Yellowcake (33 page)

Ireland is all around them. In the choir loft the Austrian lady, Mrs. Gruber, plays "Danny Boy" at Maggie's request. Over and over again.

"Does Maggie know this is a funeral song?"

"She knows. She doesn't care. She wanted it. Irritating song."

"Not as irritating as 'Amazing Grace,' do you think?"

Ryland tries to smile. That's Mrs. Gruber's standard Sunday opener.

"I think she's an impostor," Edna says. Edna's perfume reminds him of Christmas, why, he can't say. He tries to place the scent. "That's a Protestant song if I ever heard one. I think the only reason she's here is because she gets to play a nice organ."

Now Ryland does smile. He's glad for Edna's company. She's a good friend. Has always been a good friend to his family. Unlike some he could name.

They're probably burying Woody today. Sam will be there.

Father Liam goes bounding back to the altar, stands at its center flanked by altar boys. Mrs. Gruber stops playing "Danny Boy" and sounds the first chord of the Wedding March. They all stand. Ryland places the perfume scent. Plastic, like a child's new toy.

Here comes little Teri, throwing her sunflowers, her face solemn, legs stiff.

The church is packed. He loosens his tie.

Here comes Sue, who looks quite pretty except for the severely made-up face. Here's Sandi with the Offertory gifts, the wine and water, and Pooh with a satin pillow and the rings. Here's Eddy with Maggie. Ryland pulls the oxygen tube over his head, steps out into the aisle, and relieves his son from duty. Maggie's eyes brim with tears when she looks at him. He smiles at her. "Pick up your feet, soldier," he says. And he walks her down the aisle, stepping as lively as he dares, turning her over to George and stepping into the pew beside Rosy, where he hooks himself back up to air.

Half sleeping, he listens to the priest charm them all in a language they understand, and he regrets the Latin they've lost. Once he could recite the whole Mass in Latin, both the priest's parts and the congregation's. Though he didn't understand the language he felt its meaning, and faith was easier.

At the Offertory, before the Consecration, somebody in the choir loft sings "Ave Maria." Maggie takes a single yellow rose, places it at the feet of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and kneels until the song is over. Ryland thinks of his mother, who never knew his children, but he had felt her presence at their baptisms, their confirmations. He doesn't feel her presence today. He doesn't feel anything much, just the rock in his throat.

He should go to confession. It's been so long. If he confessed and took the sacrament, maybe he would feel something again. But what should he confess? Where to start? Should he start with Woody? Woody's family? Make a list of the people he has let down? Might as well atone for his whole damn life.

He knows what his mother would say to this line of thinking. She'd say, "Self-pity is a sin, Ryland. Go to your room and get rid of it."

 

After Mass, after Maggie and George and all of them run back down the aisle, after pictures at the altar and on the church steps, Rosy says, "Ry, you don't need to go to the reception. I'll drive you home." But Edna, standing by, says, "Run along, Rosy. He's my date," and he lets Edna take his arm. They walk to the reception hall, leaving Rosy to herd the wedding party.

"Let's sign in," Edna says. They stop at the guest book and sign under a supervising photo of Maggie and George, the date printed on the bottom of the picture: Saturday, September 28,1991.

They sit at a round table covered with a white cloth and a small, ornate centerpiece: a little horn of plenty, gilded flowers, and, in a vase at the center, live mums and sunflowers. Next to the vase is a placard that says
NO SMOKING PLEASE.

People stop by, telling him it's good to see him, people he hasn't seen for years, mill people who seem to have crawled out of the woodwork—Howie Beeker, a welder, and Chris King, a mechanic, and the wives, more wives than men—they all stop by and say hello.

"Rosy's the same old gal, isn't she. She has so much energy," Edna says. Rosy bustles around the room, moving from the guest book to the present table to the band on a platform. The band members are dressed in what look like matador costumes.

"She's energetic."

"I wish I had half her gumption," Edna says.

"She has more than her share."

"How about some whiskey, mister?" Edna says. At a bar in the corner, Pretty Boy from across the street swirls liquid in a glass and talks to the bartender.

George, passing by their table, says, "I'll get it."

"Whiskey and water," Edna says.

"Neat," Ryland says.

Lily and her new boyfriend stand in the doorway. Lily clutches her handbag in front of her stomach, looking in their direction. Edna waves her over. Lily takes the boyfriend's arm, steering him toward a little table on the opposite side of the room from them.

