6 The Wedding (6 page)

“
Ciamar
a
tha
thu
?
” Fiddling Thomas said,
shaking his hand.

“What’s that?” Horace asked.

“How are you? Surprised and confused, I would imagine.”

“Very,” Horace admitted.

“Come,” Big John interrupted. “You might as well have a
whisky too. After all, you’re covering the tab.”

Horace began mentally counting the number of men in the room
while wondering if he had enough money in his savings to cover such a tab after
he paid for a new rowboat. Meanwhile, the press of men around him directed him
forward to an empty stool at the bar. He sat.

“So, what is all this about, Big John?” Horace asked,
accepting a healthy dram of whisky.

“It’s your initiation ceremony,” Big John explained,
boosting Ricky onto the counter and pouring the boy a glass of something
purple. “If you’re to be a proper member of our community, you have to be sworn
in, so to speak. It’s a pity that the Mountie isn’t here, but it seemed wisest
to do this while Butterscotch and the Flowers are away.”

Horace took a sip of his libation and almost choked on the
bitter beverage. It hadn’t been brewed in any commercial distillery. Resigned,
he took a deeper swallow to bolster himself for whatever was coming.

“Don’t you
worry,
mo
charaid
. You
should enjoy it as much as we will. Everyone,” Big John called, “would you
please take a seat so we can begin?”

The men in the tavern ignored Big John, opting instead to
mill around and share stories with one another. But then who could blame them? It
wasn’t often that the men of the Gulch were together all in one place without
their balls and chains.

“
Oy
!”
Samuel Levine-Jones called.
“
Oy
!”

The earsplitting shriek of his voice managed to bludgeon
everyone into a seat. The group quieted to allow the ringing in their ears to
subside. Big John took advantage of the silence to get in a few words.

“Brothers of the Gulch,” he began. “We are gathered here
this day for a very special occasion: namely, the admittance of a new member
into the brotherhood.”

There were rounds of applause and lots of spouting of
good-humored Gaelic expressions that Horace didn’t understand. Horace suspected
that some of the Gaelic dialog made him the butt of a shared joke, but he
didn’t care. Horace was honored to be amongst these men and to be considered
one of them. Several bottles were passed round to refill the glasses—in Whisky
Jack’s case, to fill a large tankard. After his audience had settled down, Big
John continued.

“Horace Goodhead, I now ask you to stand and take the oath.”

Horace stood to hoots and catcalls. He raised his right hand
to beside his ear to give the moment more of a sense of gravity.

“I, your full name, do solemnly swear upon the front half of
our mascot, Bernard the Moose.”

“I, your full name, do solemnly swear upon the front half of
our mascot, Bernard the Moose,” Horace repeated.

“To protect and maintain the secrets of the Gulch.”

“To protect and maintain the secrets of the Gulch.”

“To protect and defend the members of our community.”

“To protect and defend the members of our community.”

“To include suspension of setting off your
damn fireworks in town and blowing up our garbage dump and my building.”

“What he said.”

“And to never lie, cheat, or steal when dealing with a
fellow
Gulcher
.”

“And to never lie, cheat, or steal when dealing with a
fellow
Gulcher
.”

“But it’s still okay to lie to everyone else.”

“But it’s still okay to lie to everyone else.”

“Horace Goodhead, I now
pronounce
you Horace the Bomb Jones. May you live long and prosper.”

Big John actually went so far as to make the Vulcan peace
sign with his hand.

“Amen!” pronounced Harry McIntyre.

“Play ball!” added Billy Jones.

“
L’chaim
,” declared Samuel
Levine-Jones, tossing back his glass of whisky.

“
L’chaim
,” everyone else in the
tavern chanted in unison, downing their drinks as well.

“
L’chaim
,” Horace agreed with a
smile, finishing his own libation and feeling smoke blow out his ears as a
result.

There followed much cheering, dancing in place, and patting
on backs. More whisky bottles were passed around to refill glasses. Horace was
glad he was sitting since he was sure he could no longer stand. Big John raised
his hands high in the air in a request for quiet. It didn’t work—it never does.

