Diane Davidson - The Last Suppers

Lucille groaned at my lack of information and told me to put on my beige wedding shoes. I did; they were even more uncomfortable than I remembered. Then, dutifully, I followed Lucille’s dumpling-shaped body as it swiftly marched back across the ice-and mud-crusted walkway between the old office and the contemporary-style St. Luke’s building. The air was cold; thin sheets of cloud filmed the sky overhead. Rising haze from melting snow formed a pale curtain between the soaring A-shape of the roof and the ridge of distant mountains. I dodged across the flagstones to avoid the mud. Flickers fitted between the lodgepole pines and the construction trenches of the incomplete St. Luke’s columbarium near the parking lot. Farther down, chickadees twittered and dove between bare-branched aspens and the banks of icy swollen Cottonwood Creek.

The high, dramatic strains of the trumpet voluntary reached my ears. This is it; everything’s going to be okay. At that moment, in spite of the awful shoes, the locked Hymnal House, and the too-typical lateness of both priest and groom, excitement zinged up my spine. I’m getting married. Our wedding was going to happen despite the threat of April snow here at eight thousand feet above sea level. Despite the fact that it was a Saturday in Lent, when Father Olson said weddings were not traditionally performed. On that subject, Olson had laughingly informed me, the Altar Guild was having a fit about the luxuriant flower arrangements I’d ordered for the altar during this traditionally penitential season. Unfortunately for church procedure, the last Saturday in Lent was the only time Tom and I could fit getting married into our zany work schedules. We both had to be back in Aspen Meadow by Tuesday so Tom could testify in court and I could cater a three-day meeting of the diocesan Board of Theological Examiners, a church committee to which I’d recently been .appointed. Our three-day honeymoon at the Beaver Creek Lodge would be short, sweet and unencumbered by telephones and food processors.

I hopped gracelessly across the last mud puddle and onto the sidewalk. Actually, the most astonishing fact was that I was getting married at all. In spite of everything. For seven years I had been the wife of an abusive doctor. I’d left the disastrous marriage with a wonderful son, Arch, now twelve; the ability to cook and an emotional scar the size off Pike’s Peak. I had thrown myself into developing a catering business and sworn off marriage forever and ever. But then investigator Tom Schulz had appeared and refused to leave. Tom had convinced me of his kindness and durability, even if we had argued last night. About the afterlife, of all things. Facing marriage for a lifetime, I’d asked at our last premarital counseling session, who cared about Pie in the Sky By-and-By? At the mention of the hereafter, Father Olson had rolled his eyes and murmured, “Ah, eschatology,” as if it were a truffle. My stint as a third-grade Sunday School teacher hadn’t covered it “ ‘til death do us part’.’ Father Olson had said we would have a very long time to discuss it.

“Hurry along now,” chided Lucille as she pulled open the side door to St. Luke’s. From inside the church, the high peals of organ music mingled with the buzz and shuffling of arriving guests. She shooed me into the sacristy, the tiny room adjoining the sanctuary where the priest and acolytes put on their vestments before each service. On the counter next to the parish register lay two bouquets of the same type as the disputed altar flowers: luscious spills of creamy white stock and fragrant freesia, tiny pink carnations and white and pink sweetheart roses. There wad one for me and one for Marla, who in addition to best friend and matron of honor, was the other ex-wife of my first husband. Lucille informed me Marla was out in the narthex, “giggling wildly with that jewelry raffle committee, but what else would you expect?” She would send her back. Lucille’s tone signaled her opinion of both the raffle committee and Marla, its chairwoman. Giving me another of her razor-edged glances, she commanded me to stay put.

Arch craned his neck around the door to the sacristy. He pushed his glasses up his freckled nose and said, “I know. You’re nervous, right?”

“Remember your just day of seventh grade?”

“I’d rather not.” He scooted through the door closed it softly behind him. “Hate to tell you, Mom, but your hat’s on crooked”.

I smiled. Thin-shouldered and narrow-chested, Arch had clearly taken great pains with his own scrubbed and buttoned-up appearance. But the kid-size tuxedo only emphasized the growing up he’d had to do in the last five years. First he had escaped into fantasy role-playing games. Then he’d endured harassment at a new school. Only in the last few months had Arch found a sense of family support from two people – Julian Teller, our nineteen-year-old live-in boarder, and of course, Tom Schulz. For the first time my son seemed genuinely, if precariously, happy.

I turned to look at the crooked headgear in the long mirror behind the sacristy door. As I feared, the glass reflected a short, thirty-one-year-old female with blond corkscrews of hair protruding from a cockeyed hat that looked too sophisticated for her slightly rounded, slightly freckled face. I removed the odious beige silk thing, reseated it, and stabbed ferociously with the hat pin. I loathe hats. Even when catering the most elegant dinners, I never wear a chef’s cap. But Father Olson had suggested my wearing a hat would appease the Altar Guild, whose many rules I was shattering by getting married in Lent, for the second time, with lots of flowers. Arch, on tiptoe behind me, frowned as he adjusted his black-and-silver-striped cravat. The tuxedo was a little big. Nevertheless he looked absolutely dashing. I turned and gave him an impulsive hug.

“You know, Mom, it’s not as if you haven’t done this before.” He pulled away from me and reddened to the roots of his straw-brown hair. “I mean, not just when you married Dad. But all those wedding receptions you’ve catered. They came out okay, even when things went wrong.”

“I know, I know,” I glanced at the empty ring finger of my left hand. Fifteen minutes. “Arch. You don’t know if they got into Hymnal House, do you?”

He grinned gleefully, “Julian broke a window.”

“Oh, Please.”

“It doesn’t look that bad! Julian and the helpers swept up the glass. Now they’re setting up the tables and chafing dishes and everything. He said to tell you.”

“They haven’t started transporting the vegetable terrines, have they?” I asked desperately. “Did Julian drive over the with cake or is he going to try to wheel it across the parking lot? He’ll have to avoid the construction

and did the oven in Hymnal House work?” Under my barrage of questions, Arch shrugged and fiddled with matches for the candle lighters. “Arch,” I pleaded, “could you go ask Marla to come back? I’m sorry, I’m just nervous about getting started.” I strained to hear. “How’re the musicians holding up?”

“Handle’s Water Music is next,” he announced. “I have the whole program memorized. I like the Jeremiah Clarke, because they play it before that TV show, Stories of the Weird.” When I sighed, he touched his cravat and added hastily, ‘You know that lady who dresses like an Indian? Agatha Preston? Anyway, she got out the terrines. The other women haven’t moved them yet. I don’t know about the cake or the construction or the oven. I’ll get Marla, but then one of the church ladies or Father Olson is supposed to tell me when to bring Grandma down the aisle.” He opened the door of the sacristy and peered out. “Man, it looks like a priest convention out there. Did you invite that whole committee you’re on?”

“Honey, I had to. And all the parishioners, too. I’ve been in this church since before you were born. I had to invite everybody or risk offending someone. But I can’t look, it’s bad luck. Is he here yet?”