by Viqui Litman
In the salon, Rita had tortured Tiffany’s tresses into an elaborate configuration of curls on top of her tiny head and was now lacquering the creation into place with a can of hair spray. Della nodded toward Darlene, who stood with Dave just out of range of the hair spray, but she didn’t stop to talk. She knew better than to break Rita’s concentration.
Her own outfit for the wedding was silk, a flowered, matronly thing that screamed for a wide-brimmed hat. As she combed her hair, Della recalled Tony’s garnets and, smiling, went searching for the old jewel box she kept on a shelf in the closet. There, among the high school trinkets and dime-store pins selected by her children for birthdays past, she found the garnet pendant.
Della sifted through the cache a little more to find the matching ring. Thankfully, it was a small stone that didn’t look outlandish on her pinky, since that was the only finger it would fit now. If we do remarry, she thought, we’ll have to get new rings.
She stopped in the middle of fastening the necklace. My God! she thought, then shook her head. This Hugh business has you rattled, she told herself. Forget it.
And she did, at least while she applied Barbara’s makeup. “You sure you’re up to this?” Della asked.
“The question is, are you?” Barbara retorted. “I want the full treatment.”
Full treatment meant using almost every type of makeup in what Della judged to be a world-class collection. “Moisturizer first,” Barbara directed. “Then the eye-toner. Make sure it soaks in before we do the foundation. And use the yellow concealer under my eyes, the green stuff around my nose … counteracts the red.”
Barbara was a patient craftswoman, Della thought, preparing her palette step by step. It was fifteen minutes before she spread the foundation over Barbara’s face and could begin coloring and contouring. Barbara kept her head still, her muscles relaxed, as Della layered two colors of blusher beneath Barbara’s cheekbones.
Full treatment meant false eyelashes, with which Della was unfamiliar. Barbara instructed her, advising her on how to avoid lumps in the adhesive that held the lashes to her eyelids, counseling about using a toothpick to place the edge of the lashes exactly at the base of her real lashes.
“You must have had these made for you,” Della marveled. “They fit exactly.”
“My indulgence,” Barbara murmured. “No two eyes the same, you know.”
“Hold still another sec,” Della said, pulling the top off a soft pencil liner. She outlined Barbara’s eyes in a smoky plum, then shadowed them in a slightly lighter shade. Lydia had laid out the lavender silk pajama suit with a floral scarf. Della worked to match the color over Barbara’s eyes, then picked up a rust from the scarf for the lips.
They didn’t talk much. Barbara watched her in the dressing table mirror, but after the eyelashes, she said little. “Are these your earrings?” Della picked up the amethyst drops and, when Barbara nodded, gently put them on her ears.
Della stood back and assessed her work. It looked garish and overdone. The slashes of color beneath Barbara’s cheekbones screamed bad taste and the false eyelashes stuck out way too far. It looked all the things Richard would have hated, and it looked all the things at which Della had always laughed. But it hid the dark circles and gaunt cheeks and yellow color and, despite the chair, once they wheeled Barbara out to the lawn, no one who didn’t know would guess she was dying. And everyone who did know could forget for two hours.
Della checked the clock on the dressing table. “Here,” she offered, reaching for the lavender silk. “Let’s get you dressed.”
Della managed to get the suit onto Barbara’s body, lifting her to a standing position only once to pull on the pants and kneeling before her when they got to the shoes. She pushed Barbara’s feet into her gold flats, then stood. “I think we’re ready.” Della walked behind the chair and turned it.
Barbara grunted a little, and Della paused to see that the chair hadn’t caught on anything as she turned it. “You okay?” she asked.
Barbara waved her hand a little. “Ring,” she said.
“What ring?” Della asked.
Barbara replied by waving her hand again, and the lavender sleeve conveyed the message.
“You want your amethyst ring?”
Barbara nodded.
It took a moment to search through the jewel boxes—Barbara had always resisted using the safe—but she found the ring in a Popsicle-stick box probably made by Dickie in Scouts. “Here,” said Della, leaning down and taking Barbara’s right hand. “Let’s put this on.”
