6 The Wedding

by Melanie Jackson

That was alright. She had a washtub. She had a wringer. And a clothesline. Surely it wouldn’t make that much difference. It would just take a bit longer than expected.

  And perhaps the first step would be to step out and check on the weather. It would be most inconvenient if it started to rain. She didn’t have any place inside to hang twelve sheets. Picking up a box of Luscious Lavender, she stepped out the back of the store.

  Chapter 4

  The day had been long, so I wasn’t thrilled to hear a knock on my door just around twilight. I was even less thrilled when I opened up and found a reeling-drunk Horace on my doorstep. I didn’t bother to ask what had happened to him. His flaming red hair was answer enough. I just hoped the Mountie wouldn’t mind his father appearing as a redhead in our wedding pictures.

  “Spuddergotch?” he asked, squinting in the dim light.

  “Come in, Horace,” I said, taking his arm and guiding him to the sofa. “Had a fun initiation party?”

  “Very fun. I’m Horace the Bomb Jones now.” He giggled. “I even have red hair.”

  “Uh-huh. What do you say to some hot chocolate and maybe a scone?” Maybe it would sop up some of the booze.

  “That’d be great.” He smiled beatifically before letting his head fall back against the bolster. Max came over and thrust his head under Horace’s lax hand. “Too bad Chuck ithn’t here.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, though I had doubts about Chuck being pleased with his father’s state. The Mountie didn’t imbibe as a rule and when he did, he stopped before reaching the point that he called me Spuddergotch. I set a pan of milk on the hearth. The milk was made from dried powder but that wouldn’t matter in the hot chocolate. Besides, Big John’s hooch usually paralyzed taste buds.

  “You know who I really wish was here?” Horace asked.

  “No. Who do you wish was here?”

  “My wife. I think she’d love the Gulch.”

  “Would she?” I asked, mixing cocoa powder and sugar together. The idea intrigued me. Chuck had said very little about his mom but I had gotten the impression that she was fairly straitlaced. “She liked the country, did she?”

  “No.” Horace tried to shake his head but only half managed it. “But she loved people. Always wished she had had brothers and sisters and cousins. There was a brother once, but he died when she was only a kid and after that there were no more babies. And after Chuck there was a problem and we couldn’t have any more babies either. If she was here she could have a big family too.”

  I felt unexpected tears prickle at the back of my eyes. I sternly blinked them away. Horace didn’t sound maudlin and I wouldn’t ruin his happy mood by crying. After all, she was gone. Like my mother. Like my grandparents. Gone now. Gone tomorrow.

  And there was no reason to cry. Like Horace said, we were a big family now. Self-selected too, which is better. And I was getting married in three days. There would be no crying for the ones who weren’t here. If you ever start crying over missing faces, there is no finish. You end haunted by thoughts of the life you couldn’t have. So I don’t ask questions like what if? And I don’t cry for the dead once they are in the ground because they are past hope and beyond even prayers.

  “So,” I said, changing the subject. “Did they use a temporary rinse or something permanent on your hair?”

  “Eh? Oh, I don’t know. There’s a difference?” His voice was softer and groggy. His sibilants were slurring badly.

  “Yes—six to eight weeks.” I poured some milk into the cup. “Not that it will matter if Chuck doesn’t get back in time.”

  “He’ll be here. Of course, I was late to my wedding,” Horace said. “Had a flat tire and ruined my suit fixing it. Had to borrow clean clothes from a friend. Suit didn’t fit. Had to tie up the pants with a borrowed belt. People had started to leave the church, even the preacher. My wife was so mad she almost didn’t marry me.”

  I really hoped that this wouldn’t be a case of like father, like son.

  “Oh no! I can just imagine how she was feeling.” And I could imagine it all too clearly. “But she forgave you and you got married anyway?”

  Horace answered with a loud snuffle. He was asleep.

