CRY UNCLE

by Judith Arnold

  The comprehension staggered her. She reached out to grab Kitty, but she was too late; her matron of honor was already sauntering down the aisle, sending her smile to the left and to the right and occasionally acknowledging a familiar face with a cheerful wave. Pamela remained alone at the rear of the barroom, gathering her wits and praying that going through with this marriage wasn’t even a bigger mistake than testifying against Mick Morrow had been.

  From the front of the bar, Kitty turned and beckoned Pamela with a crook of her finger. Pamela felt the assembled guests turn en masse to stare at her. The hum of voices she heard as she took her first step onto the runner was no doubt not the hushed murmurs of people admiring a beautiful bride but rather Joe’s friends whispering, “Who the hell is she? Where did he find her?”

  Once again she had to resist the urge to bolt. Holding her head high, squeezing her gardenia bouquet, she walked sedately down the aisle, refusing to glance to either side, refusing to admit that she felt queasy. She concentrated on the judge’s benign smile and counted her steps, maintaining a slow, courtly pace.

  The late afternoon sunlight sifted through the windows, casting the front of the room in a golden glow. When she was nearly at her destination, Joe stepped forward to greet her.

  Pamela froze. Not from fear, not from panic, but from the shock of her response to him. He looked tall, relaxed and absolutely sure of himself. His hair was brushed back from his face, his cheeks were clean-shaven, and his glorious blue eyes seemed to connect with her, communicating that this was okay, everything was going to be okay, she was going to make it to the end of the muslin runner without losing her lunch. He wasn’t quite smiling, but she noticed his dimple. And his earring, a tiny gold heart that caught the light and glittered.

  Clad in a white linen blazer, a brightly patterned shirt and cotton slacks, with an orchid pinned to his lapel, he was put together as informally as she was. But he looked...if not like a husband, at least like a man who didn’t regret having chosen Pamela for his wife.

  He also looked extraordinarily handsome.

  Pamela recalled her first impression of him—that he looked like a bum. Not all that much had changed since then. His hair was still way too long, and the laughter in his eyes seemed teasing, and of course he had a hole through his ear. And yet... It wasn’t just because none of his apparel was obviously torn, or because he had suddenly transformed into a model out of GQ, but... In the instant her gaze locked with his, Pamela honestly believed marrying him was the right thing to do.

  Joe extended his hand and she took it. He closed his fingers around hers, snug but not tight, just a gentle squeeze of reassurance. Yet his eyes changed somehow, darkening slightly, expressing more than just that this marriage was going to serve its purpose. He almost looked...glad.

  Glad that he was improving his chances of winning permanent custody of Lizard, Pamela rationalized. Glad that Pamela had come through, that she wasn’t an embarrassment to him, that she would help him to convince the family court of his stability as a parent figure. It was nothing more complicated than that.

  Yet as he turned her to face the judge, he didn’t let go of her hand. His fingers remained woven loosely through hers, as if he and she were taking a stroll along the beach rather than standing side by side in front of the man who was going to join them legally together.

  The judge cleared his throat and smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he drawled, speaking past Joe and Pamela to address the entire room, “we’re assembled here today to witness the marriage of Jonas Brenner and Pamela Hayes. Now, you all know Joe. He’s one heck of a fine fellow. Generous as the day is long—and right about now, the days are pretty long. Joe always fills the glass up to the rim. He always listens to a tale of woe, and he always laughs at a joke, no matter how poorly you tell it. I don’t have to tell you what kind of a guy he is.”

  This assessment was greeted with a quiet chorus of assent. Pamela shot Joe a quick look. He was grinning and rolling his eyes in embarrassment.

  “Pamela, on the other hand, is new to the island. I’ve never met her, and I reckon most of you haven’t, either. But she seems a charming young lady, and I’ll tell you this—if Joe loves her, she’s aces in my book, and I think we can all count her as a friend.”

  “Hear, hear!” someone at the back of the room shouted.

  “Today we’re here to unite these two special people in matrimony. I know Joe’s got lot of refreshment on hand for the celebration, so let’s get on with it. Is there anyone present who would speak against Joe and Pamela getting hitched?”