"She didn't see me," Edna says.

"She saw you."

Edna looks at him curiously. "Here comes the bride," he says. The bride makes her way toward their table, carrying her train over one arm, her cheeks flushed, eyes glittery.

"What'd you think? Was it a great ceremony or was it a great ceremony?"

"Everybody was great," Edna says.

George brings the whiskey. "They're waiting for the trumpet player," he tells Maggie.

"I don't care. He can be late. Guess what? We're going to Ireland for our honeymoon. This lug has been keeping it a surprise. We're going to stay in a castle!"

"Ireland. Well, take a little boat ride to Scotland, then," Edna says. "I honeymooned in Edinburgh with Tommy, my third husband. What a lovely city"

The band tunes up, the drummer brushing the cymbals. The trumpet player comes rushing in looking crumpled, hair tousled, costume wrinkled as if he's been sleeping in it. He looks pleased with himself. He has accomplished something. He has arrived. "Time to dance," Maggie says. "Get ready, Dad."

"I think I'll sit this one out."

"Oh, a father's got an obligation to dance with the bride," Edna says.

"Get Eddy," Ryland tells Maggie.

"Coward," Edna says.

"Yup," Ryland says.

The trumpet player jumps onto the platform, spits a few notes, gives the band a wave. George and Maggie swirl away into the middle of the floor, and the rhythm in the room takes on a spiky Latin beat. People group around the dance floor to watch the leading couple. Heads move to the beat.

Now Eddy cuts in. Playing the part of the father. George starts dancing with Rosy. "George looks like he's stamping out a fire," Edna says. Rosy takes three steps to every one of his. "Look at our girl. She'll never let that boy know he can't dance." It's true, Rosy is chatting and smiling just as if she's not aware of the two hundred pounds behind George's feet, which could crush the bones in hers with one misstep.

"I hope she holds up. No use having two cripples."

"I bet you've still got a few moves, mister. I used to enjoy watching the two of you dance. Remember when we had dances in Camp out on the basketball court? Those were good times, weren't they?"

"Were they? Nobody seems to think so."

"Who? Who doesn't think so? You're talking to the wrong people, buddy." She squeezes his arm. He pats her hand and smiles tiredly at her.

But the whiskey has kicked in. He's beginning to feel a little buzz. "Let's have a couple more," he says. When Eddy comes over after the dance, they send him to the bar.

The room is a stew of wedding clothes and made-up faces. All the faces strain toward one another, laughing and talking, sipping champagne. The servers Maggie hired wander around with platters of tiny sandwiches and champagne in plastic champagne glasses. Kids dash in and out of the crowd, but so far only one platter of drinks has gone down.

The second whiskey turns out to be a good idea. He should drink more, Ryland thinks. It could take the place of Xanax. It's good sipping whiskey, so he takes this second one slow.

Midway through the reception, Maggie and George smear wedding cake on each other's faces, and then the servers start passing out cake. Maggie and George bring them theirs.

"Oh, yum," Edna says. "A yellow cake."

"With butter frosting."

"I love butter."

"Mom thinks it's scandalous."

"At our age? Who's counting the calories anymore?"

"No, she thinks a yellow cake is scandalous. She says traditional white indicates purity, but white cake—yuk. I wanted chocolate. We compromised with yellow, even though Mom says it means I'm not a virgin."

"That's just like Rosy. Of course you're a virgin," Edna says, laughing. Maggie rolls her eyes; George blushes. "My, look at Lily. They're tangoing."

"That guy can dance."

They do dance well, Lily and the new boyfriend. Long Lily. Rubber Lily. The guy dips her and spins her and her limbs lope along gracefully. Her face is the color of cantaloupe. "Looks like somebody's had a little champagne," Ryland says.

"If she's drunk, then he's talented," Edna says. "He sure makes her look good."

"Can Uncle Sam dance?" Maggie says.

"Nah."

"Oh, no," Edna says. "You couldn't get Sam on the dance floor. Lily traded up in that respect."

They watch the dancers silently. Though she hasn't said it, he thinks Maggie is disappointed that Sam's not here. She was so thrilled that he made the trip.

The music stops. Rosy's at the bandstand beckoning toward their table.

