6 The Wedding (3 page)

“There is a traditional prayer, of course.”

So no
hope of constructing something bland and acceptable
if the prayer were
offensive. Father White was going to give birth to
kittens when he heard about this, but what could I do? Wendell meant more to me
than Father White did.

“Tell me about the prayer,” I invited. I made no offer of milk for the
tea. None of us take it that way because dairy is scarce. We have no farmers in
the Gulch. There are some small livestock, like sheep who give wool, but no one
is trying to earn a living with a shovel and hoe, or keeping cows that would
have no natural grazing eight months of the year.

*
 
*
 
*

Anatoli and the Mountie arrived in Soda Springs early in the
morning. The moment they rode into the tiny town, Chuck could tell there was
something wrong. The place was too quiet. There was no smoke rising from the chimneys
of the few rough cabins on the main street. The Mountie stopped his bike at the
outskirts of town and held his hand up for Anatoli to do the same. He lifted
his goggles onto his helmet and surveyed the street, looking for any sign of
life. There was no movement. There were several broken chairs, tables, and
other household debris littering the dirt thoroughfare. The Mountie removed his
scarf and looked to Anatoli, cocking a questioning eyebrow.

“Yes, comrade, there is something wrong here,” Anatoli said,
agreeing with Chuck’s silent question.

The Mountie dismounted his bike and laid it down in the dirt
on its side. He removed his helmet and gloves and set them on the end of the
handlebar. Anatoli did the same. The Mountie retrieved his rifle from a scabbard
tied to his motorcycle. Anatoli followed suit. The two men walked cautiously
into town, stepping off the dirt track toward the first cabin. The door was
ajar.

“
Hello,
is anyone in here?” the
Mountie called, nudging the door open with the barrel of his rifle. “This is
Chuck Goodhead with the RCMP.”

There was no verbal response. Chuck was about to leave when
he heard a thumping sound coming from inside the cabin. He entered the building
cautiously. The knocking was being produced by a man sitting on the floor with
his hands bound behind his back and around a wooden post. There was duct tape
covering his mouth. He was knocking his head back against the post to get their
attention.

Chuck looked around the cabin and sensing no threat rushed
in to kneel beside the man. He laid his rifle on the floor, peeled back an edge
of the duct tape, and then ripped off the rest. The man’s eyes went wide and he
almost screamed in pain. Chuck’s hand shot out to clamp itself over the man’s
mouth.

“Quiet,” Chuck said.

When he received a nod of agreement from the bound man
dressed in long johns, he removed his hand. The words that came gushing forth
were expressed in a harsh whisper.

“Boy, I sure am glad to see you, Mountie. I’m Andy Smith, we
talked on the phone. It’s old Woody Sykes. He’s gone nuts. He came out of the
woods and started tearing everything up. He was going wild. Kept mumbling
something about his daughter, but he doesn’t have a daughter. He stuffed this
note into my pocket for you when he found out you were
comin
’.”

The Mountie looked down and saw that there was indeed a
piece of paper poking out of the man’s shirt pocket. He fished it out and began
to read.

Mountie, come get me. I
am at the end of town in the old church. I have the town folk. If you want to
see them alive, you will come get me. Watch out for the traps.

The Mountie handed the paper to Anatoli to read. Meanwhile
he untied the man on the floor who then stood and tried to rub the feeling back
into his hands.

“What does old Woody mean by writing,
watch out for the traps
?” Anatoli asked, handing the note back to
the Mountie.

“Any ideas, Mr. Smith?”
Chuck
asked, handing the note to Andy.

Andy read the note carefully then looked up to address the
Mountie.

“Oh, that’s not good news, Mountie. Old Woody’s an expert
tracker and trapper. If he’s laid traps in town for you then you’re in serious
trouble.”

“Perhaps we should go through woods to church at far end of
town,” Anatoli suggested.

“You don’t think old Woody has planned for that
possibility?” Andy challenged. “My guess is that you’ll encounter fewer traps
if you play by his rules and go through town.”

