They turned eastward and drove across the Cascades, into scrub pines and furrowed beige hills. Veronica immediately missed the irrational border of ocean waves. Inland was where they were headed. Today bore the sorrows of a Sunday even though it was Wednesday. For hundreds of miles Jerry fiddled with the radio, following news reports of a gruesome triple homicide and fierce debates about the new abortion law, Referendum 20. A fourteen-year-old kid had stabbed his parents and older sister while they slept, then arranged their bodies as though they were kneeling in prayer at their bedsides. For two weeks he continued attending school, getting straight As on his tests, going to wrestling practice, even showing up at a dance. His sister's college noticed she hadn't checked in with the registrar to sign up for fall classes, made some phone calls, and eventually the police showed up at the house and found the kid eating a bowl of cereal in front of a rerun of The Andy Griffith Show. Veronica leaned out the window and vomited loudly. News radio provided ample cover for morning sickness.
They pulled into the farm in the late afternoon. The place didn't look like much: three buildings and a house, a dozen sheep in a pen. But surrounding the house were rows of beautiful apple trees rising and falling on the hills. Jerry's knock on the screen door went unanswered, but a minute later an old farmer appeared in blue coveralls, cleaning a piece of machinery with an ex-undershirt.
"I'm here about the mechanic job," Jerry said.
"Mechanic job." The farmer echoed, sort of observing the words as they hung in the air. "Mechanic job," he repeated.
"Yeah, my uncle ..." As Jerry explained, Veronica watched the farmer's empathetic face and knew there was no job to be had.
Back in the truck, Jerry let his hands dangle limply over the steering wheel. "My uncle Russ promised me there was a job here."
"This is probably a bad time to tell you I'm pregnant," Veronica said.
The wedding,
narrated by Cedar.
I hung out by the Saint Matthew's playground as cars rolled into the crunchy gravel parking lot bearing generations in formal wear. I had been added to the guest list as something of an anomaly, related to no one, no one's friend, too young to partake of the open bar. A black Lincoln Continental performed an excruciating routine of jettisoning old people sweating in blazers, sausage bodies stuffed into dresses and painful shoes. There were purses and flowers and camera bags to gather, hair to be checked, nieces and nephews to castigate for not hewing to the expectations on how weddings were supposed to proceed. I wore a white shirt and my only tie, which was made of black leather and measured about a half inch wide. My mom had told me I was expected to arrive with a gift and had given me twenty dollars to buy a picture frame, for which I had paid extra to have wrapped in Maps of the World wrapping paper. More cars arrived, a clump of them, and from one emerged the bride, surrounded by a couple of cackling women I'd later learn were Veronica's sisters, in matching pink dresses. In this gaggle of baby's breath and severely teased hair was Kat, packaged in a white dress. I wanted to run. She saw me and came over.
"You came," Kat said.
"I got your mom a present."
"You didn't have to come."
"I'll go if you want me to."
"That's not what I meant. I did want you to come. I just thought you wouldn't."
"I don't know anybody here."
Kat pointed across the parking lot. "That's my uncle Vernon. He's with his wife Jo Anne. He's been married three times. He's completely rich. You know that little plastic dealie that makes it so the cheese doesn't stick to the pizza box? He invented that."
"Who's the guy in the wheelchair?"
"I don't know. I think he's a friend of George's."
"You probably need to go inside," I said.
"Yeah, but come with me," Kat said, taking my hand, leading me into the church. At the door, three manicured women doused with perfume applied boutonnieres to the tuxes of three boozy men. Groomsmen. One of them chucked Kat on the shoulder and said, "Hey little lady. Ready to see your mom get hitched?"
"Hi Uncle Al," Kat said.
"Who's your friend?" Uncle Al asked.
"This is my boyfriend, Cedar."
Boyfriend!
