Round Rock - Michelle Huneven [135]
“Well, it sounds like she’d keep you in line. And think of all those free massages.” Libby lowered herself carefully onto the now-empty chair and held up the journal. “I brought this. I wanted to read to you about our wedding.”
“It won’t upset you?”
“I’ll probably cry, if that’s what you mean. But I do want to read it to you.” She opened the journal, smoothed the pages. Her face had taken on a healthy pinkness. “It doesn’t make you uncomfortable, hearing about Red and me?”
“Oh, maybe a little,” said Lewis. “But I do want to hear it.”
She smiled. “Okay, then. I should say that originally, we were going to be married in Bakersfield by George, who used to be the chaplain here. Then we’d go on up to the cabin in the Sierras we’d rented for our honeymoon. It was supposed to be no big deal. But Billie wanted to be at the wedding, so Red arranged for George to meet us at the park in Fort Tejon. All to pacify Billie. Although I liked the idea of being married outside in the middle of winter. Okay. That’s the intro.”
Libby lifted the journal and began to read.
“The fourteenth, Valentine’s Day, was a beautiful, clear winter day. Glassy white sun. In the seventies in the Santa Bernita, although freezing in the shade. Billie and the Bills pick me up five minutes early. She has a garment bag for our jackets.
“The Bills, that unusual trinity, carry me to my future in the great white truck.” Libby paused. “Also Billie’s idea. That we’d meet Red there, so the bridegroom wouldn’t see the bride.”
“Right, that traditional thing.”
“Billie has selected Handel and Debussy to accompany us. The cottonwoods along the river, bare but for their high tufts of flame-yellow leaves, light our way. Old Bill dozes. Little Bill snaps pictures. We find the park—it’s right off the highway. Red and George are waiting in the parking lot. Red is in gray slacks, elegant salmon-colored shirt, no tie, jacket slung over his back. (Why are men never cold?) The expression on his face could only be described as comic dread.
“I assume that he’s stewing in hideous second thoughts. What’s up? I ask.
“He says, Oh, nothing really, although I don’t know what it portends for married life: It seems we’ve stumbled into the Civil War.
“And it’s true, as we walk up into the park, there are hundreds of people in Civil War dress milling around. Bluecoats and graycoats, and women in long cotton skirts and shawls, lots of cleavage. The softball diamonds are a battlefield. Regiments assemble in straggly phalanxes. Men carry muskets. The smell of cordite hangs in the air. Sporadic, heart-seizing Rebel yells erupt. Concession stands and vendors sell black powder, medals, bedrolls.
“Red says, I’ve always sort of admired Stonewall Jackson.
“Billie says, I told you we should’ve had this wedding in my courtyard.
“We find a semi-quiet space on the far side of a large, covered pergola. George says, This won’t take long.
“Billie and I go to the bathroom, a stone building with hosed-down concrete floors, rust-stained sinks. It’s full of war wives. Women dressed like ancestors. I feel self-conscious pulling on the crisp ivory jacket to my suit. Billie pins a corsage to my lapel and tells all the women, She’s tying the knot. The women cluster. I hear Oklahoma twangs.
“Gettin’ married in pants? That takes nerve! says one woman—admiringly, I think.
“Billie looks terrific in a gray Armani suit and pearls.
“I take a deep breath.
“Billie tells me to join the men while she hauls our discarded sweaters to the car. I walk over, heels poking into the grass, and stand awkwardly, squeezing—no, wringing—Red’s hand. I’m afraid to sit on the picnic benches in these glowing, tusk-colored clothes.
“Red has wet and combed his hair, his face has a naked look. Big eyes. Little Bill’s snapping a lot of pictures. Billie takes her time. I spot her talking to two women who scuttle off like plump partridges. Oh god, I mutter. She’s up to something.
“We move into the small grassy space enclosed by a fence covered in dark green honeysuckle; it’s quieter. George