Going to the Chapel

by Janet Tronstad

  “It’s November. It might rain. Besides, what place could be better than a lovely wedding chapel that is all set up for weddings?”

  What place indeed? “I’m not sure she’ll like the chapel here. You see, there’s a stained glass picture and—”

  “We don’t have time to look for anyplace else,” Aunt Inga says. “Not when Jerry’s gone off.”

  “Did he go somewhere for work?” Jerry has been known to go to Las Vegas now and again for a workshop on carburetors or engines or something like that. He and his friends probably go there sometimes, too, just to look around.

  “No, he’s run away from home,” Aunt Inga says.

  “He’s twenty-five years old. Technically, I don’t think he can run away from home.”

  “Aunt Ruth says it’s all her fault. She thinks he ran off to follow the wedding planner. She says she knew she shouldn’t have picked a young stylish woman for a wedding planner, but Elaine said she wanted someone like that planning her wedding.”

  “But I thought the wedding planner left days ago.”

  “Well, where else could he be? Who else does he know? He didn’t go home last night and we’re all worried. He left some kind of a note, but it didn’t make any sense.”

  “But how would he even find the wedding planner? Aren’t the police looking for her?”

  “Well, she must have told Jerry where she lived before she left.”

  I got a good look at the wedding planner and, trust me, she wasn’t the type to run off with my cousin Jerry. Not that Jerry isn’t cute in a mountain bear sort of a way. But the wedding planner looked more like the kind of woman who went for a professional man. Maybe a doctor or a lawyer or at least a white-collar thief. Someone with no grease on their hands, ever. No, I don’t see her and Jerry. “I thought you were worried about getting a place for Elaine’s wedding.”

  “Oh, that,” Aunt Inga says. “I wasn’t worried about that. I’d already prayed that God would touch your Mr. Z’s heart and make him open the chapel up for Elaine. I knew that was taken care of.”

  Well, I had nothing to say to that. I guess I should take a minute to tell you that, even though I try to keep my distance from God, I have seen too much in my life not to believe He exists. It was never a “does-He-exist” or “doesn’t-He-exist” question in my mind. The whole thing is more complicated than that and I try not to think about it. To tell you the truth, God scares me a little. I’m afraid He’s too much like Aunt Ruth.

  You know, Aunt Ruth would vote me and my mother out of the family if she could. After all, we’re the half family. Of course, she’s polite, but politeness can feel pretty cold. I’ve always wondered what it would be like if I did get to heaven and found out I was only half-welcome there, too.

  “Well, I’m sure Jerry will come home soon,” I say. He doesn’t have to worry about being half family. “He would miss Aunt Gladys’s cooking before long.”

  “Yeah, I’ll tell her that. Maybe she should make a big pan of lasagna. Jerry always liked her lasagna.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I say. “Just be sure and relax. Don’t worry. I’m sure wherever Jerry is, he’s just fine.”

  “You’re probably right,” Aunt Inga says. “He never did find those candles you know, the orange tapers that Elaine wanted. Most of the candles will have to be white now that we can’t find orange ones, but Elaine did so want a few orange ones to go in some centerpieces for the reception tables.”

  “I’m sure everything would be fine even without orange candles,” I say.

  “You tell your Mr. Z a thank-you from all of us,” Aunt Inga says. “And let me know when we can come down and measure.”

  “Measure?”

  “Oh, we’ll have to measure everything. How long the aisle is? How many candles do we need? We want everything to be perfect. Ruth is so nervous about making sure everything is just as it should be since Elaine is marrying into such an important family.”

  I can feel a headache coming on. There’s no way to keep the business of the Big M a secret if everyone just drops down for this and that. And I’ve seen enough of Gary’s parents to know they won’t find a mortuary wedding acceptable. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  Aunt Inga and I say goodbye and I just sit here. I am torn. I could just level with everyone and tell them that the Big M is a mortuary and that our usual clients are dead people. Everyone would freak out and say I’d messed things up again, but I could live with that. Of course, that would cancel any talk of having the wedding at the Big M. If Aunt Ruth couldn’t bear the thought of plain glass cups at the engagement party, she would definitely draw the line at using a mortuary for the wedding ceremony.

