Here and there he spots the familiar faces he has come to know over the course of twenty years in this New Hampshire parish, Doug’s friends and family whom he has met at church suppers and supper parties, at hospital bedsides and grave sites. Known their crises of spirit, their good works and their not-so-good works. In their light pastels, seersucker jackets, and cotton sundresses; their quiet grace; their modulated, educated voices (this is, after all, a college town)—this is the flock he has struggled to shepherd. Of them and to them he could—for the most part—speak what is in his heart.
But then with flashes of bright color and with loud voices, and with the sound—he almost wants to say—of tabor and harp like the daughters of men in Genesis six, verses one through four, who draw down from the mountains the serious men with offers of tender meats and sweets, come the family and friends of Yolanda García.
Among these, her people, he feels tongue-tied and pale. All afternoon, there have been spats and reconciliations as they gathered and mixed on this meadow, the father and mother upset with one of the daughters, a weeping sister hugging an old aunt, two friends screaming oh-my-god hellos. He has heard whispered words that are almost biblical: disowning, redeeming herself, my blessing, die in peace now. He knows from the gossip they have passed on to him before he put on his robe hanging on a hook in the van, before they knew he was “the priest” (the family are all Catholics, he believes), that one of Yolanda’s exes is here, that he will be reading a Rumi poem, that the attractive darker-skinned woman is the maid’s daughter, that the best friend in the snug black leotard with a distracting lace bodice has brought a whole therapy group along with her. Among these there is a gay woman and another gay woman and two little babies, how did this happen? The world is full of mystery and happenstance. God bless, God bless, is all he can think to say to these people. Perhaps that will calm them down, perhaps with just the right words he can bring them together, a momentary congregation on this New Hampshire hillside on a hot day at the end of May.
And in the midst of this clamorous clan, this kaleidoscope of colors, wanders the bride herself, Yolanda García in a gray tunic and pants. She seems almost subdued amid this tintinnabulation and emotional commotion as if she were trying to put all of these people together in her head, a quilting of lives, a collection of points of view.
By the cooler of spring water Doug’s parents have set up, she stands for a moment by herself and looks over at him. He recalls—how could he not?—that she did not want a church wedding. That when he asked her at the counseling session before agreeing to perform the ceremony if she believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, she looked at him a long moment, and answered, Yes and no.
And that same look is in her eyes now along with a look of puzzlement as if she were wondering how she will carry this off, the ceremony and the life afterwards. And the look both entreats and challenges him, So, man of God, what can you say to me? What is the good word?
Friends and family (he would like to say), we are gathered here both to relinquish who we were and to celebrate what we are becoming. This is our mission on this twenty-ninth day of May nineteen-hundred and ninety-three: we who have been a seminal part of the earlier lives and loves of Douglas Manley and Yolanda García have come here to create their new family.
If one more of her sappy sisters comes around and asks me how I feel, I think I’m going to scream. What am I supposed to say, I’m having a great time watching you all play Mister Potato Face with my life!
Let’s give Corey a new mother. Let’s give Corey a new set of relatives. Let’s give Corey a whole new happy family she can be a part of.
And then this one old aunt, I mean she must be blind, starts talking to me in Spanish. Yeah, I’ve had a couple of years in high school and I’ve gone to Guatemala with my real parents, but I’m not going to let on that I understand what she’s saying to me. She goes on and on trying to figure out whether I look like the Garcías or the de la Torres. And then, I realize she thinks I’m her grandniece and that I came all the way from the Dominican Republic to attend this stupid wedding.
Like please, like por favor, would you stop breathing your bad breath on my face or I am going to scream.
This middle-aged hippy-type guy finally comes up and pulls me away. “Howdy there! You must be Miss Corey?” He’s got a Southern accent that sounds made up. I nod, just waiting, arms folded, like you want to make something of it, buster. “I’m Dexter Hays, at your service.” He kisses my hand. It is kind of cute. He hands me this purple balloon with a happy face, which he then proceeds to tie on my wrist.
