"Okay," Archer agreed.
About ten minutes later Llona appeared at the head of the stairs in her traveling dress. She tossed her wedding bouquet to the bridesmaids and then descended, taking George's arm as he came halfway up the staircase to meet her. They entered the living room and cut the wedding cake. She was still standing there, holding George's arm and accepting congratulations, when, a while later, she spied Archer drifting into the room.
The men were lining up to kiss the bride. Archer took his place at the end of the line. Llona's knees grew weak as she watched him come closer. And then he was in front of her, bending over, his lips approaching hers.
It was a long kiss…
"Hey!" George laughed good-naturedly. "Let's don't get carried away."
He was ignored.
"Hey!" He tapped Archer on the shoulder. "That's my bride you've got there."
Archer seemed not to notice.
"Hey!" There was ever so slight an edge to George's voice. "That's enough, fella!"
Finally Archer broke the kiss.
"Hey, just who are you, anyway?" George wanted to know. "I don't recognize you."
"I'm from the bride's side of the family," Archer told him.
"He's my cousin from Chicago," Llona chimed in when she'd found her breath. "Once we were very close."
"Very close indeed," Archer agreed. "In fact, you might say intimate."
"I don't think so," George demurred. "I don't think I'd care to say that at all."
"Nevertheless," Archer wrung his hand, "I want to give you my most heartfelt congratulations. You're a very, very lucky man to marry this lady, sir. I envy you. I can't tell you how much."
"Please don't," Llona murmured.
"Well, thank you." George was confused by Archer's effusiveness and enthusiasm. "Thanks a lot. And I hope you'll come and visit us when we get settled."
"Please don't!" Llona murmured to herself again.
"I will," Archer promised. "Just as soon as you get settled and the lady of the house invites me."
Llona wondered to herself if George's business might ever reach the point when it would require his going out of town. Then she firmly dismissed the thought from her mind. Sadly, with a fixed smile on her face to match George's, she returned Archer's farewells and watched him leave.
An hour or so later, amid a second hail of rice, she and George left the reception themselves. It was beginning to get dark as they dashed to George's car. It was completely dark by the time they reached the resort hotel where they were to spend their wedding night. George lugged their bags into the lobby himself and set them down. Llona waited beside them while he went over to the desk to register.
"Mr. and Mrs. George Rutherford." The desk clerk turned the registration card around and read it aloud. His voice was flat and impersonal.
"We're married. We just got married," George said a little too hastily, a little too defensively.
"Of course." The desk clerk's tone remained noncommittal. "Did you have a reservation, Mr. Rutherford?"
"Yes. I made it a while back, just as soon as we were sure of the date of the wedding."
"I'll check it." The clerk turned away and consulted the file behind him. "Ah, here we are. Well, everything seems to be in order, Mr. Rutherford. Have a pleasant stay with us."
George couldn't be sure if that was really a leer on the clerk's face, so he let it pass. In any case, it was followed by a nod to a passing bellhop who responded by scooping up their luggage and bounding off toward the elevators. George, pulling Llona along with him, had to trot to catch up.
When they reached the room, the bellhop stood aside to let them enter and then followed with the suitcases. He set them down next to the bed and crossed over to the windows. He closed one window which had been opened and raised the other, which had been closed. He turned on the light beside the bed, then turned it off again. He went into the bathroom and reversed the position of the towels on the rack. Then he stood in the center of the room and slowly turned as if seeking any other service he might render. His hand, palm up, dangled in front of him ever so casually.
Finally George got the message. He fished a quarter out of his pocket and flipped it at the bellhop. "That'll be all for now, boy," he said with a haughtiness he didn't really feel.
"Thank you, sir." The "boy," who happened to be a sixty-year-old Negro with three grandchildren, pocketed the quarter disdainfully, muttered "black power" under his breath, and departed.
"Don't you think you undertipped him?" Llona suggested.
"Of course not. No sense spoiling these people. They'd only fritter it away on foolishness, anyway." George puffed up a bit with the sense of male dominance which comes with being a new husband. "You'd best just leave things like that to me, honey," he told Llona.
"You're probably right. That way we can fritter it away on our own foolishness ourselves."
"Sure thing." George had missed the sarcasm in her voice. "Now come on over here and give your new husband a great big kiss."
"Couldn't we eat first, George? I'm starved."
"Oh. Sure. Wait. I'll call room service."
Several minutes later there was a knock at the door. The same bellhop reappeared, this time pushing a tray on wheels. The tray held an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne sticking out of it and various covered dishes. He wheeled it into the center of the room and stood there a moment.
"That's all, boy. What are you waiting for?" George's tone was imperious.
"Should I open the champagne for you, sir?"
"No. I'll do it myself."
The bellhop started to back out slowly, too slowly to suit George.
"What are you staring at, boy?"
"Nothing at all, sir."
"You looking at my wife?"
"Of course not, sir." The bellhop turned on his heel and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
"He was only waiting for a tip, George." Llona was embarrassed by the incident.
"Nonsense. I already tipped him."
"That was for bringing up the bags. I think he expected another tip for bringing the food."
"That wasn't it at all," George insisted. "He was staring at you. He was undressing you with his eyes the way they always do!"
"For God's sake, George! He's an old man! Way past the age of lusting after women."
"When it comes to white women, these savages are never past the age!"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Llona stared at George. She'd known him a long time; they'd grown up together; yet she'd never before heard him make such blatantly bigoted remarks. Why now? On their wedding night?
Sipping at her champagne, Llona watched George gobble down cracker after cracker heaped high with caviar. He gulped champagne as if it were water to wash down the salty delicacy. His movements as he stuffed himself were quick and nervous, and there was a film of perspiration on his forehead although the room was air-conditioned. His hands were trembling as he piled the black roe on the wafers.
Llona saw it clearly then. It was indeed their wedding night, and George's manhood was about to put be put to the test. He would have to prove himself very soon now, and the closer the time came, the more he was doubting himself. That was why he'd made the ridiculous accusation regarding the elderly Negro bellhop. It was George's own unsureness that had made him strike out at the first handy scapegoat. It was his concern for his own manhood that had fished up the canard of Negro ultra-potency and super sexual prowess and seen in it a threat to the bride he was afraid he, himself, wouldn't be able to satisfy.
Quite simply, Llona realized, George was panicked at the prospect of making love to a woman for the first time. And now he was attempting to squelch that panic by gorging himself with food and liquor. His hands were a blur now as they shoveled caviar into his maw and carried glass after glass of the bubbly wine to wash it down.
"George, don't you think you've had enough? You'll make yourself sick."