Trying the Knot (10 page)

“No. Do you?”

“Who would come all the way up here for a
hillbilly wedding? Did you ask that girl you were so wrapped up
with last year?”

“No. Because it’s this year, and she’s
wrapped up with someone else.”

“If you loved her, you wouldn’t let anything
stop you.” She took a sip of her vodka and flipped through the
overflowing Rolodex. “Cowardice isn’t sexy, Thaddeus.”

“Who says I’m still carrying a torch?” Thad
said defensively. “It was probably first-lust syndrome.”

“You could’ve at least asked her. Just look
at you, you’re a Petrarchan mess,” Chelsea said, and he rolled his
eyes.

“Stop pestering me,” Thad pleaded as he
glanced at his watch.

“You have to tell Kate. She has a right to
know, that’s all there is to it,” she paused and added, “This whole
melodramatic scenario bores me.”

“Why?”

“Because their story doesn’t speak to me.
Does that make any sense?”

Thad mumbled from behind his cigarette, “It
sounds vaguely pretentious. Who does speak to you?”

Chelsea thought for a minute and said,
“Vange.”

“Vadge? I knew it.”

“Make me barf. Gross. Evangelica speaks to
me, that’s who.”

Thad ashed on the floor and said, “Well,
let’s hope it’s not from the grave.”

chapter six

Inside the split-level home in the cul-de-sac
on the outskirts of town, time had come to a standstill during the
mid-1970s. Portnorth’s one lame attempt at a suburb amounted to a
dead end street near the small airport two miles from downtown.

A picture of Gerald Ford hung on the paneled
living room wall alongside a family portrait, in which the Dooley’s
wore embroidered bell-bottoms and matching jackets. Texan tuxedos,
as Evangelica referred to their denim outfits. The house was
decorated with every macramé, ceramic, and latch-hook creation born
to a less than civilized world. Owls, mushrooms and frogs were the
general motif. These had been Mrs. Dooley’s hobbies before hitting
the road with her painted Mrs. Butterworth bottles and intricate
stained glass designs. After becoming a widow, she traded in her
all-American housewifery crafting pastimes for a booth in the
nomadic flea market circuit.

It was forever dusk in the depressing
colonial home. The wall-to-wall carpeting was an ankle-deep, burnt
umber shag to match the fake brick walls. The avocado curtained
windows barely let in any light, and every room felt ominously
unwelcoming. But Benjamin had lived in this house for most his
life, and he thought nothing of the dark, cavernous atmosphere.

He returned home early that the afternoon
expecting to waste a few peaceful hours in solitude before the
wedding rehearsal and dinner. Blaring music assaulted his eardrums
as he parked his motorcycle on the cracked driveway leading to the
dungeon. Squirrel carcasses littered the front yard.

He found Jack Hesse relaxing on the living
room floor. The television was tuned to VH1 while the stereo blared
loudly. Ben snapped on several lamps and stepped over a rather
large box containing palms. Jack fanned some palms in one hand
while cradling a sawed off pellet gun in the other. The plastic
handle was wrapped in duct-tape, and Ben correctly assumed it was
the weapon responsible for the lethal slaughter of squirrels, or
tree rats as Jack called them.

Jack, with his mopey good looks, sported his
blond locks in tangles, and it appeared he had stolen his outfit
from Ben’s closet. Wearing boots, ratty jeans, a tattered thermal
shirt, and a faded flannel tied around his waist, he was Grunge
personified.

Since Ben’s older brother went off to
university to become an engineer and his younger sister joined the
Peace Corps, the home was his alone – except for the two stray
juvenile delinquents who wandered in and out. Jack had a key, and
Alexa knew how to break in. The Dooley siblings were lucky if they
came together on Christmas to unwrap their mother’s flea market
treasures. Last year, Jack even had a couple trinkets under the
tree.

Ben’s younger sister’s face was less a war
zone of Asian and Irish features, and his brother was taller and
more muscular. Not only was Ben the least successful and least
attractive of his siblings, but he also most resembled his mother
who was whisked to Portnorth to start a new life from war-torn
Hanoi.

Ben’s father became a rabid anti-Catholic
when the local church refused to consecrate his marriage to a
Buddhist. On his deathbed, Mr. Dooley requested the presence of a
priest, and he spat on him before pleading for the Last Rights. Ben
thought it odd his father should become a Lutheran because they
were merely Catholics without nuns or saints, Protestants with a
catholic chip on their shoulder. Ben surmised his father’s motives
lay in the latent loathing the two sects felt for one another in
the largely Polish and German community.