It wasn’t until she was wheeling Barbara toward the ramp to the back that Della realized they had forgotten to dab any Gucci behind Barbara’s ears.
Oh, well, she thought, watching Tony greet Barbara. We can do it later.
By the time Hugh Jr. called, Barbara had been parked on the aisle of the first row. Darlene sat down next to her, and Flops settled herself at their feet.
Della let Kat hurry her out to the kitchen. “I think he’s calling from the car,” Kat hissed. “He said if I didn’t want him busting up this wedding I’d get your ass to the phone now!”
“I’m in my car,” Hugh Jr. said without preliminaries. “I’m coming to see Barbara.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Della said. “Barbara is attending a wedding, after which she needs to nap. She’s very sick, Hugh.”
“You’re the sick one, Auntie Della. Pretending to be so kind to Barbara when you were fucking her husband.” Della stayed silent. “You want to protect Barbara, you meet me in Sydonia this afternoon and sign over your interest in the Huttos’ place. Or, you pay me four hundred thou for my interest.” Della did not reply. “Did you hear me?”
Della stood holding the phone to her ear and watched Nancy and her sister follow Kat around the kitchen as she showed them what to serve. She saw Tony leaning against the cabinet drinking a Dr Pepper. And in her mind she saw Richard, saw the blue eyes and the steel hair and the barrel chest, heard his deep laugh, felt his hand on hers. That isn’t much, she thought, over which to destroy someone else’s peace. I could slip away during the reception, she calculated. No one would notice. Maybe he’d agree not to announce it until after Barbara dies. I don’t have to have the Ladies Farm. I can go anywhere, do anything, start another bed and breakfast. Barbara could die in peace.
“Hello?” It was a demand, but she could not respond, could not rouse herself for one more deal, one more arrangement.
Somehow the snarling in the telephone grew fainter until she noticed Tony staring at her and realized she held the receiver out in front of her as if it were some anthropologically significant specimen of late twentieth-century technology. Della slipped her thumb up over the reset button. The snarling stopped.
She smiled at Tony. “Hugh Junior’s on his way,” she said. “I think we should complete the wedding before he gets here.”
Tony stepped forward and Della rested her arm on his and let him lead her outside and to her seat.
Chapter 20
Rita had toyed with the idea of having music during the ceremony, walking down the aisle to CDs of Rodney Crowell singing “Life Is Messy” or Juice Newton doing “The Sweetest Thing I’ve Ever Known Is Loving You.” Then she remembered that her previous wedding, her second to the wretched Larry, had begun to the strains of Kenny Rogers and Dottie West belting out “I Feel Sorry for Anyone Who Isn’t Me Tonight” and she decided a dignified entrance, preceded by the flower-strewing Tiffany, would suffice.
The disadvantage to having neither music nor rehearsal was that no one knew when to start. The JP looked toward the house and nodded, but Rita was fussing with the bow on Tiffany’s dress and didn’t catch the cue. When she finally did look up, the JP, who was Wanda’s brother, Paul, had turned to speak to Dave. Rita returned her attention to Tiffany’s bow.
Seated between Barbara and Tony, Della shook her head. “We need to transmit eye-contact messages to Rita and the JP,” she muttered. Tony snorted, then, ever so casu
ally, slipped his arm around her shoulder and stroked her hair. This brought a smile to Barbara, which prevented Della from snarling at him to stop petting her like a dog. Dave, meanwhile, continued to listen to the JP while casting anxious glances toward his bride.
Finally, Rita looked up and Dave motioned her forward. With a little push, Rita launched Tiffany, who marched resolutely down to the chairs filled with guests, then stopped for a moment to contemplate the aisle between the chairs. Somewhere behind Della, Darlene hissed at the child to toss the flower petals, which Tiffany did. Then, with further urging, she moved forward a little. Then she stopped to distribute more petals.
Tiffany had drawn almost even with Della when Rita, decked out in peach silk and crowned with a wreath of white rosebuds, sauntered down the hill. She frowned slightly as she closed the gap between herself and her granddaughter, who was tossing more petals; then, after Darlene gathered Tiffany to her and cleared the path, Rita joined her groom before the JP.
