My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding

by L. A. Banks

  "But poor Trini," said Aleen. "I feel I should warn her or some­thing."

  "Never works. Trust me, it's been tried."

  "Is your vibe ever wrong?"

  "Never. But it's handy. Helped me pick the right man. Helped Frankie's mom do the same. Hopefully she'll have the same good luck if and when she takes a crack at it."

  Frankie rolled her eyes. "Just not tonight. I'm too busy." So say­ing, she hurried to another part of the serving line that was about to run out of potatoes. Aleen remained with Gramma, probably hoping to find a way to save Trinidad's marriage.

  "Vibe" had always been Aleen's word for whatever-it-was that ran in the distaff side of Frankie's family. Way back when, the women might have called it the Sight or the Eye, if they called it anything. Gramma never made a big to-do about it, no more than one would for a birthmark, and just as well. Frankie had grown up with a min­imum of trauma attached.

  The initial assault of hungry guests was over, with everyone but a few table hoppers seated. The big hall echoed loud with simultaneous conversations, the clink and clank of utensils on plates, the noise visually punctuated by the official photographer's flash unit. Weddings ran more or less on a schedule, even one this large. Next would come the second-helping crowd, and sure enough, some of the wrestler types were already in line again.

  Those were pretty big guys. Frankie hoped she'd allowed enough food for them. Coop's Cool-Cats might be out of luck for a post-show meal otherwise.

  Everything was under control, though, and running smoothly. The bride would be pleased, and might recommend Yummy Cater­ing to her friends. It wouldn't hurt to have a picture of Trinidad's wedding up in the front office, either. Status-wise, this wedding was a hell of a good windfall for the business.

  Frankie was in the kitchen supervising an early start on the cleanup when the loud twang of a very much in tune electric guitar thrummed through the walls, announcing the show. She wiped her wet hands and rushed out for a look. The catering line for the main meal was shut down and cleared. Nothing to do but clean until the cake cutting began. She was allowed a break.

  Twa-a-a-ng again; then the drummer began thumping a vigorous beat, building for the star's big entrance. Frankie could guess that Gramma would find the best view for the show, spotted her, and stood next to her. They had a clear field to the stage.

  "This is sooooo cool," said Gramma, who was able to get away with teen-talk simply because on her it was cute, not forced. The glow on her face and spark in her eyes showed that she'd not changed much from that swooning twenty-year-old of fifty years past.

  "Totally cool," Frankie agreed, having to raise her voice to be heard above the rising fanfare. The group had saxophone and trom­bone players, both instruments adding to the tapestry of sound, en­riching it. She loved live music, done well; tonight would be a treat. She craned her neck, looking for the first sign of the Elvis guy com­ing onstage.

  " 'Scuse me, pretty ladies."

  The voice.

  Frankie gave a jellied-knees start, for the man was behind her and had bent to speak almost in her ear.

  Gramma also jumped, gaping, then mouthing a silent oh, my good­ness at the sight of him. What big eyes she had.

  Elvis smiled down at both in turn and winked. " 'Scuse me. Gotta take care of business." Clearly he was intent on a grander entrance than simply stepping out from behind a partition onstage.

  He passed between them. Frankie caught a whiff of a clean, sharp aftershave mixed with the black leather; then he was gone and on the move. The drums and guitar cut loose in frenzied earnest, and a spot­light flashed bright in her eyes before it centered on Elvis.

  The guests gave a collective gasp. Many must have known the specifics of the entertainment but were clearly unprepared for the quality Spotlights were merciless and could pick out every flaw, only in this case none were to be found. He was perfect from every an­gle. He moved easily through the crowd, pausing at tables, throwing the look, and collecting squeals of reaction from dozens of stirred-up girls. Hands reached for him; he brushed at a few, grinned as though sharing a secret joke, and steadily made his way to the stage. The audience began to spontaneously applaud as though for the real deal. Frankie was surprised to find she'd joined in, caught up by the phenomenon.