“
Oy
!
Oy
!” yelled Ricky and was pleased when he got results and
laughter.

“I’d now like to call upon Wendell Thunder to say a prayer
in the hope that the gods of the Ojibway Nation will watch over our newfound
brother.”

Wendell stepped up behind the bar, replacing Big John. The
scene became solemn. Some of the men even took their hats off to show their
respect. Many bowed their faces toward the floor as if in prayer themselves. In
a tortured combination of English and what little Ojibway and Gaelic Wendell
knew, the portions of the prayer Wendell could remember through the haze of
alcohol were recited. Wendell then called for a moment’s silence. He did not
receive it.

“Is it finally
time
?” Whisky Jack
called out.

“Time for what?”
Horace asked
suspiciously.

In response to his question, Horace was hoisted from his
stool and carried on the shoulders of his new brothers to the sink in the
kitchen of the tavern.

*
 
*
 
*

The Braids heard the hoots and hollers coming from the
Lonesome Moose and shook her head. Men! While they played she was doing real
work.

Or trying to; so far effort was not being crowned with
success. The Flowers had given her several old sheets to dye for tablecloths
when she had mentioned needing wide fabric for the wedding. The idea of dying
tablecloths had seemed straightforward enough when she heard that Butterscotch
liked orchids and that the Wings planned on flying in some of these exotic
flowers as a treat for the wedding. Unfortunately, the concept had proven
easier than the execution.

Her first impulse, after washing the sheets that reeked of
mothballs, had been to use natural dyes, and color the sheets the old-fashioned
way. Then she had discovered that the oldest fixative mentioned for holding
color was sheep urine. Though the fabric would of course be washed after the
dying process, it just didn’t feel right laying out a wedding feast on
tablecloths that had been soaked in sheep piss.

Besides, she wasn’t sure that she could collect enough sheep
water to be useful—and she was damned if she was going to use her own, or ask
anyone else to contribute to a communal pee pot.

So, she had ordered some commercial dye. She chose three
colors of purple, not being able to tell from the catalog’s description which
was the closest to orchid purple.

The dyes had come in with the Wings on his last supply run,
but she had been busy sorting out canning jars and hadn’t gotten around to
reading the instructions until that morning. That was unfortunate because
though the boxes said
Britest
Color in only one hour!
they
all talked about how to dye clothes in the washing
machine and dryer.

She didn’t have a washing machine.
Or a
dryer.

That was alright. She had a washtub. She had a wringer.
And a clothesline.
Surely it wouldn’t make that much
difference. It would just take a bit longer than expected.

And perhaps the first step would be to step out and check on
the weather. It would be most inconvenient if it started to rain. She didn’t
have any place inside to hang twelve sheets. Picking up a box of
Luscious Lavender
, she stepped out the
back of the store.

The day had been long, so I wasn’t thrilled to hear a knock
on my door just around twilight. I was even less thrilled when I opened up and
found a reeling-drunk Horace on my doorstep. I didn’t bother to ask what had
happened to him. His flaming red hair was answer enough. I just hoped the
Mountie wouldn’t mind his father appearing as a redhead in our wedding
pictures.

“
Spuddergotch
?” he asked, squinting
in the dim light.

“Come in, Horace,” I said, taking his arm and guiding him to
the sofa. “Had a fun initiation party?”

“Very fun.
I’m Horace the Bomb Jones
now.” He giggled. “I even have red hair.”

“Uh-huh. What do you say to some hot chocolate and maybe a
scone?” Maybe it would sop up some of the booze.

“That’d be great.” He smiled beatifically before letting his
head fall back against the bolster. Max came over and thrust his head under
Horace’s lax hand.
“Too bad Chuck
ithn’t
here.”

“Yes,” I agreed, though I had doubts about Chuck being
pleased with his father’s state. The Mountie didn’t imbibe as a rule and when
he did, he stopped before reaching the point that he called me
Spuddergotch
. I
set a pan of milk on the hearth. The milk was made from dried powder but that
wouldn’t matter in the hot chocolate. Besides, Big John’s hooch usually paralyzed
taste buds.

