Safety Assured Leaving East of Medicetti

by Trish Mercer

The next few days were so unbearable that Peto was positive he could never endure another wedding. But there was no way he could escape the preparations, because he was the baby holder.

  It wasn’t such a bad duty, he’d admit if someone forced him to. He just sat at the kitchen table cradling little Salema while she slept and her mother worked. The infant had a way of snuggling into his chest and releasing little sighs that Peto would’ve labeled, had he been female, as “sweet.”

  But he wasn’t, so he wouldn’t.

  His mother and sister were making a Hycymum Peto-style cake. But it was no ordinary cake; it was as big as Mt. Deceit.

  “Oh, ha-ha,” Jaytsy rolled her eyes when he said that. “Hardly.”

  “Well, it’s the shape of it,” he said, eyeing the multi-tiered cake that was two-thirds the height of his mother.

  “Do you realize how many people we have to feed?” Mahrree said. “I think half of Salem is coming.” She was smearing a sugary concoction over the cake, making it a glistening light brown.

  “Just our luck that Shem’s the most famous man in Salem. Everybody already knew about the wedding, even before they put it in that newspaper. And they’re all bringing food themselves,” Peto reminded her. They had attended a Salem wedding a few weeks ago, and there was enough food to feed half the world.

  “But no one will be bringing anything quite like this,” Mahrree said confidently. “And it’s the least we can do for your uncle.”

  “Cousin,” Peto reminded her. “Fourth or fifth or second—”

  “He’s always been our brother,” Mahrree said, “and he’s always been your uncle, and I want to do this for him and the bride I found for him and who is now my dear friend.”

  “By force or by fear?” Peto smirked.

  “Neither,” Mahrree insisted. “She’s quite warming up to me. Besides, as much as you go on about never getting married, this may be the last wedding I get to help with until little Salema marries.”

  Jaytsy sniggered as she sorted through a pail of purple flowers.

  “And how are you going to get that cake to the wedding? It must weigh as much as me,” Peto said.

  “Deck and your father are strong enough,” Mahrree assured him. “That’s why it’s on this platform for them to move it.”

  “But if they need any extra muscle,” Jaytsy eyed her brother, “I’m sure some of Shem’s nephews can help.”

  Peto flexed a bicep. Not as big as his father’s but quite adequate.

  “Don’t you dare wake up my daughter,” Jaytsy warned. “Do that again and she might think a fly bumped her.”

  “Now both of you, stop it,” Mahrree chided, but she was smiling. “My mother would be so proud of this, wouldn’t she?” She stepped back to admire her work.

  “Definitely!” Jaytsy beamed. She dipped another small purple flower into a syrupy mixture and sprinkled bits of light brown sugar on the top. “Even the flowers are edible. It will look amazing.”

  “How many of those are you doing?” Peto asked as she started sugaring a third tray.

  “Enough to cover most the cake,” she said. “As soon as Mother is ready.”

  Mahrree smoothed up one last section. “There! Now for the decoration.”

  It took them another hour and half to arrange all the flowers in clumps, then in trails, then in some kind of combination that didn’t look any different to Peto, but finally made his mother and sister satisfied.

  But that wasn’t the end of the wedding preparations. That evening Shem came over after dinner, two days before his wedding. He sheepishly looked at Mahrree, barely glanced at Peto, then followed Perrin up the stairs to the office.

  “What’s Shem doing over here?” Peto asked his mother. “I thought he’d be spending all of his time making gooey eyes at Calla.”

  His mother just smiled. “Men talk,” she said meaningfully.

  Peto didn’t catch the meaning.

  When Shem came down the stairs more than an hour later, he was redder than Peto had ever seen him. He didn’t even look over at Mahrree who sat on the sofa reading a book.

  Interestingly, she didn’t look up at him, either.

  “Good night, Shem,” she said, staring at her book.

  Shem cleared his throat, turned purple, and darted out the door.

  Chuckling, Perrin came down the stairs.

  “So?” Mahrree asked him, “Is he ready?”

  Peto squinted, completely perplexed.

  “Is anyone ever really ready?” Perrin said.

  “Ready for what?” Peto wondered. “And talking for an hour?”