One of the boutonniere appliers said, "You'd better get in there, Kat. Your mom is looking for you," and Kat pried her fingers slowly from mine, then hurried into a bridal preparation sanctum. I wandered into the vast church. Slowly the pews filled with people, conversation, and bored kids fiddling with the golf pencils and weekly missals. A seemingly mentally disabled organist played a few hymns, leaning close to the sheet music to better read it through her thick glasses, bobbing her head perhaps more emotionally than the occasion required. A man with slicked-back hair walked down the aisle looking for a seat, a length of toilet paper trailing from the waistband of his plaid slacks. The young couple behind me engaged in a hushed argument. A thick woman in a purple dress scooted into the pew beside me and introduced herself as Loretta Root.
"I'm Cedar. I'm the maid of honor's boyfriend."
"Well she looks quite sweet today. You're a lucky young man. And just let me know if you need a tissue; I brought extras. I can't hardly make it through these things without turning on the waterworks. You here with anyone?"
"No."
"Me neither. Looks like I found me a date."
"How do you know the bride and groom?" I asked.
"Old George volunteers at the soup kitchen I manage. Usually mans the sandwich table. Makes a mean PB and J."
Then the wedding commenced. We rose. Barely five minutes into the ceremony Loretta Root's waterworks kicked in, rendering the travel-size packet of Kleenex she retrieved from her purse frighteningly insufficient. As the priest spoke about holy bonds and God's grace, Ms. Root honked into her toiletries and at one point grabbed tightly onto my hand. She dug into her purse and pulled out a studio portrait of a little boy, who could have been a grandson, to which she spoke in a low whisper between sobs. We rose and sang hymns, Loretta pointing out how to return to the chorus at the end of a new verse. In the music and singing and invocations of love, I felt the summer's layers of hurt stripped from my conscience. The bride and groom kissed. Loretta gave me a big hug, smashing my face between a set of immortal tits.
Free food and beverages awaited a few blocks away at All-Purpose Hall. I would pull Kat close and slow dance with her and everyone would know we were in love. After the rice tossing, I caught a ride in Loretta's Taurus, which had the air conditioning set to max and three vanillaroma trees swinging from the rearview. Yanking a gigantic wrapped present from the trunk of her car when we arrived, she said, "You go on and find your young lady friend. I'm sure she wants to see you."
Tonight the All-Purpose Hall's purpose was that of a disco, with a mirror ball, streamers, and tables with punch and hors d'oeuvres, an assemblage that one aged man loudly dubbed "the whole nine yards!"
I occupied my hands with a plastic cup of punch and sat in a fold-out chair in a corner in anticipation of the wedding party. When they finally arrived, they formed a receiving line and the guests slowly hugged and kissed their way through the gauntlet of newlyweds. Flashes popped and Polaroid cameras spit out their square, ripening frames. Little nieces and nephews took turns pretending to be John Travolta: pointing skyward, then to the dance floor, then skyward once more. I joined the receiving line. When I reached the bride and groom, Veronica hugged ine and told me how special it was that I had come. My shoulders tensed as George clapped me on the back and laughed and advised not to spike the punch. Then Kat threw her arms around my neck and we hugged for a long time. "Everything is good," she said, and for another half hour no one could have convinced me otherwise.
A band appeared: four gentlemen in matching tuxes with blue glitter ties and cummerbunds and a woman singer in a gold lame' dress and football-grade shoulder pads. The lights dimmed and the All-Purpose Hall assumed the ambience of a high school prom. George and Veronica danced to a Peter Cetera song. I overheard one of the
guests observe that the sax player was as good as Kenny G. As soon as the dance concluded in a kiss and applause, the amplified kick drum thudded and the singer snarled into the microphone. "Left agood job in the citah, workinferthe- man every night and day, heh! Come on now let's see some of you out on the dance floor. Grandad over there, why don't you show these kids how toget funky! Hey! Rollin' on the riverrrrrr."
Kat kicked off her shoes, slid over to me in her stockings, and grabbed my hand. "We have to dance!"
"I don't know how!" I said, which was true. Dancing made little sense to me and I found myself overthinking what to do next. Kat laughed, flailing about, making faces at the corny music, and cracking me up. I decided that the best strategy would be to imitate a person falling from a building, and this seemed to produce a series of spastic yet wholly appropriate dance moves.