In deference to Dave’s choir friends, who had driven down from Fort Worth, the JP read a little bit of the Methodist service, then asked who was giving Rita in matrimony. Della and Kat helped Barbara to stand and said, “We are.”
They sat again and Della had only one more bad moment, envisioning Hugh Jr. crashing over the hill as they were asked if anyone knew of any reason why this couple should not be joined in matrimony. As it turned out, the JP didn’t ask. He read a short recipe for successful marriage clipped from an advice column, then asked Dave to place the ring on Rita’s finger.
Dave reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a gold band and placed it on Rita’s ring finger and recited the vows he and Rita had written. Then Rita slipped Dave’s ring off her forefinger and placed it on his ring finger and recited the vows back to him: I promise to be your wife, to love you and take care of you, to support you even when we disagree, to respect you and to share everything with you—money, children, jokes, music, happiness, and sorrow; to be honest and nonviolent, with or without weapons; to be your best friend and your strongest ally for ever and ever.
Then Dave and Rita kissed, and everyone clapped and cheered as Carla and Darlene ran up and tossed the remaining rose petals all over their mother and stepfather.
“For ever and ever?” Kat whispered to Della, but Della just shrugged.
“What were they supposed to say: for as long as we’re married?”
Cameras flashed and Kathy’s husband, who had been videotaping since Tiffany’s appearance, made the guests return to their seats so the bride and groom could make a proper recession.
The guests, gamely withstanding the heat that was oppressive even in the shade of the house, clustered around the long tables filled with food. “Mom,” said Carla, “you’ve always been one to plunge right in and Dave, you’ve always been one just to wear down the opposition, so we don’t have any doubts about how you two got together again. We just want to wish you well and tell you, Dave, welcome back. It’s like you never left.”
One of Carla’s sons undid one of Tiffany’s curls, beginning a chase, joined by Flops, through the round tables set under the trees; WaLuKa posed in front of the cake for Kathy’s husband to tape; Rita and Dave kissed long and repeatedly for various friends with cameras; Kat shepherded people toward the brisket and then back past the keg; and Della leaned against the post on the back step and watched the side of the house, where the driveway curved down from the street.
A few of their Ladies Farm guests, bewildered at being included in the wedding, stopped to chat with her, primarily about the cake; but, for the most part, she stood alone and let the wedding teem around her. Lydia was holding a cup out to Barbara, who took it slowly and sipped tentatively, then handed it back.
Della watched Barbara look up and catch Lydia’s eye and Lydia nodded. She saw Lydia wheel Barbara toward the house and, as they approached, she held the door open for their entrance. Then, resuming her post, she wondered where Flops and the children had gone. “Expecting company?” Tony asked, holding out a cup of beer.
Della shook him off. “Young Hugh’s pretty mad.”
“I had Dave call over to Simmons … you know, where the highways intersect?… and he just called back to say his youngest saw a blue Volvo driven by a man heading toward Sydonia.”
“So I am expecting someone,” Della said.
Della looked around at all the people, then she smiled, marveling at her own calm. “Well, at the least the wedding’s over and Barbara’s gone back to her room. He can’t spoil that.”
“Maybe we ought to meet him out front.”
“That’s a good idea,” Della said, starting toward the side of the house. “But you don’t have to come. This really isn’t your fight.”
“I have a vested interest in your future,” Tony pointed out. “We have a date next week.”
“Wait here,” Della said, motioning toward the porch as they rounded the house.
“What’re you doing?”
She didn’t know why she expected him to follow directions, but she shrugged and let him follow her instead. She hurried over to the cars in the long drive by the house, and she couldn’t help a smile at Barbara’s Thunderbird, gleaming red in the sun.
“Get in if you’re coming,” she instructed. The key, in Ladies Farm fashion, was in the ignition, and she turned it before Tony had settled in. Quickly, she backed out into the street, which was lined on both sides by the cars of wedding guests. It took only a little maneuvering to get the T-bird perpendicular to the flow of traffic.
“She won’t need this,” Della explained, getting out of the car as quickly as she’d gotten in. Tony followed and they stood for a minute on the dusty road in front of the Ladies Farm, listening for the hum of an approaching car. Truck traffic from Castleburg’s had been rerouted for the day, and they had returned to the solitude of a dead-end street.