  The thing I’m not sure I can live with, though, is destroying Cousin Elaine’s wedding day. Now, if someone else were going to destroy it, I could live with that. I might even sit back and enjoy the show. But I can’t do it. Maybe it’s all these estranged brothers I’ve heard about this week, but I’ve come to realize that I don’t want to make Elaine so mad at me that she never speaks to me again. We might be half cousins, but half or whole, she’s the only female cousin I have. She’s also the closest thing to a biological sister that I have.

  I always kind of thought that, when we became older, Elaine and I would be still baiting each other in the way people do when they know neither one takes it seriously anymore but neither one wants to stop, either. Sort of like The Odd Couple guys.

  As I see it, my only way not to ruin Elaine’s wedding is to find a different spectacular place for Elaine’s wedding so we don’t need to come near the Big M. Wish me luck. Maybe I’ll be able to think of some possible places tonight when I’m at the Hollywood Bowl with Doug and his rally.

  Chapter Six

  I am sitting in the back row of the Hollywood Bowl and Doug is sitting next to me. This is my first time here so I’m glad I have a chance to see what it’s like. The Bowl is an outdoor amphitheatre that’s built into a hillside so I see trees on both sides of the curved walkways that line each side of the seating area all the way up the side of the hill.

  Doug and I are sitting in two of the top seats. There’s some kind of a shrub growing behind the back of our section of the bench and I can smell the tiny flowers on the bush. It’s cool, actually. The flower is white and I didn’t recognize it when we sat down, but the air smells very floral, almost like gardenias, even though I know the flower isn’t a gardenia. A gardenia is huge in comparison to these little flowers.

  Anyway, we got here early for today’s Great Revival Rally, which is very much okay with me. I’m a little nervous and I am glad we have some extra time to check out everything before they turn down the big spotlights that give off the wattage that manages to light up the whole area.

  This rally has apparently been happening here every Tuesday night for the past six weeks. I, of course, hadn’t even seen a flyer on the rally so I wouldn’t have known how long it has been going on if Doug hadn’t told me. That’s one of the things I haven’t gotten used to since I left Blythe. In Blythe, I knew everything that was going on whether or not I personally wanted to go to it or not. Here in Hollywood, I don’t know anything about anything that’s happening.

  I look around so I can at least feel that I know a little more about how things will go tonight at this event. The program the guy handed me when we came in says that the Reverend Johnnie Markum will be speaking tonight. Actually, I think he speaks most nights, but I don’t know who he is. I wish he was standing up there on the stage so I could see him.

  You can tell a lot about a man by studying the way he stands. You know, whether his hands are in his pockets or by his sides and that kind of thing. I’d like to get a feel for whether or not this Johnnie is an honest man—I figure that goes with hands outside the pockets. But the only people on stage are a couple of guys adjusting some microphones and, while they have their hands in full view, that’s only because they are setting things up for the sound system.

  Whil
e we’re waiting for Johnnie, I can pass along a few things about the Bowl that Cassie told me before I came today. Usually, concerts are the main attraction here. Well, I knew that even before Cassie told me. But I didn’t know that there are patches of lawn all along the path leading up to the Bowl and Cassie said people sit on the grass having these elegant picnics, often complete with crystal goblets and candlelight, before the concerts start.

  Now, that’s something I’d like to do sometime in honor of my grandmother. She would have loved doing something like that with one of her scarves wrapped around her neck and her wicker picnic basket beside her while she nibbles on some Brie cheese and crackers.

  I wish I could, at least, see other people picnicking, but tonight isn’t a concert and people aren’t eating. I guess everyone is too serious tonight. Besides, I have to admit that Brie cheese and crackers go better with classical music than with sermons about the soul. The Los Angeles Philharmonic orchestra often plays here, but Cassie said she’s heard that other musicians like Elton John and Pavarotti have performed here, as well.

