My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding (21 page)

The Trojan War began at a wedding. Achilles' parentstobe, the hero Pelias and the nymph Thetis, imagined they could avoid future marital unpleasantness by not inviting Eris to their nuptials. Eris was goddess of Discord, not Good Sportsmanship, and so took umbrage. Her umbrage in turn took the shape of a golden apple inscribed
For the Fairest,
which she tossed into the midst of the wedding reception. The beauty pageant brouhaha that ensued among the other god

desses led to the nowin Judgment of Paris, the abduction of Helen, the ten years'

siege of Troy, and the eventual death of the aforementioned Achilles. To top off the ironic futility of it all, the marriage of Thetis and Pelias ended in divorce.

We all wanted better things for Wylda.

"I will speak to Hilliard," I said. "I will use all my powers of suasion, though for the life of me, I fail to see why this is necessary. The man is no newcomer to The Club. He knows our history. If I made no objection the very instant he declared Wylda's wedding plans, it was only because I was dumbfounded. What was he thinking?"

"He adores his granddaughter," Middleton reminded me. "Love is blind and blinding. Perhaps the sweet child has her heart set on a Club wedding and he didn't have the will to deny her wishes."

"Or the wish to terrify her by letting her know the reason why a Club wedding might not be the best idea," Porter added.

"True," I averred. "She has led a very sheltered life. It is possible to visit The Club and never know the frightful things that happened there unless one is told."

"I suppose there is a chance that Wylda's wedding won't attract the attention of any mythical monsters," Porter ventured, ever the optimist. "She's such a charming girl; I'd hate to see her disappointed, and it
has
been far too long since The Club last enjoyed a celebration that wasn't spoiled by chaos, bloodshed, and forfeited se

curity deposits."

"Are you suggesting that we risk so very much on the
chance
that nothing will happen? That we
gamble
with Wylda's wedding?" Middleton demanded, his snowy brows drawn together in an expression of the utmost severity. "I thought that you and I were in agreement, Porter: This marriage must not take place!"

"Don't you mean this
wedding!"
Porter ventured to correct the elder gentleman.

Middleton crimsoned, though it was impossible to determine whether it was with rage, embarrassment at his tooFreudian slip, or both. "Don't chop logic with me, sir!" he snapped. "None of
my
female relatives ever needed to go to Europe to study art history!"

I sorrow to report that at this instance Porter felt compelled to defend the moral probity of his sisterinlaw, which he did by seizing upon Middleton's autumnal passion for Wylda and flinging it in that man's venerable face. From there on, the dialogue between Porter and Middleton degenerated into personal remarks concerning the extended families of both men. The longer I sat there, the stronger grew my conviction that some people did not require the intervention of either gods or monsters to make an ugly hash of their lives. When at last I could bear to witness no more of such unsuitable sniping, I made my excuses and left the table, the establishment, and the city of New Haven. I have no idea when Porter or Middleton noticed that I was gone.

I made it my business to call upon the AustinCowles family within the week. I might have saved myself the trouble: Middleton was right.

"It was Wylda's idea," Margot told me as we sat taking tea together. She was attended by her husband and daughterinlaw, though the former Miss Scruggs might as well have been an umbrella stand for all the notice her inlaws paid her throughout my visit. "I wasn't happy with it, but she insisted: The wedding and the reception both will take place at The Club."

Hilliard confirmed this. "We both tried explaining the situation to herSimpson, the sphinx, and the way things have been ever since. She thought we were joking."

A nostalgic look washed over Margot's elegant features. "Do you recall how it used to be, before that dreadful man and his bloodthirsty pet ruined everything?"

she asked me. "The Club reception for your own dear sister's final wedding was one of the last
sane
events to be held there."

At the mention of my sister's nuptials, the former Miss Scruggs
gave a deep,
heartfelt sigh. "I remember that," she said, her face radiant,
her eyes luminous with dreams, her voice so soft as to border on the inaudible. "I never saw anything so beautiful. It was the most wonderful day of my life. I still dream about it."

I was about to interject a polite remark in reply when Hilliard forged on as if his daughterinlaw had said nothing at all.

