of you met in a bridal shop. Doesn’t make a lick of sense to me.”

  “Well, that’s kind of a long story,” I said.

  “No time for that now.” Mama shifted her gaze to Twiggy. “I daresay we get busy feeding this one something before she wilts away to nothing. Oh my goodness. Why, you’re eating the bread.”

  “I am.” Twiggy took another bite. “It’s good.”

  “Well, for pity’s sake. I hope we don’t have to call 9-1-1,” Queenie said. “I once heard of a gal who had to be hospitalized after eating bread.”

  “It’s a very real problem,” I said. “People who are overly sensitive blow up like balloons when they eat bread.”

  “Good thing I’m not overly sensitive then.” Queenie gave me a wink.

  “It’s not really like that, anyway,” Twiggy said and then took another nibble. “I’m not hypersensitive to gluten or anything like that. Mostly I just don’t like the carbs, so the gluten-free diet works for me. Really, it’s more Paleo, if you want the truth of it.” She took another big bite of the bread.

  “Paleo?” Mama’s nose wrinkled. “Are you an archaeologist or something?”

  “No. It’s a kind of diet.”

  “Well, I understand. The doctor put me on a diet once too. Didn’t really take, but I gave it the old college try.” Mama took a nibble of her lemon pound cake. “I think mine was called the California diet. No, maybe it was the Arizona diet. Anyway, it was named after some state. Never heard of the Paleo thing. I’ll have to look it up on the internet.”

  Queenie sighed. “I’m terrible on the computer. Things are whirling so fast on that machine, I just can’t keep up. To be honest with you, I’d be just as happy if there was no such thing as the internet. I liked things the way they were before we were all in each others’ business on those crazy social media sites.”

  “Oh, but if we didn’t have internet, our whole business would collapse,” Pop said. “We’re dependent on networking, you know.”

  “Well, all this talk about bread has me hungry,” Queenie said. “Does anyone mind if I get some food? It is my birthday, after all.”

  “Yes, we wouldn’t want the birthday girl to starve.” Pop chuckled.

  Everyone rose and made their way to the buffet. Mama caught me in front of the salad bar and leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Dewey’s got his eye on that tall girl with the platinum hair, does he?”

  I nodded. “Dahlia’s very nice.”

  “I don’t trust anyone whose name I can’t pronounce.”

  “Like Mayor Luchenbacher?” I asked.

  “Well, of course I can pronounce Luchenbacher. I grew up with Karl Luchenbacher. That’s not foreign to me. Delilah is foreign.”

  “Dahlia.”

  “Exactly. Foreign. And I can’t understand half of what she says. Do you think she’s trying to impress us with that accent of hers?” Mama’s eyes flashed with suspicion. “Maybe she’s really from California or someplace like that, and she’s just acting. Putting on a show so people think she’s all hoity-toity when she’s just a regular small-town girl like us.”

  “I don’t think there’s much that’s regular about us,” I said.

  “I’m definitely not regular,” Pop said as he stepped into the spot next to me. “Haven’t been for the past four years, but I think it’s got something to do with male menopause.”

  This led to yet another bizarre conversation with my parents.

  “That Twiggy girl is the last person on earth I’d picture with my Beau.” Mama reached to fill her plate with lettuce. “Such a skinny little thing.”

  “Mama, why do you care if Beau has a girl?”

  Mama turned back to look at me. “I don’t expect you to understand, Katie. You’re not a mama.”

  “But even if I was, I’d want my kids to be happy. It’s obvious Beau is very happy with Twiggy.”

  “He can be happy with someone closer to home. When the time is right.”

  I pulled her off to the side, away from the others. Time for a heart-to-heart with Mama. “What if the time is right now?” I asked. “And what if the place really is Dallas? Would that be so awful?”

  A painful silence followed my words.

  “What if this is God’s answer to Beau’s prayers for someone to love?” I continued. “Would you argue with him? The Lord, I mean.”

  “She lives in Dallas.”

