by Dave Barry
“Then why are they looking at me that way?”
“Because they think you’re making me unhappy.”
“Am I making you unhappy?”
“Right now, yes.”
Suddenly her perfect blue eyes overflowed, tear tracks cascading down her perfect pink cheeks. She was not normally a crier, and rarely looked so vulnerable. To Seth, she had never looked more beautiful. He reached out and pulled her to him, felt her sobbing into his shoulder.
“Teen,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you’re just trying to be a good guy,” she said, her voice wavering. “I know that. You’re a nice guy, and you want to be nice to everybody, and you’re being nice to the Haitians and I understand that.” She pulled back so she could look at him. “But this is my wedding. This is our wedding. Why can’t we have our wedding be just for us?” She went back to his shoulder and resumed sobbing.
Seth held her for a while, feeling awful, every sob a punch to his heart.
Finally he said, “OK.”
Tina looked up at him. “OK what?”
“OK, you’re right. This is insane. I can’t be the only person in Miami who can help these people. There has to be someplace else they can go. I’ll just tell them I’m sorry but I’m getting married and they have to leave.”
“You will? Really?”
“Really.”
“When?”
“Tonight. After the rehearsal dinner.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ll just tell them they have to go. It’ll be OK. They’ll just . . .” He trailed off because he had no end to that sentence.
Tina smiled hugely, hugged him hard. “Thanks, baby.” She took his arm, and they resumed walking toward the hotel, a handsome, happy couple once again. Seth glanced over at Tina; she was smiling at her parents. Her cheeks were dry; her tears were gone.
18
In the end, Trevor solved the problem of how to open the suitcase by simply ripping it apart. He dumped the contents onto the dirty cement floor of his cage and began going through them. Most of them were clothes, and they smelled like a man. This displeased Trevor, so he urinated on them.
With that taken care of, he found Seth’s toiletries kit, which he also ripped open. Out spilled a variety of interesting things, including a tube of Crest toothpaste, which Trevor tore open and ate. Not bad. He then picked up a Right Guard deodorant stick and managed to get the cap off. He sniffed the gel, took a bite, then spat it out. Bad.
Something caught Trevor’s eye on the floor: a small red-velvet-covered box that had been tucked in among the clothes. He picked it up and sniffed it. It had a little bit of man scent on it, but much more of a woman scent. Trevor inhaled deeply. He liked it. This was something he would treasure.
19
The rehearsal dinner was held in a private banquet room in the hotel’s upscale Italian restaurant. On hand, besides the wedding party, were several of Tina’s relatives, as well as Wendell and Greta Corliss, who were included as part of Mike Clark’s full-court press on Wendell. The diners sat at one long table, with the Clarks and Corlisses at the end farthest from Seth’s parents.
The dinner, which was paid for by the Clarks, was first class. The wine was both expensive and plentiful; as it flowed, the lingering tension of the rehearsal receded from the room. Seth and Tina sat at the center of the table, the two of them feeling closer than they had since they’d arrived in Miami.
The food came in courses, each more delicious than the last. Finally, when everyone was stuffed, it was time for the serving of the Groom’s Cake.
The Groom’s Cake is allegedly an old Southern wedding tradition that nobody ever heard of until about five years ago when the wedding industry, always on the lookout for ways to make weddings more expensive, started hyping it. The idea is to have a special cake just for the groom, reflecting some special thing about him. Tina had commissioned a high-end New York cake designer to produce a cake shaped like a football, sporting the logo of the New York Giants and an amazingly lifelike portrait, in frosting, of Eli Manning. This cake was to be a surprise, presented to Seth by Tina at the end of the dinner. For now, it was hidden under a silver dome on a cart near the end of the table.
Also at that end of the table were Rose and Sid. They had been fairly well behaved for most of the meal, but now Sid, declaring that his back was bothering him, had started pestering Rose for his medication, by which he meant one of the brownies that Rose’s sister Sarah sent them from California. Rose was inclined to let Sid have one; she was thinking she wouldn’t mind having a brownie herself.
