On the other hand, when Etta tried to follow suit and extended her hand, it was stiff and cold. She quickly tried to divert her attention.
“Son, are you hungry? You must be hungry. Let me fix you a roast beef sandwich. Monique, I will make you a cup of tea.” Etta was relieved to escape the parlour.
Monique found herself admiring Flynn’s home. There was a calmness and cleanliness, giving it a distinctive sense of order. She was relieved there was no evidence of farm clutter or stench from the barn. Monique silently laughed to herself and quickly redirected her olfactory sense to the aroma of the sweet floral fragrance of Etta’s perfume.
Etta was impatiently waiting for the kettle to boil while Flynn was well into his sandwich with a smile on his face. He looked like he’d relaxed back into being in the comfort of his home. Monique was in the living room with Owen discussing the weather. “April showers bring May flowers,” Etta heard Owen say cheekily and then heard him light another Export A. She returned to the parlour with a plastic tray (not the sterling) and presented the tea in the everyday bone china cup and saucer. (Not her good bone china, as that was only for high society company).
Flynn paused in the kitchen to grab a beer from the icebox before joining the others in the parlour. He’d taken off his tie and pulled his shirt free from his belted pants while his shoes remained under the kitchen table.
Monique could feel her tension lessen as she focused on Flynn’s air of outrageous sexiness. His dark, wavy hair fell over his forehead, and the downiness of his chest teasingly appeared at the crest of his unbuttoned shirt.
“By the way, Mom and Dad, Monique and I are planning to get married. We’re thinking about May fifth.”
Oh, how Monique didn’t want a repeat of the previous parental disclosure. She squeezed her hands around the teacup and tried to ignore the thumping sound in her ear. Just as Flynn didn’t meet her parent’s expectations, she knew she wasn’t going to be the exact prediction for a daughter-in-law for the Kross family.
“Son, are you sure?” Etta blurted out, making Monique squirm while holding her teacup.
“Yes, Mom, we’re getting married soon.”
This wasn’t the response Etta wanted. “Why so soon, Son? We’ve just barely met your girlfriend. Owen, what do you think?”.
Owen passively watched the conversation and took another long drag before blowing out a long stream of cigarette smoke.
Etta didn’t wait for his answer. “Son, we don’t know anything about this girl, and now you say you’re going to marry her. I don’t understand. I don’t like the rush.” Etta’s flushed cheeks were the shade of her red lipstick, and she was desperate to have someone—anyone—agree with her. “Owen, what do you think? Son, you mustn’t do this so quickly. What will our friends think? What’s really going on here? My church auxiliary group will have no time to prepare. This just isn’t going to work. Son, you must take all of this into consideration. You’re our only child; we need to do this in an orderly manner. Son, are you listening? Owen, Owen, do you hear me?”
It became apparent to Monique how Flynn managed his mother’s distress: with playful jesting. “Well, mother, you won’t have to have the old buzzards over for tea to discuss your soon-to-be daughter-in-law’s beauty and the contents of her hope chest.” (Flynn had no idea what was in a hope chest; he’d only heard about such things from his mother’s reference to her lady friends’ daughters’ wedding preparations).
“Why, Son, why? I have looked forward to this day,” she lied. “We’ve been to all of our friends’ children’s weddings. Remember how beautiful Madge’s daughter looked walking down the aisle at St. Luke’s? The organist played the same music Queen Elizabeth had for her walk down the aisle. I just will not have it, Son. You leave me no choice. Why must you hurt me like this? Owen, what is wrong with you? Tell your son this isn’t right. Tell him.”
Owen remained coolly holding his cigarette, and replied, “Etta, this isn’t your wedding, nor is it one of our friends’ family weddings. Flynn has made it very clear what he wants. I would like to know more about you, Monique. Let’s not rush by putting the cart before the horse. Monique, would you like a rum and Coke? Son, can I fix one for you too? Etta, can I make a gin for you? Would you like tonic?”
She was quick to reply, “No tonic.”
Owen retreated to the kitchen to make the drinks, grateful for the few moments to be free of Etta’s emotional display of shame and impropriety.
