by K J Steele
Victoria moved toward the sink and Pearl, grabbing her bag up quickly, sidestepped out of the way.
“Too bad about the old girl, hey?”
Victoria looked glassily into the mirror, not comprehending a word being said as waves of nausea again started to spill over her.
“About Mrs. Lackey,” Pearl offered again loudly, thinking Victoria hadn’t heard her. “It’s too bad, hey? About what happened to her.”
“What’s so bad about it? She’d have been better off if she died years ago. Laying there in that home just waiting for life to go by—”
Pearl’s face combusted with disbelief. “Well, ain’t that a nice thing to say.”
Victoria looked at Pearl’s combative position in the mirror. It irritated her, this sudden misplaced concern, but she was far too tired to care. She silently pushed past Pearl and escaped up the stairs.
Pastor Jack had droned on through the Beatitudes and several more hymns, threatened all the nonchurchgoers with a fate worse than hell, then summed up by inviting everyone to join him in the church basement for coffee, cakes and tea. She barely made it through the service, the church wreaking of old wax and mildew and the sweaty armpits of men unaccustomed to wearing suits. She excused herself abruptly and hurried back downstairs. Tongues wagged in the pews, pleased to see her obvious grief at losing her mother-in-law. She leaned her head against the bathroom divider and listened to the wooden shuffle as a hundred dragging feet slowly escorted her mother-in-law’s carcass outside to the graveyard. She marveled at the refining effect that could be delivered by a simple pine facade. She knew from memory the slick winding path that rode up over a small hill and out of sight, then ended at a ratty patch of unkempt field sprouting a harvest of head stones. And that Bobby and the other pallbearers would make a big performance about almost falling on the rain-greased ground and end up engaged in a contest of muscles, shoveling mud back into the grave as though their very lives depended on it. Soon she heard the tramping of feet as the first few returned back to the church. Before long she again heard the bathroom door squeak open, ushering in the smells of syrupy perfume, fresh coffee and the excited chatter of several female voices. Taking a breath to brace herself, Victoria opened the cubicle door and stepped to the sink. Dropped conversations hung on the air as quick looks were slipped from eye to eye behind her back. Rose stood next to the door, and Victoria quickly averted her eyes when their gaze met.
“Oh! It was you in there, Vic. Imagine that,” one of the women said. “We were just saying how nice it was to see you out again. Did you enjoy the service?”
“Hmm,” Victoria murmured as she angled her way toward the door.
“Well, that’s good. Quite an awful thing that spill you had.”
The always-helpful Millie Miller rushed to gather up some paper towel and handed it to Victoria to dry her hands.
“Thank you, Millie.”
“Don’t run off, Vic. Okay? I have something for you.”
“For me?” Victoria asked warily, the room growing suspiciously quiet around her.
Millie nodded enthusiastically, red curls bobbing like rusty springs across her shoulders. “It’s upstairs in my coat. Are you going up or should I bring it down?”
“No, no. I’ll come up with you,” Victoria rushed, seeing a clear route free of all the questions she felt stirring up around her.
Slipping out the door, Rose somehow attached herself along by engaging Millie in a question about the girls. Turning the landing halfway up the stairs, they were met by Doris, half encircling her older sister, who she was slowly helping down the stairs. Mrs. Spiller had been forcibly moved into the home weeks before, and the changes were obvious. Her white hair was neatly split down the center and pinned into place by two bobby pins, and she was dressed in a matching newborn-girl pink sweater-and-slacks set. The two of them were thrown off balance by the sudden encounter and almost toppled down the stairs.
“It’s her, Doris! It’s the gypsy!” Mrs. Spiller whispered loudly, both arms wrapped tight around her bible.
“Hush,” Doris replied sternly, struggling to regain her footing. “That’s enough of that now, Agnes. Remember what the doctor told you? There are no gypsies or anyone else stealing your money. It’s just your mind playing tricks. It’s no good anymore. It’s all fuzzy now, remember?”
“No!” Mrs. Spiller hissed back. “It’s her. The gypsy. I saw her take it. I did. I saw her.”
