6 The Wedding (8 page)

“I’ve never seen snow.”

“It’s really pretty.
Really cold.”

“Wendell said I could have a puppy if Judy says it’s
alright.” This was definitely a plus, if the smile was anything to go by. The
Flowers hadn’t wanted to have a dog muddying up her floors, but she would
probably be getting one anyway.

“Why does everyone call everyone else by made-up names?”
Ricky asked, changing the subject.
Or maybe not.

“Well, you may have noticed that everyone in town has the
same last names, either Jones or McIntyre. So sometimes we might have three
people named Johnny Jones.” This had never actually happened, but I was willing
to stretch a point. “And since we all have red hair, and it is hard to tell us
apart, we sometimes call people the name of what they do. Like the Wings flies
an airplane and Fiddling Thomas plays the violin.”

He digested this.

“Why are you
Butterstotch
?”

“My grandpa called me that because it was my favorite flavor
when I was a kid. Butterscotch pudding, butterscotch candy—I liked it all.”

“I like chocolate. Are they going to call me Chocolate?”
Child logic.

“I don’t know. Maybe we’ll call you Hotdogs.
Or Marshmallows.”

That got a laugh and I began to relax again. Maybe I
wouldn’t have to tell any big whopping lies about why we had our names.

“Big John is Big John because he’s big,” Ricky guessed. “Why
is Judy called the Flowers?”

“Because she is one of the few people who can grow a garden
up here and she likes flowers more than broccoli or zucchini.”

“I don’t like broccoli either.”

“Well who does?” I asked.

“My daddy.
He says it’s healthy and
I have to eat it to grow up tall.” He frowned. “I don’t think I want to be
tall.”

“
Hmph
.
I
think he’s talking about spinach. Broccoli is for when you want to grow up with
green teeth. And though that would be fun, I still like butterscotch more.”

Ricky nodded, grinning.

“Is your hair real?”

He meant a natural shade of red.

“Yep.
I was born with red hair.
Almost everyone born here has red hair.”

“But the Bomb isn’t redheaded?”

“He wasn’t born here,” I said, dodging the issue. “And now
that he’s older, his hair has turned silver. Making it red was just for fun—a
party game. He doesn’t have to have red hair if he doesn’t want.”

“Red hair is really good.” This was said a little anxiously.
I was betting he had had a lot of teasing about his hair. I sure had.

“Yes, but we must not ever make fun of people who don’t have
it.” My voice was solemn. “Like the man I am about to marry, Chuck the Mountie.
He’s a policeman. You haven’t met him yet, but he will be here soon.”

Or so I hoped and prayed.

“I won’t make fun of him,” Ricky promised. “I guess it would
be okay to stay here.
If I can have a puppy.
And see
snow.”

“Good. I’ll talk to the Flowers. And even if you couldn’t
have a puppy at the inn, I bet you could have one at Wendell’s house.”

“
Hmph
,” he said, imitating me. “I
would rather have one in my own room to sleep with.”

“That is very nice in the winter.”

“And he could eat my broccoli.”

“Maybe.
Most dogs have better sense
though.”

We had a moment of companionable silence. I thought about
Chuck and what he was off doing. People in the Gulch know that life distributes
luck unevenly and we reapportion things when we can, even doing an intervention
with fate if we have the chance. Chuck got that right away. He came from a
different walk of life, balanced the scales in an official way; but he shared
our appetite for justice, and this metabolism that thrived on righteous balance
made him fit in with us, in spite of being a policeman. It also meant that he
would go out and fight dragons when he thought he should.

“
Butterstotch
?”

“Yes?” I put thoughts of Chuck away.

“Why is Wendell called Thunder?”

“Because that’s his name.
And we
only have one Wendell Thunder.”

“Not because he’s a thunder-butt?”

“No! Wendell is definitely not a thunder-butt.”

Ricky giggled and I realized I was hearing a five-year-
old’s
idea of a joke.