Etta removed the freshly pressed hanky neatly tucked into her white brassiere she wore under her fashionable lady’s afternoon dress. She patted her brow and took pause with the intolerable situation. Her thoughts begin to race. Who is this girl? Why is my son interested in her? She doesn’t have blonde hair or blue eyes like the girl I always thought Son would settle down with. She’s too tall, too skinny, and doesn’t dress like a fashionable English woman; she looks like a foreigner. I don’t like the colour of her dress. Son doesn’t like brunettes. Why her? Why would Son pull this on me? This can’t be happening. I just won’t let this nonsense continue.
All these thoughts transcended simultaneously into a mass of confusion and frustration for Etta.
“Monique, I hope you like your cocktail the way I have mixed it,” Owen said happily as he returned with the drinks.
Etta noticed—with dismay—he used his company cocktail glasses. Why isn’t he as pissed off as I am? she muttered to herself.
“Monique, do you live around here?” Owen asked.
“No, I live in the Nurses Residence at the General Hospital,” Monique replied.
Etta visibly cringes as she heard it was the Catholic Hospital. As a good Protestant, Etta had never set foot in the General Hospital. Nothing but Dagos there, she pompously declared to herself in silence.
Owen inquired, “So, you’re a nurse?”
“Yes, an OR nurse.”
Etta lets out an audible gasp. This is definitely unacceptable for Son’s girlfriend to work in that Dago hospital. Really? Son thinks he’s is going to marry a Catholic? Over my dead body.
Monique gratefully sipped her rum and Coke, taking brief comfort in the niceties of Flynn’s world while entirely oblivious to the scathing conversation happening inside Etta’s mind.
“Monique, can you tell us more about yourself? What school did you go to?” Owen asked.
Etta silently pleaded to the universe. She had better not be one of those DP’s.
“I did my second form in Massey,” Monique replied.
There are only those Pea Wobblers in Massey. Oh my God, this girl is my worst nightmare. Son deserves better than this; he is better than this. Etta’s gin was generously flowing down her strained throat.
“Ok, Mother and Dad, enough of the questioning. Monique and I would like to tell you about our actual wedding plans.”
Etta shuddered from within. By God, I am not going into a Catholic Church.
“Mother, we’re going to be married on May fifth at the city hall. Teddy and Vivian will be our witnesses,” said Flynn.
Etta continued to feel exasperated. I am not going to be seen with any damn DP farmers. That will never happen.
“Mother, you don’t look pleased,” said Flynn.
“Son, I’m not. Owen, say something. He must not go through with this. Son, you’re going to kill your mother if you do this. Have you thought this crazy idea through? Any children of yours will not be raised Catholic,” Etta said with purpose and conviction.
Monique started to tear up while Owen remained passive and lit another cigarette.
In response and discord with his mother, Flynn said, “Mother, we will be going now. Monique, here is your coat.”
Monique didn’t hesitate and quickly pulled on her red car coat as she headed for the door. In quick pursuit, Flynn’s large frame served as a barrier between his future bride and his irate mother.
Monique burst into sobs as Flynn opened the car door for her to slide in. As the door closed, he felt for t
he first time that this might be the opportunity to drop Monique off at her residence for good and take heed from his mother. Fear was creeping into his thoughts. He hadn’t expected these feelings of confusion and cold feet.
Flynn started the engine and drove south on Simpson Avenue, heading toward the nursing residence. The two sat in silence, feeling overwhelmed and distraught. Both were independently sensing a fragmentation of their proposed union, as both sets of parents vehemently opposed it. This was the beginning of the crack in the foundation of their love and commitment to each other.
Monique got out of the car and walked with slumped shoulders toward the residence hall. She looked woefully back at Flynn as she closed the heavy door. Flynn sped off without even waving goodbye.