  He took the two steps up to the stage, plucked a cordless mic from a stand, and paused, his back to the house, feet apart, legs braced. His shoulders shifted, settled, and the ovation increased. Then he held up his free hand, fingers spread, and pointed to the ceiling. The music cut off, and as though by magic so did the applause. The whole place went utterly silent.

  He slowly turned, head tilted and shoulders slightly hunched, arm still high. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

  He brought the mic to his lips. The deep "huh-huh-huh" that came forth boomed through the room, and everyone, Frankie in­cluded, roared in response. The show could have ended right then and been considered a success, but the drummer resumed her driv­ing beat, the guitar player joined in, and Elvis launched into "Hound Dog."

  The voice was the same one Frankie had heard on Gramma's rec­ords, then her CD collections. The timbre, tone, and range were identical, but this was no lip-sync performance; the man onstage was belting it out himself and throwing everything into it. He had the moves and mannerisms nailed so accurately it was as though he'd in­vented them himself. The blast of raw energy rolled from him to the audience, and though it was not the time for it, several stood up and danced in place, unable to hold still.

  "What do you think, Gramma?" Frankie asked. The noise levels were such that she had to bellow to be heard. "We're feeding them afterward. Does that work for you?"

  Gramma stared, still wide-eyed, at the man onstage and made no reply. Something was off. Maybe she didn't like impersonators, after all, but she'd never once said anything against them.

  "Gramma?"

  She only shook her head. Not now, she mouthed, and flapped her hand at the show.

  Okay, fine, Frankie wanted to enjoy it. If Gramma had a problem, they could tackle things later.

  The opening number over, Elvis took a bow. Frankie scanned the crowd, noting amazement on some faces and blatant hero worship on others. The older folks who had memories of the real man seemed the most stunned. The rest, born years after his passing, were apparently realizing what their parents and grandparents had seen in him. She was willing to lay down money that they'd be at a music store the next day looking to add to their CD collections.

  He was timeless, and she was suddenly glad Gramma had instilled an appreciation for him in her from an early age.

  The man onstage thanked everyone—yes, his speaking voice was the same, too, right down to the melting accent—and launched into the master-of-ceremonies part of his job. He introduced the bride and groom, poked gentle fun at their unique names, and made it seem as though he were close personal friends with them and their respective families.

  "Now bachelorhood isn't everything it's cracked up to be, isn't that right, Santiago?" he asked. "That's right; some of your pals have been tellin' tales, tellin' me what it was like for you before you met that pretty lady you're sittin' next to. . . ."

  The music swelled and he began singing "Are You Lonesome Tonight?"

  The groomsmen hooted—at the groom, who was grinning and nodding agreement to the words. Then he cocked his shaved, tat­tooed head, listening as though he'd never heard them before. He al­most looked somber as the song ended.

  "Of course," Elvis continued, "you've had plenty of dates, you're a popular guy, but when you don't find that special gal, there's only one place you can go . . ."

  He sang "Heartbreak Hotel."

  The small band was inspired; it was as though he had a full or­chestra backing him instead of just a few players and a lot of amps. Frankie had seen her share of wedding singers, but nothing came close to this.

  When the applause settled, he continued, "And then one day, if you're real lucky, out of the blue
she's there, right next to you as though you've known her your whole life—that one woman you can love forever. And she's precious, man, precious."

  Santiago, nodded, looking at his bride as Elvis sang "I Can't Help Falling in Love." Before he'd gotten halfway through, the bride's mother broke down into tears. Her husband put his arm around her. There was a general shifting of several couples as they also reacted to the music and the voice. Frankie felt her own throat getting a lump and glanced around for a glass of water she'd put on the serving table earlier.

  "Gramma? You okay?"

  Her grandmother was openly crying, a wad of paper napkins in one hand for her tears. She shook her head and waved Frankie off, clearly having a wonderful time.

  Said Elvis: "But it's one thing to love a woman, and another to ap­preciate her. You think about it, Santiago: Out of all the handsome men in this whole wide world"—he gave a sly smile—"and I'm sure one of 'em . . ."

  The cheering and whistling took up a few moments.

  "... Out of all of those guys this beautiful, wonderful lady picked you. Now why do you think she did that?"