  Perrin raised his eyebrows. “Since he’s about to be married—”

  Peto groaned with sudden and nauseating understanding. “Oh, just forget I said anything.”

  “It took an hour,” his mother began, thoroughly enjoying her son’s discomfort, “because your father is quite expert in—”

  “Aaauugh! STOP! Just stop!” Peto covered his ears.

  She laughed as Perrin put an arm around Peto’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, son. When your time comes, and it will come because the desire strikes every man, I’ll take you upstairs and explain—”

  “NOTHING! Because I don’t want to hear any of that from you!” He turned and pointed at his mother who was making eyes at his father. “Or you!”

  “Oh, there are a few things your mother could share—” Perrin started with a mischievous grin.

  “It was bad enough when I was eight,” Peto shuddered. “Then again when I was twelve . . . I know it all!”

  But Perrin shook his head. “No, what you know are the basics, and our attitude about when it’s appropriate. But what I’ll teach you before you marry is the art of—”

  “AAUGH!” Peto covered his ears. “Why would I ever want to hear those details from you?”

  His mother smiled sweetly. “Would you rather hear them from me?”

  Peto flinched and shook his head violently.

  “It’s what the Creator intended for husbands and wives,” Mahrree called as he ran up the stairs. “It’s really quite beautiful—”

  Peto knew his parents heard his bedroom door slam. That was probably why they burst into laughter downstairs. The wedding was making them so immature.

  By the 31st day of Weeding Season, Peto was more than ready to get the wedding over with. He was tired of food being prepared, and not for him, discussions about the wedding, what people might bring, and whatever, who cares.

  The morning of the wedding they moved the massive cake in the wagon to a large green common space which, it was hoped, would accommodate the few thousand people they anticipated coming to watch Salem’s most eligible, and probably oldest, bachelor finally marry. Peto watched as people poured in, about an hour before the ceremony, bringing food to share and blankets to sit on. Salem’s largest picnic, with a wedding as entertainment.

  An odd irritation gripped Peto as the Salemites converged. He couldn’t quite define what bothered him; the food offerings were more than satisfactory. But there was something else, almost a compulsion beyond his control, that made him watch more closely the bearers of the dishes rather than the dishes themselves. For some annoying reason he found himself wondering which of the young women might be single. Why didn’t they just put down their food on the makeshift tables and stop smiling at him?

  But soon enough Shem Zenos and Calla Trovato turned every head in their direction. Relieved for the distraction, Peto joined his family standing near the front with the rest of the Zenoses and Trovatos. Watching the proceedings solidified Peto’s attitude that he’d never subject himself to such a public and humiliating spectacle.

  Shem was practically glowing—probably because he’d spent the morning scrubbing his face until it was red—as he walked with Calla, arm in arm, through the crowd of people which parted for them.

  “Oh, she looks so pretty!” Jaytsy breathed to her family.

  Peto just shrugged. It wasn’t as if Calla was wearing anyth
ing fancy. No one in Salem ever did. It was just the same tunics with trousers or skirts, all neat and plain. But Calla did have on a pure white top and skirt, as was Salem’s tradition for a wedding, with no lace or silk or ruffles, since no clothing in Salem had those. But maybe Calla’s black shining hair, which she wore down around her shoulders, could have counted as “silky.” Maybe Jaytsy was referring to the dozens of tiny white flowers her sisters had woven into her hair from ear to ear. Those would be a pain to get out later. She might even have a few bees visit her during the day.

  “And I’ve never seen Shem look so handsome,” Mahrree whispered back.

  Peto scrunched up his face. Evaluating “handsome” wasn’t ever his habit. Shem was also head to toe in white, and his hair so precisely combed that he must have been at it for an hour, but he looked like the same old Uncle Shem. Except for the goofy grin. That was definitely something different. At any moment he might break out into a genuine guffaw.

  Perrin smiled. “They’re perfect.”

  But Peto squinted. Perfect? Shem was too tall and broad, Calla was too narrow. Shem had several scars on his face that looked like misplaced laugh lines, Calla’s eyes were maybe just a bit too blue—

  Everyone stood up for a better view as Shem led his beaming bride to stand before Guide Gleace. Peto nodded in approval about one thing: at least Shem was surprisingly tear-free.

