He was so torn between relief and exasperation that he had very little emotion to spare when he arrived home to find the house, the yard, the front porch and the back porch full of Mother’s relatives eating fried chicken and potato salad, except to say that it looked like a convention. He did, however, take Mother aside to tell her that if he heard Aunt Mildred say one more time, “All’s well that ends well,” he would not be responsible for his actions.
“You could have been killed,” he told her. “You know that, don’t you?”
“But we weren’t,” Mother said. She wanted him to look on the bright side: the great success of his parade; Louis, now riding my bicycle up and down the driveway with all the confidence of one who has slain his personal Minotaur; Aunt Della, at last present and part of a family reunion “. . . and having a wonderful time, too,” Mother added.
“Should have come long ago,” Aunt Della said. “Just got set in my ways, that’s all. Don’t you get set in your ways, Fred. Have a little fun, have a little excitement.”
“It’s not always the same thing,” he said; and then, “Why didn’t you say you were coming? I’d have met you at the bus station.”
“Didn’t come on the bus,” Aunt Della said. “I came in a taxicab.”
“From Zanesville?” My father stared at her.
“Well, I didn’t start out to come here in a taxicab. I started out, you see, to go spend the day with my friend Audrey Wilson. Normally I wouldn’t go there in a taxicab either, but I was taking along three dining room chairs for Audrey’s nephew to repair, and then there was the quilt we’re making for the church bazaar . . .”
Even to Louis and me, this was beginning to sound like bedspreads, curtains and vacuum cleaners all over again, and I could see from my father’s face that he thought so too.
“. . . said I was his last fare, that he was going to Piketon to spend the day with his brother, and I said I had a brother living not twenty miles from Piketon . . .”
Aunt Mildred had drifted over by this time and was listening with interest.
“. . . just thought, oh, why not? It’s the Fourth of July, after all. But don’t worry, Fred, I don’t expect to drive down here in a taxicab very often.”
“Surely not,” Aunt Mildred chimed in. “Della, I just love to drive, and Grace and I . . .” She put her arm through Aunt Della’s and led her over to where Mother was dishing up potato salad, and they all fell into animated conversation, of which we heard only one snatch: “We’ll just drive along, and see what we can find to do. . . .”
Louis wondered what happened to the dining room chairs and the quilt, and I wondered whether Audrey Wilson was still waiting for Aunt Della to show up at her door, but my father didn’t ask about those details.
He just stood there, shaking his head and muttering to himself. “Three of them,” I heard him say. “From now on, there’ll be three of them.”
The Wedding of Willard and What’s-her-name
Of Mother’s great swarm of relatives, my father had no special favorite and no special bête noire because, he said, they were all alike—and all perilously close to crazy.
They really weren’t, of course, day in, day out. But he seldom saw any of them day in, day out, pursuing their ordinary rounds of activity. He saw them, instead, in great numbers, on holidays or on occasions of family celebration, all talking at once and recalling past events: “Remember when Louella blew up the beer?” “. . . when Ralph left the baby on the bus?” “. . . when Blanche brought the convict home for supper?” Details were never spelled out, and though my mother sometimes tried to fill them in for him, she usually made the whole thing sound even worse.
“Well, Ralph got off the bus in Chillicothe to go to the bathroom,” she would explain, “and the bus went on without him.”
“Went on to where?”
“To Columbus. He was going to Columbus.”
“Ralph was going to Columbus?”
“Yes, but he got off in Chillicothe to go to . . .”
“Yes, I understand that. What about the baby?”
“The baby went on to Columbus on the bus.”
“But didn’t Ralph tell someone? Get them to stop the bus?”
“Why, he didn’t know what to do, poor little thing. He was only—oh, I don’t know—eight or nine years old.”
“Eight or nine years old! What was he doing on a bus with a baby?”
At this point in the story—in any story—Mother’s recollection would fizzle out. “I just don’t remember,” she would always say, “but there must have been a good reason for it.”
It was a miracle, my father often said, that so many of them had lived to tell these tales; and he only hoped that my little brother Louis and I would learn something from all the mistakes in judgment.
We did, of course, learn some things—not to hobnob with convicts, not to leave babies on buses—but, despite my father’s hopes, we continued to stumble into exactly the same kinds of dilemmas and to solve them, or not solve them, in exactly the same ways.
When Louis won the magazine contest, it didn’t look at first like a dilemma at all, but like a great triumph. Louis entered magazine contests all the time and had never won anything, so I was very excited. Louis, mysteriously, was less so.
“It’s just the second prize,” he said.
“But, Louis, second prize is always something good! It’s honorable mention that gets the soap and the dog food. What did you win?”
“I won a wedding.” He read from the letter: “‘. . . flowers, reception, bridal ward-robe, limousine . . .’ and some other things. Three thousand dollars worth of things. First prize was a honeymoon in Paris, France.”
I couldn’t believe that when Louis finally won a prize it would be a wedding. “Why did you enter this contest, anyway?”
“I didn’t know what it was. I found the entry blank on a table at the dentist. The top was torn off, so I just filled it out and sent it in.” He looked at the letter again. “The magazine’s called Bridal Daze.”