  Santiago shook his head. His expression had gone serious, as though he truly needed to have the answer.

  " 'Cause she loves you, man. You don't ever want to take that for granted. You respect her, you love her, you be there for her, and . . ."

  "Love Me Tender" came next, and it was the softest, sweetest ren­dition of the ballad Frankie had ever heard. Elvis came down from the stage so he could sing directly to the couple at their table.

  Frankie's lump in the throat came back, and Gramma tore through another stack of paper napkins. Everyone in the place, from the guests, to the servers, to the hard-faced bodyguards keeping out the uninvited, seemed deeply moved by it.

  "This guy is beyond amazing," Frankie whispered to Gramma.

  "Sweetheart, you don't know the half if it," Gramma whispered back.

  When he finished, the couple kissed. It wasn't a planned thing, it just happened, and they weren't the only ones. Frankie abruptly wanted someone to kiss and this Elvis counted for at least twelve slots on her top-ten list for that experience. Yes, he was an illusion, but damn—he was a good illusion, a hot illusion.

  He'd returned to the stage, accompanied by the sounds of sniffles and the occasional goose honk as someone blew their nose. Unbe­lievable. The big, tough groomsmen were doing most of it.

  "You've found her and she's picked you—now what happens?" Elvis asked, and in reply he sang "One Night" so plaintively, his whole heart so clearly into it, that Frankie had to quell the urge to shout, Yes! and charge the stage to jump on him.

  The song proved a showstopper. The guests were wild now, and needed settling. Frankie couldn't make out what he said through it, but the next number was "Hawaiian Wedding Song."

  Perfect. The man, whoever he was under the hairstyle and makeup, was a genius. There wasn't a dry eye in the house. They'd remember this wedding for years to come.

  "Now I want the new mister 'n' missus to come out on the floor. Don't be shy; we're all friends here."

  The couple's first dance was to a reprise of "Can't Help Falling in Love," and Elvis encouraged the audience to sing the chorus with him. Other couples got out on the floor. Frankie was sorry she wasn't a guest as well.

  Someone tapped her shoulder. She expected a kitchen crisis, but it was Omar, his arms wide in invitation. In his late fifties and wholly devoted to his large family, he was just playing the polite gentleman with an offer to dance, but apparently the music had touched him as well. She laughed, accepted, and they did a couple of dignified turns in a clear area behind the tables.

  Another shoulder tap—this time from Gramma, who wanted some of the action.

  "C'mon, kid," she said. "Share."

  Omar bowed gravely and took her hand. She liked younger men; she claimed they were the only ones who could keep up with her.

  Frankie was delighted. She was drawn back to her catbird view of the dance, getting there in time to see the newlyweds finish out with another kiss. The whole room cheered.

  It was wonderful. A bona fide Moment, with a capital M.

  And . . . there was something odd about them . . . no . . . changed. What the hell . . . ?

  She stared, but there was no mistaking that they were different now. Yes, it was still Santiago and Trinidad, ridiculous names for anyone, but the two people who bore them were giving off a wholly different vibe. They were together, really together, two adults on the same page with common goals and a rock-solid love that would last, truly last. That hadn't been there half an hour ago. Frankie had known that for a fact. Gramma had seen it, too.

  Frankie looked at the Elvis guy, her jaw dropping.

  Oh no ... no way. That kind of thing only happened in the movies. Someone sings a song and makes everything all better? Sweet, but never in the real world. No way. No freakin' way. . . .

  Elvis looked at Frankie across the space, seemed to fix on her de­spite the fact that she was in the dim background of a huge hall. She opened up a little, thinking to catch his vibe and be able read him this time, but it wasn't working the way she expected. She felt his gaze locking on to hers like a searchlight.

  Make that a cruise missile.

  Her breath caught, her heart leaped again, and every light in the room suddenly flared up too bright to bear.

  All the strength left her knees, and her brain spun. She grabbed a chair for balance, but it wasn't enough and down she dropped, taking the chair with her. They made quite a crashing clatter.

