The Wedding Machine (4 page)

This could be the end of an era for the community that took Ray in more than forty years ago. As she watches the coral-colored condominiums go up along the edge of the Cumbahee River, she envisions the affluent retirees and transplants trickling out of the Kiawah and Hilton Head resorts in search of some little slice of small-town southern living. When she reads in the paper about the plans for the new Sally Swine shopping center with a Starbucks on the far side of town, she suspects that the come-yuhs are migrating her way, and she wonders what their kind will do to Jasper and the quiet way of life she has come to cherish.

Nonetheless, she and the gals must gear up for the good work the upstanding ladies of their community have been performing for many generations now—that is, to ensure that the daughters of Jasper are married in the proper manner.

~ APRIL 15, 1995 ~

“Weddings are of the utmost importance,” Roberta said that day in the Jasper Nursing Home.

She had made it clear that Ray should take the helm of the Wedding Guild because it would not be long before the next generation would be tying the knot. The elderly woman had pulled out all of her files of wedding instructions—from determining the guest list and the way the invitation should read, to the gift arranging for the Tea and See and the acceptable combination of flowers for the church. She had compiled pages and pages of notes and photographs from the weddings she had coordinated, and she drew arrows that pointed out the small but meaningful details, such as the magnolia leaves in the fireplaces in the spring and summer or the corsages for the hostesses and the bridal party to wear at the Tea and See and the bridesmaids' luncheon. She had a photo of a silver monogrammed tussy mussy with a lovely arrangement of ribbons from the bridal shower for the bride to hold at the church rehearsal, and she had samples of traditional handwritten envelopes that should be referred to when addressing the invitations.

As Ray thumbed through the files, she was overwhelmed with Roberta's trust in handing this honorable charge down to her.

Roberta lifted her arm and made a fist so that the pearl bracelet on her wrist slid down to the edge of her lacy nightgown sleeve and continued, “You've already played a significant role in the rites of passage for the younger generation of Jasper ladies, from their christenings to their confirmations to their cotillions and their debutante seasons.”

Ray nodded and blushed at Roberta's recognition of her leadership on these occasions. “But the wedding is the final and most crucial part of their crossing the threshold into adult society, and it is up to you to carry on the tradition of honoring the young ladies of Jasper in the proper manner.”

The old lady turned to look out at the hummingbird feeder that Ray had helped Kitty B. hang outside the nursing home window. “Don't be tempted by this calligraphy fad. It's simply not how it should be done.”

“Oh, I know.” Ray nodded emphatically. “I much prefer the hand-addressed invitations in traditional cursive.”

“And I'll roll over in my grave if you all ever type the invitations or use those awful labels that folks with computers are using these days!”

“Roberta,” Ray said, “you know I would never let that happen.”

“And return cards,” Roberta said. “
No
return cards. One ought to know that one must respond on their personal stationery when receiving an invitation to a wedding.”

“I couldn't agree more.” Ray patted her mentor's arm.

“If you cave in, Ray,” Roberta said, “if you go to return cards and provide these sorts of shortcuts, the other traditions that we've upheld for so long will eventually fade away.”

“That won't happen on my watch,” Ray said as she took Roberta's liver-spotted fist in her hand and rubbed her thumb gently across it. “It is an honor, Roberta, and you can trust me with this charge.”

“I don't doubt it, child,” Roberta said with that knowing glint in her weary eyes. “I know you understand the value of it.”

“Careful!” Ray says as Willy and Justin lug their rifle cases through the dining room. The tip of Justin's case grazes a Blue Canton vase and a hideous red crystal decanter from that Texas come-yuh, Vangie Dreggs, which must have cost a small fortune.

“Please watch yourselves, boys!” Ray clutches her cheeks while the glass display shelves shudder between their brass hinges. Three silver trays rattle back and forth, and a green Herund hare figurine crouched as if in a thicket falls over on its nose.

“Think
Jeannie
lives in there, Aunt Ray?” Justin points to the decanter with a grin. Her fifteen-year-old nephew was described as s-l-o-w by the William Bull High guidance counselor before she sent him to the special needs school in Charleston. The look on his round face is so droll that she wants to kiss his forehead and rock him back and forth in her arms.

“Even Jeannie wouldn't be caught dead in that eyesore.” Ray gently pats his shoulders from behind and guides him toward the kitchen door.

August 15 is the first day of deer hunting season in South Carolina, and it couldn't have come at a better time. Everything is set up for tomorrow's tea, and the longer Ray can keep the boys out of the house, the better.

“This is a big day, darlin'!” Willy beams at Ray while dancing toward the kitchen with the oblong case cocked on his shoulder. She watches her husband inching his way through the minefield of crystal and china.

Willy's a state senator just like his daddy was, although he doesn't look a thing like Ray thinks a state senator should look. He's stout with a stubby bald head and rough, nubby hands that look like they were made to pull watermelons off the vines instead of flipping through papers at the State House in Columbia. He's like family to most folks around Jasper, so everyone from the mayor to their housekeeper calls him Cousin Willy.

“How was the doctor, love?” Willy says.

“Awful.” Ray rolls her eyes. “She's got me taking herbs, of all things. I'm going back to Angus as soon as I get the nerve to tell Hilda.”

Cousin Willy squeezes Justin's shoulder and says, “What's the rule, son?”

“Just shoot bucks,” Justin leans in to Ray. “Those are the ones with bones on their heads.”

“Racks,” Cousin Willy says.

