Would Carson McCullers Write a Murder Mystery?

In the short hallway between my living room and kitchen I have a mirrored buffet table, atop which sits a photo of my parents cutting the cake at their wedding.  There is also a photo of my niece, beautiful on her late spring wedding day last year.  This photo is propped against my parents’ frame as it was only recently obtained when I gifted it to myself after I arrived at my sister’s home for Christmas.  Mailing things in a timely manner is not my sister’s spiritual gift.

Never giving them more than a cursory view most days, last night they brought to mind a particular wedding, many years ago in a small community in Southwest Mississippi.  Tylertown is where I say I’m from as it is where I graduated high school.  A tiny community west of town called Mesa (mee-sah) is where we attended Mesa Baptist Church, the location of my dear sister’s nuptials to one Jody Darryl Thomas.

The wedding date was set for Labor Day weekend to ensure they were married before Darryl set sail for Navy boot camp, which I’ve been told is not very strenuous as long as you can swim and/or float with any amount of skill.  The wedding itself was pulled together in quick fashion by my mother and Ann Simmons, flower arranger/event planner/family friend/saint.  I was asked to sing as part of the blessed event.  My sister was of course excited about the wedding and her beautiful dress but she was most fond of her Precious Moments music box that was to be the wedding cake topper.  It was indeed a wondrous thing and I was tasked with ensuring it’s safe arrival atop the cake in the downstairs fellowship hall at our church for the reception, which consisted of only cake, Jordan Almonds and punch the same color as the bridesmaids’ dresses, as we are Southern Baptists and that is how we roll.  The chosen colors were apricot and candlelight.

The morning of the event, I was resplendent in a borrowed caramel leather sport coat and moss green chinos and a moss green and rose pink plaid tie as dress clothes were not high on the list of necessities for those with meager means.  While I sang like an angel, the voice was somewhat disembodied as I was hidden behind a rather large fern, of the kind found usually in zoos and/or wildlife refuges. The genesis of the idea to hide me behind this Amazonian flora was never revealed due to, I can only assume, a secret pact between Ms. Simmons and my sister.  They are not talking, y’all, but I am not still bitter or anything.  Truly.  I only mention it for the sake of the big picture.

As I was already dressed when we arrived at the church, I was tasked with ensuring the cake was properly placed next to the fountain of punch, made apricot by adding orange sherbet to pink lemonade, by the ever-resourceful mother-of-the-bride.  The baker and her husband had been in the basement by themselves.  I made my way down the stairs and turned the corner to see a black and white plastic monstrosity sitting atop my sister’s wedding cake.  It took me a minute to process what I was seeing.  It was something akin to Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, with mother-of-pearl seagulls attached by wiring, allowing them “life-like” movement.

My poker face failed me and the baker asked what was wrong.  I motioned to the eyesore and said in an urgent whisper, “Whatisthat?  Whatisthat?  Ohmygod, Whatisthat?!?!”

Unbelievably, she asked, “What?” as if she did not know.

I said, “That…THING on top of the cake!  Where is my sister’s Precious Moments cake topper?!?!”

She looked crestfallen and said, “Oh, that?  We accidentally dropped it.  It’s broken.”

I inhaled so sharply her hair and apron moved toward my mouth.  I said very slowly, “Please tell me you are kidding.  This is a joke, right?  She will kill you, you know.  She will.  It will be unpleasant.  It will be painful.  You’re going to die.”

She just stared at me.  Her husband walked over and said, “It’s not that big of a deal.  We got a replacement.  It’s free of charge.”

I turned and said in my most condescending manner, “Oh, good, I’m glad it’s not that big of a deal.  And, yes, I see you’ve replaced it with what I assume is one of your brood’s art projects, but my sister is expecting a Precious Moments music box cake topper atop her cake.”  Gaining momentum due to fear of said bride, I continued, “And you’d better go find a more appropriate replacement because THAT…HORROR (motioning to it) is no one’s idea of a proper replacement and I assure you I will not be here when she comes downstairs.  She will kill you.  In your face.”