"It's lucky that The Club's budget is firmly founded on dues and the occasional bequest, or by now it would be bankrupt. No one engages The Club for personal events anymore. Even though
every
Club affair doesn't attract mythic undesirables, no one wants to play the odds."

"And yet, you are going to do just that, in three months' time," I pointed out.

Hilliard sighed. "If I could change the situation, I'd do it without a second thought."

Like any properly bred person of a certain social standing, I loathed to soil my lips by speaking of pecuniary mattersoff the Trading Floor, that isbut in this case I felt compelled to inquire, "Have you not, then, taken the simple step of
refusing
to pay
for the wedding unless it is held elsewhere?"

Margot blushed and for decency's sake averted her eyes from me the instant such mercantile words left my lips, nor could I blame her. Wylda's mother tensed visibly. Hilliard merely bowed his head.

"Of course I have," he said. "To no avail. For some reason she refuses to disclose, it's appallingly
vital
to our Wylda to have her wedding at The Club. After all these years, that sweet, docile child has become a veritable tiger on this one point. She's determined to have her wedding at The Club or not at all."

And there it was, my defeat. All further argument would be futile. There is no fortress more unassailable than the resolution of a heretofore submissive woman.

Such creatures take all the willpower they have deferred during a lifetime of obedience, compliance, and meekness, gather it into one titanic mass, and focus it like a laser beam.

"She's always been such a
good
girl," Margot said plaintively. "She's never really wanted anything from us until now. How could we say no?"

They could not. We all knew it. The wedding would go on when and where Wylda decreed.

As for 
how
 it would go on . . . that remained to be seen.

As the date of Wylda's wedding drew nigh, The Club turned all atwitter. First there was the matter of the invitations. Those members who were included in the upcoming festivities wore satisfied smiles that were nonetheless somewhat wobbly at the corners. It was a privilege to be included at any fete hosted by that the AustinCowleses. No expense would be spared, no luxury be wanting. There would be lavishness without flash, sumptuousness tempered by sophistication.

And yet not a single mouthful of the best Sevruga caviar would pass the lips of any man or woman there without the passing shudder, the momentary frisson of trepidation, and the hasty, sidelong glance in the direction of the nearest exit. In short, my fellow invitees and myself would enjoy dear Wylda's wedding under a cloud, for who knew when or whether the beautiful display would be shattered?

Those members whose association with Margot and Hilliard was not close enough to procure them an invitation consoled themselves with many a goblet of Chateau des Sour Grapes: We wedding guests might dine on oysters, 
pate de foie
 
gras, filet de boeuf,
 and truffles, but our excluded brethren were certain that we would be gulping antacid tablets with every second mouthful.

I am convinced that the rumors concerning Wylda's fiance originated with one of those embittered exiles from her approaching wedding. (It also might have been Middleton's doing. His unrequited ardor for young Wylda had festered badly.

Melancholia possessed him, and each day seemed to sap a further measure of joy from his life. On the other hand, given his age, perhaps he simply had acid reflux.) Whoever began it, it spread rapidly. It was quite basic, as rumors go. No dark mutterings about the groomtobe's latent vices, past debaucheries, ongoing addictions, or previous wives kept in fetters in the attic, merely this: "Why hasn't anyone 
seen
 this man?"

The obvious answer was, of course, that Miles Martial 
had
 been seen, and not solely by members of Wylda's immediate family. Had not Solana Winthrop introduced them?

But Solana Winthrop was only one soul, and a soul somewhat besmirched by the blot of unanticipated art history studies abroad. 
What,
 the vile whisperers in corners demanded, 
what was
 wrong 
with the man, that kept him so shrouded in
 
mystery?

It was under these circumstances that I received a telephone call from Wylda's mother, the former Nora Scruggs, entreating me to bring Mr. Martial to The Club for dinner, or at least cocktails. To be frank, there were certain additional conditions in play at the time: My visit to the AustinCowles menage had left me somewhat smitten by the physical attractions of Miss Scruggs, and as the lady was not averse, we struck up a relationship of mutual benefit soon thereafter.

"Please say you'll do it," my bourgeois beloved pleaded. "This would be the best way to smash those nasty rumors once and for all."