"We're wanted," George says, and the trumpeter says, "Let the toasts begin." Maggie and George go toward the platform, where a gaggle of well-wishers are lined up at the mike to make drunken toasts.

"I am mad at Sam," Edna says. "I would've liked to see him."

"Maybe you can visit him in jail."

"Ryland. You didn't have Sam arrested."

"I'm thinking about it."

He glances at her. She swishes the liquor around in her glass, lips pursed. "I think, Ryland Mahoney, that you could no more have Sam arrested than one of your kids."

"You think?"

"Yes. I do. Anyway, what he did wasn't so bad. No worse than what Lily did."

"No? What Lily did was stupid. Not illegal."

"Oh, who makes these laws? I think they were just flirting with each other."

He looks at her, incredulous.

"I bet it happens more than you'd think. People can't bring themselves to take the final step. I mean divorce. Especially when the marriage was a long one like Lily and Sam's. I should think it would be like cutting off a limb. We're lucky we've never had to do that, you, me, Rosy. Take it from me, death is cleaner. I miss my men, my husbands. But grief is somehow pure. Divorce. A dirty little business."

"I don't think Sam sees it that way."

"You think not? If Sam cared about the divorce, he would have just signed the papers. He did something certain to get Lily's attention. No, I think Lily's been carrying a little torch for Sam all these years. She was so gone on him. And maybe she didn't plan it this way, but she certainly kept a road open, and Sam, well, what he did guarantees he's on her mind. They're flirting."

"Whoo. Now that is a creative way of looking at it. Edna, you're kooky."

She smiles. "That's what all of my husbands said."

"I'll bet they did. Yes indeed, Miz Friedan, there's nobody like you. I can see why so many men wanted to marry you."

She leans over, putting her hand on his arm, and he gets that whiff of Christmas. "No, you can't," she says. "But if you ever find yourself alone, come on up and I'll show you."

Ryland laughs, throwing his head back, coughing and sputtering at the ceiling.

Edna beams at him. "You know, mister, that's the first time I've heard you laugh all week."

The crowd is thinning. Mill people start coming up to say goodbye and to congratulate him on getting Maggie married. The trumpeter says they have a couple more songs in them, and this one's by request. They start a waltz. It's a song Ryland knows, not Latin music, and here's Maggie in front of him, holding her hands out, saying, "Daddy taught me how to waltz to this," and Edna says, "Give it a go, Ry. Don't turn a girl down twice." He doesn't see how he can say no.

He unhooks himself from oxygen and follows Maggie to the floor. They do a three-step. Maggie sings in his ear: "Last Saturday night I got married, me and my wife settled down, now me and my wife are parted, I'm gonna take another stroll downtown." And maybe it's the whiskey, but he seems to be leading.

Then he is dancing with Rosy. He feels the doughy roll of flesh at his wife's waist that didn't used to be there. It embarrasses her, he knows, so he barely touches her at the waist. Anyway, they know how to dance together—they've done this a time or two in their lives. Rosy looks over his shoulder as she always used to when they danced, and she doesn't smile, because waltzing is serious business.

People in the room are singing: "Stop rambling, stop your gambling, stop staying out late at night. Go home to your wife and family, and stay by the fireside bright." It is a sad song. He doesn't know why it makes him happy. But it does.

I
N THE DAYS
following her father's funeral, Becky and her mother are rarely alone. Becky comes home from the bank each afternoon to find one of her aunts there. They seem to be on shift, a different one supervising the afternoon and evening hours each day. It's canning season, and the kitchen windows are always murky with steam from pots of boiling water, the table full of cucumbers and beets to be pickled, the first of the pie pumpkins to be cooked and frozen, the new crop of gourds to be hollowed. Last year's gourds, which for months hung drying on the back porch, have been taken down. Her mother has begun decorating them with woven beadwork, and they'll be featured in the Christmas bazaar.

Becky spends her free time training for the upcoming race at Hopi. Each evening she comes in ravenous from her run to find dinner on the table, her mother and an aunt sitting down to pinon-studded meatloaf, roasted yams, homemade bread. Her aunts tease her about her appetite, and hold her as an example for her mother, who has none. They tell Delia she has an obligation to eat, even if she isn't hungry, because her body is not her own, it is borrowed for only a little while to do the Lord's work, and eventually he will discard it and call her spirit home.