  Startled cries and an instant later she was surrounded by con­cerned voices and helping hands. By some miracle she'd not cracked her head, nor had she fully lost consciousness, but she'd swooned away like a schoolgirl.

  Gramma was there, dribbling water on her face from a dishcloth. Ugh. "It's all right, honey."

  When she tried to get up it didn't work. Omar held her shoul­ders, and someone she couldn't see had her feet raised comically high. She was damn-for-sure glad she'd opted for pants instead of a skirt tonight.

  "I'm fine," she rasped, struggling. "Lemme up."

  "No," said Omar. Firmly. It was his don't-even-think-it tone, usually reserved for inept kitchen help about to be fired.

  Okay, she could lie here for a bit longer if it made him not-mad. She would work on making the dizziness go away.

  Can I be any more mortified? Frankie thought.

  The answer wasn't just yes but hell-yes. Elvis was now one of the people leaning into her view.

  Arrgghh. She couldn't think how he'd gotten over here so fast through the crowd, and wished he'd stayed away. Lying sprawled with her legs in the air . . . oh yeah, that would make an impression.

  "Lemme through," he said. "I had a little first aid in the army."

  No one argued with that soft voice. People parted and he checked her over. She squeezed her eyes firmly shut, hoping that when she opened them this would all be done. Embarrassing as it was, she couldn't help noticing his aftershave again {oh yeah, and the leather), and how gentle he was, murmuring questions on whether this or that hurt. This would have been a fine time for him to cop a feel, but he remained a perfect gentleman.

  He ascertained her skull was intact and nothing broken. That pro­nounced, she was ready to get up again, her dizziness gone now that she'd caught her breath.

  More embarrassment. As soon as she was helped to her feet a cheer went around the hall. She hung on to Elvis's arm for dear life and wanted to throw a grenade at the genius who had swung the spot square on them.

  "You've got that deer in the headlights look, Frankie," Gramma urgently whispered. "Smile and wave like an astronaut."

  Those instructions were her solution to a wide number of life's disasters, major and minor. Frankie did as she was told. It worked. Another round of cheers. The best man had shouldered his way over along with the father of the bride, who looked justifiably nervous, probably worried about lawsuits. She smiled, gave them a thumbs-up, s
till holding on to Elvis with her other hand. He was pretty dang solid under that leather.

  Gramma ran interference for her, God bless the woman, saying that the kitchen had been too warm and Frankie had been working too hard. While she held their attention Frankie glared up at Elvis.

  "Just what the hell did you do to me, buster?" she snarled.

  He returned her gaze, steady, with no excuses, no denials, no what-are-you-talking-abouts. "I'm sorry about that, truly sorry. I'm as surprised as you. I didn't know that could happen."

  " What could happen?" She was furious.

  "Well—uh—maybe we could talk later? I am truly, truly sorry." He started to pull away.

  She held fast. "Who are you?"

  An odd expression whipped over his face and was gone, a touch of sadness, a hint of sly charm, then the smile, the shy, sweet smile ex­actly as she'd seen in the movies. "Why, Yummy Cat, I think you know already. No need for me to say."

  Frankie's grip went slack as her fingers lost feeling, and he went away to finish his set.

  She'd have been happier if the rest of the evening had passed in a nice, foggy haze, but everything was crystalline sharp and seemed to take far too long.

  Speeches were made, the cake cut, photographs taken, video shot. The bride tossed the bouquet; the groom tossed her garter, inspiring a violent shouting match and scuffle among four of the groomsmen. It looked ugly for a moment, then turned out to be a wrestling gag they'd cooked up. They all shook hands and did the macho slap-on-the-back/shoulder thumping thing, laughing.

  And Elvis sang. They couldn't get enough of him.

  The unexpected pause in the proceedings had no effect on the show. Coop's Cool-Cats kept the energy high and moving. Every song was a hit you could dance to and so well done that Frankie felt her anger vanish after just a few bars. That annoyed her. She'd wanted to hang on to her mad so as to have it in reserve for the talk he'd promised. The music wouldn't let her keep that particular kind of momentum.