  “Do you know if the Great Revival people have always held their rallies here?” I say to Doug. I read in the program that they have these rallies every year. Doug has been looking around just as much as I have, but I figure we should talk—you know, since we’re here together. It’s almost seven o’clock and it’s getting pretty dark even with the lights that are on.

  “I don’t know,” Doug answers. “I hadn’t heard about these rallies until my aunt told me. She didn’t mention anything about other rallies in the past.”

  Doug and I are both watching the many kinds of people who are walking up these aisles. I don’t know about him, but I find it a bit daunting to be going to church with thousands of other people. Besides, some of the people here are a little scary looking. In Aunt Inga’s church, no one wears black lipstick let alone a leather strip with spikes on it around their neck. That’s what the guy and girl who just walked in front of Doug and I are wearing. The guy has the lipstick and the girl has the spikes. Suddenly, Doug’s Donald Trump style isn’t so bad. There’s something to be said for stable.

  In fact, I take another glance over at Doug. It might be the light from those spotlights hitting his head, but his hair has a nice golden look to it. Maybe he is more attractive than my initial impression would have indicated. Or, maybe I just like him a little better now that I know he has some of the same problems in life that I do.

  Only people like the two of us would even begin to understand what kind of a problem it is to be raised by one’s aunts. Other people probably wouldn’t think there was a problem; they’d just say we should be grateful that we had aunts willing to take us in, which, while true, isn’t all that there is to it. Not everyone necessarily understands that having someone raise you who is not required to raise you means they can quit raising you at any time.

  You know, presto; it could be over. Then it’s the old “Bye, kid.”

  It is hard to feel secure with that kind of a deal. At least if you’re adopted or have regular parents, you know who has legal responsibility for you. You know they have to keep you even if you mess up here and there. The police pretty much make them keep you if they are your legal guardian—which should make lots of kids sleep easier at night.

  Of course, sometimes the police don’t help you out—as in my case, with my mother asking Aunt Inga to take care of me. I’m pretty sure that Aunt Inga taking care of me was legal even though she obviously never adopted me. She still signed all my permission slips at school and everything, though, so she was my day-to-day parent. And, at least she was the same person all the time. Since Doug was passed around among his aunts, he probably didn’t even know who to give his report card to if it needed an official signature. Most kids might think they’d like something like that, but—trust me—they wouldn’t.

  Anyway, it’s no wonder he and I have our problems. I mean, there was Doug bouncing around from house to house like a Ping-Pong ball (that’s got Big Commitment Issue written all over it) and I have that toppling thing going on which I never seem to outgrow.

  I have to admit that, even though I know Aunt Inga loves me, I still feel insecure. Part of me is always waiting for Aunt Inga to leave me the way my mother left me. I’ve thought sometimes that my toppling thing comes from trying so hard to be sure no one ever leaves me again that I mess up. Sometimes I try too hard to please people because I want to fit in. Or I don’t take enough time to really look at a situation before I jump into it, because I’m afraid that, if I hesitate, someone will pull the chance to jump in right away from me.

  When I think of Doug’s response to Aunt Ruth at Elaine’s party, I realize I kind of get the panic he must have felt. You know, when your heart starts to pound and you want to run for the door, but you can’t because you don’t even know where the door is?

  It must have been like that for Doug. The poor guy probably doesn’t even know what commitment really is. He certainly hasn’t seen much of it coming his way in life. No wonder he thought about his assets and that ice plunge in Sweden as a way to avoid any thought of a commitment. He probably doesn’t sign up for the year-long cable plan, either.

  Don’t tell anyone, but I have been having these moments when I feel a little closer to Doug now that I understand him better. I don’t want him to know I have this close feeling going on, though. That would be weird. Especially because the closeness I feel is for the little boy with the suitcase that Doug used to be, not for the guy who is sitting here beside me now. That little boy would never have embarrassed anyone by dumping them at their cousin’s engagement party and I obviously can’t say the same for the grown-up Doug.