Rose and Sid had both become quite fond of these brownies. Sarah baked them herself using high-grade medical marijuana, which she added in far larger quantities than the standard recipe called for on the theory that if some medicine is good for you, then more medicine must be better for you. These were potent brownies. Both Sid and Rose had found that no matter what was ailing them, they felt a lot better after eating one. Sometimes they completely forgot what had been ailing them in the first place. Once Rose had gone to the kitchen to get Sid a glass of water and had become fascinated by the water running out of the kitchen faucet. She wound up staring at the glittering cascade for more than an hour, barely moving. Sid, sitting in the living room, had not minded; he was engrossed in listening to the subtle and fascinating interplay of droning sounds made by the vacuum cleaner, which Rose had left running.
As the rehearsal dinner approached the dessert course, Rose decided it was time for her and Sid to take their medicine. She opened her massive purse and took out the plastic box filled with brownies. She set it on the serving cart next to her and began rummaging through her purse, looking for her reading glasses so she could unwrap the brownies.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” said Sid.
Rose was about to give her automatic response to Sid, which was that no he didn’t have to go to the bathroom, when it occurred to her that maybe he did, as it had been some time since his last trip. She decided she had to go, too. So she closed her purse, stood, and told Sid to come on. The two of them toddled slowly from the room.
On their way out, they passed a waiter coming in. The waiter’s name was Miguel; he had been assigned the task of unveiling and serving the Groom’s Cake when given the signal by Tina. He positioned himself by the serving cart in the corner and noticed the plastic box sitting next to the silver dome. This did not look right to Miguel. He opened the box and saw that it was filled with brownies individually wrapped in plastic. He assumed that these, like the cake, had been provided by the wedding party; he also assumed that they were meant to be part of the dessert offering and somebody had failed to unwrap them.
Miguel was a man with initiative. Using his body to shield the cart from the rest of the room, he lifted the dome and set it aside, exposing the football cake, which lay in the center of a silver platter. Working quickly, Miguel unwrapped the brownies and positioned them artfully around the cake, making a nice display. Miguel was pleased with his work and his quick thinking. He stuffed the wrappings into the box and tucked it out of sight on the cart’s lower shelf. Then he replaced the dome and turned just in time to see Tina signaling him that she was ready to begin.
Tina tapped her water glass with a teaspoon, bringing the table to silence. She rose and made a short, graceful speech, thanking the wedding party for being there. She then signaled Miguel, who rolled the cart to the middle of the table and, with a flourish, lifted the dome. Everyone Oohed at the Groom’s Cake; Seth stood and kissed Tina. Tina noticed the brownies arranged around the cake. She hadn’t ordered brownies but assumed the hotel had provided them. Seth also noticed the brownies but assumed Tina had ordered them.
Miguel sliced and served the cake, putting a brownie on each plate next to the cake slice. Everyone agreed the cake—Seth’s favorite, orange sponge cake with chocolate frosting—was delicious. They also raved about the brownies, especially Wendell Corliss, who considered himself a
serious chocolate connoisseur. He declared he had never tasted brownies quite like these. Miguel served him a second one, which he ate. He then asked Mike if he planned to eat his brownie, which was untouched; Mike, who did not like chocolate, said sure, and Wendell wolfed that one down.
The brownies were all consumed; the room was now abuzz with conversation and laughter. More wine arrived, and a selection of liqueurs. Miguel wheeled the dessert cart out. He passed Rose and Sid, reentering the room after the long, slow toddle back from the restrooms. Upon reaching her seat, Rose said, “Where’s my brownies?”
Seth’s head whipped around. “They’re not in your purse?” he said.
“No,” said Rose. “I put them right here, on a little table. But now it’s gone.”
“Oh God,” said Seth.
“What?” said Tina.
Seth lowered his voice. “You didn’t order brownies to go with the cake?”
“No. I think the hotel gave us those.”
“Actually, I think they were my mom’s.”
“Oh! Well, that was very nice of her. I didn’t eat one, but people seem to really like them.”