  “If we could put that part aside and focus on the look of happiness on Beau’s face, then wouldn’t you agree this is for the best?”

  Mama said nothing. She shifted her salad plate from one hand to the other.

  “Point is, she brings out the best in him,” I said.

  “In Dallas.”

  “That’s where her work is, sure. But Dallas isn’t exactly Timbuktu, Mama. It’s only an hour or so away.”

  “Conversation over.” Mama headed back to the salad bar. “My goodness, it’s crowded in here tonight. We have to fight for food.”

  Among other things.

  We filled our plates and headed back to the table. Before long everyone but Mama settled into comfortable conversation. We even had Queenie laughing on more than one occasion. When it came time to open gifts, she turned her attention to the packages, obviously intrigued. She had just ripped the paper off of a gift from Mama when something—or rather, someone—caught my attention from the other side of the room.

  Walking toward us, albeit hobbling a bit, was Aunt Alva . . . on Brady James’s arm.

  28

  Who’s Gonna Take the Garbage Out

  My plan is to have a theatre in some small town or something and I’ll be manager. I’ll be the crazy old movie guy.

  Quentin Tarantino

  I couldn’t say which shocked me more—seeing Aunt Alva or seeing Brady. Not that I was unhappy to see either, mind you. Just stunned.

  The moment Queenie laid eyes on her sister, she stopped unwrapping the gift and froze in place, eyes wide.

  Pop rose and moved toward his aunt, then swept her into his arms. “Well, as I live and breathe. So good to see you, Alva. Wonderful of you to come. God bless you for that.”

  This got a “humph” from Queenie, who went back to her gift.

  “I’d know this face anywhere.” Pop gestured to Brady. “One of my favorite basketball players ever.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Brady smiled, but I could tell he was a little nervous.

  I rose and made introductions. Pop seemed pretty flabbergasted to find one of his favorite Mavericks players standing next to him at Sam’s. Across the room, a couple of other customers whispered to one another as they stared at Brady.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, sir.” Brady extended his hand.

  My father shook it and then looked at me. Then back at Brady. “I’m sorry . . . where did you say you two met?”

  “My mom owns a store in Dallas,” Brady said. “Katie is . . .” He gazed at me with tenderness in his eyes. “A customer.”

  “A customer.” Pop looked at Brady. “Our family owns a store too. Hardware. What sort do you have?” Brady had just opened his mouth to respond when Pop interrupted him. “Let’s pull up a couple of chairs. You two hungry?”

  “Starving.” Alva nodded. “Haven’t had Sam’s barbecue in years.”

  Pop, God bless him, put Alva and Brady on the far side of the table from Queenie.

  Alva shifted her gaze to the table, where Queenie continued to work on the gift from Mama. “Hope you don’t mind that we’ve come without an invitation.”

  “Oh, they had an invitation.” I flashed a warm smile. “From me.”

  Another “humph” followed from Queenie.

  When my aunt lit into a lively conversation wi
th Twiggy, Dahlia, and Crystal, Mama looked aghast.

  “You know these gals, Alva?” she asked.

  “Well, sure. We’re all friends. People in the city are very friendly, you know. Not like here.”

  This garnered another grunt from Queenie, who’d managed to get the gift from Mama opened at last. It turned out to be a devotional about the power of positive speaking. Ironic.

  From across the table Brady looked my way and shrugged. I did my best not to let the joy on my face show, but Mama must’ve picked up on it. She gave me one of those “we’re going to talk about this later” looks.

  He offered to fix Alva’s plate and disappeared to the buffet. I caught up with him in front of the barbecue.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” I said.

  “Me either. Alva called me right after you left. Said she’d had a change of heart. But she knew she couldn’t drive all this way, so she asked me to play the role of chauffeur.”

  “You’ve been doing a lot of role-playing lately.”

  “No.” He smiled. “Not role-playing at all. It’s the real deal, every bit of it. And I’m glad to be here.”

