Idea in Stone (32 page)

“Hey, Da,” said Peter, “come on in.”

Stefan, horrified, tried to make himself invisible by burrowing under the covers.

“Is Ste with you?” asked Peter’s father. “I thought I was going to get to meet him.”

“Yeah, he’s here, he’s just being strange,” said Peter, and thumped the blankets. “Show yourself.”

Stefan eased himself up carefully, curling his head and arms over the covers, trying to look as un-naked as possible. “Hello, Mister Hailes,” said Stefan, “nice to meet you.” He extended a hand while carefully holding the covers with his other.

“Och, call me John.” He took the proffered hand and shook it. He sat down on the bed between the two young men. “Well this
is
quite the day. Your mother would have been well surprised.” Peter warned Stefan in advance about his father’s tendency to speak of his mother in the past tense. Listeners often made the mistake of thinking she was dead and apologised to Peter.

“How’s Barry doing?” asked Peter.

“Oh, you know him. Who can tell? He seems calm enough.”

“And Christine?”

“I like that girl. She’s really good for your brother, you know? But her parents,” he said, looking at the ceiling. “Och. You should see the kirk. Well, you will. It’s ridiculous. There are so many flowers and decorations—it’s more like a bloody parade than a wedding. But that’s what they wanted, and they were willing to pay for it. Bloody Sassenachs.”

Stefan looked at Peter. “English people,” Peter explained.

“Anyway,” said John, standing up from the bed, “it’s ten o’clock. You two best get yourselves ready. Ste, pleasure to meet you.” He slapped Stefan playfully on the shoulder and left.

“I like him,” pronounced Stefan.

“Yeah, well don’t get designs on him. You’re mine.”

“Okay,” he said, falling backward on the bed with his arms open.

~

John wasn’t exaggerating
, thought Stefan, looking around the old kirk. Its stone features and carved wooden pews were strewn with enormous purple valences and floral geysers. In his hand, he held a programme made of paper that felt like the starched sheets of last night’s bed. Its pages were printed with calligraphy so ornate it was nearly illegible. “Hymns?” he said, turning to Peter. “I
don’t
sing.”

“Don’t worry,” said Peter, “I don’t know about any of this stuff, either.”

Stefan looked around at the other guests. Nearly all the women wore elaborate, pastel-coloured hats. They were huge, and obscured the heads of the wearers with their enormous brims and crashing surfs of fine mesh. The men all wore dark, drab suits, though he noticed that those on the other side of the kirk were better-tailored.

Organ music started, and all the heads turned in formation to look back to the door of the church. Four enormous men entered first. If not for their formal jackets and kilts, Stefan would have thought they were the security. They walked stiffly to the front of the church and arranged themselves in a row.

Next came four young women. The first three were tall and pretty, like muses in their variations on a dark purple dress. The fourth followed them. Her makeup was just as softly applied, her hair piled in equally complex layers, but her general shortness and roundness evoked a wordless sympathy from the watchers. Perhaps in her own element she might have had a charm of some kind, but putting her into a set with the other three seemed unfair.

John Hailes followed next. He wore a nice suit, likely hired for the occasion, but he looked past his prime, particularly next to the man who walked with him. The man looked like Peter, but built to a larger scale. He was taller, his jaw wider and more rugged, his shoulders twice as broad—everything about him like a heroic version of Peter.

“That’s Barry,” whispered Peter.

“Yeah, I figured that,” replied Stefan. Looking at Peter, he appreciated that he was happier with the brother he got. Looking back at Barry, he laughed to himself: not as if Barry would ever be on offer.

Finally, Christine entered with her parents. The parents were dressed elegantly and appropriately for their age. Her mother wore a butter yellow suit with a huge matching hat like a felt sombrero. Her father wore a grey morning suit with gloves. Christine was a dowry in herself, her peachy face under a penumbra of soft brown hair with a pearl tiara nestled in it. Her long silk gown was covered in shiny filaments punctuated with pearls. The intended effect had been achieved: everyone else in the room looked like a mollusc next to this daughter of pearl. The sun shone through the stained glass window behind her, dappling her dress with colours and making a halo of her hair. As she walked up the aisle, the guests gasped.