“You know who I really wish was here?” Horace asked.

“No. Who do you wish was here?”

“My wife.
I think she’d love the
Gulch.”

“Would she?” I asked, mixing cocoa powder and sugar
together. The idea intrigued me. Chuck had said very little about his mom but I
had gotten the impression that she was fairly straitlaced. “She liked the
country, did she?”

“No.” Horace tried to shake his head but only half managed
it. “But she loved people. Always wished she had had brothers and sisters and
cousins. There was a brother once, but he died when she was only a kid and
after that there were no more babies. And after Chuck there was a problem and
we couldn’t have any more babies either. If she was here she could have a big
family too.”

I felt unexpected tears prickle at the back of my eyes. I
sternly blinked them away. Horace didn’t sound maudlin and I wouldn’t ruin his
happy mood by crying. After all, she was gone. Like my mother. Like my
grandparents.
Gone now.
Gone
tomorrow.

And there was no reason to cry. Like Horace said, we were a
big family now. Self-selected too,
which is better.
And I was getting married in three days. There would be no crying for the ones
who weren’t here. If you ever start crying over missing faces, there is no finish.
You end haunted by thoughts of the life you couldn’t have. So I don’t ask
questions like
what if?
And I don’t
cry for the dead once they are in the ground because they are past hope and
beyond even prayers.

“So,” I said, changing the subject. “Did they use a
temporary rinse or something permanent on your hair?”

“Eh? Oh, I don’t know. There’s a difference?” His voice was
softer and groggy. His sibilants were slurring badly.

“Yes—six to eight weeks.” I poured some milk into the cup.
“Not that it will matter if Chuck doesn’t get back in time.”

“He’ll be here. Of course, I was late to my wedding,” Horace
said. “Had a flat tire and ruined my suit fixing it.
Had to
borrow clean clothes from a friend.
Suit didn’t fit.
Had
to tie up the pants with a borrowed belt.
People had started to leave
the church, even the preacher. My wife was so mad she almost didn’t marry me.”

I really hoped that this wouldn’t be a case of like father,
like son.

“Oh no!
I can just imagine how she
was feeling.” And I could imagine it all too clearly. “But she forgave you and
you got married anyway?”

Horace answered with a loud snuffle. He was asleep.

I slipped his shoes off and then sat down at the table and
drank his chocolate myself. Max sighed loudly and went back to the fire. I
resigned myself to having a snoring houseguest for the night.

*
 
*
 
*

Flowers.
The Wings could think of
nothing else now that the wedding was near. Ever since he’d stormed in on the
ladies’ town hall meeting to discuss who was doing what about the wedding
preparations. He had stormed into the room and declared, “I’m doing the
flowers,” then turned and stormed back out again.
Why oh why had he done so much storming?
he
wondered now. It really wasn’t like him.

Since then, his idea to gather local wildflowers and use
them to decorate the wedding scene was not panning out as he had hoped. He’d
been excited with the project when he overheard a private conversation between
Butterscotch and the Flowers regarding the wedding flowers. It had seemed such
a nice and easy gift to give Butterscotch and the Mountie.

“I think we should decorate using carnations,” the Flowers
suggested, not sounding very excited about the prospect. “They’re cheap and we
can get them wholesale.”

“I suppose,” Butterscotch said unenthusiastically.
“Though I’ve always loved orchids for weddings.
They are so
exquisitely perfect,” she continued, positively lighting up at the mere mention
of the flower.

That was all it took. The Wings was smitten with the idea
the moment he’d heard Butterscotch utter the flower’s name.
Orchid
.
He remembered his mother
telling him one day when he was young that she’d never had the flowers at her
wedding that she would have wished had there been time to properly plan the
finances to support a lavish wedding. She had always said that orchids were her
favorite flowers—and there had never been any money for them, not at her
wedding. Not even at her funeral when he was ten.