  He might not have been so glad a minute or so later when the locals swarmed him, asking for autographs. After delivering my aunt’s plate to the table, he graciously signed all sorts of things—from menus to church bulletins. By the time he arrived at the table with his own food, my aunt was nearly done eating.

  Brady took a seat and gave me a little wink. Alva must’ve picked up on this and smiled at me. Then she looked at my mother. “Marie, you look even younger than the last time I saw you.”

  Mama looked stunned by this, but a smile turned up the edges of her lips. “Well, thank you, Alva. That’s very sweet.”

  “It’s the hair. Why, you look just like Diane Keaton in that movie she did with Jack Nicholson.”

  “That’s what Katie said when she saw my new do.” Mama fussed with her hair and then reached into her purse for her lipstick compact. “Maybe I’ll keep this hairdo after all.”

  “Katie’s a smart girl.” Alva winked at me. “Pretty sure it runs in the family.”

  “Lots of great things run in the family,” Pop said. “Right, Mama?”

  He looked at Queenie, who never lifted her gaze from the pile of presents in front of her. She’d opened them all and looked as if she wanted to bolt.

  I had a flashback to a particular Friday night when I’d gathered around the table with my family at Sam’s. This very table, in fact. My brother had joked about hernias and hemorrhoids that evening. I’d dreamed of a day when I’d grow old with a fella who didn’t mind such bizarre conversations around the dinner table. Now here we sat—Brady James and the whole Fisher clan. Strange.

  A few minutes later we wrapped up the party—if one could call it a party—and my brothers headed out with the girls. Mama had somehow coerced them all into going back to our house for coffee and birthday cake. Pop carried Queenie’s gifts out to her car and she followed on his heels, still not speaking to her sister. I found myself alone with Alva and Brady.

  “Well, that was awkward.” Alva’s nose wrinkled. “Sorry, kiddo. I thought maybe the timing was right.”

  “No, it’s my fault. I’m the one who encouraged you to come. Queenie is just so . . .”

  “Stubborn. Always has been.” Alva shrugged. “Runs in the family.”

  We walked out to the parking lot, where Pop was still loading presents in the back of Queenie’s car.

  I looked at Alva and released a breath. “What do you say we nip this in the bud, once and for all?”

  “You think?” She looked nervous.

  “This is as good a place as any.” I looked up at Brady for some encouragement, and he gave me a confident smile.

  “You ladies do the talking. I’ll do the praying.”

  “He’s closer to heaven all the way up there.” Alva gave a slight chuckle. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

  We walked over to Queenie’s car just as Pop opened the front door for her. My grandmother glared at me as we drew near, as if to say, “Back off, people.”

  I didn’t back off. Neither did Alva, who stood to my left.

  “Queenie, we need to talk, and I think it’s better done before we get to the house.”

  “No talking necessary,” she said.

  “Queenie, please . . .” Alva’s voice sounded shaky. “Can’t we just say a few words?”

  “Nothing to say.”

  “But you two used to be really close.” I posed this more as a question than a statement, but I could tell Alva was a nervous wreck.

  “We were.” Alva nodded. “Very close.”

  “And then?” I asked.

  My aunt’s eyes misted over. “And then . . . life happened.”

  “Life happened?” Queenie finally looked at us. She rolled her eyes. “You happened. Life didn’t happen.”

  “Queenie . . .” A lone tear trickled down my aunt’s wrinkly cheek.

  “Conversation ended, please and thank you.” Queenie turned the car on.

  “Oh no you don’t.” My father, never one to argue with his mother, reached inside the car and turned it off. “We’re going to deal with this right now, Mama, whether you want to or not.”

  “Humph.”

  “Jealousies are jealousies,” he said, “but sisterly love lasts forever.”

  “Sisterly love?” Queenie huffed. “Don’t talk to me about sisterly love.” She looked over at Alva, her eyes brimming with tears. “All these years, and you come back now? Why?”

  “Because I love you.”

