6 The Wedding

by Melanie Jackson

That’s hard to say to a five-year-old though, so most people won’t do it.

  “Would you be sad if you stayed here with Judy and Big John instead of going back to LA?” I asked casually.

  He thought about this.

  “It’s very different. I have a bigger bedroom here and new clothes.” He looked at his flannel shirt. I noticed that it was the same plaid as the one Big John was wearing and wondered if the Flowers had chosen it deliberately.

  “That’s nice.”

  “And I already have red hair.”

  “Very true—and it’s a lovely shade of red.”

  He nodded seriously.

  “Big John says there are bears.” This was not said with apprehension when perhaps it should be. But on the other hand, should I say anything about the danger just yet…? Kids were really hard to figure out.

  “Sometimes there are bears. They don’t come into town though. At least they haven’t for a long time. Only in winter if there is early snow and they haven’t gone to sleep yet.”

  “I’ve never seen snow.”

  “It’s really pretty. Really cold.”

  “Wendell said I could have a puppy if Judy says it’s alright.” This was definitely a plus, if the smile was anything to go by. The Flowers hadn’t wanted to have a dog muddying up her floors, but she would probably be getting one anyway.

  “Why does everyone call everyone else by made-up names?” Ricky asked, changing the subject. Or maybe not.

  “Well, you may have noticed that everyone in town has the same last names, either Jones or McIntyre. So sometimes we might have three people named Johnny Jones.” This had never actually happened, but I was willing to stretch a point. “And since we all have red hair, and it is hard to tell us apart, we sometimes call people the name of what they do. Like the Wings flies an airplane and Fiddling Thomas plays the violin.”

  He digested this.

  “Why are you Butterstotch?”

  “My grandpa called me that because it was my favorite flavor when I was a kid. Butterscotch pudding, butterscotch candy—I liked it all.”

  “I like chocolate. Are they going to call me Chocolate?” Child logic.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll call you Hotdogs. Or Marshmallows.”

  That got a laugh and I began to relax again. Maybe I wouldn’t have to tell any big whopping lies about why we had our names.

  “Big John is Big John because he’s big,” Ricky guessed. “Why is Judy called the Flowers?”

  “Because she is one of the few people who can grow a garden up here and she likes flowers more than broccoli or zucchini.”

  “I don’t like broccoli either.”

  “Well who does?” I asked.

  “My daddy. He says it’s healthy and I have to eat it to grow up tall.” He frowned. “I don’t think I want to be tall.”

  “Hmph. I think he’s talking about spinach. Broccoli is for when you want to grow up with green teeth. And though that would be fun, I still like butterscotch more.”

  Ricky nodded, grinning.

  “Is your hair real?”

  He meant a natural shade of red.

  “Yep. I was born with red hair. Almost everyone born here has red hair.”

  “But the Bomb isn’t redheaded?”

  “He wasn’t born here,” I said, dodging the issue. “And now that he’s older, his hair has turned silver. Making it red was just for fun—a party game. He doesn’t have to have red hair if he doesn’t want.”

  “Red hair is really good.” This was said a little anxiously. I was betting he had had a lot of teasing about his hair. I sure had.

  “Yes, but we must not ever make fun of people who don’t have it.” My voice was solemn. “Like the man I am about to marry, Chuck the Mountie. He’s a policeman. You haven’t met him yet, but he will be here soon.”

  Or so I hoped and prayed.

  “I won’t make fun of him,” Ricky promised. “I guess it would be okay to stay here. If I can have a puppy. And see snow.”

  “Good. I’ll talk to the Flowers. And even if you couldn’t have a puppy at the inn, I bet you could have one at Wendell’s house.”

  “Hmph,” he said, imitating me. “I would rather have one in my own room to sleep with.”

  “That is very nice in the winter.”

  “And he could eat my broccoli.”

  “Maybe. Most dogs have better sense though.”