  I slipped his shoes off and then sat down at the table and drank his chocolate myself. Max sighed loudly and went back to the fire. I resigned myself to having a snoring houseguest for the night.

  * * *

  Flowers. The Wings could think of nothing else now that the wedding was near. Ever since he’d stormed in on the ladies’ town hall meeting to discuss who was doing what about the wedding preparations. He had stormed into the room and declared, “I’m doing the flowers,” then turned and stormed back out again. Why oh why had he done so much storming? he wondered now. It really wasn’t like him.

  Since then, his idea to gather local wildflowers and use them to decorate the wedding scene was not panning out as he had hoped. He’d been excited with the project when he overheard a private conversation between Butterscotch and the Flowers regarding the wedding flowers. It had seemed such a nice and easy gift to give Butterscotch and the Mountie.

  “I think we should decorate using carnations,” the Flowers suggested, not sounding very excited about the prospect. “They’re cheap and we can get them wholesale.”

  “I suppose,” Butterscotch said unenthusiastically. “Though I’ve always loved orchids for weddings. They are so exquisitely perfect,” she continued, positively lighting up at the mere mention of the flower.

  That was all it took. The Wings was smitten with the idea the moment he’d heard Butterscotch utter the flower’s name. Orchid. He remembered his mother telling him one day when he was young that she’d never had the flowers at her wedding that she would have wished had there been time to properly plan the finances to support a lavish wedding. She had always said that orchids were her favorite flowers—and there had never been any money for them, not at her wedding. Not even at her funeral when he was ten.

  Well, this lady shall have her orchids, the Wings promised himself.

  Supposing orchids to be some form of local flower that he could easily harvest and supply to the ladies to arrange, the Wings began the project with gusto. It started with storming into and out of the ladies’ town meeting. It was supposed to conclude soon afterward with the Wings lugging sack after sack full of orchids out of the forest and into town.

  But after several hours spent gathering the typical local wildflowers that he was pretty sure were not orchids, he was beginning to despair. Where were all the orchids—and what did an orchid look like anyway? He had only the vaguest idea. Surely, it couldn’t be that liver-colored thing that smelled so bad.

  The Wings removed a tick from his arm and gave up his search, deciding to visit the Flowers to find out what an orchid looked like and where they were hiding. If anyone knew anything about orchids, it would be the Flowers. Heck, she even owned a small library of books. She might be able to show him a picture of the flower.

  An itchy Wings found the Flowers in the Lonesome Moose wiping down tables. She seemed stressed. Either that or she was frantic to get a real nice shine on the table she was presently working on. This was most likely due to the added stress of having to deal with her new child. Regardless, she seemed pleased to stop her labors and have a word with the Wings when she saw him approach.

  “What can I do you for?” she asked playfully, swatting at him with her towel.

  “Judy, what’s an orchid look like and where do I find them?”

  “What a strange question to ask. Why do you need to know?”

  “You already know I volunteered to supply the flowers for Butterscotch’s wedding.”

  “Yes, right. The floral displays. That was very kind of you.”

  “Yeah, that’s them. The floral displays. Well I decided to feature orchids in my displays,” the Wings announced proudly.

  The Flowers put a hand to her mouth as her eyes became damp. He was sure that this was happy girl crying and it reassured him tha
t he’d chosen the right flower for the wedding.

  “Orchids. They’re lovely, of course,” the Flowers responded. “But why orchids?”

  “Because the lady wants them and my mama never had them.”

  The Wings realized too late that his statement didn’t really make much sense. The Flowers seemed to understand him perfectly all the same. She burst out laughing and sniffing at the same time and pulled him into an embrace. She even gave him a peck on the cheek.

  “Yes, there should be orchids,” she declared. “But they’re so expensive. You’ll need to start a drive immediately to raise the money for one nice display.”

  “That wouldn’t be a problem. I plan on gathering bunches of orchids out of the forest and making my own floral displays, with a little help.”

