“I’m bleeding!” he shouts. “Auntie Jen, I’m bleeding!”
The whole room looks over at us.
Mother Keller rolls her eyes and I push my chair back, hurrying Trevor off to the bathroom. There I try to rinse out the bright red stains on his white oxford shirt. Fifteen minutes later Mother Keller bangs in through the swinging door, exasperated.
“Wonderful!” she says, shaking her head. “Just wonderful.”
“Gramma, I got Pop Rocks!”
She shushes him. “What on earth are we going to do?” she asks me. “There’ll be press at the store and there’s the big family photograph later. I guess we can rush him up to the boys’ department and grab him a new shirt.”
“It’s not a problem,” I say, and turn off the water. “I’ll just run him home and grab another one.” Mother Keller looks unsure. I tell her I’ll just take Brad’s car and he can ride with them to the store. “We’ll just meet there.” I shrug. “No problem.”
She shakes her head and sighs. “I suppose that’ll have to do. Look at that shirt. Ruined.”
“Gramma, want some Pop Rocks?”
I catch him before he falls off the sink. “Grandma doesn’t want any Pop Rocks, Trevor. Come on, let me wash your hands.”
“All right, you two.” Mother Keller looks at her watch. “I’ll see you down at the store . . . but, Jennifer, do put him in something decent. Not any of those garish colors he likes.”
“Pink!” Trevor claps.
“No pink, young man. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Gramma.”
“Honestly. See if you can find his blue pinstripe, Jennifer.” She sighs and smooths down her diaphanous putty-colored skirt. “Oh, and best not to disturb Sarah. She’s in a bit of a mood today.” A bit of a mood? I bet she is. I bet she’s in more than that. I bet she’s in a bit of a planning to sue you all mood. Trevor and I leave the club as Ed takes the stage. I check my watch. If everything goes according to plan, I have exactly an hour.
“Come on,” I say. “Pick it up, Trev. We gotta keep moving.”
He changes shirts and I buckle him into the backseat.
“Okay, buddy, you remember our plan?”
“Yep!”
“Good. Hey, you were a regular stuntman back there. You know? Everybody thought it was real blood.”
“Want some Pop Rocks?” he asks, offering to pour some bright red powder into my palm.
“No thanks, buddy. Let’s do this.”
“Yeah.” He nods and puts on his pink Barbie sunglasses. “Let’s do this.”
We drive on and emerge from Hillcrest’s wrought iron gates, turning the corner. I pull up to the hearse parked on the street in the shade and roll down my window.
“Ready?” I ask.
The hearse’s window rolls down. Nick grins at me from the front seat. “Ready, chief.”
“So whatever you do, keep them occupied until noon.”
“Got it. Hey, Trev, how’d you do back there?”
“I’m a regular stuntman!” Trevor shouts.
“Excellent.”
“All right then.” I take a deep breath. “See you soon. Better wish me luck.”
“You don’t need any luck, chief. You’re making your own.”
Trevor and I drive downtown and park in the store’s public lot. We hurry up to the fourth floor by the girls’ department and Kjersten is waiting for us right where I said her perky little nose should be. “Kjersten here is going to watch you for an hour or so,” I tell Trevor. “Okay?” He nods.
“I told her about our deal. You get to buy anything you want today.”
“Anything? Even pink Barbie doll roller skates?”
“Especially pink Barbie doll roller skates, buddy. Today we let the freak flag fly.”
“Yay!” he shouts. “Freak flag!”
I thank Kjersten again and hurry off to find Christopher. I phone Pho on the way. “How’s the elevator going?” I ask him, and he says good. “And . . . how was the drive over?”
“Awesome,” he says. “That car is fierce! She even let me drive it.”
“Wow. That’s pretty . . . um, can you put her on, please?”
She takes the phone and I say, “Hey, Satan.”
“Hey,” she says.
“Car running good?”
“You know. Like liquid sex on quicksilver dreams.”
“Right. You were just supposed to drive him here. Not let him drive it.”
“Well, he was awesome. We just did some loops around the parking lot.”
