Chapter 43: A Wedding

“Hey, fellas, how’s it going?” asked Frank Boscow as he stuck his head into the small room near the front of the church.

“And good afternoon to you too, Frank,” replied Peter. “Can I take it that the bride isn’t planning on leaving me at the altar?”

Frank smiled and stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. “No, she’s here, and right on time, too. Shirley and Helen have her and Heather back in the nave, or whatever that room is back by the front door is.” He glanced at the elderly man in the room with his future son-in-law. “Since you haven’t introduced us yet, should I assume this is your father?”

Peter grinned. “Sorry. Frank Boscow, Frank Tallman. Frank meet Frank.”

The two men shook hands. Frank Boscow reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a small flask. “A little Dutch courage, guys?” He reached over to a small counter at the side of the room and grabbed a few paper cups.

“Sure, why not,” agreed his counterpart. He shifted his cane to the other hand and held out his hand for the proffered drink. “Skoal.”

“Cheers,” said Peter.

“Mazeltov!”

“Scotch,” commented Peter’s father, after downing the shot in the paper cup.

Frank Boscow nodded. “I got to liking it when I was in Da Nang during the war.” Peter looked at him curiously; Frank rarely discussed his Viet Nam service. “The only way to survive that place was drunk or stoned, and I was just too scared to do drugs! It was either bourbon or Scotch, and I didn’t like bourbon.”

His counterpart smiled and reached inside his own coat pocket and pulled out a small silver-chased flask of his own. “What’s your feeling about Canadian?”

“Since when did you ever have a flask?” asked his son. He had never seen his father ever carry a flask.

“Since earlier this week.” He continued in explanation, even as he opened the cap and poured another shot out for the three of them. “Here, it’s yours,” he said as he handed the flask over. “It’s an old family tradition. Don’t ask me for how long, but I know my grandfather gave my dad, your grandfather, a flask, and one to each of your uncles as well. I gave mine to your brother Frank, so I had to buy one for you and the twins. It will be your job to give one to little Jimmy someday, and for any boys you and Lauren have, as well.”

Frank stared at his father curiously. This was a side to the man he had never seen before. He held up his cup in a silent toast and was joined by the others.

“So, everything going all right out there?” asked Peter, glancing towards the door.

The father of the bride waved at the door dismissively. “It’s going so right I should be scared!”

“Uhhh...”

“Like I said, Helen and Shirley...” he turned to the other Frank and explained. “Shirley’s my wife and Helen’s Gary’s mother, Lauren’s first mother-in-law...” The other man nodded in understanding. “ ... they’ve got everybody in that room by the front door, lining them up and rehearsing their lines.”

“What’s to rehearse? Lauren says I do!”

Frank Boscow looked piteously at his future son-in-law, while Peter’s father rolled his eyes heavenward. He and Momma had been held up in traffic the other night, so they hadn’t made it to the rehearsal, but he had been in more than one wedding over the years. He ignored his son’s naiveté.

“As I was saying, they’ve got everyone crammed into that little room, so I suppose they will be calling us out soon enough, otherwise they’ll all die of heat stroke!”

At that moment, a discrete knock sounded on the door and the priest, Monsignor Frederico Montalcalvi, ‘Father Fred’, stepped inside. “Ready, gentlemen?” He eyed the two flasks curiously, but it wasn’t the first time he had seen them in his church.

“Pretty much. Care for a snort, father?” asked Peter’s dad as he reached for another paper cup.

It was Frank Boscow’s turn to be surprised, when his priest snorted and replied, “Sure, why not.” He held out his hand for the paper cup.

As always, the stately Monsignor Montalcalvi, the kindly ‘Father Fred’, was semi-disgusted by the attitude of some of his parishioners. It seemed as if half his congregation viewed priests as sexual deviant homosexual pedophiles. The other half clung to the Bing Crosby version, the saint on earth who spent every waking moment not tending to their flock praying and doing good works. In some ways these were the most unrealistic - they were always astonished when they found him around town, dressed in mufti and driving a late model Buick.

The father waited for the other three cups to be poured, then said, “Mud in your eye!” He smiled at the goggle-eyed Frank Boscow. They all downed their shots and tossed the cups in the trash.

“Give me a minute to get seated,” said Frank Boscow, who left the room and headed down to the pew. The only other person in the pew was Jack Ferguson, Helen’s escort. He nodded pleasantly to the other man and sat down.

A minute later, Father Fred pointed the others towards the door, and Peter and his father moved towards their assigned positions. The cleric stayed behind until the altar boy summoned him.

“The last time I did this I only had one mother to drive me nuts!” complained Lauren.

