I hunker down and prepare for unbridled droning. At least the Jackhammer mob wedding crashers offered some fresh “optics” to the rehearsal and commanded a lot of buzz at the rehearsal dinner, to which I was not invited, much to my relief.
Once Eduardo released me while he did most of the work: opening the ring box and passing up the rings, he lifted me up for photo and filming ops. I held my head extra high for a full view of the white formal bow-tie and so no regrettable double chins should show. I gazed serenely on my subjects. I accepted Miss Temple’s cheek-to-cheek pose with Mr. Matt hovering above.
I did not break a sweat. This was the matter of a minute or two and earned a bit of applause among the congregation, which Father Hernandez frowned upon.
At last I am forgotten and returned to my cat cave at Best Man Frank Bucek’s feet, where I hear the vows, etcetera, while thoroughly grooming my face, mitts, chest hairs and everything else I can reach that has been ruffled by the formalities. I am longing for free rein.
So has the audience, evidently…I mean congregation, I guess. Suddenly, they have been liberated.
Everyone penned into the pews stands and crowds to the aisle to take pictures. Flashes twinkle in the interior twilight. Most people hold their cell phones at arm’s length, but I recognize some expensive cameras and camcorders. A hired professional photographer darts like a madwoman on the fringes.
I finally see my Miss Temple’s precious train as she marches out on Mr. Matt’s arm to the organ and a rousing solo by Miss Carmen. Why is it called a “train” rather than a “tail”? That is so misleading. I envisioned something like a clacking chain of those cans one sees tied behind honeymooners’ getaway cars.
No. This train is a sumptuous graceful plume of gleaming white silk, much like the terminal member of my lost love, the Divine Yvette. I knew my Miss Temple would have been a dainty purebred shaded-silver Persian, had she been fortunate enough to be born a cat.
I am lost in reminiscence, regret, and admiration. I am so fixated, I notice when Mr. Matt hesitates and whispers to my Miss Temple who looks at a side aisle.
In that moment, I remember that “some little thing” I spotted in the back pews as I was carried in, that I was not free to investigate…until now.
A bright flash from that very location has my hackles bristling. The bridal party members at the altar are moving into the aisle to follow the couple, so I lose sight of my erstwhile roommate’s divine new tail anyway. I dig my pitons into crimson carpet and rocket out ahead of the procession. Flashes triple in number as people ooh and aah and laugh and blink at my rushing to the head of the queue. It is a long, long way. I am a rocket cat…
I dive into a pew, all sixteen shivs and four dew-claw scythes out and into the body crouching there.
“YEEEOWWW!”
That is not my battle cry, it is what my prey hollers. Something springs up into full view…and the immediate custody of a deuce of Fontana brothers that appears as if beamed there by the Starship Enterprise just as the wedded couple march up.
“Crawford Buchanan,” my outraged Miss Temple IDs the lurker. “You crashed my wedding. I knew you were low, but I did not know you were that low.”
Between two Fontana boys, Crawfish Pukecannon, looks punier than ever, and he is now wearing his graying hair in that trendy Asian topknot you see on men appearing on TV martial arts and celebrity dance TV shows. The ubiquitous man bun! I hope Mr. Matt will not have to affect such a hairdo on his new talk show!
My hair is always impeccably clean and buzz-cut and timelessly elegant in the manner of black velveteen.
My Miss Temple’s new Mister glowers down at the guy. “So you are the rival PR guy. I have heard plenty about the dirty tricks you played on my wife. You are leaving here now, quietly, without any recording device on your person.”
Meanwhile, the organist has amped up the music to cover the conversation. Mr. Matt nods at the brothers and swoops his bride back into a graceful departing pace, everyone following.
I remain to enjoy the sight of the brothers turning Crawford upside down and shaking until his wallet, cell phone, car keys, nail clipper, mascara wand, allergy inhaler…mascara? Duh. Well, he is noted for his deep radio-deejay voice and long silky Daddy Longlegs eyelashes.
A third Fontana brother bends to sweep his belongings into a shallow woven collection basket. The three Fontana brothers hustle Buchanan out, discreetly, to the parking lot.
I am not about to make a scene at my roommate’s wedding—any more, that is—and amble unnoted outside to the church steps.
I am just in time to weave my way to the first row of assembled ankles and find everyone looking up.
The wedded couple pause and do likewise to see what I see…two matched white doves spiraling up and up over the gaping crowd.
Oh, sure, they look graceful and lovely-dovey, all right, but I would not gaze upward without my mouth shut. Birds do manufacture something called “droppings”. I have heard these ceremonial birds are really white carrier pigeons and that makes sense, because they fly away home to shock and awe another day. But pigeons are the most notorious droppers of all.
Several more white birds of bridal paradise join the first pair, to a concerted aaaah, their fluttering wings producing the sound of paper caught in a fan. Me, I would only drop my jaw in this instance to make a heroic leap at dinner.
It is not lost on me that this display may be a last good wish from Mr. Max Kinsella.
As I am musing on the quaint ways of humans when it comes to winning and losing the mating game, I sense a sudden impending doom.
A fourth Fontana brother out of nowhere bends down from behind to sweep me into the open maw of the zebra-striped carrier.
So with a parting hiss at the vanished Crawford Buchanan, I gently go into that dark night. I am sure such a prominent member of the wedding as the Ring Bearer will be feted at the Crystal Phoenix reception.
27
Lofty Endings
The church was empty and silent. The choir loft organ was silenced. The organist en route to the reception. Only one person lingered in front of the huge organ, brushing the keys as if debating playing.
“You can come out now,” the hesitant organist said. The sing-song tone used in kiddie games of Hide and Seek sounded come-hither in Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s rich contralto voice.
Max swept a red velvet curtain aside as if tossing off a cloak and let it fall back behind him.
“All in black,” Molina observed. “For a funeral, not a wedding? You look like a cat burglar matador. I’ve been wondering whether you’re the ‘something old’ or ‘something blue’ for our recent bride.”
“I’m not singing the blues like you do, believe me.”
“I seldom do believe you.”
She, meanwhile, finished hiking up her long crimson velvet skirt to pull a compact pistol from her ankle holster, clasped above a forties-style magenta platform sandal.
Max owed his shoe sense to living with Temple, so he felt like he was eyeing the cover of a dime pulp detective novel, except the gun was a sleek modern Walther.