  Pamela eyed Lizard cautiously. Lizard slid her left foot out of the rubber sandal and used it to scratch the back of her right calf. Pamela noted that Lizard’s toenails had been painted purple. She also noted that Lizard was making a great effort not to look at her. She stared at her feet, at the door, at Kitty, at her feathers and her uncle. Anywhere but at Pamela.

  “Well, then,” the judge continued. “Pamela, do you take Jonas Brenner to be your lawfully wedded husband through the good times and the bad, the ups and downs, the high tides and low, the calm days and the hurricanes, to make this marriage a thing of joy and beauty?”

  Not exactly the standard lines, but Pamela had to admit she liked it. It fit what she and Joe were entering into, and the judge hadn’t mentioned “till death do us part.” She wondered whether Joe had told him this marriage was going to be parted by a divorce decree as soon as Joe had permanent custody of Lizard and Pamela had proof that Mick Morrow was behind bars to stay.

  Whether the judge knew or not, Pamela found it easy to affirm the vow as he’d stated it. “I do,” she said.

  Joe squeezed her hand again, and she sent him a shy smile.

  “Joe,” the judge said, “do you promise to take Pamela as your lawfully wedded wife, to honor and respect, to talk to and to listen to, to share the burdens and the blessings of each day with, to partner through the dance of life?”

  “I do,” Joe said. The smile he sent Pamela wasn’t remotely timid. He looked downright pleased.

  “The ring,” the judge cued him.

  A ring? Pamela cringed inwardly. She hadn’t bought Joe a ring—she hadn’t even thought of it. Surely, if Joe hadn’t gotten a ring for her, he would have told the judge to skip this part. She hoped he wouldn’t make her wear something cheap and brassy. A wedding band was a sacred symbol. A fake one would be a travesty.

  To her amazement, Joe pulled from his pocket a real ring, a thick band of hammered gold. He slipped it onto her ring finger. Cool and heavy, it fit perfectly.

  “Joe—”

  “Shh,” he silenced her, still grinning.

  “By the authority vested in me by the state of Florida,” the judge concluded, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride—and you,” he invited Pamela with a wink, “may kiss the groom.”

  Joe had explained the necessity of pretending in public that theirs was a love match. Obediently, she leaned toward Joe, closed her eyes and puckered her lips, bracing herself for the feel of his mouth on hers.

  His kiss was light, sweet, a tender brush of his lips that left her feeling oddly frustrated. But before she could lean into him, before she could submerge herself more deeply in this pretense of affection, the crowd began to hoot and cheer and demand drinks, and Joe broke away from her to step into his role as the host. “We’ve got plenty of food and libation, folks,” he shouted above the celebratory cheering. “Brick, Kitty, let’s get some glasses filled.”

  “Hey, groom,” Kitty chastised him as he started toward the bar. “You’re not supposed to be working tonight. You’ve got a bride to take care of. Don’t the bride and groom have to have the first dance?”

  Brick grunted in confirmation.

  Joe turned to Pamela with a smile. “Okay, then. Someone punch some buttons on that juke box. It’s rigged—no coins necessary.”

  A group of guests huddled over the juke box, arguing about which song would be most suitab
le under the circumstances. Others rolled up the muslin and shoved the chairs toward the walls, clearing a dance floor at the center of the room. Pamela eyed Joe, wondering whether they were going to be treated to a slow, sensuous dance—and wondering why she wasn’t alarmed by the likelihood that they would be.

  The crowd simmered down as a sinuous bass line filled the air. Stand By Me. Pamela recognized it even before Ben E. King’s soulful voice began crooning. Joe seemed delighted by the choice as he drew her onto the improvised dance floor, into his arms. “How are you doing?” he asked.

  He was holding her decorously, one hand resting at the small of her back and the other folded around her hand. His eyes sparkled; his smile took on a wistfulness as he gazed at her.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good.” He urged her closer, and she relaxed into the rhythm of the song. “Do you think we’ve convinced the world that we’re in love?” Although his smile remained enigmatic, his voice was tinged with laughter.