“That is enough, now, Agnes. Anymore and we’ll have to take you back to the home.” And then, not quite able to meet Rose’s glare, Doris apologized profusely for her sister’s outburst.
Rose looked at Victoria and smiled. Looking down, Victoria mutely moved aside as Rose pushed past her and continued on up the stairs without acknowledging Doris’s words.
Apprehensively, Victoria followed Millie upstairs to the coatroom. She waited with growing frustration as she watched her slowly extricate a handful of envelopes from her raincoat pocket. Carefully she took an elastic off the tidy pile and began to finger through them. Millie was one of those people whose own neediness was to feel needed, and she savored the feeling of having in her possession something Victoria appeared so eager to have. She paused several times, inspecting the writing on the envelopes as if it were written in code rather than plain English, then continued flipping through them leisurely. Victoria clasped her hands together to prevent them from reaching out on their own accord and rudely snatching the envelopes out of Millie’s grip.
Finally she stopped rearranging the letters and slid a large package free. “It’s from Elliot,” she whispered. “He just wrapped up his business here and asked me to give it to you.”
Unsurprisingly, Rose appeared in the doorway and began digging through her coat for something she obviously had no interest in finding.
Victoria started to tremble. Reaching out she took the papers from Millie, but her hand fumbled.
Rose struck like a serpent.
“Whoops,” she said, grabbing them up almost before they hit the floor. She pulled a shiny silver pin free from a map then handed the pile of papers back to Victoria with a wide smile.
“Rose!” Victoria cried out. “What did you do that for?”
Rose looked convincingly hurt. “There was a pin stuck in it, Vic. I just didn’t want to see you get hurt.” She looked at Millie for support. Millie raised her eyebrows and offered Rose a sympathetic look as Rose walked pointedly from the room. Millie had no idea what had just taken place, but she was very sure it was something big.
“Um. Anyhow, Vic,” she stammered. “I’ve got to run. So. Um. Take care of yourself, okay?” Quickly gathering up her coat she followed Rose out into the vestibule to find out more about what she’d just missed.
Victoria nodded. “Thank you, Millie,” she said absently, her mind consumed by the sealed envelope she held in her hand.
Not willing to be disturbed in this moment of truth, she slipped from the church and splashed coatless through the rain to the truck. Pressing the envelope tightly against her cheek, she closed her eyes and tried to feel her way back to Elliot’s presence. She stroked the fine white paper, traced her name written in his hand. She brought the envelope to her nose, trying to find the lingering freshness of his scent. And finally, slowly, she coaxed the envelope open. Feeling inside, she pulled out a tightly folded paper and unfolded it with growing apprehension.
Dear Victoria.
It has been three months since Rose gave me your letter and, although I will respect your wishes, I find I can’t bring myself to leave the valley without at least saying goodbye. Which isn’t to say I agree with, or even understand, all of your reasons, but after talking for a long time with Rose, I had to concede this is probably the best arrangement for everyone now that you and Bobby have decided to work things out. But, you’ll forgive me for wishing things had turned out differently between us. If you ever change your mind, take this map and pin and if luck is on our side, maybe fate will bring us to
gether once again.
Fly free,
Elliot
~ Chapter 25 ~
The wedding had been planned, then—to the great irritation of Benny Olson—postponed to allow for the ordering of the only wedding dress in the entire country that would possibly suit his third youngest daughter. After eight weeks and a back order of several more days, the dress finally arrived and was coerced to fit by the addition of a girdle and the skillful manipulation of several seams by experienced hands.
Pews were squashed tight early and it was standing room only as people, invited or not, packed into the tiny church to witness the vows and the volume of puffiness the dress was unable to conceal. Most people were as sufficiently shocked as they could have hoped, and Pearl even offered quite loudly that if they didn’t loosen the girdle soon, the girl and the baby would probably both end up killed. But the girdle stayed laced-up brutal. A pale Amy held one hand on each side of her icy satin dress to hold it in place and prevent it from riding up over her baby-ball belly and giving her secret away.