The elder Dooley worked every menial job the
town had to offer until he landed the position of head janitor at
the local hospital. He sat around delegating work until his lungs
and liver surrendered their functions due to years of excessive
maltreatment from booze and tobacco. Ben’s parents lived a fairly
contented life together, and his attentive mother treated her
savior well. Although inflicted with perpetual unemployment and
raving DTs, the Vietnam Veteran worshipped his wife. In return, she
allowed him to parade her around town like a living doll. After her
husband’s death, Mrs. Dooley made extensive travel plans to escape
the condescending small town that treated her with standoffish
reservation. She observed of the townsfolk, “Forget fitting in, you
can’t even come to a rolling stop without a comment.”

Benjamin overcompensated for his obvious
physical difference by acting more like a full-fledged redneck than
the natives. In his work boots and Carhartt jacket, he was a
walking parody of those who called him a Gook, Chink or Jap. Back
in high school, however, he refused to pander to the locals’
ignorance. Back then he only wore Polo and other designer brands
such as Tommy Hilfiger, and he was categorized as an uppity preppy.
In the past, Ben had preferred to think his innate superiority
transcended the narrow rigidity of Portnorth, but in the ensuing
years since returning to town with his associates degree he
resigned himself to an if-you-can’t-beat-‘em-then-join-‘em
mentality.

Picking up one of the strange looking fronds
littering the floor, Ben pretended it was a light saber. He was so
obsessed with the Star Wars Trilogy his action figures were
displayed strategically around the living room. “What is this
music, Gangsta Rap?”

Jack picked up a palm and drummed it to the
hip-hop beats, “Sorry, Boba Fett, it’s not the New Wave crap you
listen to – it’s NWA, you dig?”

Ben turned off VH1’s Pop Up Videos, and
tossed his leather coat to the side, and Jack suddenly leapt to his
feet and charged at him. “Hey, that’s Alexa’s shirt!”

“Oh, I thought it was yours.”

Jack yanked at the tiny disembodied Polo
horse, and he barked, “It was a Christmas gift from my sister, and
I gave it to Alexa. You cut up her shirt, jerk.”

“Sorry, guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

Jack resumed his cross-legged position on the
floor. Eating from a can of ravioli, he said with his mouth full,
“You’re such a fart knocker.”

“Chill, man, it’s only a shirt.”

“Dude, she’ll kill you.”

“If it’ll make you happy, I’ll buy her a new
one, a Ralph-freaking-Lauren Polo,” Ben said. “I’ve been called an
asshole once today. I don’t need to hear it again from some
derelict kid.”

Ben made a fist and gave his occasional
houseguest a quick punch. Jack’s fat upper lip disappeared, and his
eyes became two slits forewarning Ben to dart out of the way.
Instead, he unwisely gave Jack another affectionate whack.

Jack swiftly knocked the back of his hand
against Ben’s testicles. Doubled over, Ben found himself in a
headlock. Struggling to free himself, Ben realized there was no
escape while Jack deliberately and teasingly released the tension
of his grip. At that moment, Alexa appeared at the sliding glass
doors and let herself in per usual. She towered above them on
roller blades.

“Slack-jawed faggots,” she yelled, wheeling
wildly around the room.

Jack wrapped one arm around Ben’s stomach,
and he lifted him up off the floor, so his butt neared Alexa’s
chin. Straining to keep his stronghold around his victim, Jack
encouraged, “Hurry up and give him a wedgy.”

With her hand down his pants, Alexa
announced, “Oh nasty, free baller is not wearing any
underwear.”

Ben farted loudly, and he was instantly
dropped on his head. Alexa hurled a fist full of palms at him and
cracked open the window from where Jack shot squirrels. Calling Ben
various obscenities, she flopped down on an overstuffed chair and
removed her helmet.

“Hey, why aren’t you in school?” Ben asked.
“Just because Jack-off is a dropout doesn’t mean you can cut
school.”

“I don’t recall your giving birth to me,” she
said, shaking her dark hair loose from the helmet. “Go mother
someone else.”

“Don’t have a cow, dude, school doesn’t even
start until after Labor Day,” Jack reminded, and he passed a palm
to Alexa.