“Well. Don’t let him do it again. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“The last thing I need is Brad seeing his green Lamborghini out there whipping around the parking lot being driven by a fourteen-year-old, you know?”
“Totally get it.”
“You’re going to let him drive it again, aren’t you.”
“Definitely.”
“Okay, but you better get over to the country club.”
“No worries. On my way. That car is fast. It can outrun trains, planes, and cop cars . . . and I’m speaking from personal experience.”
“You worry me. I’ll see you guys . . . soon.”
“Yep. Bye.”
I go find Christopher, who’s in the VIP lounge surrounded by the Gay Bee Brigade, who buzz about with extra energy today. Christopher’s so nervous, his hands are trembling. “Just hang in there,” I tell him, “and wait for my cue.” He hugs me with tears in his eyes and says he’s sorry for anything bad he ever said to my face or behind my back. He says I’m the best friend a gay bee could ever have. I kiss him on the hands and go downstairs. The lobby is filling up with reporters and cameras.
Watching the video, back at the country club we see the Kellers just leaving. “Where did Jen run off to now?” Brad says as Mother Keller straightens his tie.
“I told you, she went to get Trevor another shirt. She’ll meet us at the store.”
Brad uses a finger to loosen his collar. “Whatever,” he says. “Might be better if she doesn’t show up at all.”
“Now, darling.” Mother Keller smiles at him. “It’s your wedding anniversary.”
“Right,” Brad snorts while fixing his tie. “Don’t remind me.”
“Where’s the damned limo?” Ed says. “It’s getting late.”
Todd gets out his cell phone. “I’ll call the service.”
“Wait.” Mother Keller peers down the drive. “Here it comes.”
The hearse pulls into view and Ed pulls a face. “What the hell is this?” he barks. “They sent a hearse? Why the hell did they send a hearse?”
Mother Keller sighs and pats her husband’s arm. “Now, dear,” she says. “Let’s not overreact.” Nick rolls up and gets out of the limo in his brown suit.
“I’m here for the Keller party?” he says, smiling. Ed starts to grumble and Mother Keller hushes him. “Just get in, darling,” she says. “Let’s just get there. We don’t want to be late, do we?” Nick holds the door open for her and Mother Keller slips into the backseat. Ed follows unhappily behind her and the board members all get in after him.
“Almost there, buddy!” Todd thumps Brad on the shoulder and Brad shakes his head.
“Not soon enough for me,” he says, and they both chuckle as they get into the hearse and slam the door shut. Inside the hearse Pho hid the ashtray spy cam in the backseat on top of the bar. It provides a fine view of the group as they get settled. Nick pulls out and ambles down the leafy drive. Then we switch to an exterior camera that shows the hearse leaving Hillcrest Country Club. We see the long black hearse exiting through the wrought iron gates. Nick carefully turns the corner and then . . .
Ka-thunk!
Mother Keller looks up, startled. “What was that?”
“We hit something.” Ed squints through the window.
“Oh dear Lord!” We see Mother Keller’s expression as she looks out the windshield at the confused scene outside. Nick pulls over and ever
yone piles out. The exterior camera shows everyone gathering around a disguised Bi’ch, who lies sprawled on the ground. Beside her kneel Dizzy Bee and Star Fan. “Grandmother!” Star Fan shouts with emotion. “What have they done?”
“You done hit this old lady!” Dizzy Bee shouts. “I seen it!”
“What’s happened here?” Ed barks.
“You hit this poor old lady and her chicken!”
“A chicken?” Mother Keller clutches at her gauzy neckline, which blows in the wind. “What on earth is he talking about?” Someone points to the old woman’s wicker basket, which is now lying upside down beside her, its captive chicken now running free down the boulevard. “We must get the chicken!” Star Fan pleads as Bi’ch groans pitifully.
“Well, help her, for God’s sake!” Mother Keller orders.
“Should we call the police?” a white-haired board member asks her.
“Don’t be stupid,” she says. “Just help her off the street. We have a press conference in twenty minutes.”