  “Actually,” she chided softly, “you went above and beyond. Why did you get such a fancy ring?”

  “It’s not so fancy. Just plain gold. If it isn’t comfortable, we can take it back and get the size adjusted.”

  “It’s very comfortable,” Pamela told him, refusing to admit to herself that its very comfortability made her uncomfortable. The ring shouldn’t have felt so natural on her finger. It shouldn’t have felt as if it belonged there. “But you obviously spent a lot of money on it, and—”

  “There you go with the money again,” he muttered, although his tone lacked any real anger. “What sort of guy would I be if I’d given you something from a Cracker-Jack box? You’re my wife. You deserve a nice ring.” He pulled her even closer to him, until her cheek was resting against the soft linen of his blazer. “Lord knows you’re going to earn it.”

  She leaned back and glared at him. “That sounds ominous.”

  He grinned. “You look real nice, by the way.”

  She faltered for a moment, then managed a smile. Joe hadn’t seen her since the afternoon he’d introduced her to his lawyer, three days ago. The lawyer had treated her cordially—which Pamela had hardly found reassuring. In fact, it had made her retreat, giving Joe a chance to rethink his decision.

  If he’d rethought it, his decision had remained the same. Pamela had talked to Joe several times on the telephone between then and now, but he had been busy organizing the wedding and preparing Lizard for the event, and she had been busy coping with Kitty’s exuberance, which tended to manifest itself in protracted shopping excursions.

  Perhaps, during the three days they’d been apart, Joe had forgotten what Pamela looked like. Perhaps he’d remembered her to be homelier than she actually was, so today, all spruced up with something-borrowed-something-blue eye-shadow, he was startled to discover she wasn’t as ugly as he’d recollected.

  Or else he was just being cordial, like his attorney.

  He must have read the skepticism in her frown, because he elaborated. “I like your hair pulled back like that. It shows off more of your face.”

  “Kitty wanted me to wear a veil. We spent two hours at Sears yesterday, bickering over swatches of white lace.”

  “You don’t need a veil.” He tucked her head back against his shoulder once more. “You look great.”

  Okay. He was in a complimentary mood. “You don’t look so bad, yourself,” she said, returning the favor.

  “Wait till you’ve downed a few glasses of bubbly. I’ll look even better.”

  She laughed. So did he. His chest vibrated against her chin, and his arms drew her even closer to him. Through the juke box speakers, the singer pleaded with his darling to stand by him.

  That would be their song, Pamela decided. Not a song of love, but a song of mutual support. That was what this marriage was truly about: standing by each other.

  ***

  LIZARD WAS IN RARE FORM, Joe noticed. She was perched atop the bar, swinging her bare feet, with her peacock feathers stuck out of the waistband of her shorts and a seagull feather wedged behind each ear, and she was eating everything she could get her hands on, even though the only pink foodstuff being served was strawberry margaritas. She’d already drunk one margarita—minus the tequila—and Joe had since limited her to ginger ale. “It looks like champagne,” he pointed out.

  As far as food went, he’d gone for quantity over quality: cold cuts, sliced cheese, fresh rolls and rye bread, pickles and mustard. Lois had insisted that he stock up on those little toothpicks with the colored plastic tassels on them—because Martha Stewart would have done it that way—and she’d banned onions from the premises. “You eat onions, and your bride won’t want to kiss you,” she’d declared.

  He hadn’t expected to be so eager for Pamela to want to kiss him. But when he’d seen her walking down the aisle, slim and statuesque in her white sundress, with her hair pulled back and her chin held high, he’d been really glad he’d listened to Lois about the onions.

  Dancing with her wasn’t the first time he’d ever held her. He knew she was thin. He knew that when he closed his arms around her, he wouldn’t feel pillows of bosom cushioning his chest. Yet her body felt good. Her height worked well with his; her hips lined up with his in an unintentionally sensual way. When Ben E. King wailed darling, darling, Joe realized how very much he wanted her standing by him.