“Will you be my date for this wedding?” he comes on to me.
I want to say, Get a life, get a good haircut, and a job or something. So I just say, “Excuse me, I’ve got to find my dad,” and quick I turn away, keeping my head down cause, man, the last thing I want is to make eye contact with some other dumb person who’s going to ask me how I’m doing.
And boy, it’s my lucky day, my lucky year, my lucky life. I bump right into her, and for a minute, I think, jesus christ, she looks just as scared as I am.
“How you holding up, Corey?” she asks. She knows better than to put her arm around me, though it looked for a second like she was going to do just that.
“I’m fine,” I say, all business. “I’m looking for my dad.”
And boom there he is throwing one arm around her and one around me. “How are my two lovely ladies?” he says, which just about makes me throw up. I try to shrug his arm off but he keeps holding on. “Dad!” I say. “Let go!” He better let go or else.
I’ll stand on this hillside and scream. I really will.
If this isn’t the prettiest bunch of babes I’ve seen north of the Mason Dixie, my name ain’t Dexter Hays. I came with a bouquet of purple Happy Face balloons for the bride, but I’ve been giving them away to these fair ladies. So many dearly beloved varieties gathered together here: slim Latin ones with knowing eyes and sunkissed skin; ladies hitting their full-bodied, mid-life stride; handsome ladies who prefer ladies—ah what a loss to me; and then the blond, long-legged yankee ladies with no makeup and a fresh clean look on their all-American faces.
Of which this pretty Corey-girl is one, poor baby, looking so sad. I tried to cheer her up, but she’s a workout all right. Yo better start growing some of that thick skin she never could seem to graft onto her too-sensitive self. She’s going to need it. But hey, she always wanted family in a big way, uncles and aunts and in-laws and cousins twice and thrice removed and friends who are relatives by what she calls affection. Well, this whole hillside’s crawling with her dream come true, which usually comes as a package deal with a nightmare or two.
So who am I in this gathering, the sandman with a case of bad dreams? No sir. It’s been five years since I’ve seen Yolanda García and it would have been the rest of our lives if it hadn’t been that the Grateful Dead were giving a concert about twenty minutes from here. Over the last five years, we’ve kept in touch on and off but mostly off recently. So I call her up, and her number’s been changed, and so I call up the new number, and this guy Doug answers, and I’m about to say, “This is Luigi’s Pizza Parlor. I got a large pepperoni here to deliver to the Albatrosses, can you give me directions to your house?” But I think, what the hell, I was there before you were, buddy, so I say, “This is an old friend of Yo’s, is she there?”
And he says, “I’m sorry, she can’t come to the phone right now. Can I take a message?”
I’m ready to tell him to go screw himself, but then he adds, “She’s writing,” and I know he’s not just trying to put me off. So I leave my name and number and a couple of hours later, there’s old Yo on the line, saying, “Ay, Dexter, it’s so great to hear your voice. What have you been up to?”
“What have you been up to?” I put in because I hear some major changes just in the way her voice stands up for itself. “You sound real happy.” No matter what my daddy says, I got more couth than to add, for a change.
“Ay, I am so, so happy, Dexter, I feel so blessed.”
And as she tells me how she’s finally found this really wonderful man (so what was I, chopped coon liver?), I’m standing there going, “Well, that’s terrific!” But you know how it is, you want your ex-heartthrobs to be happy, but you don’t really want to hear about it. I guess in the bottom of my silly heart I always like to think of my past ladies as still burning a flame for me. Hell, I’ll settle for a pilot light, cause I do declare, ole Dex just has not had staying luck when it comes to the gals. My daddy says it’s my own goddamn fault. He says I never have really wanted to settle down. And though I wouldn’t want him to hear me say so, I think he may be right.
So, anyhow, when she’s caught me up on her new life, she turns it over to me. “But you tricked me, Dex. I asked you first. What are you up to?”