“What the hell are these things?” Ben asked,
picking up a handful of the leaves.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Ben’s face flushed with anger. “You mean,
you’re the ones who stole the Palm Sunday palms from the church?
You’re both going straight to hell. Do you hear? Don’t pass go, and
don’t collect two hundred dollars.”

Alexa crammed stale Cheez-Its into her mouth.
“But I thought you were an atheist.”

“One year without ‘em ain’t going to hurt,”
Jack said.

“Their absence just reinforces their
importance,” Alexa said as if she had thought long and hard about
it. She ignited one of the palms with a Zippo lighter.

“What were you thinking?” Ben asked. “Who all
knows about this?”

“Vange knows,” Jack said, and he quickly
corrected himself, “or rather, she did know the day we ganked
them.”

Unnerved by the past tense reference to
Evangelica, Ben asked, “How’d you pull it off?”

“Al went to confession,” Jack explained, “and
I snuck in the back of the church and kifed the whole box.”

“All two-thousand palms,” Alexa bragged.

“Vange knows about this? I can’t believe it,
we’re all going burn in hell,” Ben marveled. Paranoid, he yanked
the curtains closed. “My God, they’re laying right here out in the
open for the entire world to see.”

“Oh, lighten up,” Alexa said. “It’s no worse
than your weed laying all over the house.”

Ignoring her, Ben began collecting the
scattered palms. He asked, “Jack, you hear anything new about
Vange, from your dad or Shayla?”

“They’re at the bar,” Jack said. “I ain’t
heard anything from anybody.” He looked tough and unconcerned, too
precocious for his own good.

“Think she’ll die?”

Shuffling palms into a pile with his feet,
Ben said, “We’ll have to wait and see.”

“At least the wedding tape is already made,”
Alexa said. Usually she accompanied Vange on piano for various
wedding gigs.

“Who’ll wear her bridesmaid’s dress?” Jack
asked.

Alexa snorted with disgust. “Not me, I’d
rather hammer my head into a nail.”

Ben searched a crate full of cassettes until
he found the wedding tape, which he slipped into his coat pocket.
Evangelica and Alexa often collaborated for weddings as a way to
make extra money, and they had spent weeks perfecting the
soundtrack to Kate’s wedding. Kate let them pick out the music, a
responsibility they did not take lightly. However while they
practiced, Vange pretended she was Tina Turner and Alexa was Ike,
and she’d goad Alexa into roughing her up for kicks.

Checking the sunburst clock, Ben informed the
thieves he was confiscating the entire stash of palms to dispose of
them properly. He considered it foolish to leave contraband strewn
about the house because it might be stumbled on by any number of
Samaritan neighbors who kept a steady flow of casseroles flowing
past his grateful palate.

“Only if you give us some pot,” Alexa said,
hoping to reach a compromise. “Fair is fair.”

Ben retreated to his bedroom and emerged with
a plastic baggy that he threw at Jack, who demanded, “More!”

“You’ll have to wait until tonight.”

“This is a gyp,” Jack protested.

“He’s good for it,” Alexa said with
resignation. “His girlfriend has a hook up.”

“Who is she this week?” Jack asked. “Chelsea
Norris? She’s the hottest girl in this town.”

“More like her mother,” Alexa corrected, and
she swiped the marijuana from his trembling hand. “Quit sniffing it
as if you’re going to inhale it, you high-on loser who can’t even
complete the twelfth grade.”

With the box of stolen palms strapped to his
bike, Ben drove mindlessly around ‘the loop,’ from one end of Main
Street to the next connected by the highway. He traveled this route
often, especially when he felt restless or was in a bad mood. When
it was too hot to sleep, Evangelica accompanied him in the middle
of the night. Together they would coast down the highway stretching
out alongside Lake Huron.

Evangelica and Ben usually endured this
circle of monotony until becoming slaphappy with boredom. Once
feeling certifiable, they returned to his place to listen to the
old Johnny Cash records his mother left behind when she ran off to
join the flea market circuit. Although Mrs. Dooley still only spoke
broken English, she loved Johnny Cash. In her mind, Cash was
America itself.

Ben and Evangelica sometimes had sex
listening to those old records, but it was not mandatory. He wished
she were on the back of his bike now, clutching onto him whispering
weird obscenities about the people they left in their dust. She
claimed to have an orgasm this way, talking dirty while his crotch
rocket rattled and pulsated between her legs.