  We had a moment of companionable silence. I thought about Chuck and what he was off doing. People in the Gulch know that life distributes luck unevenly and we reapportion things when we can, even doing an intervention with fate if we have the chance. Chuck got that right away. He came from a different walk of life, balanced the scales in an official way; but he shared our appetite for justice, and this metabolism that thrived on righteous balance made him fit in with us, in spite of being a policeman. It also meant that he would go out and fight dragons when he thought he should.

  “Butterstotch?”

  “Yes?” I put thoughts of Chuck away.

  “Why is Wendell called Thunder?”

  “Because that’s his name. And we only have one Wendell Thunder.”

  “Not because he’s a thunder-butt?”

  “No! Wendell is definitely not a thunder-butt.”

  Ricky giggled and I realized I was hearing a five-year-old’s idea of a joke.

  “Maybe we’ll call you Ricky the Joker.” He grinned at me. “So, want to learn how to catch fish with your hands?”

  * * *

  Big John stared in dismay at the cake he’d pulled from the oven and left cooling for the prescribed hour. The first one he’d made—well, really the second one since he had spilled the first bowl of batter—had been flat like a brownie and it had taken him a while to remember that he needed to add baking powder—or maybe it was baking soda—to the batter.

  This time he was sure that he’d gotten it right because the cake was nice and tall, except now the cake wouldn’t come out of the pan. It was ripping into piles of orange sponge which tasted great but which could never be glued back into a proper cake shape.

  Big John sighed. He was out of pudding and frozen orange juice. He would have to go see if the Braids had any at the store. Probably what he should do was wake the Flowers and ask her how the recipe went, but he hated to admit to anyone that he had forgotten. It seemed disrespectful to his wife.

  The kitchen was a mess though and it would have to be straightened before dinner. Maybe he should clean it first then go out for supplies. He was going to have to wash some bowls and pans before he tried the cake again anyway. There wasn’t an inch of counter space that wasn’t covered in dirty crockery.

  No, he would go to the store first, before the Braids closed for lunch—and then wash the dishes. Maybe the walk would help with the pain in his side. Judy would probably nap for at least another hour. He could still get things cleaned up and have a cake in the oven before she came downstairs to check on him.

  Big John wiped his hands on his already dusty shirt and headed for the back door so he wouldn’t track flour through the tavern. And that reminded him, he better get more cake flour too. Dropping the canister on the floor had meant losing an awful lot of his supply.

  The old door had barely swung shut behind him when his daughter’s voice called out from the hall.

  “Dad?” The kitchen door swung open. “Da—dear God!”

  The Flowers stared in awe and horror at the room designated the kitchen. She’d never seen anything so filthy in her thirty-odd years of life.

  For a moment she debated stepping inside and trying to bring order to the chaos, but her courage failed her. She backed out of the room and went back upstairs. Maybe she wasn’t done napping.

  * * *

  The Braids looked at her second batch of sheets. They were even more spotty and striped than the first set, and yet not as vivid as her hands which had gotten stained when her rubber gloves started leaking. What had gone wrong?

 
And what should she do? She only had one box of dye left—Violent Violet. It wasn’t enough to re-dye all twelve sheets.

  “Big John is here, wanting some pudding. What are you doing out here anyway?” Little Davey asked, stepping outside with a cup of coffee. “Oh, you’re making tie-dye?”

  The Braids turned to stare at her husband.

  “What did you say?”

  “That Big John is here, wanting pudding and cake flour.”

  “No, the other thing.”

  “You’re making tie-dye? That’s brilliant, eh. It will go with any kind of flowers,” he said encouragingly.

  “Tie-dye.”

  She considered the striped and spotted linen. Well, why not? At least it would look deliberate.

  “Davey, go and fetch me that ball of rubber bands in my desk and then set the large kettle on to boil. Tell Big John I’ll be in shortly.”