The Mountie weighed the man’s words carefully.

“The option, the one I’d suggest, is that he hightail it out
of town and leave the rest of the folk to their own good fortune,” Andy added.
“Woody’s nuts.
Hates the Mounties.”

Chuck looked to Anatoli questioningly.

“I don’t like this, comrade. But.…” He shrugged.

“Me neither,” Chuck replied, not bothering to order Anatoli
away since he knew that the Russian wouldn’t leave. “Let’s get going.”

Anatoli and the Mountie stepped out into the middle of the
street. They had the butts of their rifles resting against their hips with the
barrels pointed to the sky. The old church was clearly visible at the far end
of town. Chuck felt as if he was starring in the movie
High Noon
, only he was facing down a building rather than a gang of
outlaws.

The Mountie began to walk with the Russian at his side. On
his fourth step he felt resistance to his gait and heard the tripwire twang and
the trap release.

The Mountie stopped in place knowing that he was a dead man
and he wouldn’t be making it back for his wedding after all.

*
 
*
 
*

Days were long by then and we still had pretty good light at
nine o’clock when I heard the Wings’ airplane overhead. Curious, and also
hopeful that he might be carrying Chuck, I pulled on a sweater and stepped out
onto my porch to watch the landing. Wendell followed. We watched as the Wings
set down on the one paved street and then we began walking toward the plane. We
weren’t alone. The unexpected arrival had brought the Braids, Big John, and the
Flowers out too.

The Wings’ door popped open and he hurried around to the far
side of the plane. He looked harassed and maybe even a little frightened.

I thought at first that he was helping an elderly person
down from the plane, but that wasn’t it at all.

“It’s a child,” I said blankly, staring at the small-bodied boy
with red hair. “The Wings has a kid with him.”

“Ricky?” the Flowers’ voice was strangled and carried enough
shock that I was able to rip my eyes away from the diminutive male person and
stare at my ghost-white friend who was running toward the airplane.

“Judy!” The little boy, maybe five years of age, began
running towards the Flowers, little legs flying like he was being chased by
wolves. “Daddy’s gone! The police took him. I’m coming to stay with you!”

Judy dropped to her knees and received the child into her
arms.

“It’s okay,” she said, hugging him. “Everything is okay.”

Big John was smiling, but Sasha who had come out onto the
porch looked surprised, telling me that though the Flowers’ father had known
about this child, her husband had not.

The Flowers had a child?

I forced myself to move forward. Though the Flowers kept
saying everything was okay, I had the feeling that it wasn’t. Of course, no one
likes to hear the news that Daddy has been taken by the police.

Or did they? There had to be a reason that the Flowers had
returned to the Gulch and never spoke of her ex-husband. Or whatever he was. I
didn’t actually know that they had been married.

“Hi,” I said, smiling at the grinning child and laying a
hand on the Flowers’ shoulder as I knelt beside her. “Welcome to the Gulch. My
name is Butterscotch.”

“I flew in an airplane.
In two airplanes.
A big one and that one,” the child said excitedly. His eyes were dark, not at
all like the Flowers’. In fact he didn’t resemble her in any way, except the
hair. “I only got sick three times,” the boy added proudly.

Three times.
No wonder the Wings
looked harassed.

“Wow, that’s good. Some people get sick hundreds of times
when the Wings flies fast,” I said, exaggerating slightly, though the Wings had
a certain style of flight that tended to make people ill.

Judy gave the child another hug and then stood up.

“What happened?” she asked the Wings. Her face was a
portrait of bewilderment. “Why.…”

Yeah, why?
Like why hadn’t the
Wings radioed ahead? But I had an answer even as the question formed. Possibly
he hadn’t wanted anyone to know that he was carrying a child.

“I don’t know much. A neighbor—I gather she was a friend of
yours—had the kid out shopping when the police came to the house. When she saw
what was happening she called the number you left, and some guy named Gavin
picked the kid up and flew him to Chicago and then on to Winnipeg. He dropped
the kid at the hanger and said to bring him to you.” There was a question at
the end of this statement.