“Maybe we’ll call you Ricky the Joker.” He grinned at me.
“So, want to learn how to catch fish with your hands?”

*
 
*
 
*

Big John stared in dismay at the cake he’d pulled from the
oven and left cooling for the prescribed hour. The first one he’d made—well,
really the second one since he had spilled the first bowl of batter—had been
flat like a brownie and it had taken him a while to remember that he needed to
add baking powder—or maybe it was baking soda—to the batter.

This time he was sure that he’d gotten it right because the
cake was nice and tall, except now the cake wouldn’t come out of the pan. It
was ripping into piles of orange sponge which tasted great but which could
never be glued back into a proper cake shape.

Big John sighed. He was out of pudding and frozen orange
juice. He would have to go see if the Braids had any at the store. Probably
what he should do was wake the Flowers and
ask
her how
the recipe went, but he hated to admit to anyone that he had forgotten. It
seemed disrespectful to his wife.

The kitchen was a mess though and it would have to be straightened
before dinner. Maybe he should clean it first then go out for supplies. He was
going to have to wash some bowls and pans before he tried the cake again anyway.
There wasn’t an inch of counter space that wasn’t covered in dirty crockery.

No, he would go to the store first, before the Braids closed
for lunch—and then wash the dishes. Maybe the walk would help with the pain in
his side. Judy would probably nap for at least another hour. He could still get
things cleaned up and have a cake in the oven before she came downstairs to
check on him.

Big John wiped his hands on his already dusty shirt and
headed for the back door so he wouldn’t track flour through the tavern. And
that reminded him, he better get more cake flour too. Dropping the canister on
the floor had meant losing an awful lot of his supply.

The old door had barely swung shut behind him when his
daughter’s voice called out from the hall.

“Dad?”
The kitchen door swung open.
“Da—dear God!”

The Flowers stared in awe and horror at the room designated
the kitchen. She’d never seen anything so filthy in her thirty-odd years of
life.

For a moment she debated stepping inside and trying to bring
order to the chaos, but her courage failed her. She backed out of the room and
went back upstairs. Maybe she wasn’t done napping.

*
 
*
 
*

The Braids looked at her second batch of sheets. They were
even more spotty and striped than the first set, and yet not as vivid as her
hands which had gotten stained when her rubber gloves started leaking. What had
gone wrong?

And what should she do? She only had one box of dye left—
Violent Violet
. It wasn’t enough to
re-dye all twelve sheets.

“Big John is here, wanting some pudding. What are you doing
out here anyway?” Little Davey asked, stepping outside with a cup of coffee. “Oh,
you’re making tie-dye?”

The Braids turned to stare at her husband.

“What did you say?”

“That Big John is here, wanting pudding and cake flour.”

“No, the other thing.”

“You’re making tie-dye? That’s brilliant, eh. It will go
with any kind of flowers,” he said encouragingly.

“Tie-dye.”

She considered the striped and spotted linen. Well, why not?
At least it would look deliberate.

“Davey, go and fetch me that ball of rubber bands in my desk
and then set the large kettle on to boil. Tell Big John I’ll be in shortly.”

*
 
*
 
*

Misha met the Wings at the landing strip in Seven Forks. The
Russian was wearing a sidearm and carrying a shotgun. The Wings had never grown
reasonably comfortable with the Russian tendency toward being well armed at all
times, but the sight of Misha through the windshield flagging him to a stop by
waving his shotgun in the air made him wish that he’d brought along his
father’s old service revolver. As it was, the plane rolled to a halt and Danny
stepped out of the cockpit unarmed.

He stepped directly into the enthusiastic embrace. Misha was
a strong man with arms like two huge hams. The Wings felt bones pop in his back
and chest in the large man’s grasp. Once released, he flexed his shoulders and
swiveled his hips to test his joints. Truth be told, he never felt better. He
smiled broadly.