  * * *

  Misha met the Wings at the landing strip in Seven Forks. The Russian was wearing a sidearm and carrying a shotgun. The Wings had never grown reasonably comfortable with the Russian tendency toward being well armed at all times, but the sight of Misha through the windshield flagging him to a stop by waving his shotgun in the air made him wish that he’d brought along his father’s old service revolver. As it was, the plane rolled to a halt and Danny stepped out of the cockpit unarmed.

  He stepped directly into the enthusiastic embrace. Misha was a strong man with arms like two huge hams. The Wings felt bones pop in his back and chest in the large man’s grasp. Once released, he flexed his shoulders and swiveled his hips to test his joints. Truth be told, he never felt better. He smiled broadly.

  Though he hadn’t known Misha well in the past, the Wings took an instant liking to the man. The Russian exuded an aura of trust and confidence. His smile was jovial, he laughed freely, and he drank a great deal. All these things the Wings remembered from the past. And what amongst them was there not to like? What he’d forgotten was the man’s easy nature and affability. The Wings felt instantly comfortable and safe in his presence though he still found it difficult to keep thoughts of the man’s past out of mind.

  “Is good to see you again, comrade,” Misha declared. “But then, is good to see anyone.”

  “And it’s good to see you too,” the Wings agreed. “I understand that you’re willing to help with the flowers for the wedding.”

  “Yes. I discuss issue of flowers with the Flowers,” Misha replied, his winning smile slowly eroding off his face.

  The Russian looked as if he was reliving the telephone conversation in his mind. Apparently, the Flowers had made her expectations clear. By the end of this internal review, Misha’s eyes had pinched themselves into tiny slits. He noticed the Wings scrutinizing his features. Quickly the dark clouds lifted and Happy Misha was revealed.

  “Yes. I understand you have problem with flowers and I can help,” Misha observed.

  “I’m interested specifically in orchids.”

  “Yes. The flower that grows in rainforests.”

  “That’s the one. Wow, Misha, I didn’t realize you were a horticulturist.”

  “Me? I barely know a daisy from a dandelion, but I have connections.”

  “What exactly does that mean?” Danny queried.

  “Come. I show you.”

  Misha led the Wings to his tiny cabin nestled back in amongst the woods. The outside was of simple log construction. The inside was toasty warm and contained an easy chair set before a fire next to a simple coffee table. The place looked like a retired person’s hideaway. Against the wall away from the fire, the easy chair could swivel to address one of several laptops set up to run a variety of programs. The Wings observed a number of Internet applications in use on each screen but recognized none of them. Misha eventually stood before his easy chair, blocking his view.

  “Please, sit,” Misha said, gesturing toward a chair on the opposite side of the fire.

  The Wings had to lift a cat, who looked perfectly comfortable, off the cushion of the chair being offered. As he seated himself, the cat dug its claws into the sleeves of the Wings’ coat when he tried to set the animal on the floor. So he let the cat lie in his lap instead. The animal appeared to the outside world to have slept through the entire procedure. Misha observed the operation from the comfort of his easy chair.

  “Wow, you have a lot of computers. I was thinking of getting my own one day. Where do you get your power?”

  “Generators.”

  “And your Internet access?”

  “I would prefer we do not discuss it.”

  If the Wings knew nothing else it was when to make a hasty course correction in his dialog.

  “What about the orchids?” the Wings prompted.

  “Yes. There I have bad news. There is this wedding.…”

  “Yes. The wedding between Butterscotch and the Mountie.”

  “No, not that wedding. This is different wedding between politician’s daughter and Winnipeg’s most sought-after bachelor. Is in all the newspapers.”

  “Oh, that wedding,” the Wings said, trying to sound in the know.

  “Daughter is said to be fond of orchids.”

  “No?”

  “Yes. She has bought up Winnipeg’s entire supply of orchids.”

  “Oh no.”

  “But no worries. Remember, I have connections.”

  “Yes, what does that mean?”

  “I show you.” Misha pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed a preset number. “I waited for you to arrive before making call.”