Jerry stood in a corner, eating from a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken carried under his arm, pretending to study a fire code bulletin on the wall. Kat noticed him before I did. Her hand went to her throat. We hurried to the opposite side of the hall, to the foyer by the restrooms.
"Oh my God, what is he doing here?" Kat gasped. "He wasn't invited. How did he know?"
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe he'll just leave."
We watched Jerry from behind a pillar. George and Veronica were still dancing and laughing; they hadn't no ticed him. Jerry walked slowly around the perimeter of the room, then left through an exit.
"Maybe he won't come back," I said. "Maybe he's uncomfortable." But then he reappeared through the same door, tearing meat off a drumstick with his teeth, bobbing his head a bit to the music. I watched Veronica notice him and register his presence, a jolt rattling her body; she hissed some frantic words into George's ear. While she walked briskly off the dance floor, past us, into the ladies' room, George located two of the groomsmen and quickly informed them of the unwanted guest. There were quick nods, the no-bullshit exchanges of men going into action. Almost casually, the groomsmen approached Jerry, who had wandered over to the gift table. One of the groomsmen said something and Jerry looked up, sort of quizzically, then looked at the other groomsman, gestured to the dance floor, and said something. There were more words from the groomsmen. Jerry shook his head, said something more emphatically. One of the groomsmen tried to take his arm but Jerry jerked away, barking something I could almost hear over the music, then walked to the side of the room where the food was. By now more guests had become aware of the unwanted guest and were conferring over the lips of beer bottles and tiny plates of toothpicked cheese as to his identity. I watched the mortification of their expressions as they realized, suddenly, that this was Veronica's ex-husband. Kat left my side and disappeared into the bathroom to find her mother. The band started in on the chicken song, advising everyone to flap their arms at incrementally lower elevations. Jerry went on eating his drumstick and George marched past me with his graying, balding best man, saying "The cops is what I'm going to do. I'm not going to let that guy fuck up my wedding. How the hell did he know about this? Shit, shit, shit."
"I'm on it, George. Don't worry. We'll take care of this asshole," the best man said, as though this kind of thing was a standard expectation of duty for the male half of a wedding party.
The three groomsmen approached Jerry and attempted to take him by the arms. The band kept playing, but only children and a couple clueless elderly people were still trying to perform the chicken dance. Jerry reached into the KFC bucket and came up with a gun.
The band slowed down and the microphone went into a spasm of feedback. The bassist continued for a couple bars and the drummer couldn't resist a final fill. Then the music ceased, leaving the entire All-Purpose Hall in silence. Jerry said, "I'm not here to cause any problems. I just want to say a few words to the groom."
The band's abrupt halt drew Kat and Veronica from the ladies' room. Veronica stumbled and maybe she understood what was about to happen. I was closest to her, so she grabbed onto my arm and leaned beside me against the pillar. "What's he doing? My God, what's happening?" she said.
A guest said, "Hey, what happened to the music? I was just starting to get groovy."
"Which one of you guys in the penguin suits is the groom?" Jerry said.
George stepped forward and said, "I'm Veronica's husband, and I'm asking you to leave."
"Nice. Well, okay, I just wanted to say congratulations. Cool your jets, I'm not here to ruin anything, I even brought my own grub."
"Please, just leave."
Jerry walked to the center of the deserted dance floor and took the mic from the singer, who recoiled and shuffled behind the drum set.
"Well, I usually don't speak in front of crowds so bear with me," Jerry said. "I think a toast is in order. And it's time to cut the cake. Go on, head over to the cake."
"Jerry don't do this!" Veronica pleaded.
"I said cut the fucking cake!"
A couple kids started crying, and those grown-ups who had their senses headed for the doors. Shaking, George took Veronica by the arm and together they painfully trudged to the cake. Kat's new manicure dug into my arm.
"All right, all you AA folks I guess are going to have to toast with apple cider or something, but let's crack open some of that champagne, what do you say? Hey! It's my old buddy, Cedar! Say, do me a favor and start popping some of them corks, will you now?"