Chapter 8
The Wedding Preparations
Monique’s friend, Vivian, rushed to greet her at the door. “Hi, how did it go? Did your parents just love Flynn? Did his parents fall all over you with happiness? They would be crazy if they didn’t. Let’s go shopping tomorrow; Sandy’s has a snazzy pink suit in the window. I’m sure they’ll have a wonderful hat to go with it. Monique, what’s wrong? Snap out of it, girl. You’re getting married,” Vivian said with gleeful naivety. “Monique, really? Let’s celebrate with a drink. Rum and Coke?”
The only word that could come out of Monique’s mouth was “yes.” She took the drink, gulped it down, and prayed it would numb her to sleep.
Monique and Vivian went to Sandy’s dress shop after their respective shifts at the hospital. It had been only one day, and neither Flynn nor she had called each other. Monique settled herself by deciding it was often the case when Flynn was on the three to eleven-shift.
By three-thirty, Monique and Vivian were on the Queen Street bus on their way to Gore Street. As Vivian had described, the pastel pink suit displayed in the window was certainly an eye-catcher. Monique could feel her mood lighten as she entered the store and asked to try the outfit on. The size eight suit fit her perfectly. Monique continued to feel better as she found the perfect matching pink pillbox hat. She knew she could add some white veiling to it to pair with her white gloves, purse, and shoes.
Hints of excitement started to return as Monique looked in the mirror, acknowledging her glamour and elegance. She did love the suit; however, it was no wedding dress. A pink suit had never been in her girlish dreams of her wedding. There was supposed to be a long cathedral aisle, like the one at Precious Blood, for her bridal walk holding her father’s arm. She had long dreamed of being draped in an abundance of white lace, peering behind a translucent veil while visualizing the overwhelming adoration in her soon-to-be husband’s eyes. Her dreams of an epic wedding were going to be drastically compromised by the plain, inevitable courthouse wedding.
Monique’s younger sister had a beautiful, traditional Catholic wedding one year prior. Attention was paid to every detail. Her husband came from meager means, but he was a good practicing Catholic, and that was his golden ticket to marrying her sister. Unlike his future brother-in-law, Flynn didn’t have any acceptance or value (other than his strong back for haying time) in the Gagne family.
Flynn hadn’t called Monique in four days. It was only two days till the wedding. In Monique’s mind, there was a major civil war in play. The timeless pervasiveness of the battle between Catholics and Protestants, the French and the English, seemed like a continuous bad movie of discord giving her a migraine. Despite both being raised in a small Northern Ontario town, the streets defined the rigid boundaries of class, religion, language, and status.
Monique had unyielding anxieties about literally going to hell and only creating bastards. Purgatory for her future children was a taunting nightmare. However, when her thoughts returned to Flynn, her innate needs and desires overshadowed the ills of her mother’s rant and rage.
Flynn felt restlessness, irritable, and discontent because of his mother’s boldness to want to sabotage his choice of a wife. Where was the map to guide his future journey? Flynn realized he had lost his internal compass when it had come to Monique and marriage. “Is this a risk worth taking?” he repeatedly asked himself. Despite the reservations and the pressure of his mother’s dismay and disappointment in his choice of a wife, he missed Monique’s sensual teasing, naughtiness, and her hungry wanting of his embrace. It was easy for him to find himself longing for his soon-to-be bride.
In an attempt to distract and delay his decision to marry, Flynn filled his week with his default activity of play. In doing so, he was able to disassociate from the defining choice he had to make. There was seemingly no logic in this impending journey of his life. Providing for and protecting had never been a necessity beyond his deceased hunting dog called Jigger.
Bowling and beer filled the slipping of time before the wedding. He oscillated between “I do” and “I don’t.” Flynn and his mother never in his life had disagreed on anything major. He hadn’t under any condition seen the look of angry horror in his mother’s eyes. Flynn knew in his heart he had never hurt his mother like this before, not even with him going off to serve his country. At the very least, war was an honourable position, yet in his mother’s eyes, this marriage was deplorable.
Needless to say, it was a restless night for Flynn. In his naïvity, he decided to make this life decision in the morning.
On the other hand, Monique was all alone in her room at the residence, fretting about the day to come and the lack of communication with her husband-to-be.