  “I don’t know how he’s managing all this,” Perrin whispered into his son’s ear, as if reading his mind. “Look at poor Boskos Zenos. I’ve never seen a man sob so profusely before.”

  Peto had avoided watching Shem’s father, whose tears were eliciting gentle chuckles from the Salemites who knew that Mr. Zenos never expected his son to marry. Not even Calla’s mother cried as noticeably that her oldest daughter was finally marrying, but she certainly was shaking, held up by Calla’s proud father.

  It was a good thing the ceremony lasted only ten minutes, Peto thought, or there’d be collapsing parents left and right. Still, Shem was doing surprising well at holding it together.

  Until Guide Gleace said, “ . . . and now I am most pleased to declare you husband and wife. Mrs. Zenos, you may kiss your husband now.”

  That’s when it started. Calla’s lower lip began to quiver as she looked up at Shem. “I’m Mrs. Zenos!” she said quietly, but everyone heard her and began to chuckle. Tears filled her eyes as Shem took her face.

  “Don’t you dare start that,” he begged her. “We weren’t going to cry, remember? But if you start crying, then I’ll start crying—”

  “Shem, you already are,” Guide Gleace pointed out, to the amusement of the crowd. “Now claim her as your wife in front of everyone, Mr. Zenos, or I’ll have to say the words all over again.”

  Peto had never before seen two sobbing people kiss, and he never wanted to see it again. Guide Gleace even presented each of them with a white handkerchief as they pulled apart.

  In disgust, Peto turned to his family, but they were just as pathetic. Deck was wiping the tears from Jaytsy’s face, ignoring two of his own. His mother was weeping, and even General Shin was sniffing and dabbing at his eyes as if he was suffering from allergies. Only Salema wasn’t crying because she was asleep. So Peto watched Calla and Shem again, still sobbing as they walked back through the crowds shaking hands and hugging family and friends.

  They would be dehydrated by the end of the wedding dinner.

  Just two shriveled peas by nightfall.

  Why would anyone willingly subject themselves to this?

  Peto spent the rest of that long afternoon sitting on a blanket at the edge of the large green where everyone had turned the day into a massive party. Normally he was in the thick of everything, but today he just couldn’t bring himself to be sociable. At Peto’s feet were two plates which he had filled with the best pickings. But strangely, he had very little appetite. Even a small piece of Grandmother Peto’s cake, which was the undisputed hit of the day, sat untouched. He was too filled with unexpected agitation to eat. All he could do was stare.

  And what he was staring at . . . well, it just didn’t make sense. He was staring at girls. A few of Shem’s nephews were staring, too. Then they stood up and moved in closer to a group of giggling females. Then they started talking to them. And laughing. And eating off each other’s plates.

  Why Peto felt jealous he also didn’t know. It was all just stupid, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  For a time he shifted his attention to Davinch, who sat nearby swiftly drawing detailed sketches of the blubbering bride and groom. He’d already brought over the full color paintings of the Shins, which now covered the walls of their gathering room, along with dozens of framed sketches. The Shins and Briters had stared in awe at the nearly life-size portraits grinning back at them. The paintings still gave Peto a start each morning as he trotted down the stairs to see that he was already up and perched on the wall behind the second sofa.

  Davinch nodded in acknowledgement at Peto, and Peto’s first smile of the day occurred when he imagined Davinch’s portrait of Shem and Calla, sobbing forever on their gathering room wall.

  But suddenly everything got worse. That was because Davinch now noticed the cluster of Shem’s nephews, and that one of them had started talking to a girl Peto knew was Calla’s youngest sister.

  Davinch flipped over a page and began a new sketch.

  Peto stopped watching Davinch’s work and focused instead on the dreadful scene before him. With her dark blonde hair and greenish eyes, Calla’s sister didn’t look too much like her. She was also much louder and more obvious than her reserved sister, with a lively voice that carried over any conversation near her. Peto felt his chest grow hot whenever he heard it.