  Danny interpreted the statement to mean the Russian suspected he would not show.

  Someone answered the phone and Misha replied in Russian. After several more exchanges using the same language, Misha burst into a broad smile and flashed a thumbs-up to the Wings. But then an argument broke out. Danny could tell it was an argument without knowing a word of the language. Misha held a hand over the cell phone to speak with the Wings in private.

  “Have you got five thousand dollars?” he asked innocently.

  “Heck no, I don’t have that kind of capital.”

  Misha returned to his phone conversation and began swearing in Russian. Again, Danny could recognize swearing in most any language when he heard it.

  “You’ll owe me,” Misha said congenially during a quick aside while listening.

  When the phone conversation eventually concluded, Misha was his old affable self again.

  “This afternoon, we fly to Winnipeg.”

  “What for?”

  “For orchids, what else?”

  “But you said there were no orchids to be had.”

  “But I also said I have connections.”

  * * *

  I closed the door on Wendell and resisted the urge to beat my head on the wall. I knew that he meant well, but I didn’t want to go hunting. I don’t like hunting. The Mountie doesn’t like hunting. And I was getting tired of being told we needed to go into the forest and bring back food for the wedding feast. I knew it was traditional but I had other concerns at that moment.

  Like finishing my dress.

  I turned to stare at the pile of satin that I had come to resent. The index finger of my left hand throbbed where it had been stabbed dozens of times.

  “Fine. Come on, Max. We’re going to get us a wedding feast and they better not complain about what kind,” I said, reaching for my rifle, an empty backpack, and a mesh bag.

  Max woo-wooed happily. If I have a gun it means we are going into the woods.

  * * *

  Fiddling Thomas frowned. He had broken his second E string by winding it too tight and it was because he was a bundle of nerves. It wasn’t that he was shy about playing—heavens no! Playing came as naturally as drawing breath. But this was a wedding. He hadn’t played at a wedding before.

  The selection of music was important. The ceol was their history, the words of their ancestors remembered on important occasions. It wasn’t just what their people had had
to say—it was how they said it. The passion and intent needed to be perfect. And he wanted to sing the songs in both Gaelic and English so that the Mountie would understand them too.

  But that was also very difficult. Fiddling Thomas looked at the notes he had written so far.

  The hand that writes is not permanent.

  Nor is the memory that the hand wrote down.

  The flowers that bloom now are transient too

  As is the corn in the silo and the cow in the field.

  Was this adequate? It would have to be. He knew of no other way to express the sentiments of the songwriter, gone these many hundreds of years.

  * * *

  He was beautiful, a four-point buck standing right in the middle of my sights. Beside me, Max quivered with excitement, his urge to howl only barely contained. He kept silent though, testament to Wendell’s training.

  I sighed and lowered the gun. My backpack was already full. I had enough for our needs.

  “Sorry, Max, but I can’t do it. I wouldn’t be able to carry the deer back anyway, and I won’t kill something if half of it is going to go to waste.”

  Besides, I had conveniently forgotten to bring any butchering tools with me, so I wouldn’t be carrying back even part of a deer. And that suited me fine.

  “Let’s head down to the creek. I think I can get some watercress there. Maybe a fish or two as well.”

  Max looked dejected but followed me down the trail. Fishing was almost as much fun as hunting.

  Chapter 6

  I was exhausted. My energy-fueling annoyance had worn off hours ago and I just wanted to go home, eat about two dozen oatmeal cookies, and go to bed without any houseguests snoring on my couch. But first things first.

  My backpack and mesh bag were full, so I could drop them off and then eat myself into a sugar stupor. I’d found gooseberries and currants just beginning to ripen. Not enough for pies, but plenty to add to a salad. And we would have a salad because I had found bitter cress and watercress, sweet clover and high mallow. Let Big John and the Flowers make of this what they would. I had done my part and brought food from the forest for the wedding feast.