And so I end up telling her why it is I’m calling, I’m going to be nearby at the Grateful Dead concert the last weekend in May, and she starts to laugh, and says, “Dexter, honey. I’m getting married that Saturday. Why don’t you come to the wedding in the afternoon before the concert. It’s going to be out in the country on this piece of land we bought next to a sheep farm. . . .”
She goes on, waxing lyrical I guess is the way to put it, and I’m trying to listen and roll a joint at the same time on account of I’ve got this raw place in me I gotta fill with something. Sure enough, once I get the thing lit and take a few deep draws, I feel a lot better about all this happiness going Yo’s way. So maybe that’s why I end up promising as I say goodbye, “Sure baby, for old time’s sake. I’ll be there to kiss the bride!”
Kiss the bride, my eye, if he gets near Yo one more time I’m going to go over there and pop all those silly balloons he brought tied to his hand. (What’s he trying to do—upstage the groom?)
First thing he does is come up and say, “You must be the lucky man!” Which I am, but I don’t want him telling me so. So I put out my hand and say, “Doug Manley, Yo’s husband,” though technically, I should say, Yo’s soon-to-be husband. But I want to put this guy in his place right away. Well, he’s not about to let me. Out goes his hand and this cocky grin lights up his face. “I’m Dex, Yo’s ex,” he says.
Then Yo comes up and he starts giving her these Lordy-lord, Ideclare shakes of the head, and hmm-umms like he is speechless at the sight of her. Now I’m not an easily agitated man, but I don’t like this one bit. When he turns to me—as if he really is asking my permission, and says, “May I kiss the bride?” I shrug, sure, but then he keeps on giving her a peck every time she goes by. “Hold on, mister,” I want to tell him, “it’s not a blanket permission.”
I’m glad everyone else is here. Of course, Corey looks as if she’s going to cry, and there’s no use trying to include her because if you do, she says she’s going to throw up, and if you leave her alone, she says she’s going to scream, or maybe it’s the other way around. She has already given me her decision. It’s going to be full time with her mom and some weekends with Yo and me. When I say, so how many is some, she says she’s going to scream and throw up if I try to pin her down.
The sins of the father are visited upon the sons and the daughters. But don’t kid yourself, they come rebounding back to you. Luke and I have talked about it. So many times those first few lonely years after the divorce I’d drive by St. John’s and see the light on up at his office, late night, at least for a small town, ten o’clock, and I’d park and go up, and he’d put aside whatever sermon he was working on—he does love a good homily—and say, “How’s it going?” He would know I was having a hard night—that’s why I stopped. Sometimes he’d show me examples in the Bible (Isaac and the ram of happiness, the dove with a sprig of hope in its beak) and sometimes he would just speak from his heart, which were the best times.
And that’s how, once, he ended up telling me about this project St. John’s was going to do in the Dominican Republic along with some other churches, building houses in the poorest villages. Did I want to go?
It was summer, Corey was due to come to me that month. I didn’t even have to think about it. I said, sure. Soon as I got home I pulled out my atlas, and I was surprised—such a big, self-important name, The Dominican Republic, for this little amoeba shape like something under a microscope that might just glide away.
So Corey and I flew down. We felt somewhat prepared as she and her mother and I had once been to Guatemala for a long vacation. But in the Dominican Republic we were based in this mountain village, living in tents, about sixteen men and ten women from churches all over the United States. At first, the villagers just eyed us as if they weren’t sure what we would ask of them in return for this godsend of new houses, especially since we were Protestants. This one guy in our group who knew Spanish well explained to them that our building them shelters didn’t mean they had to renounce the Pope. The villagers seemed more at ease after that, though they kept saying that before they signed any papers accepting our contribution (something the IRS and Uncle Sam required) they wanted to wait for the arrival of this person named Yolanda García.
So that is how we met—in a little, godforsaken village with Yo giving us the third degree about what we were up to and then telling the villagers that yes, it was safe, they could go ahead and sign their X’s on the dotted line. I guess they hadn’t known how to read the forms and were too ashamed to say so. Anyhow, later I found out that she’d been coming to this village for the past few summers and had gotten to know a lot of the villagers. These last two weeks, she had been off in the capital because her lover had come down to visit from the States. You can guess who that lover was, Mister Dexter Hays.
