For centuries, people have tried to predict the future. They ask you to pick a card, stick out your palm or give them your drained cup of tea. Sometimes they foretell with numbers, stars and even chicken entrails. There’s not much call for onychmancy these days, since reading the future from the reflections in a virgin’s oiled fingernails is often a thankless task. Most women these days hide their reflections under glued nails.
Scientists tell us that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. Looking back, that makes the most sense to me. So, when W.S.’s cousin, Irving decided that a fourth wedding would be a good idea, my reaction was, “I’m not buying a new dress!”
Roxie’s family was from West Texas, but the wedding was to be held in a little town in Minnesota, spitting distance from the Canadian border. It was a lovely place, frozen in time---especially in winter--- so naturally the wedding was scheduled for December. We arrived a day before the wedding, since W.S.’s aunt, the three-time-mother-in-law, was throwing a catered prenuptial dinner at the only hotel in town in honor of yet another daughter-in-law. She had begged us to attend, claiming that W.S., her favorite nephew, was the only person who could keep her from having a mental meltdown.
There were fifteen invited out-of-town guests. Everything was progressing as planned. After a reasonable time for cocktails and chitchat about the predicted snowstorm, we sat down and the waiters began to serve the meal. A harpist was plucking, The Simple Joys of Maidenhood in the corner of the room. Everyone was feeling mellow when suddenly with lots of shouting, swearing and shrieking, a mob of thirty unruly Texans burst into the room hooting and hollering, “We’re here. Where’s the grub?”
The groom’s mother paled and asked, “Who are these people?” Whereupon Roxie waved a chicken leg and said, “Oh, these are the cousins from down yonder. Did I forget to tell you they were coming?” “Yes,” said Irving’s mother. “And, I am afraid they are going to have to eat elsewhere.” “No problem, Mam,” said one of the yahoos grabbing a basket of rolls and dumping it into his hat. “We’ll just sit in the other room and you can send us some leftovers.” Irving’s mother sent a platter of sandwiches with the stipulation that the cousins stay on the other side of the wall for the rest of the evening.
There was only one hotel in town, so that’s where everyone stayed. I’m not sure where the Texas folks bunked, but I think it was in their rented bus. The morning of the wedding, we received a frantic call from the groom. “I forgot the license,” he moaned. “It’s Sunday,” said W.S. “Isn’t the courthouse closed?” “Yes,” said Irving, “but Roxie’s first husband was a judge. He pulled some strings, and they are opening the place for us in an hour.” “That was nice of him,” said W.S. “What nice?” said Irving. “When she marries me, he doesn’t have to pay alimony anymore. Can you drive us there in case we need a witness?”
W.S. agreed to accompany the happy couple. I ordered lunch and planned to stay in the room, read a good mystery and hide out until the late afternoon wedding. No such luck. No sooner had I opened my book than the phone rang again. It was Roxie. “I forgot to pick up the cake. We are waiting for the guy to open the courthouse and the bakery closes at two o’clock. Can you go pick it up?” (To be continued----)
Esther Blumenfeld,
CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2003