The Mezzo Wore Mink (39 page)

“
Oh, just a bit,” said Noylene with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I think y’all look fabulous! Now, let’s talk about your hair.”

Chapter 28

The Saturday after Thanksgiving started out like no other day in the history of St. Germaine. It wasn’t the weather—the weather was perfect. Warmer than usual and perfect for shopping, perfect for hiking, perfect for everything you could imagine. It wasn’t the Ferris wheel that Wormy and his step-son, D’Artagnan Fabergé-Dupont, had hauled over from Wormy Acres and set up in the corner of Sterling Park. It wasn’t the five members of the Exorkizein, all dressed in their gowns with red embroidered crosses and wielding their exorcism wands as they marched around the square, having decided that at least one of the demons had taken refuge in the park. It wasn’t the occasional Minque racing for its life through town, being chased by teenagers with baseball bats. It wasn’t even the air of expectancy that hadn’t been experienced by St. Germainians since the Crèche Wars of ought-two, a palpable feeling of anticipation brought on by the inaugural performance of
The Living Gobbler
at St. Barnabas Church.

It was the culmination of all of these things, plus the largest Thanksgiving weekend shopping crowd in ten years. And it was still only nine o’clock. Wormy and D’Artagnan made quite a pair: Wormy, a short, stocky man with a big grin; D’Artagnan, about six and a half feet tall and as big around as a knitting needle. He still had his trademark “mullet” but had changed the color of his hairdo from lime green with pink highlights to a horrific blondish-orange. He sported rimless, round glasses and under his nose hung a wispy mustache like a piece of colorless, limp seaweed. They hadn’t begun offering rides yet, Wormy being content to send the unoccupied Ferris wheel around and around, demonstrating its safety to the onlookers before opening for business at ten.

As the Exorkizein made their way around the square, single file, wands waving, people moved amiably out of their way and watched them as one might watch an impromptu parade in downtown Asheville. Every so often, Carmel Bottoms would point at a tree, or sundial, or even the statue of Harrison Sterling himself, and the group would surround the landmark, join hands and chant together in Latin:

Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde,

in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis.

I couldn’t tell if it was working, but the crowds going from store to store appreciated the show, and several folks even tossed a few coins as a tip into the smoking brazier that was being carried aloft by the young man.

I was in town early because I’d received a phone call from Pete informing me that the DANGLs were indeed planning on demonstrating against the City Council who, two days before, had decided they’d try to block the sale of Camp Possumtickle, citing family values and the St. Germaine decency law of 1903. Pete had not been present. Nancy, Dave, and I were in town to escort any naked DANGLs to the Police Station, after which we had no idea what we’d do with them. Luckily, by noon, none had shown up.

Ian Burch, PhD, took the opportunity to bring his Early Musik Consort to the park as a preview for the evening’s performance. Ten of them had taken up places in the gazebo and sat behind stands on wooden stools. Two others were performing intricate and extremely boring dances on the lawn. I waved at Kent Murphee as I walked by and watched him redden. He was clad, much like the others, in a bright blue tunic, red tights, pointy shoes and a great floppy hat adorned with an ostrich feather. Nancy spotted him and laughed out loud, but then, Nancy has always had a cruel streak. I just waved, tipped my hat and smiled. Gamba, Ian Burch’s vegan dog, was on a leash and tied to the gazebo. He looked hungry, but then, he always looked hungry. During one of the Consort’s frequent breaks, I saw a Minque shoot out from under the gazebo, give the dog a vicious nip and take off toward the library. Gamba was apoplectic, but tied securely. His barking ceased once Ian gave him a bacon flavored lentil chip.

Bud McCollough spent the afternoon sitting at a table with Anne Cooke in front of the Ginger Cat. Anne decided that Bud was a model salesman for her new line of local wines. There were at least seven wineries in the tri-county area and the Ginger Cat was a perfect distribution point, having both a liquor license and a cute little shop featuring local arts and crafts. Bud was still too young to sell the wine directly, but he could give the customers a bit of his wine-speak and some recommendations. Then Anne would give them a taste and send them inside to the cash register. It was brilliant.

Pete had let Ardine set up a table outside the Slab to sell her quilts. Cash only. No checks. She brought ten. All were gone by noon.

As the afternoon wore on, the Ferris wheel business began to wane and the crowds that had been thronging the stores started to disperse. By five, it was getting dark and Wormy wanted to close it down, but D’Artagnan said that since the park was well lighted, he’d man the wheel till the end of
The Living Gobbler
, just in case some of the kids wanted rides after the show. This was fine with Wormy. He was beat and wanted to get home before Noylene left for the church. Also, he suspected there might be tuna loaf and collards for supper.

And so, with a seven o’clock curtain, the stage was set.

•••

“
I thought you were kidding about the turkey outfit,” grumbled Pete. “What about my dignity?”

The cast, according to the Lemmings’ instructions, had gathered to costume in the Parish Hall while the audience was being herded to their seats.

“
Pete,” I laughed, “you flashed Cynthia during the debate in front of everyone. You have no dignity. Anyway, that’ll teach you to skip dress rehearsal.”

“
I was checking Cynthia’s tan,” said Pete, grinning beneath the beak and comb that made up his turkey headdress. “I must say that I find her chocolate hue disturbingly prurient.” He flopped his arms, now concealed in two massive brown, feathered wings. “Shouldn’t a woman be playing the turkey? What about their giant breasts?”

“
What about them?” said Meg, coming up behind us.