Star Fan begins crying. Her acting skills are superb. “Please help us,” she says. “We must get Grandma’s chicken! He’s been blessed by the high priest and we must catch him. Otherwise, it is Hmong custom to sue.”
“To what?” Mother Keller clutches her throat.
“Please, ma’am,” Star Fan says pathetically. “We are a peaceful people. Our Hmong chickens are highly revered in the community. They’re an endangered species.”
“Oh dear Lord.” Ed sighs. “Perfect!” He turns to Nick. “Had to hit an endangered chicken! Today of all Goddamned days!”
Nick apologizes and offers to call the police.
“Hold on now,” Mother Keller says. “Let’s not be hasty.”
The department store, meanwhile, is now filled with eagerly waiting employees and reporters. I’m standing off to the side. I check the clock and take a deep breath.
It’s time.
I step up to the microphone. My hands feel cold and my head feels oddly disconnected from my body. It’s so strange to be up here alone. I wish there was even like a potted plant or something beside me . . . but there isn’t, there’s just me. Just here, right now. Just breathe. Relax. You can do this. Remember the twins.
I lean into the microphone and say, “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s been a slight change of plans today. The Kellers have been detained, unfortunately, by circumstances beyond their control . . .” The microphone squeals with feedback. I hold a manila envelope in one hand. Inside it are the Olya doll test results. I sent one of the dolls to the animal hospital and Greta forwarded it on to their toxicology lab. The report contained good news and bad. The good news is the dolls are not radioactive. The bad news is . . . they’re made out of untreated post-consumer garbage, which is largely comprised of chemical sewage. A sludgy mix that was superheated in a conductor oven until it melted and gelled into resin. Then it was spun into waxy strands of hair. I told Brad, “Darling, you’re selling dolls made of shit and garbage.”
He didn’t care. He was mad . . . at me. Not at the shit-and-garbage-doll people, but at me! He couldn’t believe I’d actually sent a doll to the lab. He called me a pain in the ass and a “muckraker.” Well, I guess he’s right. Here I am about to rake some serious muck. I also have the report from Addi’s private eye, the one I hired to investigate CLOG Industries. He dug up enough dirt on the Prophets of Profits to cover a landfill.
The lobby is more crowded than I ever remember it being. I clear my throat.
“Hello, good afternoon, thank you for coming. I’m Jennifer . . . Keller, and I’m here today because there’s been a delay in the official naming of the new president.”
The crowd buzzes slightly and I clear my throat again.
“I’m here today to deliver some sad news. The Keller’s name has always stood as a symbol of quality and family integrity. But regretfully that good name has been tarnished in recent months by inadequate product safety policies.” I expect some reaction to this, but there’s just a sea of faces staring at me. I clear my throat and say, “Keller’s has recently discovered that the popular Angel Bears, which Keller’s sold for Valentine’s Day, were in fact imported illegally. They were filled with fibrous DDT, a cancer-causing material that’s currently banned in the U.S. entirely.” The crowd starts to murmur.
A few reporters raise their hands.
I tell them that the Angel Bears were sold to Keller’s by a religious import/export conglomerate named Christian Lambs of God, or CLOG, Industries, which is controlled by some of the largest churches in America. The men of the cloth travel around the world to some of the poorest places on Earth and routinely exploit those very people they’ve been tasked with helping. They employ foreign factories with substandard safety protocols and often use underage employees. They buy in bulk from illegal sweatshops, sometimes even opening their own, in order to ship low-cost product back to the United States. Now the room starts getting excited. Reporters begin pushing closer, jostling each other to get their microphones near me.
“What does Ed Keller have to say about all this?” somebody asks.
“When can we get a statement from the family?”
I tell them that the Kellers will be issuing a formal statement shortly, but for now . . . they’d like to invite everyone to very special event.
“A wedding,” I tell them. “To celebrate the Family Equity Act.”
The room gets very quiet. All the Keller’s employees look at each other. No one’s heard about any special event. Little do they know that the Gay Bee Brigade’s been working feverishly night and day for this moment. Christopher’s design lab was the rehearsal space.
