by D R Lowrey
“Is that ‘She’ll Be Coming Around the Mountain’?” someone asked.
Indeed it was, but Nigel was just tuning up. After flexing his embouchure with the familiar foot-stomper, he burst from the kitchen blowing a full-chested comb-kazoo version of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” While the interpretation was hardly on par with say, the New Antigua Saxy Ladies Quartet, most felt it surpassed Clem Spetz’s dog whistle rendition since it could be heard.
As previously foretold, Abuelita emerged from a direction, possibly east. The whizz from her wheelchair added a nice harmony to Nigel’s buzz-comb recital. That is, until he modulated up half an octave upon seeing her glide forth in a traditional, cream-colored, brocaded wedding dress covering every limb and boob.
Where was the crimson and black lace? Where were the nauseating displays of corrugated flesh? What had happened to Abuelita? Had she, at the last minute, been exposed to a mirror?
As Nigel finished the “Wedding March,” Abuelita positioned herself beside the awaiting Jack Watt. Polite applause flittered through the atrium as she brought the chair to a standstill without the aid of a shinbone, a rare feat.
Jack did not appear inspired. He fidgeted as if infected with wedding lice. He pulled and scratched and wiggled like a snake needing to shed its chartreuse pinstriped skin.
Nigel, looking at the two lovebirds, felt justified in forgetting to hire a photographer.
Abuelita should have been enjoying one of life’s great sugar highs but wore a scowl as if holding in a mouthful of vinegar. Stationed directly behind her, Mrs. Sandoval had the look of one fresh off a skirmish with an ostrich. Nigel figured Abuelita’s wedding dress switcheroo had not gone down without a struggle. The changeup would rankle all the more once she’d bagged an eyeful of her husband-to-be dressed to the nines and three-quarters and then some.
With all assembled, eyes turned toward Esmerelda. The eyes of Esmerelda, however, were nowhere to be seen. She was looking within. After a contagion of side-eyes and shuffled feet among the spectators, Nigel took matters into his own hands.
“Ahem,” he said.
Esmerelda moved not.
People blinked, and the grandfather clock ticked, tocked, then ticked again.
More decisive action was needed. “Ahem,” said Nigel, positioning a finger to tap the lotus-seated Esmerelda’s knee.
“Don’t touch,” said Esmerelda, raising her open hands. The left palm displayed an image of the sun nicely rendered in felt-tip, and on the right palm, a companion felt-tip of the moon, probably Earth’s, and a generic star. Her eyes remained closed. “I’m summoning. We shall not have a wedding without the aid of the spirits.”
“What the hell?” said Abuelita. “We got tequila, vodka, and bourbon. What more do we need? Gin? Let’s move this thing along.”
Eyes still closed, Esmerelda moved her opened hands in broad slow-motion arcs while incanting, “Moon eclipses sun. Sun eclipses moon.” She brought her busy hands together in a praying motion. “Bless this celestial union. Sun and moon, Venus and Mars, fire and water. May the heavens forever smile upon these two blessed virgins—”
“What?” said Abuelita.
“…so they may, with your bountiful grace, please the good earth, please one another, and please the future with the fruit of their love.” Esmerelda raised her head and opened her eyes. “Does anyone here today, relying on the great truth that dwells within the earth and the infinite wisdom that falls from the stars, have reason why these two should not be joined in spirit as husband and wife? If so, sayeth now.”
Esmerelda could have been reading a terms-of-agreement document, given the crowd’s reaction. Had she worded it differently, like, “If anyone thinks this is a bad idea,” there might have been a bull-rush. But Essie wenteth not there.
“Who will be giving away the bride?” asked Esmerelda.
This question elicited a good deal of eye talk among the hostages, but no volunteers.
“Who among ye shall hand over this beautiful bride?”
After several minutes of no takers, Nigel stepped up, and offered, “If you put it that way, I’ll do it.”
“Excellent,” said Esmerelda. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am,” said Nigel.
“What is your relationship to the bride? Are you her father?”