"Certainly, yes," I replied. "But would it not be more appropriate for Hilliard to escort your daughter's betrothed?"

Nora gave a small, plaintive cry. "He 
won't
 do it. He said that an AustinCowles doesn't let a bunch of blabbermouth rumormongers 
make
 him do anything; it would be 
surrendering.
 I tried telling him that this isn't some stupid battle, but he wouldn't listen. Darling, you're my only hope."

My tender feelings for Nora restrained me from pointing out that the social niceties 
are
 a battle. It was easier to give her what she wanted.

I met Miles Martial at the train depot on a Saturday afternoon in late May. It was a traumatic encounter. Some people are blessedif that is the proper wordwith the ability to 
invade
 the space they occupy. I am not speaking of those theatrical individuals who flaunt, posture, and play to the cheap seats with every move they make. Anyone can draw attention to himself by making a scene.

Miles Martial belonged to a different breed, monumental without being melodramatic. He was a tall, brawny, wellbuilt specimen of manhood, but as the polite lie goes, size is not everything. He was also handsome enough to dazzle. The sight of him, bronzed and blond, with steel blue eyes, perfect teeth, and a profile purloined from Michelangelo's 
David,
 filled my heart with a nauseating swirl of personal inadequacy and overpowering envy. In that moment I knew that no ordinary human being could ever 
see
 Miles Martial so much as 
behold
 him. There is a difference, as vast as it is subtle.

I also knew, in quick succession, that

1. I wanted to punch him in the face, for no other reason than because it was

there.

2.
 Every man at The Club would share my feelings.

3. Were we fools enough to turn impulse into action, he would sidestep our blows easily and then, with insouciant grace, show us the way it should be done, i.e., accurately and painfully.

4. Every woman at The Club would behold Miles Martial and immediately desire the slaughter of dear, sweet, accursedly lucky little Wylda. 5. This was going to kill poor old Middleton.

Miles leaped into my car the instant that I pulled up at the depot, a grin in my direction his only greeting.

"Mr. Martial?" I said, just in case I might have picked up the wrong person by mistake. (Ah, fleeting hope, swiftly dashed!)

"Bingo," he said, pointing his index finger at me pistolstyle and vocalizing a passable gunshot sound effect as he brought the thumb hammer down. He even went so far as to blow invisible smoke from his fingertip afterward.

My attempts to make light conversation during the drive to The 
Club met with
 
mixed results. When 1 asked him whether the trip
 from New York City had been pleasant, he replied, "New York? Is that where I came from? Oh, right, right. Hey, buddy, you've gotta excuse me, I'm a little snafued these days. 
Lots
 of travel under the old belt. I just flew in from the Middle East yesterday and boy, are my arms tired." He filled my automobile with raw laughter.

It was a relief to rid myself of the man, even if only for the time it took to give my vehicle into the care of a parking valet. Miles Martial did not wait for me but bounded through the front doors and proceeded to take The Club by storm.

As it was a Saturday afternoon, the place swarmed with golfers and tennis players. His effect on the crowd was approximately what I had anticipated and yet, despite the amount of smoldering envy his physical perfections kindled, he somehow managed to create his own admiring barroom coterie in the short time it took for me to rejoin him.

I should have been pleased to note how readily he had made his so • cial conquests, but I could not do so with a whole heart: There was something vaguely disquieting about Wylda's beau. Although the tranquil surface of a pond reflects the silver beauty of the moon, that is no guarantee against it teeming with alligators. A smattering of caution would determine whether you came away from the encounter with a haiku or a bloody stump where your right hand used to be.

I regret to say that, at the moment, I did not express my uneasiness to anyone. I had done my duty by pleasing Nora; I needed to do no more.

There is something about weddings capable of thrilling the least romantic heart.

Mine was no exception. By the day of her daughter's nuptials, the relationship between Nora AustinCowles (nee Scruggs) and myself had reached a certain level of physical intimacy, but that signified little. Ordinary alley cats can claim such amorous familiarity. When the lady demurely asked me to act as her escort, that was a truer gauge of my status in her eyes than a score of unclothed, oiled, and raucous hours spent together. It gave me sweet hope that I might yet see the light of matrimony at the end of the somber tunnel of bachelorhood.