The funny thing was that down there Yo and Corey really hit it off. I suppose there was no jealous sense yet that this woman might become a part of my life. And this is what I keep remembering when the going gets hard. A sprig of hope in the dove’s beak.
We had just finished the last of the houses, and all the villagers had gathered to celebrate under a thatched gazebo that sat in the center of the desolation they called a town. These old guys brought out the crudest instruments. One of them was a can with punctured holes over which he ran a small steel rod making a rasping sound. Another was an accordion that looked like it’d travelled all over Europe with the gypsies. Then there was a drum made out of a hollowed-out tree trunk, and maracas fashioned from gourds with the dried seeds still inside.
These guys started playing a merengue with a beat that would beat any band north or south of the Rio Grande. Yo and Corey were snapping their fingers and moving their hips to the beat, and suddenly they were out on the floor together, just the two of them, dancing, Corey like she’d been doing it since day one. After a few minutes, they each pulled in someone from the village, and started dancing with them. (Yo chose a guy, Corey, of course, another girl.) After a spin, they paired up those two villagers, and selected another two, danced with them, mixed them up, and soon the whole village and all the volunteers were dancing in the gazebo and spilling out to the streets of the village. I was sort of hanging back in the sidelines, because no matter how infectious the sound of that merengue was, I’m the world’s worst and most self-conscious dancer. As soon as Yo and Corey each released their last partners, they looked around to see who was left, and except for the musicians, it was just me slinking away behind the town cistern.
“Hey!” Yo called, and Corey dragged me to the floor, and then the three of us were holding hands, dancing merengue, and laughing our heads off. After a rousing chorus, the musicians got up and led us through the winding streets, all of us dancing, as if we were some sort of procession, blessing the new buildings and our coming together to build them.
Of course, that’s a far cry from what’s happening here. Looking out over this hillside at everyone in their separate clumps—just like the sheep in the field beyond—and catching the look on Corey’s face and Yo’s furrowed brow, I feel doubtful but also hopeful that everyone will have just as good a time now.
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Except for this Dexter fellow. Him I’d like to see lifted up by that bunch of balloons on his wrist into the sky and dropped down some place far away from here. Maybe that village in the Dominican Republic, yeah, right on top of one of the houses we built.
At first, I thought, no way.
But then I thought it over, and I guess I wanted to see them all once again. The García girls. Except for Yo, who dropped in at the clinic last June, I hadn’t seen any of them for over twenty years.
But it was more than that. Mamá died last year, and I’m still grieving. I know I have to get a whole new point of view about life. You have to when you lose someone who’s been hiding the view of the grave from you, a mother, a father, a beloved aunt or uncle. The older generation. Next thing you know, you’re the next in line to die, and the wind blows strong in that direction.
So I was shivering and alone. Mamá was my last real tie to the island, and now that she’s gone, I really have no reason to keep going back. I have a busy practice, and whatever free time I have, I’m on the courts. (I’ve managed to maintain my 6.0 rating.) So why go back? What little family I have left on the island is so poor and illiterate that I can’t bear to face them. Every month I still send down a bank check to our village. When I first enlisted the courier service they couldn’t even find the place on a map, even on the new detailed maps that include all the coastal resorts marked with beach umbrellas and little red sailboats.
The invitation was actually not from her parents but from Yo herself. And it wasn’t fancy at all. She’d bought it at one of those card stores, a fill-in-the-blank type thing. Come to such and such a meadow beside the thus and such sheep farm on the last weekend in May for a big gathering and exchange of vows. An address in New Hampshire. (I had to stop by Waldens and buy an atlas to see exactly where New Hampshire was. I knew it was north of New York City, but how north? As far as I’m concerned fifty states is too many to keep straight. They should combine them into five or six provinces. That would make it easier for us poor immigrants who have to memorize them for our citizenship exam. It’s the one section of the test that I didn’t get a 100 percent on.)
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