  He had considered several times that he should go up and talk to her, or to any other girl for that matter. It wasn’t as if the youngest Trovato daughter was the most beautiful girl at the wedding. Or the most delicate, as he would put it. She probably could’ve beaten Jaytsy in an arm wrestle, and seemed like the kind of girl who would happily prove she could. She just seemed interesting. She may have even been ‘practical,’ but Peto didn’t know how he could find out. He was far funnier and more handsome, he was modestly sure, than Shem’s nephew who stayed by her side. It was just that the pain growing in his chest kept him rooted to the patch of grass.

  He didn’t even know her name. A few days ago Shem and Calla were over at the Shins for dinner, and Shem was reciting Calla’s sisters’ names. Peto, stuck there with potato peeling duty, had nothing better to do than to listen. “So first you, of course, then Ella, Polla, Tuella, Hildegardian—”

  That was when Peto snorted so loudly he missed hearing the name of the youngest sister. Not that it mattered.

  Finally the wedding day turned into wedding evening, and the Zenos and Trovato families helped clean up whatever the leaving Salemites forgot, which took less than five minutes since Salemites were naturally tidy creatures. Peto made himself busy by needlessly fluffing up the trampled grass to avoid spying on the girl whose laugh reminded him of startled geese.

  Each time he stole a glance, just to see if she noticed, she clearly wasn’t watching him.

  He watched as his father pulled Shem aside shortly before he left with Calla, and whisper something to him. Then Shem wiped his eyes and caught his friend in an embrace. Peto scowled as General Shin hastily brushed away tears of his own again.

  A few minutes later Shem helped his new bride up into their wagon, they waved to the remaining family and friends who cheered, and headed off into the setting sun to begin their new life together.

  “I can’t believe he finally did it,” Mahrree sighed happily. “What a wonderful day.”

  But that wasn’t what Peto was thinking, especially when the wagon pulled away and he was afforded a view of Calla’s youngest sister shouting after the newlyweds. It sounded something like, “Remember, Calla—it took you years to catch him. Don’t go breaking him on your first n
ight!”

  Mrs. Trovato looked aghast at her daughter, but she also seemed puzzled because she wasn’t quite sure what her comment meant. “Oh, Lilla, do behave yourself.”

  Lilla.

  Her name was Lilla. Loud, laughing, Lilla.

  The same name as Deck’s aunt, so it should be easy to remember. But he didn’t need to, he reminded himself, because he’d likely never see her again, and—

  But he watched her, feeling a tightness growing in his chest which was made all the worse by a memory from several years ago. He’d been listening to his parents argue about something petty, but they were smiling. Smiling in that particular way that meant they’d both be making excuses to go upstairs to their bedroom to “check the window” or “get some papers” which never made it down the stairs. Because when his parents started smiling as they argued, it meant they’d disappear for about half an hour, then come back with their clothes and hair looking neater than before, as if they consciously fixed themselves up.

  When he was thirteen he finally asked his father, “Why do you two get so loud?”

  Perrin had leaned in and said, “Because loud means passionate.”

  Within seconds his mind put together all the horrible pieces, and stared in shock at the image. Ever since then he sneered in disgust whenever his parents starting another one of their “debates” that ended elsewhere.

  Loud means passionate.

  Today Peto couldn’t shake that phrase from his mind, no matter how hard he tried, as he stared at Loud Lilla Trovato.

  She glanced in his direction—a deliberate, focused look, aimed right at him—before she turned to say goodbye to Shem’s nephews.

  Peto never wanted to feel so awful ever again.

  Weddings were overly emotional things, he decided, and this would be his last one.

  ---

  Lemuel sat at his desk, with his back straight, his feet firmly planted on the floor, and his left hand in the correct position to carefully pen another line.

  “Slagging ink! No wonder they make everyone write with their right hands. Smears everywhere!” He fumbled to ball up the ruined page and threw it into the embers of the fire. At least his left-armed aim was improving.

  After his temper cooled, he pulled out another piece of paper, exhaled long and low, and began again to practice writing as if he were six years old again.

  Trying to keep his hand elevated, and his arm positioned just so, he slowly scrawled, “I . . . will . . . rescue . . . Jaytsy. . . I . . . will . . . rescue . . . Jaytsy . . .”

  Chapter 29--“Any new predictions for the next year?”