  Okay, so I still have some resentment left that mixes in with the closer feelings. I’m working on it.

  Anyway, I don’t want Doug to see me staring at him so I look at the guy with the lipstick until he glances up my way. I don’t want him to see me looking at him either so I look down at the program. The back of the program has a couple of paragraphs about the history of the Hollywood Bowl and it says that Fred Astaire danced on the stage here and the Beatles played their music here decades ago. Even Judy Garland was here. I wonder what Judy Garland would think of the necklace of spikes.

  “I think they’re part of a gang,” I whisper to Doug when I see a large group of teenagers walk down the row in front of us. They are headed in the same direction as the first guy and girl and I think they all know each other. At least they’re all wearing white T-shirts with these low-hanging pants. It’s the way they are standing, though, that makes me think of gangs. “They’re staking out their territory.”

  “They’re probably just nervous,” Doug says. He’s looking at his program, too.

  I grunt. “I bet they enjoy making other people nervous. Their nerves are probably like steel.”

  We’re quiet for a minute.

  “So, have you called your aunt yet?” Doug asks. He’s finished looking at the program and is looking around again, too. He’s anxious. I can tell by the way his voice is a little more high-pitched than usual. I heard that voice when he was talking to Aunt Ruth at Elaine’s party.

  The benches are made of strips of wood, but they are fairly comfortable. You can certainly see for a long way when you’re sitting near the top. The hills of Hollywood are ahead of you and the white half-circle stage of the Hollywood Bowl is between us and them. There’s naturally good acoustics here and that’s why they built this place almost a hundred years ago in this location.

  “I talked to Aunt Inga today,” I say. “She called when I was in Mr. Z’s office. He said we could use the place for the wedding.”

  “What? That’s great news.”

  “It’s a mortuary.”

  “Oh, you haven’t told them?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not sure what to do. Either way I mess up Elaine’s wedding.”

  “Well, surely she wouldn’t hold you responsible,” he says although his conviction lessens as h
e speaks.

  I only lift my eyebrow.

  “Well, maybe you can have everything in the courtyard,” Doug says. He knows the setup of the Big M because he told me he had been to a funeral there once. “If you’re just in the courtyard, there’s no clue that the place is a mortuary. You might have to tell the aunts, but I don’t think you’d need to tell the guests. Let them enjoy the day.”

  You know, you may not believe this, but my life used to be simple. Sure, I had the clothes thing with Elaine and the disappointment with my mom, but I didn’t have to make complicated ethical decisions that involved picking the reason to be on Aunt Ruth’s bad list forever.

  If I tell the aunts that I’m working in a mortuary, they will think I’ve messed things up as usual. If I don’t tell them and let them continue to think that the mortuary is a wedding chapel, they will, at some point, still realize that I have messed things up as usual, unless, of course, something happens before they find out that the Big M is a mortuary. And, things could happen.

  Elaine and her fiancé could get cold feet. They did once before when they had that brief breakup; they could split again for good or maybe just temporarily. Maybe they’ll postpone their wedding for a year or so until they’re more ready to get married.

  I should ask Doug to recite his no-commitment speech to them; that might make them hesitate. It sure convinced me. Who wouldn’t want to see the world instead of getting married right away? The other thing that could happen is that another place could be found for the wedding that is so spectacular that all thought of using the Big M simply fades away. And, believe me, there are places like that around here. Maybe Descanso Gardens or the back lawn of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Pasadena. Either of those places would make the Big M fade into history in the wedding plans.

  “Oh, they’re ready to start,” Doug says as the spotlights are dimmed.

  I look around. I hadn’t noticed how all of the seats around us have become filled with people. I hear the noise start to quiet down as a few final people slide into their seats. When everything is quiet, a female soloist steps forward on the stage and begins to sing “Amazing Grace.” In all the church services I have gone to I have heard hundreds of hymns. This one is hands-down my favorite.