Jeff liked Judy Smallwood just fine. If he hadn’t got to know Edith first, he might have liked her sister better. Since Judy was going back to Alexandria right after the wedding, though, that wasn’t likely to prove a problem. “You look mighty nice,” he told her, and she did. Her dress was of glowing blue taffeta with short puffed sleeves that set off her figure and her fair skin, dark blond hair, and blue eyes.
By the way those eyes traveled him, she thought he cut a pretty fine figure himself in his fancy uniform. She said, “Kind of a shame you haven’t got anybody coming out from Alabama for the day.”
“My ma and pa been dead for years,” Jeff answered with a shrug. “Don’t have any brothers or sisters. My cousins…” He shrugged again. “I don’t recollect the last time I talked to one of them. They heard from me now, they’d just reckon I was aiming to pry a wedding present out of ’em.”
“Well, if it’s like that, you shouldn’t,” Judy said. “It’s too bad, though.”
“Have I got time for a cigarette before we get going?” Jeff wondered. He’d just pulled the pack out of his pocket when the minister emerged from the office. Jeff made the cigarettes disappear again. A smoke would have calmed his nerves, but he could do without. Anyhow, the only real cure for prewedding jitters was about four stiff drinks, and that would make people talk. He touched the brim of his hat. “Howdy, Parson.”
“Mr. Pinkard,” the Reverend Luke Sutton said, bobbing his bald head in return. He sent Hip Rodriguez a slightly fishy stare. Rodriguez showed no sign of sprouting horns on his forehead or letting a barbed tail slither out past his trouser cuffs, so the minister looked away and started down the aisle.
Mrs. Sutton struck up the wedding march on a beat-up old upright piano against one wall. Some Baptist churches didn’t approve of music at all; Jeff was glad the Suttons weren’t quite so strict. As they’d rehearsed, he listened to her play it through once. Then he headed down the aisle himself. His best man followed.
Uniforms filled the folding chairs on one side. The other held Edith’s relatives: ordinary-looking men and women in black suits and in dresses of a variety of colors and styles-some of them must have dated from just after the Great War, and they ran up to the present.
Edith’s sons by Chick Blades were the ring bearers. Small, smothered chuckles rose as people got a look at the young boys. Jeff had to work to keep his own face straight. Edith had told him she would make sure Frank and Willie didn’t have silly grins on their faces when they came down the aisle. She’d put the fear of God in them, all right, better than Reverend Sutton could have dreamt of doing. They looked serious past the point of solemnity-all the way to absurdity, in fact.
Edith’s sister came next. She was grinning, but on her it looked good. And Edith herself followed a moment later. Her dress was identical in cut to Judy’s, but of a taffeta somewhere between cream and beige: this wasn’t her first marriage, so white wouldn’t have been right. She’d had to do some searching to find a veil that matched, but she’d managed.
She stood beside Jeff. They faced the minister. He went through a wedding sermon he’d probably delivered a hundred times before. It wasn’t fresh. It wasn’t exciting. It wasn’t even very interesting. Pinkard didn’t care. It was official-that was all that mattered. Before too long, Sutton got down to business. They exchanged rings, taking them from the velvet pillows Edith’s sons carried. “Do you, Jefferson Davis Pinkard, take this woman as your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse, till death do you part?”
“I do,” Jeff said.
Edith’s vows were the same, except there was a to obey in them somewhere. Jeff hardly noticed it, and suspected Edith would hardly notice it, either. Her chin went up in pride as she also said, “I do.”
“Then by the authority vested in me by the Confederate Baptist Convention and by the sovereign state of Texas, I now pronounce you man and wife,” Luke Sutton declared. “You may kiss the bride.”
Jeff lifted Edith’s veil to do just that. He made the kiss thorough without, he hoped, making a spectacle of himself. Edith stayed relaxed in his arms, so he didn’t think he overdid it.
The wedding march rang out again as the new couple and their attendants went up the aisle to the back of the church. Everybody else filed by to congratulate them. “Well, what do you think?” Jeff asked Hip Rodriguez after the last guards and cousins of Edith’s slowly shuffled past.
“Very nice, Senor Jeff,” Rodriguez answered, but he couldn’t help adding, “I miss the priest’s fancy robes and the incense and the Latin. This way, it hardly seems like you are in an iglesia-a church.”
“Oh, it’s a church, all right,” Jeff said. He had seen priests in rich robes down in the Empire of Mexico. He hadn’t seen a service there, though. It didn’t seem as if those prelates and somebody like Reverend Sutton were talking about the same God.
The church boasted a little social hall next to the sanctuary. The reception was there. The punch and cider were teetotal; Reverend Sutton wouldn’t have it any other way. Warned of this, Jeff had got the intelligence to the guards. A lot of them carried flasks with which to improve the liquid refreshment. They stayed reasonably discreet, and the minister stayed reasonably polite.
One of the guards made models for a hobby. Working with a tiny brush, he’d changed the clothes of the groom atop the wedding cake from white tie and tails to dress-gray uniform. The figure was still too slim to make a good image of Jeff Pinkard, but it looked a lot more like him than it had before. Edith stuffed gooey chocolate cake into his mouth, and he did the same for her.
He wasn’t sorry not to dance on church property. He’d never been much for cutting a rug. At about ten o’clock, he and Edith went out to the Birmingham. People cheered and yelled bawdy advice and pelted them with rice. The driver took them back to Jeff’s quarters. Edith squeaked when he picked her up to carry her over the threshold. Then, as he set her down, he said, “What’s this?”
This was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice by the bed. A card in an envelope leaned against the bucket. When Jeff opened the envelope and took out the card, his eyes almost bugged out of his head. Hope the two of you stay real happy together, it read in a looping scrawl surely written by no secretary. The signature was in that same rough hand: Jake Featherston.
“Oh,” Edith said, reading it with him. “Oh, Jeff.”
“Yeah,” Jeff said. “That’s… somethin’, all right.” He picked up the champagne bottle. “Reckon the least we can do is drink some o’ this before…” He stopped. Edith turned pink anyhow. He laughed. Wedding nights were for laughing, weren’t they?
Champagne went down smoother than spiked punch had. Edith got pinker yet, not from embarrassment but from the sparkling wine. Jeff picked her up again. He was a big man, and she wasn’t a very large woman. This time, he set her down on the bed.
She was no giggling maiden. She knew what was what, the same as Jeff did. That made it better, as far as he was concerned. When it was over, he stroked her, lazy in the afterglow. “Hello there, wife,” he said.
“Hello… husband,” Edith said, and started to cry. “I love you, Jeff.” Even though she said it, even though he was sure she meant it, he knew she was remembering Chick, too. He didn’t know what the hell he could do about it. Doing nothing seemed the smartest thing, so he did that.
Chester Martin’s leg still didn’t feel like carrying him around. Like it or not, though, the leg could do the job. The Army let wounded men heal, but only as long as it absolutely had to. Then it threw them back into the meat grinder to see if they could get chopped up again.