“You know I’m not,” said Nigel.
“A good friend?”
“Nope.”
“A caretaker?”
“Certainly not.”
“Could you please state your relationship to the bride?”
“I’m her butler.”
“So, you, as her butler, will be giving her away to this man.”
“Yes, ma’am. That man there, in the green pinstripes.”
“Do you wish to make a statement to the bride’s future husband?”
“Sure,” said Nigel, turning to Jack. “Good luck, buddy. Better you than me.”
“Very well,” said Esmerelda. “Before this lovely bride and this chosen groom exchange vows among this gathering of friends and family and the divine entities kind enough to accept our invitation, I will say a few words regarding the venerable state of matrimony—marriage, as it is commonly known.
“Marriage began thousands of years ago as a property deal. A man would take a wife in exchange for property—pigs, cows, coins, or other wives. Compared to today, the wife lived in bliss—cooking, cleaning, sewing, washing, caring for kids, and in her spare time, being grateful to have found an owner. The wife of old held a position comparable to that of the modern pet dog, if the dog had to work eighteen-hour days.
“But times changed. Women of today have discovered their true value. Modern men, by contrast, are seldom worth more than a kick in the head. These modern cavemen no longer purchase wives because they can’t afford it. And yet, your typical ‘man’ enters into marriage as if he’s receiving a free, lifetime pass to hop aboard the Boom-Boom Express whenever he likes.” Esmerelda thrust an index finger toward the sky. “No, sir,” she barked. That index finger dropped down to point at Jack Watt’s forehead.
Jack, as cool as they come when talking about strangely dying wives, turned white and emitted a squeak like a mouse seeing his reflection in a cat’s eye.
“A wife,” Esmerelda continued, “is not a piece of real estate to be purchased and used at the husband’s discretion. No, a wife is like a high-rent, luxury apartment requiring a continual, never-ending stream of compensations to ensure access. The husband, when he says, ‘I do,’ may as well be signing an eternal, unbreakable lease.”
Jack stood strong, but his Adam’s apple was searching for a way out.
“A marriage is not all about the husband,” said Esmerelda. “The wife also has obligations. She is the landlord and must not be lazy. A proper wife must hold the husband accountable. Like the song says, ‘a woman is a woman, but a man ain’t nothin’ but a man.’ The wife must be understanding. She must understand that the male of our species is weak, he is slothful, he is a deceiver, and he will take what he has not earned. A good wife is all that elevates her man beyond the trash under his sofa cushions. How does she do this? By making him pay. And pay. And pay. Keep it up, girls. It’s a never-ending job. But it’s his only hope.” Esmerelda smiled at the congregation.
The ladies smiled back.
“So, here we are,” continued Esmerelda. “A deal is to be struck this afternoon. We have this…interestingly dressed man and this lovely bride.” She turned to Jack. “Do you, Jack Watt, take Amalia Gallina de la Cruz Huerta Sandoval to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love, to honor, to cherish, to spare no personal indignity in pursuit of her comfort and well-being, to disregard all personal pain in providing her an endless array of pleasures, to spare no expense in the pursuit of all that she wants, as long as you both shall live?”
“I do,” he said between clenched teeth. The clenched teeth may have been a necessity because he looked like he was about to belch up a bullfrog.
> Turning to Abuelita, Essie said, “And do you take this man, Jack Watt, to be your lawfully wedded husband as long as you shall choose?”
Jack’s hand began to rise until it was pushed down by the force of Esmerelda’s eyebrows.
Too late.
Abuelita did not answer, but instead, began the lengthy, arduous process of standing up. She performed an inventory of all the necessary systems both for her and the chair, followed by an unbuckling, and then a second inventory. She began the standing procedure by squiggling her left side forward by a centimeter followed by a centimeter squiggle for the right side. After fifty moves per side, she was ready for the tricky bit.
Jack had to be wondering if his vows were in effect should this operation end tragically.