She reached the front and joined Barry, while her parents moved to one side. A priest stood there, though no one knew where he’d arrived from, having been too busy watching Christine. He welcomed them to the town, to the kirk, and explained—for anyone who might be confused—why they were there. He then indicated that they should open their hymn books to sing.

They stood, and Stefan followed with his eyes in the hymnal Peter held open for them. Peter sang, not well, but admirably. Stefan refused. He knew how to read music, taught from an early age by Delonia in case he wanted to join their act someday, but he didn’t sing. He felt panicked, completely unaccustomed to Christian proceedings. Even his father’s funeral had not been held in a church, but was a makeshift affair involving lots of music, a theatrical procession, and, at one point, the police: apparently Canada had strict laws about human bodies that their two-day wake-funeral violated.

The organ music and the voices around him stopped, and they sat down. The priest then delivered a sermon on marriage and its importance as the glue of a healthy community. He spoke of the importance of families, such as those represented here (which made Peter’s father appear as if he’d had something amputated), and warned against the dangers of following modern perversions wearing the disguises of tradition.

Stefan grabbed Peter’s hand and squeezed it. Peter squeezed back.

There were those, the man continued, who felt the church was in decline because of its adherence to tradition. But these lies—lies that had infiltrated the church itself—were part of a never-ending attempt on the part of the wicked to attack the most sacred, most fundamental—

“I can’t listen to this,” whispered Stefan into Peter’s ear. He vibrated with rage.

Peter squeezed his hand intently, added his other hand, and looked at him. “Stay,” he whispered. “Please. Stay with me. Don’t mind him.”

Perhaps it didn’t matter what the man said, he thought. Here he was with Peter, and he felt no doubt about their right to exist there together. He looked at John Hailes beside the altar. He looked back toward them both, smirked, and rolled his eyes. With one silly gesture, he undermined the authority in the ornate robes and supplanted it with his own approval, which meant the world to Stefan.

He looked around. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see his father here. But he wasn’t. He wondered about the Matholics. Did they perform weddings? What would they be like? Would they marry him and Peter? It was legal for two men to get married in Canada and in Scotland. He wondered if the Matholics even had any—
What would they be called, “branches”?—
in Britain.

Barry and Christine kissed. Stefan didn’t know how much he’d missed, but didn’t mind. The wedding party was soon filing out of the church, with the rest of them following, watching the grey and burgundy Rolls Royce tear off in a cloud of rusty autumn leaves.

“What now?” asked Stefan. Peter was still at his side, defiantly holding his hand, despite a few looks which were not so much disapproving but double-checking to see if they were actually seeing what they were seeing.

“We go back to the manor, they take pictures of Barry and Christine in every conceivable position, we have an overblown, overpriced catered meal, and then in the evening there’s a ceilidh.”

“Kay-lee?”

“Party. Piss-up. Dancing, drinking—you know.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“That’s the idea.” Peter sighed. “I think we’ve earned it.”

“You going to keep your kilt on?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m there,” said Stefan.

~

As anonymously as they could, the manor’s staff swept away dishes and glasses, folded up the tables, stacked the chairs, and emptied the dining room while a band set up on a small stage.

They’d made it through all the speeches. Peter’s father shyly stammered his way through a recipe card of jokes. Christine’s father delivered a smooth oration that sounded like the announcement of a corporate merger at an annual general meeting. Barry’s meaty behemoth of a best friend acted as emcee, threatening repeatedly to tell the crowd any number of unsavoury things about Barry’s past. His seeming eagerness to do so kept everyone—most notably Barry—on tenterhooks every time he stood to speak.

Now they were home-free.