  Without having to budget their spare change, his guests kept the juke box playing non-stop—and at least once every fifteen minutes, someone would select Stand By Me and the entire assembly would stomp their feet and clap their hands and demand that Joe take his new wife for another spin around the dance floor. He and Pam would put up a token protest, and then they’d concede defeat and dance—each time a little closer, each time a little slower.

  But that one kiss to seal the marriage was probably all he’d get from her. This marriage wasn’t about sex. And the better Pamela felt in his arms, the more diligent he’d have to be about remembering that.

  “Hey, Joe-baby!” Peter Hyland bellowed as Joe and Pamela separated after their seventh Stand By Me. Peter managed a marina in town. He and Joe had gone to high school together.

  “Peter. Have you met Pam yet?”

  Peter took Pamela’s hand, bowed and kissed her knuckles. “Enchanté,” he said, then straightened up. “You got yourself a winner, Joey. Who woulda thought?”

  “There, there,” clucked Peter’s wife Margie, who had moseyed over with a couple of turkey sandwiches. “It’s not that no one ever expected you to take the plunge, Joe. It’s that for so long now, Elizabeth has been the only woman in your life.”

  “Well, now Lizzie and I have a woman in our lives.”

  “Lizzie could use someone in her life. She’s threatening to dive head first into the cake if you don’t start serving it immediately.”

  Joe groaned and excused himself. Letting go of Pamela’s hand filled him with a vague sense of loss. He’d been holding it for most of the evening. He’d justified it with the thought that he didn’t want to lose her in the crush of his effusive friends, none of whom she knew. But the truth was, he’d held her hand because it felt right. She was Mrs. Jonas Brenner, and he wanted to hold her.

  But Lizard needed attention, and that was his job, not Pam’s. Wading through the crowd to the bar, he spotted the kid hovering over the tiered white cake Lois and her mother had baked as a wedding present. “Lizard, stop drooling on the frosting,” he reproached, looping his arms around her waist and swinging her off the bar.

  “I’m starved,” Lizard whined. “Birdie said I could have cake.”

  “Did she say you could have cake this very instant?”

  “Yeah.”

  Liar, Joe thought, but he was in too good a mood to give Liz a hard time. “All right, then. I know better than to mess with a Voodoo Chief. Cake time it is.”

  Brick placed a knife in his right hand. Kitty placed Pamela’s right hand in his left. Lois yelled that someone had better turn the damn
ed juke box off, because the bride and groom were going to cut the cake.

  Revelry ensued, cheers, applause, whistles and a boisterous chorus of “The bride cuts the cake, the bride cuts the cake,” to the tune of “The Farmer in the Dell.” Pamela looked abashed; Joe imagined she was used to far classier receptions. Her cheeks glowing pink, she slid the blade through the top tier of the cake, cutting a neat wedge. As she lifted it onto a plate, she whispered, “If you smear this on my face, I’m having the marriage annulled tomorrow.”

  Joe had been to a few weddings where the bride and groom had shoved wedding cake into each other’s mouths. While he could see the slapstick humor in it, he had to agree it was kind of tasteless. “I’ll be neat,” he promised as he took the plate and a fork. He daintily broke off a small piece of cake and slipped it between her lips.

  Her eyes grew round. “Whoa! It’s rum cake!”

  “In that case, cut me a piece.”

  She laughed and cut a second wedge for him.

  Birdie sidled up to him. She had helped Lizard with her outfit that afternoon, making Joe think of the old saying about birds of a feather flocking together. “It’s too early for cake,” she objected.

  “Liz told me you said she could have cake.”

  “The truth bends in Lizard’s hands,” Birdie remarked. “All right, then, you and your bride eat your cake, and then you go home and have your honeymoon.”

  Joe glanced at the wall clock. It was nine-thirty. The party had been in full swing for hours, but he knew it would rage for hours more. He wasn’t sure he ought to leave.

  Now he was the one bending the truth. He wanted to stay at the party because he knew there was no honeymoon waiting for him and Pam once they left.

  “It’s past Lizard’s bedtime,” he noted. “I suppose we might consider getting her home.”

  “No, no, no.” Birdie wagged a bony finger at him. “I take her home with me. You take your bride and have a honeymoon.”