  “But Danny, orchids don’t grow in our woods. Actually they might, but only the ugly kind that smell like rotting meat and eat bugs. We wouldn’t want any of those in our floral displays. We’d only want the prettiest.”

  “But I’ve never seen an orchid before. I didn’t know they didn’t grow here,” the Wings said, beginning to feel uneasy.

  “They’re beautiful. They’re just the right flower for the wedding. Wait here while I go get a picture.”

  The Wings waited and fretted the whole time the Flowers was away. How was he going to pay for expensive flowers? He had no money except for the airplane fund. Soon the Flowers came skipping back into the room. Skipping. The Wings felt crushed by the weight of her delight.

  “Look at these,” she said, holding an open book out to him.

  The Wings looked and was astonished by what he saw. The flowers in the book were beautiful. They were also one of the most exotic things he’d ever seen. Everything about the orchid screamed money. Money that he did not have. Danny began to sweat.

  “Judy, I’m no good at organizing fund raisers and shopping for expensive flowers,” the Wings complained, handing back the book.

  “Don’t you worry. You go see Misha. Sasha tells me that Misha still has ties back into his former life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that he has connections in the market. You know. Yes, you talk to Misha. Misha will take care of everything.”

  “How do you know he’ll be willing to help?”

  “He owes Butterscotch a favor. And if he refuses to help, tell him that I will be round to have a talk with him. In fact, I’ll call him now.”

  “Alright,” the Wings said, fully acknowledging the woman’s threat to talk to a man as sufficient motivation.

  * * *

  Big John accepted a cup of coffee. I was doing the hard stuff that morning, trying to work up the energy to tackle the last row of tucks on the wedding dress, or else borrow about five progressively larger bras and stuff the bodice full of padding.

  I laid out my last two scones and set them on the table. There should have been more, but Horace had woken without a hangover and with a raging appetite that all but emptied my larder.

  “So, I’ve been thinking that with the Flowers being busy with Ricky—” The kid hadn’t earned a nickname yet, but it sounded odd to hear him called by his actual name. “—that I should help out and make your wedding cake. I make a real good orange pudding cake.”

  Big John is a fair chef, but he cooks with a lot of commotion. For day-to-day meals, the Flowers handles the preparation. But the Flowers really did have her hands full with Ricky and maybe couldn’t take on the task. Big John’s pudding cake was tasty if a little bit like a birthday party. In fact, the last one I had had was at my eighteenth birthday party.

  “That would be lovely,” I said, not sure if I was lying.

  “I always think of my wife when I make it,” Big John added. It was one of the few times he had ever spoken of his late wife. Like me, Big John didn’t spend much time looking back. “She taught me how. It’s her recipe. I’m sure I remember it.”

  “Then I’m doubly honored.”

  Big John grinned happily. Chuck wouldn’t really mind if we didn’t have chocolate cake, I assured myself. Especially not when he found out about Ricky. The child had to come first. Orange cake—if Big John remembered the recipe correctly—was fine. Cheerful even. Weddings should be cheerful. And even if it was awful, there would be lots of other food. It was the thought that counted.

  “Oh. We might have another tiny problem,” Big John mentioned casually.

  “What?” I asked warily. I didn’t need more problems. I was beginning to worry that I wouldn’t finish my dress and I’d have to wear it without the lace appliques—which would look stupid—and Madge would feel bad and take it back and I’d be getting married in jeans.

  “Well, did you know that it’s tradition in the Gulch for the groom to go out and hunt for the wedding feast? It’s for luck, eh?”

  “Yes. But Chuck isn’t here.”

  “I know—but maybe he’ll still get back in time.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said, but my heart wasn’t in it. Chuck doesn’t like hunting any more than I do. And there was always plenty of food at community events. We didn’t need roasted wild beast. I didn’t believe those old superstitions anyway. I wasn’t having something borrowed … well, except my dress. And nothing blue…. Except my shoes. My only nice shoes were pale blue. But that was an accident. It had nothing to do with lucky charms.