Though he hadn’t known Misha well in the past, the Wings
took an instant liking to the man. The Russian exuded an aura of trust and
confidence. His smile was jovial, he laughed freely, and he drank a great deal.
All these things the Wings remembered from the past. And what amongst them was
there not to like? What he’d forgotten was the man’s easy nature and
affability. The Wings felt instantly comfortable and safe in his presence
though he still found it difficult to keep thoughts of the man’s past out of
mind.

“Is good to see you again, comrade,” Misha declared. “But
then, is good to see anyone.”

“And it’s good to see you too,” the Wings agreed. “I
understand that you’re willing to help with the flowers for the wedding.”

“Yes. I discuss issue of flowers with the Flowers,” Misha
replied, his winning smile slowly eroding off his face.

The Russian looked as if he was reliving the telephone
conversation in his mind. Apparently, the Flowers had made her expectations
clear. By the end of this internal review, Misha’s eyes had pinched themselves
into tiny slits. He noticed the Wings scrutinizing his features. Quickly the
dark clouds lifted and Happy Misha was revealed.

“Yes. I understand you have problem with flowers and I can
help,” Misha observed.

“I’m interested specifically in orchids.”

“Yes.
The flower that grows in
rainforests.”

“That’s the one. Wow, Misha, I didn’t realize you were a
horticulturist.”

“Me? I barely know a daisy from a dandelion, but I have
connections.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Danny queried.

“Come. I show you.”

Misha led the Wings to his tiny cabin nestled back in
amongst the woods. The outside was of simple log construction. The inside was
toasty warm and contained an easy chair set before a fire next to a simple
coffee table. The place looked like a retired person’s hideaway. Against the
wall away from the fire, the easy chair could swivel to address one of several
laptops set up to run a variety of programs. The Wings observed a number of
Internet applications in use on each screen but recognized none of them. Misha
eventually stood before his easy chair, blocking his view.

“Please, sit,” Misha said, gesturing toward a chair on the
opposite side of the fire.

The Wings had to lift a cat,
who
looked perfectly comfortable, off the cushion of the chair being offered. As he
seated himself, the cat dug its claws into the sleeves of the Wings’ coat when
he tried to set the animal on the floor. So he let the cat lie in his lap
instead. The animal appeared to the outside world to have slept through the
entire procedure. Misha observed the operation from the comfort of his easy
chair.

“Wow, you have a lot of computers. I was thinking of getting
my own one day. Where do you get your power?”

“Generators.”

“And your Internet access?”

“I would prefer we do not discuss it.”

If the Wings knew nothing else it was when to make a hasty
course correction in his dialog.

“What about the orchids?” the Wings prompted.

“Yes. There I have bad news. There is this wedding.…”

“Yes.
The wedding between Butterscotch and
the Mountie.”

“No, not that wedding.
This is
different wedding between politician’s daughter and Winnipeg’s most sought-after
bachelor.
Is in all the newspapers.”

“Oh, that wedding,” the Wings said, trying to sound in the
know.

“Daughter is said to be fond of orchids.”

“No?”

“Yes. She has bought up Winnipeg’s entire supply of
orchids.”

“Oh no.”

“But no worries.
Remember, I have
connections.”

“Yes, what does that mean?”

“I show you.” Misha pulled a phone from his pocket and
dialed a preset number. “I waited for you to arrive before making call.”

Danny interpreted the statement to mean the Russian
suspected he would not show.

Someone answered the phone and Misha replied in Russian. After
several more exchanges using the same language, Misha burst into a broad smile
and flashed a thumbs-up to the Wings. But then an argument broke out. Danny
could tell it was an argument without knowing a word of the language. Misha
held a hand over the cell phone to speak with the Wings in private.

“Have you got five thousand dollars?” he asked innocently.

“Heck no, I don’t have that kind of capital.”

Misha returned to his phone conversation and began swearing
in Russian. Again, Danny could recognize swearing in most any language when he
heard it.

“You’ll owe me,” Misha said congenially during a quick aside
while listening.

When the phone conversation eventually concluded, Misha was
his old affable self again.