“Daze is right,” I said. “You’ll have to write and tell them you’re nine years old, so you can’t use the prize—unless they’ll keep it till you’re old enough to get married, but I don’t think they’ll do that.”
“I can’t write to them,” he said. “There’s a place on all the entry blanks where it says ‘I certify that I am twenty-one years old.’ They’ll arrest me.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“They’ll yell at me. Besides . . .” he looked stubborn. “I won the prize. I ought to get something.”
“Louis, face it. This prize is for someone who wants to get married. Maybe you can trade it to someone who wants to get married.”
Louis stared at me for a minute and then he nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll give it to Willard.”
That sounded perfect to me. Willard Armstrong was my mother’s cousin, and our favorite relative. He gave us rides in his truck and took us to the movies, and he always sent us birthday cards signed Very truly yours, Willard Armstrong. Besides, he was grown up, he had a job and a girlfriend and—most of all—he wanted to get married.
Even my father liked Willard, though with reservations. He thought Willard lacked gumption and let people walk all over him. Mother said he didn’t mean “people”—he meant Willard’s girlfriend, Janine, who was also called Althea and sometimes Ginger, depending on what she said to call her.
“I like to try out all different names,” she told us once. “You can change your name, you know, if you don’t like it.”
“Don’t you like your name?” Louis asked her.
“I like it better than I used to, but I’m not crazy about it.” Janine whipped out a compact, rearranged one or two curls, and studied her face carefully. She did this a lot—hoping, we assumed, to suddenly hit upon exactly the right name to go with what she saw in the mirror. “I don’t want to make a mistake though. I was all set to change it to Rosalie but I’m glad I di
dn’t, because now I hate the name Rosalie. I may change it, or I may not, but I want to be sure.”
When my father heard about this he said it was clear to him that Janine, or whatever her name was, must be a member of Mother’s family, so it was no wonder that she kept turning down Willard’s marriage proposals. “Doesn’t want to marry her own third cousin,” he said.
“That’s the only thing,” I told Louis. “Willard wants to get married, but Janine doesn’t.”
“Why not?” he said.
“I don’t know why not.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to get married till she knows for sure what her name is going to be—because, once Willard says ‘I, Willard, take you, Janine . . .’ that would be it, wouldn’t it?”
My mother said no. “You marry a person,” she said. “You don’t marry a name. No, your father’s right—Willard is too easygoing. Janine always has some silly reason why they shouldn’t get married, and Willard just won’t put his foot down. I don’t know what will finally persuade her.”
Louis and I thought we knew: three thousand dollars worth of flowers and food and limousines and bridal wardrobe, especially the bridal wardrobe.
Besides trying on all different names, Janine liked to try on all different clothes, and we never saw her in the same outfit twice. She said she had to look her best at all times because of her job at Kobacker’s, where she sold ladies’ dresses. “Besides,” she said, “I get a discount, and it would be wasteful for me not to use it.”
“I don’t think they sell wedding dresses at Kobacker’s,” I told Louis, “and she probably doesn’t have enough money to buy one somewhere else, because of using her discount. That may be one of the reasons she won’t marry Willard.”
Willard said he didn’t think that was it. “I surely hope that’s not it. No—Janine is just a very cautious person. Look how she is about her name. She’s been trying out names ever since I’ve known her, which is six years. She doesn’t want to make a big mistake—and I admire that.” He sighed. “Of course, six years is a long time.”
“I still think you ought to tell her about the prize wedding,” I said. “She might not want to waste it. You know how she is about her discount.”
“Well . . .” Willard nodded. “There’s that, all right.”
Two days later Janine had set the wedding date, reserved a country club, located an eight-piece orchestra and gone off to Cincinnati to get fitted for a wedding dress.
We learned about all this from my mother, who was pleased for Willard but mystified by the arrangements. “I don’t know what’s the matter with her,” she said. “Why, that country club’s thirty miles away! What’s wrong with the V.F.W. hall? And when your Aunt Rhoda called to say she’d make the wedding cake, the way she always does, Janine said she would take care of that because she wants a cake with a waterfall and continuous music. Rhoda said, ‘Good luck.’ I think she’s crazy.”
“Of course she’s crazy,” my father said. “Here’s a grown woman who hasn’t figured out what her name ought to be. Willard better think twice.”
“Willard’s had six years to think twice,” Mother told him, “and all he can think is Janine.”
It all seemed very romantic to me. “Just think, Louis,” I said, “if you hadn’t won your prize and given it to Willard, he’d still be waiting and thinking.”
As it turned out, that had occurred to Willard too, and it bothered him enough to discuss it with my mother.
“Of course, I know a nice wedding is important to a girl,” he said, “especially a girl like Janine, who has to think about her appearance and all . . . and I don’t really believe it was just the wedding that brought her around to say yes. You know, Janine doesn’t make up her mind in a hurry.”
“No,” Mother said.
“I believe, though, that she’d about decided to make up her mind—and then, here came this wedding. And, naturally, she didn’t want to see it go to waste. That’s what she said. She said, ‘Willard, we can’t let this go to waste.’”