They have no idea what we’ve prepared for them.
I smile and say, “Keller’s Department Store is proud to host the very first gay wedding in Minnesota!” The room freezes. Everyone looks up at me, confused. For a second I wonder if I’m dreaming. There’s no sound, no motion, nobody says a word. I thought there’d be a big uproar. I start to panic. Maybe this was a big, big mistake.
Then a short, myopic reporter in the front row raises his hand.
He says, “Um . . . could you please repeat that?”
I clear my throat and tell them that the Keller family wishes to host the first gay wedding in Minnesota—for one of their most beloved employees—in an effort to extend their support of the Family Equity Act, which they hope is passed speedily with a unanimous vote.
The myopic reporter raises his hand again. “Do they know the Family Equity Act hasn’t actually passed yet?”
Then some big guy in the crowd wearing a blue jacket shouts at me. “You’re lying!” he says. “No way did the Kellers okay some faggy gay wedding!”
I swallow hard. I wasn’t ready for that reaction. I regain my composure quickly, however; I’ve survived much worse than this in my lifetime. I survived five years of online dating, which made me many unattractive things, including a quick liar. I know from blunt experience that there are only two ways out of a lie. You can either say you have to use the bathroom and flee the scene, or hold your ground and go down deeper.
Seeing as this is not the time for a bathroom break, I firmly repeat myself. “I can assure you, the Kellers have sanctioned the wedding.”
“Then where are they?” Blue Jacket shouts. I hate that guy.
“The Kellers will be along shortly. They’ve been held up at the senate. They went there to personally express their support for the Family Equity Act to lawmakers. As you know, Keller’s is a family-owned company. And it’s not just any family. The Kellers are a family with strong values. It’s no secret that they’re also quite religious and they’ve prayed about the issue of same-sex marriage. They’ve looked into their hearts and they respectfully disagree with the church’s stance on the matter. The Kellers believe that love is what makes a family. They believe that true love—real love—is under the jurisdiction of God, not the courts.”
Flashbulbs start popping, which somehow relaxes me.
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“It’s true the Family Equity Act hasn’t passed yet,” I say. “But the Kellers hope to send a clear message to the community that we must all stand together to support the great institution of family. They hope lawmakers realize that times aren’t changing . . . they’ve already changed.”
I pause and the space is filled with whistling and clapping. I smile at the room. Suddenly this seems easy. I stand on the podium, and still shaking slightly, I raise both my arms.
“Welcome!” I shout. “To Minnesota’s first gay wedding!”
Then the banner behind me unfurls and instead of saying HAPPY FIRST ANNIVERSARY! it says HAPPY FIRST GAY WEDDING!
The room explodes in an uproar. Thunderous applause, shouting, cameras flashing, reporters jockeying with one another to ask me questions. The guy in the blue jacket manages to muscle his way to the front. “Bullshit!” he says. “The Kellers didn’t sanction this, did they!”
Bolstered by the room’s reaction, I smile widely at him. “Oh no?” I say. “Then why is this happening?” I snap my fingers and suddenly the large curtain draped across the marble staircase opens, revealing a sixteen-piece string ensemble. The conductor taps his little wand twice and they begin playing the wedding march.
The crowd gasps.
Everyone looks around the room until someone whistles and points up.
The room turns to see Christopher and Jeremy at the top of the escalator. They’re both wearing black tuxedos and they’re both beaming. I’ve never seen either one of them smile like that before. As they step onto the escalator and begin their smooth descent to the lobby, everyone starts cheering.
The hearse-cam catches the chaotic scene unfolding in the back of Nick’s hearse. Everyone piles into the backseat, only now they’re joined by four new passengers. Dizzy Bee takes up almost a whole bench. Several board members are crammed in too; they look like white Styrofoam packing peanuts stuffed in around him. Mother Keller is wedged in between Bi’ch and Star Fan. Star Fan holds the flapping, squawking chicken on her lap.
Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married Page 26