The reception had originally been planned to take place outside in the yard. But with the sky whining down a cold rain, the event had been transferred to an empty corner of Benny Olson’s hay barn instead. The irony of the situation was lost on few, and Pearl was quick and loud in her efforts to make up their loss. In all other respects it was a normal Hinckly wedding as well: an overall good time had at the expense of the bride’s father, who tried to mingle and mix amicably while all he could see were dollars and debt in each glass and plate of food, half-eaten, dumped or forgotten and happily replaced with new ones. Happening around the corner to find Pearl and Bud Bentley stuffing a duct tape-reinforced bag full of muffins and buns and cheese for the café, he struggled valiantly to hold his tongue for the sake of his undeserving daughter.
Mrs. Barlow was the resident cake decorator, a hobby she’d taken up when she found it not only provided some extra cash but also offered an additional lure to get people into her store. Amy and Mark’s cake had turned out pretty spectacular. She had been more than a little pleased with herself, hollering and fussing and waving dimpled Jell-O arms as it was unloaded from the truck and set up five pillars high at center table. Garish sugar flowers bloomed profusely from anywhere they had even a remote chance of sticking, while achingly bright lime-green leaves attempted to smother them with the prolific abundance of English ivy.
Not quite satisfied with her masterpiece, she had circled the table, taken out a crumpled piece of paper from her purse and, after studying it for an exaggerated moment, proceeded to add six more orangey-yellow roses to the top layer. She may as well have had a picture of Benny Olson’s false teeth in her hand, so complete was the inaccuracy of her replication of the lily-white-and-lavender cake in the picture Amy had asked her to reproduce. Congratulating herself liberally, she more or less centered a tiny bride and groom into the orangey-yellow roses, their smiling plastic faces stricken in stunned eternal bliss.
A receiving line had been formed, Mrs. Lyncroft taking it upon herself to call some order to the festivities. Guests caught on their way to the buffet table or presumed to be wandering aimlessly found themselves corralled and redirected down the receiving line to shake hands, nod and smile stupidly as they searched vainly for something socially acceptable to say. This last prerequisite unfortunately held neither instruction nor obstruction for Bobby, who found socially acceptable just about anything he wanted to say. Victoria, having attended only because he’d insisted, followed behind him, trying to hide her embarrassment as he told crude jokes and mortified the young bridesmaids into giving him kisses.
Against the back wall of the barn, a hay wagon stacked with bales had been reworked into a stage and from here a few random notes began to sound as the band got ready to perform. Not a band in the traditional sense of the word, Hinckly’s dance music was provided by anyone who had an instrument and thought he could play. The result was an eclectic bunch, comprised of everything from banjos and violins to accordions and spoons. Peter had even brought along his dad’s bagpipes, which someone, having learned from prior experience, had mercifully stolen and hidden away. Propped up against the hay wagon wheel, Billy Bassman had found a stick and a metal feed pail, which he banged at randomly between drinks.
Eventually a wedding waltz broke out. For a scandalous moment whispers ran through the crowd as Mark and Amy argued over whether or not he’d join her on the dance floor, her father already having flatly refused. Finally he relented, embarrassed but also quite thrilled as the crowd broke into relieved applause. No sooner had they sorted out their feet, however, than the music trickled to a stop. The young men were unable to play slow and the old men refused to play fast, resulting in such an infraction of timing that everyone had gotten lost. Abruptly Mrs. Lyncroft, who directed the church choir, pushed herself into place in front of them and quickly got them tied back together in a somewhat synchronized effort. Hardly catching a beat, Mark resumed whirling Amy around the dance floor. He might’ve danced with a broomstick for all the care he afforded her, constantly stepping on her feet as he reached out drunkenly to punch at his friends, who jabbered insults at him as he galloped by.