Abuelita rolled onto one butt cheek for the final ascension. Mrs. Sandoval buttressed the chair as Abuelita began the push to a standing position. The congregation held their breaths, turning slight shades of blue as they listened apprehensively for the soft crack of powdery bones. Abuelita planted both feet on the floor and pushed herself up to a standing position, receiving a heartfelt ovation for her success.
As always, Abuelita faced the opposite direction after a chair exit. “Where’s the preacher?” she snapped. Reorientation remained an elusive skill.
“Over here,” said Esmerelda.
“What the hell?” Abuelita followed her neck around for a 180-degree spin. “Ah, there you are. I do.”
“Jack Watt—”
“What?”
“You may place the ring on your bride’s—”
“Hold on,” said Jack.
Nigel, lost in a rumination on the optimum ratio of kung pao chicken to broccoli beef orders, resurfaced after a sharp bump to his elbow.
“Pssssst.”
That sound again. Nigel tried to ignore it.
“Pssssst. Old man, the ring, please,” whispered Jack Watt.
Nigel looked around and then felt another bump to the elbow.
“Ring, please,” whispered Jack through the left side of his mouth.
“What ring?” whispered Nigel through the right side of his mouth.
“You’re the best man—”
“Surely not.”
“You’re it, Hoss. Hand me the ring.”
“What ring?”
“No time for jokes. Ring, please.”
Nigel searched each of his pockets in the off chance there might be a ring in one of them. Coming up dry, he reached a hand into his jacket’s inner pocket and came out with extended thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart. With his other hand, he grasped Jack Watt’s nearest dangling limb, bent it up from the elbow, and turned its attached hand palm up. Nigel, in a motion reminiscent of a mother bird feeding her nestling, delicately placed thumb and forefinger, half-inch apart, onto Jack’s outstretched palm before flipping his hand away like a mother bird gone to find another worm.
Jack Watt looked into his palm, and then turned to Nigel, who busied himself by studying a far corner of the ceiling. A mother bird must allow her flailing chicks the opportunity to fly, and what better time for Jack Watt to fly than now? He looked at his palm again, then reached toward it and came away with extended thumb and forefinger, half-inch apart. He grasped Abuelita’s left hand and slid extended thumb and forefinger, half-inch apart, down the length of her bony ring finger before patting her hand and retreating.
Abuelita held her hand out, then drew it close to her good eye, then extended it out again. She flipped her hand over, then felt her ring finger with her other hand. She looked up at Jack.
Jack Watt was busying himself by studying a far corner of the ceiling.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride, if she’s willing,” said Esmerelda.
Nigel, in an inspired bit of improvisation, ran to reset the grandfather clock to 11:59.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Wedding Splasher
Before the first refrain of “Tequila!” echoed through the hall, the natives demanded their liquor. Nigel was all for it. Thrown together after all the explosions and whatnot, the festivities might have seemed threadbare to the unencumbered intellect.
Let no intellect be unencumbered, thought Nigel. Lacking the legal authority to pump the place with laughing gas, he leaned hard on the alcoholic retardants. Unfortunately, he could lead his inmates to booze, but he couldn’t make them drink themselves silly. Scarcely a round had been poured before inquiries began to pile up. Who was in the casket, they wanted to know, and where was the food?
One by one, Nigel sectioned off individuals for dinner service, personally shepherding them through the kitchen for entree selection and microwaving, before plopping them down at the dining room table. A considerate host, as Nigel had learned, encourages social mingling and interplay by placing guests into thoughtful juxtapositions, thus ensuring a convivial discourse. He wanted none of that. Letting these yahoos mix it up at his Chinese buffet could easily lead to mob action. His plan was to isolate the inmates to a maximal degree. Snide remarks could be tolerated, but he wasn’t about to have this rabble forming into a cabal. The dining room table seated twenty-four, perfect for maintaining a healthy disconnect among his twelve diners.