  “Love? Where was your love five years ago when I had my gallbladder out? I was sick in the hospital and you didn’t come see me.”

  “I had surgery on my knee six months ago and you didn’t even pick up the phone,” Alva countered.

  “I lost my husband and you didn’t so much as send me a note or card.”

  A painful silence hung over us at that proclamation.

  “I . . . I didn’t know what to say.” Alva’s gaze shifted downward.

  “Wait.” I put my hand up. “This could go on for hours. Point is, you two haven’t spoken in years. We get that. What I want to know is, why? Can you just get to the root of the problem, deal with it, and move on?”

  “She. Knows. Why.” Queenie’s jaw clenched.

  “And I told you back then that I was sorry. You wouldn’t have it. You’ve never had it.” Alva pointed an arthritic finger at her younger sister. “You’ve never forgiven me, and it’s eaten you alive all these years.”

  “Time to get things out in the open,” I said.

  My grandmother gave me a warning look, but I wouldn’t be shushed. We’d spent too many years in this family keeping things under wraps.

  “Confession is good for the soul,” I said. “So c’mon, Queenie. Why can’t you let go of what happened all those years ago?”

  She shook her head. “If Alva wants to tell you, she can. I . . . I just . . . can’t.” My grandmother paled and looked as if she might be sick.

  “Queenie?”

  She leaned forward and gripped the steering wheel, her breathing unsteady.

  “Mama? You okay?” Pop leaned in the car. “Are you getting overheated?” He reached around her and put the key in the ignition.

  “I’m . . . I’m not feeling well.”

  “Queenie, I’m so sorry,” Alva said. “Really, truly sorry.”

  My grandmother nodded and then slumped over the steering wheel. My heart rate doubled as I called out her name and then turned to Brady.

  “Call 9-1-1!”

  I tossed him my phone. Queenie lay completely still. Alva crouched over her, tears flowing.

  “Sister!” she called out. “Sister, look at me. You wake up right this minute!”

  “I don’t think she can, Alva.” My father checked his mother’s pulse. “Everyone back away. She needs air.”

  “But she needs me,” Alva said. “I’ve never
been here for her.” Her voice elevated. “But I’m here now, Queenie. I’m here now.”

  “She’s got a pulse. I think she just passed out.” Pop pointed the air vents at her. “I pray that’s all it is.”

  Several minutes passed, but they felt more like hours. The wail of a siren in the background eventually alerted me to the fact that the ambulance had arrived. Less than a minute later a young paramedic was working on my grandmother. Pop made a quick call to Mama, who turned her car around and headed back to Sam’s with my brothers and the girls right behind her.

  “What happened?” the paramedic asked as he checked her pulse.

  “She was in the middle of an argument with me,” Alva said.

  “Next thing you know, she was having trouble breathing,” Pop said. “Then she passed out.”

  “Was she in pain?” The paramedic listened with his stethoscope to Queenie’s chest.

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Pop shook his head.

  About the time Mama and the others arrived, the paramedics had Queenie loaded up on a stretcher. We all gathered around her in a circle. If there was one thing we Baptists knew how to do, it was pray.

  Turned out the Presbyterians were pretty good at praying too. Reverend Bradford showed up at that very moment. He rushed to my grandmother’s side. “Queenie? Queenie, I’m here. Hang on now, you hear me? Hang on.”

  She seemed to rally at the sound of his voice and gave a slight nod. Still, her eyes never opened.

  “What happened here?” He looked at Alva and his eyes widened.

  “It’s my fault.” Alva began to cry in earnest now. “Everything is always my fault.”

  “No. No one is pointing fingers,” Reverend Bradford said. “Right now, the only one we need to be focusing on is Queenie. So let’s pray.”

  The Presbyterians and Baptists all joined hands in a circle and prayed the house down. Er, the parking lot. Reverend Bradford apparently had a slightly charismatic edge to his praying that seemed to get Mama more emotional than ever. Her tears flowed as he interceded on my grandmother’s behalf.