Ray nods, though her mind reels with wedding concerns. She's got to pack her car with the birdseed and tulle for the meeting at Kitty B.'s. She hasn't had a chance to talk to Angus, either—to let him know he and his girlfriend can't sit on the same pew as Hilda, or she will simply lose it. She ought to double-check the forecast to make sure Eleanor doesn't have her eye on Jasper.

“The first deer rack of the season gets stuffed, right?” Justin says.

“That's right, son,” Willy winks. “I've got a place picked out right over my desk for that buck's head.”

“You mean right over
my
bed,” Justin says, pushing Willy's forearm with his fist. Ray looks at them both and says, “Don't forget
my
rule, hear?”

Last year Willy and Justin had stopped by the house for a Co-Cola on their way from the deer hunt to the meat processor, and Ray pulled up from the grocery store to find a fat doe strapped to the top of the truck dripping blood through its open mouth onto her newly constructed slate driveway.

As she stopped beside the truck to examine the mess, she looked up and spotted a buzzard out of the corner of her eye circling her home. She knew it was nature's way, but she loathed the filthy creatures. They continually mar the pristine skyline with their large black wings and glossy eyes, scanning the salt marsh and the woods and roadside in search of the wounded and the dead.

“Ray,” Cousin Willy called out to her. He was running toward her as the edges of her vision became fuzzy and her knees began to buckle. She let her groceries fall—eggs and all—and grabbed hold of the big metal mirror on the side of his truck as she fainted. He'd caught her and carried her into the house, where he laid her down on the couch, wet a cool dish rag, and rolled it up before placing it on her pale forehead.

“I do not want to see the poor creature until he's vacuum-sealed in loins and sausage links and neatly stacked in the freezer in the garage,” Ray says to them both, looking back and forth into their eyes.

“Fair enough. We don't want you fainting again, sweet lady.” Willy kisses her right on the lips before she has a chance to pucker.

Tuxedo, their black Labrador retriever, paces back and forth. He's seen the gun cases and knows that this means a trip to the country, where he'll chase rabbits and field mice around the cabin as the men file out into their stands.

As Justin calls Tuxedo into the flatbed, Cousin Willy adds, “Give my regards to the gals and LeMar.”

“I will,” Ray says to the back of his thick, round head.

In his camouflage and mud brown, knee-high snake boots, it seems for sure that her worst suspicions are confirmed: she married a redneck who just happened to be born into an old and well-regarded Jasper family. Or maybe he was switched at the hospital.

Ray can't understand how the men can sit in those stands for hours at a time in this sauna while the no-see-ums nibble on their scalp and the mosquitoes suck their blood. Not to mention the chiggers and ticks that are always rooting for a way in.

“Willy,” Ray says, scurrying out to the back porch, the humid August heat hitting her square on with its weight. “Are you worried about this storm?”

“Heck no, Ray.” He turns back to her. “They're already predicting Myrtle Beach, and I'd be surprised if we saw a drop of rain from it.”

“One more thing,” she says, grabbing the banister to steady herself in the thick heat. “If you see Angus, will you tell him that we're going to seat him and his girlfriend or fiancée or whatever she is on the pew
behind
his former wife for his daughter's wedding?”

Cousin Willy swats Ray away. “Now you know it's a cardinal sin to talk about weddings among men at a deer hunt, gal.”

“Do I have to handle everything?” She lets the screen door slam behind her as she retreats back into the cool air-conditioning, heading back to the dining room to make sure all of the gifts are intact. Despite the knot in her stomach that precedes every social function she hosts, she takes comfort in knowing her dining room is the picture of southern elegance. She loves how her mother-in-law's crystal chandelier dangles just above the silver cherub candelabra that once graced Mrs. Pringle's dining room on the Battery in Charleston where Ray grew up. When Mrs. Pringle was sleeping or playing bridge with her friends in the parlor, Ray used to run her finger along the fat rolls on the legs of the baby angel who held up the four candleholder. Her distorted reflection stared back at her from the glint of the silver bowl as her mother stood behind her polishing the chafing dish with one of Mr. Pringle's old undershirts and saying, “Pretty, isn't it?”

Tonight Ray will tape the drenched oasis inside of the silver bowl that sits on the top of the candelabra and fill it with the pale green hydrangeas, pink English garden roses, lilies of the valley, and extravagant lavender sweet peas that R.L., the local florist/antique dealer, delivered a few hours ago. The flowers are all soaking in their respective sugar water jugs in her kitchen—out of the direct sunlight, of course—as is the oasis which she'll mold into every bowl and vase in the house with a similar arrangement. She's even going to make an arrangement in a flat sweetgrass basket to hang on the front door and a round little pomander of pale green hydrangea with a sheer white ribbon for Little Hilda to hold as she greets the guests in the foyer.

Ray is tempted to snip the last blossoms of gardenias growing secretly behind Cousin Willy's shed. In her estimation they are the quintessential wedding flower, with their intoxicating fragrance and their delicate cream petals surrounded by those dark, waxy leaves. She bought the seedlings when R.L. and the gals weren't looking at the Southern Gardener's Convention in Atlanta four years ago, and no one has any idea she's been growing them. Sometimes she worries that the fragrance will give her away, but they bloom the same time as the confederate jasmine, which grows along the lattice work of the shed, and she can always blame the thick smell on them. It would take a truly trained nose to pick the gardenias out, and Ray possesses the trained nose of the bunch.