“He’s my stepson,” Judy said softly. “His mother.…” She
shook her head, not willing to say that she was dead in front of the child.

I found myself sighing. I make no judgments about people
because, better than anyone, I know that sometimes you do what you have to do to
survive even if no one else understands or approves. But I couldn’t picture the
Flowers ever walking out on her own child no matter how dire the circumstance.

Big John joined us.

“Hi, Ricky,” he said in his gentlest voice. He took a knee
beside me and offered his enormous hand. “I’m Big John. I’m the Flow—I’m Judy’s
dad. I guess that would make me your
stepgrandpa
.”

Ricky took the offered hand solemnly and gave it a shake.
Then he yawned violently and began to shiver.

“Does he have a coat?” I asked, realizing the child was
dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. His tiny, cold
body made me
feel
helpless and inadequate, but also protective. The mosquitoes would
be out soon. We needed to get him covered up.

Judy was pulling off her sweater and wrapping it around the
small form.

“He has nothing but what he’s standing in,” the Wings said.
He looked calmer now that someone else had charge of the child.

“Well, we’ll fix that soon enough,” I said. “Maybe the
Braids—” I stopped. The Braids wouldn’t have anything in her little store that
would fit a child.

“I’ll call down to Seven Forks,” Big John said. He would
have to. There were no children in the Gulch so
no
parents we could borrow clothing from.

“I will go and get clothes for child,” Sasha said, finally
speaking. Looking more awkward than even Big John, he knelt down and offered
Ricky his hand. His voice was gruff. “My name is Sasha. I am the husband of
Judy. That makes me stepfather-in-law?”

We all began to laugh though this question wasn’t all that
funny and Sasha wasn’t smiling.

“We may be a while sorting out relationships,” I said,
getting to my feet. Max had stayed with Wendell while I talked to the child,
but he whined when I stood up, asking to come forward. “Ricky, would you like
to meet my dog?” I asked, when I noticed the child’s fascinated stare.

“Okay.”

“Okay, Max. Come on over.”

Max came slowly. It occurred to me that he might not have
ever seen a child before and was probably as equally fascinated by the
encounter.

“Nice doggie,” Ricky said, perhaps a little doubtfully. My
wolf is rather large.

Max did something then that I had never seen him do to anyone
else. He licked the boy’s cheek. Ricky began to giggle and he reached out a
hand to pet Max who, though
sitting,
was still taller
than the boy.

“I bet someone needs some hot chocolate,” Judy said after a
moment. She touched Ricky’s hair and he grinned up at her. She had gotten some
of her color back and sounded normal.

I was saying prayers of thanks that this kid, who had every
right and reason to be upset, was so calm. We were very accepting of
people
who had run out of options and found their way to us,
but this had been a shock to everyone and Judy especially would probably need a
while to recover. The child’s calm was a help.

“With marshmallow?”
Ricky asked and
then yawned again.

“Of course with marshmallow,” Judy said and offered her
hand. Ricky took it like it was the most natural thing in the world and I
suddenly felt sure that everything would be fine.

I wished very much that I had a way to talk to Chuck. This
felt like a moment that I should share with him.

*
 
*
 
*

Sasha pulled on the oars which screeched in their rusty oar
locks but managed to dig into the choppy water, delivering a tiny surge of
progress to the bobbing dingy.

It was early morning and Horace sat huddled in the back of
the boat, holding his parka and scarf tight against a stiff wind while rocking
to the rhythm of their slow progress. He hadn’t expected to be roused so early,
but once Sasha was at the cabin, there had been nothing to do but get dressed
and head out with the brooding Russian.

On the floor of the slight craft sat their latest creation,
their pride and joy—a rocket nearly a full meter in length. The slender white
cylinder had a pointed black tip at one end and four black fins attached to the
other. Sasha had painted the initials CCCP in red along its side as a joke for
old time’s sake. The pyrotechnic inventors had borrowed their diminutive dingy
from Big John in the hope of trying out their latest firework without causing
personal injury or property damage.