Seth opened his mouth, about to reveal the true nature of the brownies. Then, seeing how pleased Tina was with how the dinner was going, he closed his mouth, figuring he’d already subjected her to enough stress for one evening. Besides, the dinner was going great. The guests, aside from Rose and Sid, were happy to the point of giddiness, especially down at the Wendell Corliss end of the table.
Wendell was not known for his sense of humor; he rarely smiled, except for business reasons, and pretty much never laughed. But now, suddenly, he was downright jovial. This did not go unnoticed by the brownie-free Mike, who decided that now might be a good opportunity to subtly steer Corliss toward the topic of—without directly mentioning it—the current vacancy in the Group of Six.
“I was really sorry to hear about Herb Wentworth,” Mike said, bringing up the name of the recently deceased industrialist who had been, Mike believed, a member of the Group. “What a shock.”
“A shock?” said Wendell.
“Yes,” said Mike.
“You were shocked that Herb died?”
“Well, yes. I mean, no, he was definitely getting on in years, but, I mean, he was . . . it was quite a loss.”
“Herb Wentworth,” said Corliss, “was the deadest person I have ever met who was not technically dead.”
“Really?” said Mike, surprised to hear Corliss talking about the late business legend this way.
“Really. You’d be with him and there would be times when he wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t do anything, wouldn’t move. He was like a corpse.”
“Huh,” said Mike.
“One time,” said Corliss, “I was sitting next to Herb at dinner and I swear he didn’t say a word, didn’t eat anything, didn’t move a muscle, for five minutes. I couldn’t really tell if his eyes were open or shut. So I was kind of watching him out of the corner of my eye and I’m thinking, I wonder if old Herb has kicked the bucket here. I was thinking about nudging him, but this is Herb Wentworth we’re talking about. You don’t nudge Herb Fucking Wentworth.”
“No,” agreed Mike, a bit shocked by Corliss’s language, but not saying anything.
“So I’m watching him,” continued Corliss, “and I see this fly walking around on his head. Herb had a huge head, totally bald, and this fly is just strolling around on it, very casual, for a fly. And then, while I’m watching, the fly walks into his ear. All the way in. And I didn’t see it come back out. Can you imagine?”
“Having a fly walk into my ear?”
“No, being the fly. Being that fly and walking into Herb Wentworth’s ear. I mean, to the fly, that earhole was the size of the Lincoln Tunnel. But the fly just walked in there as if it knew exactly what it was doing. Think about it. Think about the confidence.”
Mike tried to think about it, but had no luck.
Corliss said, “But at that point, what do you say? Do you say, ‘Wake up, Herb! A fly just walked into your ear’?”
At this point, Corliss emitted what could only be described as a giggle. Mike couldn’t believe it. Wendell Corliss did not giggle.
“How do they do that, anyway?” said Corliss.
“How does who do what?” said Mike.
“Flies. How do they walk around on a smooth surface like Herb’s head? Or a wall? Or a window, for God’s sake? I mean, it’s glass. What holds them on?”
“I think they have little suction cups on their feet,” said Marty, who’d been listening and who had eaten a brownie.
“Seriously?” said Corliss, turning with interest toward Marty, to the visible annoyance of Mike. “Suction cups?”
“No no no,” said Big Steve, another brownie consumer weighing in. “They have like little hooks.”
“Hooks?” said Corliss, fascinated now.
“On their feet,” said Big Steve.
“But getting back to Herb Wentworth,” said Mike.
Corliss ignored him. “How can they attach themselves to glass with hooks?” he asked Big Steve. “What do they hook onto?”
“That’s the thing,” said Big Steve. “Even really, really smooth surfaces have tiny irregularities. The hooks can hook onto them.”
Corliss picked up his water glass. “So what you’re saying is, there are tiny irregularities in this glass?” He held the glass up close to his face and peered at it. “My God,” he said.
“You can see them?” said Marty.
“See what?”
“The irregularities?”
“No . . . The light. Look at the light!”