Helen snorted in derision. Shirley said, “You’re not too old for me to smack you, you know.”

“Are we ready yet?” insisted Lauren.

Helen brushed a last speck of imaginary lint from Lauren’s jacket. “Yes,” she said with a nod. “You know the order to go down the aisle.”

“I actually managed to do this once before, if you remember!”

Helen stuck her tongue out at her daughter-in-law as Shirley said, “That was mean-spirited!”

Lauren sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.” She leaned over and kissed Helen on the cheek. “Everything is just fine! First, we send out Holly, then Roger, then Heather, and then Jimmy and I go. I just want to get things going!”

An altar boy knocked on the door and Helen stuck her head out, to learn that Peter and his best man, his father, were in position. She closed the door and turned to the others with a tear in her eye. “It’s time. We need to go.” She kissed Lauren on the cheek, an action repeated by Shirley, and the two scurried out and scampered down the side aisle to join Frank and Jack.

“Okay, guys, get in line,” ordered Lauren. She motioned the children into position, with help from her bridesmaid, and they stepped out of the little room. Moments later the organist kicked into Mendelson’s Wedding March.

First down the aisle was little Holly, the flower girl. Father Fred stared as the child stepped into the middle of the aisle and reached into her basket and flung out a large handful of petals. Stepping further down the aisle, she repeated the process. Rather than simply carry a basket of daisies down the aisle, she and Roger had decided to pull all the petals from the flowers and spread them around instead, an action occasioned by watching the movie ‘Coming To America’, in which flower girls preceded James Earl Jones’ character everywhere while strewing rose petals in his path. The priest dreaded to think of what the Maintenance Committee would think about this!

Next down the aisle was Roger Tallman, Peter’s nephew, just turned five, carrying a pillow with a pair of rings tied to it. He looked most solemn as he headed towards the aisle, but once he saw everybody looking at him, he broke out into a grand smile and began waving at everybody. Several people began tittering at the sight of the little boy waving grandly at everyone.

Third down the aisle was Heather, nervous but determined to keep a serene smile on her face. She was wearing the coral evening dress that she had worn at the prom, but today it was much more decorous. The bustier top was totally hooked up, the dress was open only below the knees, and over it she wore the waist length matching jacket.

Last to move down the aisle was Lauren, with her arm tucked through her son Jimmy’s. She whispered to him, “Nervous?”

He nodded in agreement. “You?”

She nodded back, but then said, “Just hold your head high and march down the aisle like you own the place!”

“You can’t own a church, Mom,” he replied, but then stepped into the entry to the church.

Lauren stepped up beside him. “Let’s go, just like in the rehearsal yesterday, but a little slower.” Jimmy had almost dragged her down the aisle the previous evening.

This time things went considerably smoother. Once she reached the end of the aisle, after Jimmy placed his mother next to Peter, Lauren knelt in the aisle. She hugged her two children to her fiercely, then smiled and said, “Thank you. I love you two so much!” and gently pushed them towards the pew with her parents and Helen. The flower girl and escort were settled in the pew between their grandmothers.

Lauren stood and resumed her place next to Peter, with Heather to her left and Frank Tallman to Peter’s right. Father Fred opened his book of service and opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted.

Roger Tallman, the five-year-old ring bearer, said in a clear soprano, “Excuse me!”

The wedding party looked down at the little boy, who had left his position next to his grandfather and come around him to try and slip in between Frank and Peter, tugging at Peter’s jacket. They stared at him, until Peter said, “Yes?”

“Excuse me, but I can’t see.”

Trying to hide his smile, Frank slipped sideways and adjusted his cane. Peter also slipped a few inches to the side, opening a slot between them. “Better?”

“Thank you,” answered Roger politely. He smiled and moved into line again, this time between Peter and Frank.

It was all the wedding party could do to keep from breaking down in laughter. Father Fred had his face buried in his service book; Heather had hers buried in the bouquet. Lauren was leaning against Peter, her head buried in his shoulder, her face back towards the congregation, with laughter in her eyes though the giggles were stopped by her hand. Peter simply smiled at his father, who had a hand protectively on his grandson’s shoulder even as he rolled his eyes heavenward. The only sound to be heard came from Jennifer Tallman, the little boy’s mother, a low groan. “I swear to Christ I’m going to kill him!”

“If I might continue...” asked the monsignor, glancing down at the smiling ring bearer, oblivious to the scene he had created.

For about the twentieth time during the reception, Lauren reached out an arm and snagged little Roger as he raced through the room. “You are just my favorite!” she squealed to the youngster, squeezing him in a monstrous hug. “You can work at all my weddings!”