Everyone looked at me. Blood abandoned Kat's fingers, leaving them cold against my skin. "You told him," she whispered.
I walked across the floor as if I were walking across the deck of a listing ship. Somehow I arrived at the table with the cake. I struggled with a couple bottles, poured the champagne into glasses. Veronica stood with her eyes closed, her back to Jerry, mumbling something I couldn't hear, a prayer maybe. A little boy asked his mother if there would be ice cream with the cake. Jerry told me to start handing out glasses. I followed the commands of the man with the gun until all the remaining, shell-shocked guests had their bubbly. I wondered if anyone had tried calling the police.
"Super," Jerry said, "now I guess you're all wondering why I showed up tonight, on such a joyous occasion. I came to give a toast. To long lasting love!" He raised his glass. When no one else did, he yelled, "Raise your fucking glasses!"
Guests mumbled cheers and clinked glasses. Jerry poured himself some more. "Now the bride, she's a piece of work, isn't she? Used to let her sell blow jobs when we needed the extra cash. True story. No fucking, just head. That was our little arrangement. And now look at her. All done up like a big fucking birthday present. Who are you trying to kid, baby? Aw, crying on your own wedding day. How touching. Well babe, I raise my glass to your eternal hap piness." Jerry raised his glass again, then banged the butt of the gun on the table. "Come on, you fucks! When I say toast we're all gonna toast or I swear to God I'll blow someone's fucking heart out!"
"Here, here!" one of the groomsmen said.
"That's the spirit. Finally, I'd like to raise a glass in honor of the groom. Oops, looks like he's just pissed himself. Is this a classy wedding or what? To the man who fucked my daughter. To the man who knocked her up. To the man who made my little girl get an abortion." Jerry drained the contents of his glass, then tossed it aside. He pushed the gun away from his body. There was supposed to be something exciting happening here, but what struck me most was a sense of deep embarrassment, like watching a mentally retarded person come unglued in public. Utterly incapable and petrified, I responded in the most inappropriate manner possible; I laughed. I expected George to cower or beg for his life or deny the accusation but the shooting didn't play out like this. What rose through this tall man with a new bride was anger unlike any I'd seen. His knuckles popped as he turned them into fists and every inch of him seemed to vibrate with rage. He took a step forward and pointed his finger. The words passing his lips twisted his face into a scowl menacing and feral. "You will not hurt the ones I love."
I expected the gun to sound louder, and almost believed it was fa
ke, a prop in an elaborate and twisted joke. But that was real blood sprayed on Veronica's wedding dress, those were real screaming people around me, and a real wounded man contorted his prone body on a floor where minutes before people had been dancing the chicken dance. This wasn't cool or redemptive or cathartic or any of the shit movies make you feel about violence. This was sick, and I was still sickly laughing. I think I fainted for a bit, or at least didn't notice everyone running for the doors, and when I pulled my head away from the pillar the room was emptied of wedding guests. Veronica was holding George's head, rocking on the floor, wailing. George's mouth opened and closed like a fish. Jerry sat nearby, on a rented folding chair, calmly eating a piece of cake from a plastic plate. Three cops materialized in the doorway, guns drawn; one of them Officer Stoner. There was some hands-up type language and some threats, the barked orders of officers who rarely saw this category of mayhem. Jerry shrugged, stuffed another forkful of white cake into his face. Mouth oozing with frosting, he rammed in the barrel and scattered his brain out the back of his head. He rocked backward and for a moment it appeared that the chair would tip over and spill him onto the floor. The chair wobbled on its back legs as if waiting for Jerry to die before it toppled, but as the echoes of the shot dissipated, the chair righted itself, ably supporting the dead man.
Albany.
It was a little after six in the morning. Kat appeared to be sleeping facedown, fully clothed, with boots on, on my bed. I needed to brush my teeth. I brushed for about five minutes, slowly, letting toothpaste fall out of my mouth in foamy plops.
"The story about the boy you met on your trip was true, wasn't it?"
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