We turned and caught our collective breaths. “Holy smokes!” I said. “You look…” Words failed me.

“
Breathtaking? Stunning? Stupefying?” asked Meg, with a giggle.

“
All that and more,” I answered. “Wow!”

Meg was wearing her Indian outfit, an off-the-shoulder, form-fitting, white doe-skin dress with fringe in all the right places and Cherokee bead-work that would feel at home in any art gallery in the country. Her black hair, crowned with a wreath of baby’s breath, settled softly around her shoulders, and her gray eyes sparkled like diamonds.

“
If he won’t marry you,” said Pete, “I will.”

“
I can’t marry you, Pete,” said Meg. “You’re a real turkey.”

“
Oh, ha ha,” said Pete. “Like I haven’t heard that one twenty times already. Listen, could you straighten out my tail feathers? I can’t reach back there.”

It was true enough. He couldn’t reach his tail feathers. Not only did they fan out a good five feet in all directions, but his torso had been padded to give him that well-fed, butterball look. The whole package, including his spindly legs clad in yellow tights and giant orange shoes, looked very turkey-esque indeed. Meg straightened out his tail and spun him back around.

“
You remember your line?” I asked.

“
Gobble-gobble,” said Pete. “Gobble-gobble? Who the hell wrote that?”

“
Not me. That’s one of Fiona’s,” I laughed.

“
Hey!” yelled Noylene from across the room. “Meg, you get away from there. He’s not allowed to see the bride.”

Meg gave my hand a squeeze and disappeared though the crowd to the other side of the hall.

“
I’d rather be a pilgrim,” said Pete. “Wormy could have been the turkey. Or Billy.”

“
Nope. You have to be the best man, and therefore, the turkey.”

“
But why?”

“
I have no idea,” I said, “but you must embrace the way of the Gobbler. You think this is any better?” I gestured to my own costume —black pants, a black coat, a black stovepipe hat with a buckle on it and shoes to match.

“
Hell, yes!” said Pete, straining his neck to see over his shoulder. “Look at me. My butt’s a Technicolor nightmare.”

•••

The Living Gobbler
, as conceived by Fiona Tidball-Lemming, was a loose collection of skits and songs all tied together with narration and poetry that she’d written for the occasion. I had gladly relinquished creative control early on in the project, just happy to have my
Hymn to the Living Gobbler
included in the festivities. Since I was to be in the production, Father Lemming was conscripted to play the keyboard and Ian Burch’s Early Musik Consort instructed to accompany wherever they could. Father Lemming had written down some lead sheets for the Consort, but the recorder and cornamuse players were having a hard time playing from the charts. They were used to actual notes.

Christopher Lloyd, an interior designer from Boone, had been conscripted by Fiona to be the narrator. Fiona had met him when, upon consultation with Annette Passaglio, she had hired him to help her redo the rectory. The vestry had since squelched her redecorating ambitions, but a deep bond had been formed, and now Mr. Christopher, dressed in black spandex pilgrim eveningwear with just a few sequins, was the MC for the evening.

We began with a hymn, the whole congregation—from Buffet seating all the way to the Gourmet section—standing and singing
We Gather Together To Ask The Lord’s Blessing
. During the hymn, the vegetables and side dishes made their way to the front of the church where the Lemmings had constructed a stage to resemble a giant dining room table complete with an eight-foot tall candelabra. What followed was nothing short of fantastic.

Broccoli and squash, apple and cauliflower, corn and dinner rolls, all put aside their ancient animosity and did a square-dance to a Virginia reel played by the Consort and culminating with Christopher Lloyd in the middle of the group doing a fair impression of Michael Flatley in
Lord of the Harvest
. The applause was tremendous as Mr. Christopher ended up on one knee, his arms outstretched, one side of his headband drooping over an eye thanks to the weight of the pilgrim’s buckle he had hot-glued to the black satin.

Moosey made an impressive debut as Little Feather, The Wampanoag Indian boy, as he and his faithful vegan dog, Pequot, told the story of hunting the mighty Gobbler for the first Thanksgiving.

“
Me hunt-um mighty gobble-gobble,” said Little Feather. “Me heap big brave. This Pequot, heap big dog.”

“
Brilliant writing,” mumbled Pete. “She heap big idiot.”

“
Quiet,” I whispered. “You’re almost on.”

“
Me see-um gobble-gobble, me shoot-um,” said Little Feather, leading Pequot on a stealthy stalk around the front of the sanctuary. He had a bow and arrow in one hand and Pequot’s leash in the other. Then, suddenly, he dropped the leash, put his hand to his mouth, and gave a great war-whoop.

“
That’s your cue,” I said, giving Pete a light shove.

Pete waddled out onto the table. A huge laugh and a round of applause greeted his appearance.

“
Little Feather see-um gobble-gobble,” yelled Moosey. “Pequot see-um gobble-gobble.”

Pequot not only see-um gobble-gobble, Pequot recognize gobble-gobble from vegan dreams. His wiener-dog legs weren’t long enough to get him onto the stage, but he ran around the outside, growling and barking like he was an actual Rottweiler and Pete was a walking, talking Tofurkey. Pete’s eyes grew wide, not knowing if this was actually part of the show or not. It didn’t pay to skip dress rehearsal.

“
Say your line,” hissed Moosey.

Pete looked at him in alarm. Ian was now trying to corral his dog and trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible by walking bent over at the waist, his head tucked into his shoulders, and scurrying with tiny steps, in the time honored belief that walking like a duck makes a person invisible.