  “Well, we’ll worry about that tomorrow,” Big John said, rubbing his side.

  I didn’t ask if there had been any word from the Mountie. Big John would have told me at once if Chuck had called. I tried not to acknowledge the growing anxiety at his silence, but he was in a really remote spot and the wedding was now only two days away.

  “You feeling okay?” I asked Big John as he continued to rub right above his hip.

  “Oh sure. Just a stitch in my side. Doc gave me some pills. What are you doing today?”

  I pointed at the heap of satin on the sofa.

  “I’m still taking in my dress. It’s going to be terribly pretty when it’s done,” I added to encourage myself. My fingers were very sore and I was beginning to not like the dress at all.

  “I’m sure it will,” Big John answered, getting to his feet. “Don’t worry about anything. This wedding is going to be the most unforgettable one ever.”

  “I’d settle for one with a groom present,” I said lightly, but meant it. “By the way, did I see the Bones and Linda leave town this morning?”

  “Eyuh. There was a logging accident at the rez. Two injured. They’ve gone to help.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Don’t worry,” Big John repeated. “If it were really bad they’d have flown them out already. The Bones will patch them up and be back in time to see you married.”

  I was actually more concerned about the injured men than the Bones being at my wedding, but I just nodded.

  “Slan leat,” Big John said as he closed my door.

  “Slan,” I answered, turning to stare at my dress.

  * * *

  The Braids went out after sunrise and checked on her sheets. Perhaps leaving them out overnight had been a mistake. The dew had collected along the edges and made the now more-or-less lavender sheets kind of spotty. Of course, the one sheet that had fallen on the ground was worse. It had dried with strange ridges of color where the dye had collected in the folds.

  She sighed. It would just have to be re-dyed with the next batch. The color was a little darker. Hopefully it would hide the worst of the jagged purple stripes. If not…. Maybe they only needed eleven tablecloths.

  * * *

  Big John had exaggerated slightly when he said he recalled how to make his wife’s orange pudding cake. He had the general idea—two boxes of vanilla pudding and one can of frozen orange juice—it was just the other ingredients and proportions of the things he didn’t quite remember that were a little hazy.

  Still, he had a couple of days to experiment. He should be able to figure it out in time.

  First off, he
would need the big mixing bowl. He wondered where Judy had put it. And cake pans. He wasn’t entirely sure where they were either. He hoped there were lots and round kinds. Wedding cakes were supposed to be tall and cylindrical.

  Chapter 5

  Ricky and I were fishing while the Flowers had a nap. We were using rods because the capture with the hands thing was hard to teach to an active child, and the lake was far too cold to let a child play in anyway. At least I thought it was. I hadn’t raised a kid before and tended to think of them as being very physically fragile. Which was odd, because as a kid I had played outside in all kinds of weather, usually without a jacket because I wasn’t aware of much beyond my play. And keeping an eye out for my father, or anyone who might be after my father.

  “I don’t know if Daddy is coming back to our home. Do you think he’ll come here, Butterstotch?” Ricky asked suddenly. Max was lying near the boy, maybe providing comfort. Maybe just waiting for fish lunch.

  “Not if he’s smart,” I muttered and got a surprised look.

  Butterstotch. I was surrounded by males who couldn’t say my name. Butterstotch was kind of cute though.

  “I don’t know if he’ll be coming back,” I said, opting for honesty, though lying would be so much easier. “It might be best if he didn’t, at least for a while.”

  The thing about children who were raised like Ricky—like me—is that we weren’t innocent. At least, we weren’t oblivious. And people pretending that nothing was wrong, that there was no potential danger associated with our parents, did nothing to reassure us. And it would be dangerous if it did make us feel safe. Because we weren’t. Not entirely.

  And we often have ambivalent feelings about our families—which is okay because it shows we are sane, even if it makes everyone else uncomfortable when we don’t send Christmas cards of the whole happy family. Sometimes it isn’t possible to like your family because they are poison.