The band started with some traditional Highland dances. Stefan joined in the first, “The Dashing White Sergeant”, desperately looking at Peter to see what he should do. He caught on, though, and was quite proud of himself. No sooner had they finished, though, but they were on to “Strip the Willow”. He got out of step a few times, but again caught on just as the dance ended. The next eluded him completely, and he jumped out to spectate. He was amazed at the agility of the wizened older dancers and that all Barry’s family and friends knew these intricate moves. Christine’s family, however, sat on one side of the room, apparently disapproving of these northern antics.

On a break, Stefan asked Peter where he’d learned to do these dances. “PE classes when it rained,” he answered. “The poor girls had to do a lot more of it.”

“But that’s great. They taught you this vital piece of your culture.”

“Mmm, yeah, we were all very excited about that. What about you? You learn any Indian dances or anything?”

Peter had no idea how close to home the comment struck. “No, I left all the mock-Indian stuff to my mother. I am a ridiculously small fraction Métis, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Long story.”

~

“What are they doing?” asked Stefan, looking out the glass doors at Barry’s friends. The groom himself was busy elsewhere being polite to scores of people, many of whom he’d likely never meet again. They’d all brought gifts, though, so he was under an obligation.

“They’re setting off fireworks,” answered Fiona with a scowl as she bounced her baby son in her arms. “Bunch of jerks. The wain here can’t sleep, and the manor staff are beside themselves.”

“Why?”

“
You
want to go out there and tell them to stop?” asked Fiona, nodding to the circle of men outside like a drunken rugby team in kilts.

“I will,” said Peter, walking past them, out into the garden. Stefan looked anxiously at Fiona, then followed him out.

“Hey lads,” said Peter. They stopped and looked at him like he was a kitten in a wolves’ den. “Awright?”

“What yeh want, yeh little poof?” asked the relatively smallest of them, whose tiny face was stretched across a balding blonde square of a head.

“Wondering if yehs could quit yer noise.” Stefan noticed that Peter’s accent was broader, rougher as he spoke to them.

“Or?”

“Or nothing, ya eedgit. Ah’m just sayin’, this is a posh place, and yehs can’t go off—”

“Shut it, Peter. Your brother’s not here to fight for yeh, so yeh better watch it. Why don’t you and your boyfriend there just sod off.” He turned to the others. “Sod off. Ha!” They laughed with him.

“I always knew there was something queer about you, ever since we were little boys,” he continued. “But you and this one, in a church. You talk about having no respect. You make me sick.”

“I was in that church for my brother, arsehole, not for your enjoyment, or because I give a toss what that bastard priest has to say about anything.”

“Peter,” said Stefan, taking his arm, “c’mon, let’s go.”

“Yeah, listen to yer bent little friend. Yer boyfriend got a name?”

“Don’t. Don’t you even talk to him, you son of a bitch.” He rushed at Square-head, but two of the others grabbed him.

Square-head leaned close and stuck a decorated cardboard tube in Peter’s mouth. “You like that, don’t you? Why don’t you suck on that, and I’m just gunny light the other end.”

“No!” yelled Stefan. He threw himself at Square-head and hit him across the face. The blow didn’t have nearly the effect he’d hoped. Square-head punched him back and the fourth of the men grabbed his arms and held them to his sides.

“You were going to get out of this easy,” hissed Square-head, “but now we’re gunny put one o’ these numbers where we know
you
like it.” He turned back to Peter and flicked his lighter.

Stefan dropped to his knees. The man lost his grip on Stefan’s hands. As Stefan stood up, he grabbed the man’s right hand with his left, supported his grip with the other hand, and twisted his body around, as if the man were turning him in a pirouette. The man yelled sharply, and swung his other hand in a fist at Stefan’s head. Stefan dropped backward and yanked the man’s hand in an unnatural direction. “Aaaaa!” he yelled. Stefan let go of the hand, and the man clutched it to his chest.