Chapter 9
The Wedding Day
On the morning of her wedding day, she woke with a newfound inner direction, a purpose, a soulful decision (based on an eternal heartfelt love) to carry forward with her mission to marry Flynn. She made herself a strong coffee and proceeded to her happy place—the bathtub—where she washed away any remnants of self-doubt. To celebrate, she pleasured herself beneath her sea of fragrant bubbles.
By 9:00 a.m., Monique was off to her hair appointment for her signature brunette waves. She was quite pleased with her sleek, French flair and knew she would be a “knockout” on her wedding day. She returned to her residence room and enjoyed another strong cup of coffee and some cinnamon toast. Monique’s hands were always well tended to, as was her hair. Applying hand lotion was her daily ritualistic passageway to her daydreams involving flowering meadows of love and her instinctual wilds.
Flynn ate his mother’s usual prepared bacon and eggs breakfast with a cup of tea. There was no morning chit chat about how the day was about to unfold. In truth, Flynn was only following his destiny one minute at a time. The final showing up (or not) was yet to be decided. He showered, rubbing himself briskly with his Old Spice soap on a rope. He prolonged the hot water beating on his body until the water began to cool. His body quickly turned cold, signifying two things; the hot water tank had emptied, and decision time loomed.
Unlike Flynn, Monique was savouring the moments of her bridal preparations. She adored the feel of her new white, French-imported silk brassiere and panties with a matching lace garter belt to attach her skin-toned sheer stockings. Monique took great care with donning her hosiery, ensuring not to snag them and that the seams were perfectly straight up the back of her long, perfect legs. Her exquisite lingerie now served her in a supposititious manner, allowing her to feel magnificently attired for her wedding—despite not having her much dreamed about traditional, cathedral lace wedding gown and veil. She paused in front of the full-length mirror in her delicates, wanting to hold on to the image of her beauty. Proceeding with her dressing and viewing in the mirror, she acknowledged how well she carried herself in her pink wedding clothes and hat, matched with white gloves, high heels, and a beaded purse. She truly felt fit for the cover of the Vogue Paris magazine. Finally, she was ready. With grace, freedom, and determination, she proceeded to the front entrance of her residence.
Flynn was driving up to the circular drive. He’d taken the keys to his father’s new Ford. Monique’s greeting smile was radiant and outshone the
lustre of the new car’s paint. Flynn stepped out of the car to open the door for his magnificent beauty.
There was no conversation on the way to the City Hall; the warmth of their hand-holding was all the reveal needed to proceed with their quest. The ceremony was brief, but the wedding kiss was long. Flynn maneuvered his bride back to the borrowed gem on four wheels and proceeded east on Queen Street. He turned left onto Simpson Avenue, blowing his horn in triumph.
Etta’s heart was wailing inside when she heard the horn blowing. She had prepared small sandwiches and scones with Devonshire cream for high tea. To match this menu, she displayed it on her mother’s Spode tiered plates. When Flynn left with his suit on, she knew the foreboding outcome. She felt her prayers were unheard, so she resorted to silent rage with planned retribution for this unwanted act.
Owen wore his tailored suit jacket and pants with his brogues and fedora tilted just right to the side. He greeted his new daughter-in-law with a gentle, warm handhold as she exited the Ford. Owen knew when he heard his car rumbling in the morning that Flynn would be returning with his bride.
The overt posturing of being civil transpired with Etta’s speechless unwelcoming of her new daughter-in-law. After the nicely presented luncheon, Flynn and Monique got in their own “our car” and raced down the highway to Niagara Falls on their Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon.
Their pre-wedding awaiting dilemmas appeared even smaller in their review mirror. Somewhere near Massey, the married couple drove up on a small encampment along the highway. A bed was all they desired as Flynn flung open the doorway, carrying his bride like a hunter’s prize.
Standing her alongside the closed door, he revelled in her sheer exquisiteness. He took his sweet time to kiss the skin beneath each unbuttoning, savouring her soft, wild rose-scented skin. Monique lavished in his heated kisses against the cool door.
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