Six had chosen the plastic trays of kung pao chicken, while three chose plastic trays of broccoli beef. Abuelita wolfed down the special bride’s pizza. Not surprisingly, the evening’s two most irksome guests, Rubberface and Stefanie’s husband, abstained after examining the fare. The last guest had hardly been served before a chorus of “Cake!” erupted in the dining hall.
Nigel arrived with more alcohol, but the respite was only temporary.
“Cake, cake, cake!” came the call soon after everyone’s drinks had been stiffly freshened.
A second appearance of the alcohol cart failed to quell the ugly scene, so Nigel wheeled the cake out to a crowd that was seriously under-lubricated for the journey ahead. The room quieted as he unveiled the cake.
The initial reaction was mixed. That is to say, not everyone hated it in the same way.
“What the hell?” said Abuelita. “Who ordered that thing?”
“That’s a wedding cake?” asked Stefanie.
“Looks like the old city hall in Dusseldorf before we bombed the shit out of it,” said Grumps.
“It’s the Hall of Justice,” said Stefanie’s husband, a man whose mission, it seemed, was to reappear at two-week intervals to reinforce everyone’s negative opinions of him.
“No,” corrected Nigel. “It is a representation of the ideal wedding chapel where perfect unions are formed.”
“Looks like the Hall of Justice to me,” said Stefanie’s husband.
Mrs. Sandoval leaned closer and said, “What is this Hall of Justice?”
“The international headquarters for the Justice League,” said Stefanie’s husband like an expert on architectural baked goods.
“The Justice League? A political organization?” said Mrs. Sandoval. “Do they make good cakes?”
“They don’t make cakes at all,” said Stefanie’s husband. “The Hall of Justice houses the Justice League of America, the umbrella organization for many great American superheroes, like Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, and Aquaman.”
Stefanie, hearing her chosen lifelong partner expound so expertly on the topic, turned as red as Superman’s cape.
“Why have such a cake at a wedding?” said Mrs. Sandoval.
“Good question,” said Stefanie’s husband, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Nigel replied, “The cake is not a Hall of Justice cake. Nothing to do with that building, or superheroes, or the Justice League. How anyone could think such a thing is beyond me.”
Stefanie’s husband harrumphed, but otherwise, silence prevailed. The rebellion had been quashed.
Jack Watt reentered the room after, perhaps, some time spent in a closet enjoying a good cry. He made a beeline for the controversial dessert. “My, my, that is a superb representation of the Ha
ll of Justice. One of the finest I’ve seen in cake form. Wherever did you get it?”
“I was just explaining,” said Nigel, “that this cake has nothing to do with any Hall of Justice. Any resemblance to that structure is purely coincidental.”
“Hey, look what I found,” said Stefanie’s husband, holding up two figurines. “It’s Aquaman and Wonder Woman. They must be getting married in this ideal wedding chapel. Or, just maybe, they arrived by mistake, having confused it with the Hall of Justice to which it bears such an uncanny resemblance.”
The doorbell rang.
Nigel ran to the front door like a starving man to a dinner gong.
“Well, Stanley, I didn’t expect to see you here,” said Nigel to a harried-looking version of the man.
“I said I’d come with the correct figurines,” said Stanley, holding up some objects wrapped in plastic.
“Fine. You are just the man I want to see.”
“I am?”
“Absolutely. The wedding party has just been admiring your cake.”
“Oh, dear,” said Stanley, backing away.
Nigel grabbed him by the shoulder. “Everyone wants to meet the creator of that fascinating dessert. But before I introduce you, there’s one thing you should know about that cake.”
“What’s that?”
“A number of guests have gotten into their thick skulls that your cake represents the Hall of Justice, that kind of superheroes’ clubhouse.”
“They’re right.”
“No!” said Nigel, seeing Stanley had failed to grasp the situation’s nub. “They are not.”
“No?”
“Can’t be, old man. This is a wedding. Superheroes aren’t a motif. Not here, anyway. You need to snatch that rumor by the neck and strangle it,” said Nigel, demonstrating how one might go about it if rumors came in the form of small animals.