“What’s he coming out here for, anyway?” Tony asked. “Why doesn’t he just file his writs and be done with it?”
Della peered down the road but saw nothing but neighbors’ houses, some old gingerbread cottages, some fifties-style ramblers. “Oh, he thinks he can bully us into doing what we wouldn’t do otherwise.”
“All this over a few dollars?”
Della sighed and turned toward him. “All this about Hugh Junior’s chance to strike it rich.” His silence begged further explanation.
“Look, we’ve messed up his deal with Castleburg. So his fall-back is to sell to us. But he wants more than the appraisal. So if he gets Barbara to sell him her interest, he’s got it.”
“I thought Barbara was giving you her interest.”
“She is. Those are the papers Kat took to the attorney the other day.” It was warm in the sun, particularly in a long-sleeved silk dress. Della felt the sweat on her face and in her armpits, but there was nothing to do but wait on Hugh Jr.
“So it’s over, isn’t it?”
Della nodded, then shaded her eyes with her hand and looked down the street again.
“Then why is Hugh Junior on his way here?” Tony’s exasperation was clear, but Della sensed something additional, perhaps suspicion that she had orchestrated this confrontation.
“To fight.” She took a breath. “To hurt us—me—for keeping him from doing what he wanted.” Della hoisted herself atop the Thunderbird’s hood and patted the spot next to her in resigned invitation to Tony. He had taken off his jacket and tie, and his open collar showed the strength of his neck where it met his shoulders. She stared a second, remembering that particular point with pleasure.
Tony squared his shoulders and looked down the street so intently that Della had to stifle a giggle. “Tony, he’s not coming to beat us up.”
“Then what—”
“He has Pauline’s journals, Tony,” she said a little too sharply. “He knows all the things that we—Rita, Kat, Dave, Barbara, Richard … all of us—confided in her over the past twenty years.”
“This is stupid,” Tony grumbl
ed.
“Yes it is.”
“He just wants to throw a tantrum. Upset us all with each other’s secrets. Punks like that make me sick!”
Perception dawned at the same moment the blue Volvo appeared. “Tony,” she asked, amazed, “what did Pauline know about you?”
He shot her an annoyed look as he slid off the T-bird and stood braced to meet Hugh Jr.
It seemed like only a second before Hugh Jr. slid to a stop at the T-bird, which blocked his path. Della had envisioned a confrontation in which Hugh Jr. stayed seated in the car, but he was already slamming his door behind him. Della decided to keep her perch.
His sandy hair had thinned to the point that Della could see his scalp when he lowered his head to charge them. “How sweet,” he sneered. “Uncle Tony and Auntie Della. Together again.” He faced Della. “Calling out the troops?”
“Have a seat, Hugh,” Della invited, patting the same perch she had offered Tony. “Can I get you a drink? Some barbecue?”
“You know what I want: I want all of you off the Ladies Farm!”
“Hugh.” Tony stepped forward and offered his hand. “Haven’t seen you since your mom’s funeral. How’re you doing?”
Hugh eyed him nervously, but extended his hand. “I’m sorry to meet you this way.” He gulped, and Della realized Hugh Jr. was addressing his scoutmaster. “What’s happening … this has nothing to do … this is between me and … her!”
“Hugh, honey, don’t point,” Della said. “It’s not polite.”
“I want you out!” he said, his voice rising. “Get out of my way!”
“Hugh, honey,” she started again, “we want—”
“Move out!” Hugh demanded. “Now!”
Without awaiting her reply, Hugh Jr. jumped back into the Volvo and backed up.
“Della!” Tony reached for her but she was already jumping off the hood as Hugh Jr. backed down Travis to give himself a running start. They were well out of the way when Hugh Jr. made contact.
As a bulldozer, the Volvo was less than satisfactory. Hugh Jr. made contact in the exact center of the T-bird, pushing the whole thing a few inches as it crumpled the middle. The Volvo’s vaunted safety features protected Hugh Jr. and the car from much damage, but it did deploy the airbag. Hugh Jr. didn’t seem to mind.