JJ, Bobby, Petey and a few others stood loosely just off the edge of the dance floor, leering at the girls until they’d become drunk enough to ask them to dance. Victoria, painfully tired, settled herself into a circle of nattering women, where she wouldn’t be required to contribute to the conversation. Rose sauntered across to the other side of the barn, wearing an elegant black dress, new, as were the ones her daughters wore, almost swallowed up in flouncy ruffles, as they followed along behind their mother. Another rumor had been making the rounds, and Victoria had heard it several times, biting her lip and saying nothing as someone or other told her how Rose had been the unfortunate but fortunate beneficiary of a family inheritance. Since Rose had originally arrived in town on the Greyhound bus with no luggage and no past, it was an easy game to play. She simply released a rumor then sat back and watched it spawn. This latest one had already morphed into several different versions and ever-increasing sums. Victoria watched out of the corner of her eye as Rose walked toward a group of women whose circle readily parted to receive her. Rose immediately captured the conversation, and Victoria quickly looked away as eyes full of curious pity slunk her way.
Loud voices erupted behind her. Whirling around on her heel, she searched for Bobby’s whereabouts. Not hard to locate, she saw him standing in the center of the room surrounded by a small crowd.
“Bullshit! Mark slurred loudly, shoving Bobby off-balance.
Bobby teetered back to center and returned the shove. “Not bullshit, you little dumb ass. It’s frickin’ true.”
“Bull-bloody-shit. That ain’t never bloody happen.”
“Bloody did too! My grandpappy even saw it.”
“A whole frickin’ cow?”
“Damn rights. Whole frickin’ thing. Pick it up like nothing.”
“Bullshit!” Mark belched. “Ain’t no bloody way one man’s gonna pick up a whole cow.”
“Well, just think about it a minute, you peckerhead. Makes perfect sense. You lift the thing every day from the time it’s born and you get stronger as it gets bigger. It’s progressive. Cows ain’t grow that fast. Iffin’ you could lift it yesterday then the next day it’s only gonna be a tiny bit bigger.”
“Ain’t no way,” Mark laughed derisively. “Ain’t even bloody logical.”
“Don’t make no matter if it’s logical. Makes sense. And ’sides, it bloody did happen. My grandpappy said so—”
“Well, your grandpappy’s full of shit.”
“You calling my grandpa a liar?” Bobby bellered, shoving Mark backward and spilling both of their drinks.
“Hey, asshole! Keep your friggin’ hands off. Ain’t calling the old coot piss-all. I’m just saying maybe you ain’t got the smarts to know when you was being shitted.”
This accusation was a challenge so obvious B
obby couldn’t ignore it. Victoria cringed inside as a few testing shoves were exchanged before Sam intervened and hauled Bobby off to refill his drink.
As the night wore on the crowd wore out, until all that remained were those who relished themselves either incredibly good-looking or witty or both and those who found themselves stuck listening to them. The band had dwindled down to a few drunken musicians, their cacophonous noise being enough to convince even the howling coyotes that it was time to turn their tails toward home. Victoria drifted off to the shelter of shadows, half the barn now in darkness after someone, stumbling across the extension cord, had disconnected most of the lights. An aching need to sleep numbed her consciousness until suddenly hostile shouts jerked her awake. Stepping back deeper into the darkness, she saw flailing fists and battered faces. At once she realized that Mark and Bobby were at it again. This time, from what she could decipher from the spitting, violent voices, it was because Bobby had taken several liberties, not the least of these being French-kissing the bride. A straggly knot of onlookers formed around the fighters, cheering on their favorite, while Amy, in full pout, ran to the sanctuary of her own bed inside her mother’s house.
“Whoo-hee! I frenched your bride, I frenched your bride,” Bobby sang as Mark circled rabidly.
The two men snarled their arms around each other tight as bulls’ twisted horns and, finding they could no longer punch, resorted to trying to topple one another onto the floor instead. Staggering crookedly around in circles, jeering and taunting into each other’s bloodied face, they worked a haphazard path toward the head table. The gaudy spectacle of the wedding cake seemed to draw them in like a beacon. And sure enough, that’s where it happened. They jostled first Bobby’s way, then Mark’s and then back over Bobby’s until he suddenly lost his footing, sending them both crashing over the table and onto the floor with five stories of wedding cake schlumping down on top.