Marty and Big Steve both raised their glasses to their eyes and both said, “Whoa.”
Corliss turned to his wife, who had also consumed a brownie and had been staring straight ahead for several minutes without blinking. “You have to see this,” he said, extending his glass. “The light.”
She looked at him and said, “Do you think we could get a pizza?”
“That is an excellent idea,” Corliss said.
“What?” said Mike.
Ignoring him, Corliss signaled a waiter, who hustled over.
“We’d like to order a pizza,” said Corliss.
The waiter, who had just finished serving these very people a lavish, multi-course Italian meal, from antipasti through dessert, said, “A pizza?”
“It’s a flat, round piece of baked bread dough topped with tomato and cheese,” said Corliss. This absolutely slayed Big Steve, Marty and Greta, all of whom began giggling uncontrollably. Corliss beamed; he never made people laugh, especially not his wife.
“Sir,” said the waiter, “I’m afraid we don’t have pizza on the menu.”
“Then you need to order one,” said Corliss.
“Order one?” said the waiter.
“Yes. A delivery pizza.”
“You want to have a pizza delivered here? To this restaurant?” said Mike.
“Exactly!” said Corliss.
“OK,” said Mike, who was not about to contradict Wendell Corliss even though Corliss was acting weird. In fact, Mike was noticing that almost everyone was acting weird. Even his wife, Marcia, was behaving oddly: she had risen from her seat and was now intently studying a picture on the wall. Meanwhile, farther down the table, Banzan Dazu was leading Kevin, the bridesmaids and the rest of the Clark relatives in some kind of chant.
“So what’s the best pizza around here?” Corliss asked the waiter.
“On Key Biscayne, that would be Stan’s,” said the waiter. “But they don’t deliver.”
“Of course they’ll deliver,” said Corliss. He withdrew an iPhone from his pocket, tapped at the screen for a bit, then held it to his ear.
“Hello, this is Wendell Corliss,” he said. “I’d like to speak to the owner. Corliss. C-o-r-l-i-s-s. Yes, I’ll hold.”
“You know what you’re like?” said Marty.
“What?” said Corliss.
“The
fly.”
“Which fly?”
“The one who walked into the guy’s ear.”
Corliss frowned. “How so?”
“Well, like you said, the fly was confident. It’s walking around on this dude’s head and it sees the hole, and instead of being scared of the hole, the fly is, like, ‘I’m going in there.’ Which is dangerous. I mean, what if the dude goes, ‘Shit! There’s a fly in my ear,’ and he slaps his hand over it and the fly is trapped? That’s a huge risk. But the fly goes in there anyway. The fly doesn’t stand around thinking about the danger. The fly just does it. He takes the risk and that’s how he gets the reward.”
“But what is the reward?” said Big Steve. “I mean, what’s inside the guy’s ear that a fly would want?”
“I don’t know,” said Marty. “Maybe flies eat earwax. Flies will eat a lot of things.”
“Earwax could be a source of protein,” said Big Steve.
“There you go,” said Marty. “But the point is”—here he pointed at Corliss, who was following the conversation with deep fascination—“you’re like the fly. You want a delivery pizza, so you act. The rest of us, we’re all walking around on the outside of the head. But you, you went right into the fucking earhole.”
Corliss stared at Marty for a moment, then said, “What do you do?”
“Do?”
“For a living.”
“I’m an attorney,” said Marty.
“Where?”
“I’m in between positions.”
Corliss held up a finger and spoke into the phone. “Hello, yes, is this the owner? Stan? Stan, my name is Wendell Corliss. C-o-r-l-i-s-s. I would like to order a delivery pizza. No, I understand that. But I am prepared to make this worth your while.”
“Tell him pepperoni,” said Greta Corliss.
Corliss nodded, holding up a Wait a second finger. “Stan, I don’t think you understand. I’m aware that you have a no-delivery policy. I respect that. But here’s what I’m saying, Stan. I’m saying that if you can find a way to deliver a pizza to us here . . .”
“With pepperoni,” said Greta.