At this point, Mother realized that she must have missed something somewhere in the conversation, and that, in fact, it was not even the conversation she originally assumed it to be—a discussion about expenses, and the relative importance of certain details, such as musical wedding cakes—and wet ones, at that. She had planned to suggest that Willard put down, if not his foot, at least a toe or two, and rein Janine in a little bit. Now he seemed to be saying that Janine was doing the whole thing out of frugality.
“. . . should think she’d be running out of ways to spend three thousand dollars . . .”
Mother didn’t miss that. “Three thousand dollars! Willard, surely Janine doesn’t have three thousand dollars—you don’t have three thousand dollars, do you?”
“I guess not!” Willard said. “Nowhere close.”
“Then where’s it coming from?”
“Why—from Louis,” Willard said.
It had not occured to him that Louis’s prize was a secret, nor had it occurred to Louis and me that it should be a secret.
Louis said that if anyone had asked, “Did you win a magazine contest?” he would have said yes; and if they had asked, “What did you win?” he would have said, A wedding . . . and if they had then asked, “What are you going to do with a wedding?” he would have said, Give it to Willard.
“But nobody ever asked,” he told my father.
“But, Louis, why in God’s name would we ask—out of the blue—if you’d won a magazine contest?” Once again, my father said, we were up the river without a canoe; and, as usual, the details were buried in fog. He turned on Willard. “Why didn’t you say something about this?”
“I did,” Willard said. “When Aunt Grace asked where the money was coming from, I said, ‘From Louis.’”
“But Louis doesn’t have three thousand dollars!”
“I know that!” It was interesting to hear Willard raise his voice, even a little bit, because he never had before. “It isn’t Louis’s money, it’s Louis’s prize.”
“It is not Louis’s prize! Louis is nine years old. This magazine isn’t going to give Louis the prize, so he can’t give it to you!”
Willard thought about that for a minute. “I believe you’re right,” he said.
“In the meantime,” my father went on, “Janine has been out ordering dresses and flowers and cakes, to the tune of three thousand dollars. So she’s either going to have to come up with the money or call off the dresses and the flowers and the cakes.”
Willard shook his head. “Janine’s not going to want to do that. Why, she doesn’t even like it when people return things at the store because they’ve changed their minds. You know, Janine’s slow to make up her mind, but when she does . . .”
“Now, Willard,” Mother said. “Listen to me, because I’m all out of patience with Janine’s cautious ways. You just tell her that she doesn’t need to drag us all thirty miles to a country club to hear eight perfect strangers play fiddles . . . and she doesn’t need to drape the church from stem to stern with orchids, which Mr. Herms the florist doesn’t know where he’s going to get them all, anyway. She doesn’t need any limousine to ride two and a half blocks, either. She doesn’t need any of those things . . . now, you just tell her so.”
To everyone’s surprise (including his own, I guess) that was just what Willard did.
He told Janine to cancel the reception and the orchestra and the orchids and the cake, and to find some dress closer to home.
He never did tell her what happened to Louis’s prize.
“Don’t know why I didn’t,” he told my mother. “That would have been the place to start. But it seemed like when I left here I was mostly worried, and by the time I got to Janine’s I was mostly mad. And then, right off the bat, she told me we had to have a lot of white doves to fly around outside the church. Had to have them, she said. So I knew right then that this whole circus was a big mistake, and I just told her we weren’t going to have an
y part of it.”
He did give in about one thing, though. He told Janine that she could go ahead and get her wedding dress if she would give up forever all thoughts of changing her name, because he didn’t want that hanging over him for the rest of his life—and Janine, astonished, perhaps, by the demonstration of strength and purpose, agreed to everything.
It all turned out so well that my father had a hard time getting Louis to see the error of his ways, and Mother was no help.
“If Louis hadn’t won the wedding,” she said, “they probably wouldn’t be getting married.”
“Exactly,” my father said. “Is that a reason to get married?”
“No. That’s why it’s such a good thing that Louis didn’t really win the wedding. Willard would always wonder if that was why Janine married him, and now he knows it isn’t.”
My father sighed. “Now, this is typical,” he said. “Louis has done a foolish thing and caused everyone a lot of trouble, and you seem to be saying that we should congratulate him. But just because this turns out all right doesn’t mean that he can go on doing foolish things. When Ralph left that baby on the bus, it turned out all right, but . . .”
“Well, it did and it didn’t,” Mother said. “We got him back, of course—but I don’t know how much babies remember. Maybe somehow he always remembered that he got left on a bus and taken to Columbus, and it affected his personality. Maybe he’s never had much get-up-and-go because that scared it out of him.”
“Who?” my father said. “What are you talking about?”
“Why . . . Willard.”
“Willard! Willard was the baby Ralph left on the bus?”
Of course this was big news to Louis and me, and we could hardly wait to go find out whether Willard did, in fact, remember the experience, because Louis always claimed he could remember being a baby and could remember that he didn’t much like it.
My Brother Louis Measures Worms Page 5