Hearing the beginnings of some sort of ruckus my Mother started down the stairs, asking, “Dusty, is anything wrong?”  With a bride’s overly-sensitive hearing, my sister said, “What?  Something’s wrong?  With the cake?  What’s wrong with the cake?”

Faking a lighthearted laugh, I practically screamed, “Oh, Shontyl.  Ha Ha. Relax, sister of mine.  There’s nothing wrong with the cake.  Don’t come down here, its bad luck for a bride to see the cake before the wedding.”

Skeptically she said, “What?  No it’s not.”

“Yes it is, I read it somewhere.”

                “Ugh.  Whatever.”

                “You’re so funny.  Go fix your hair.  I’ve GOT this.” 

                My mother looked at me quizzically and I mouthed, “Do. Not. Let. Her. Down. Here.”  And I gave her a smile like you give when you realize you’ve forgotten your wallet while on a date.  Turning to the baker’s husband, I said, “Shouldn’t you be on your way?  You have a music box to purchase.  Precious Moments.  Go now.”

                He whined, “But its Labor Day weekend.”

                “That’s not my problem.  I’m trying to keep both of us alive.”

                “She can’t be that bad.”

                Chuckling, I said, “I see you have mis-assessed this situation.  And you’re right, she might not kill me, but one or both of you will perish.  Please leave now.  I’m not telling you again.  Don’t make me start cussing all up in the church.  I’m not Methodist.”

                Looking fearfully at me, as she heard shoes on the stairs, the baker turned and said, “I hear someone?  Is that her?”

                “You're closest.  Are they wearing a white dress?” I asked hurriedly shooing her husband out the door and into the mini-van.

                “Not white.”

                “Is it the color of the punch?”

                “Yes.”

                “Then it’s a bridesmaid.  Everyone knows the bridesmaid dresses match the punch.  Are you a Yankee?

                We were able to shift the focus from the cake to the wedding itself.  It went off without a hitch.  I did not protest the fern placement and sang my heart out to “The Wedding Song” and Debbie Gibson’s “Lost in Your Eyes”.  It was 1989, y’all.  That was a “the song”, do you hear me?

                I don’t know how he did it, but in the end, clumsy baker-husband found a reasonable facsimile of the music box.  It wasn’t Precious Moments but it was close enough to fool my sister until after she returned from her honeymoon.  By that time I had returned to school and have been afraid to broach the subject.  I truly hope she didn’t kill that man, although if she did, I understand.

I wonder what Carson McCullers would say?

I'm not saying global warming is my fault, but...

                A proper wardrobe should count among its basics, a navy blazer.  It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing, a navy blazer immediately dresses up your intentions.  Khakis, polo and baseball cap is not dressy enough?  Simply add a navy blazer and you are ready for Homecoming at Ole Miss, y’all.  And the reason I even bring this up is that for most of my life I was bereft of a blazer, navy or otherwise, and there were times when I needed to bring my A-game, fashionably, and found myself lacking. 

              I posted a photo recently on Facebook to commemorate the significant hairdos that I and my peers Aqua-Netted (or White –Rained, depending on your brand loyalty) into pillars (literally) of wonder.  To borrow from the Post Office, neither rain, nor snow nor Hurricane-force winds at a football game will keep our coiffures from doing their duty.  Now what that duty was, I don’t remember, but whatever it was those ‘dos were doing it, do you hear me? 
              However, my significant locks were not the reason I take finger to keyboard, it was the lovely ensemble I was wearing in the re-taken photo.  I had been elected Freshman Class Favorite at Southwest Mississippi Community College because this is the South and we love our superlatives.  And I wanted to make a great impression for posterity’s sake.  I mean, what were the odds that this would happen again, I thought to myself.  And an honor such as this required a photo for the yearbook with a proper outfit.  And someone as concerned with my clothes as I was, the math was not on my side.  The following equation will assist you in picturing my reality:

‘Great taste’ plus ‘almost-psychotic need to fit in’ multiplied by ‘too tall/fat to wear my 8^th grade graduation suit’ divided by ‘no money’ gives us the fraction: diddly/squat. 

This was a disaster of Biblical proportions!  Okay, maybe not Biblical but it was one of my plagues, people.  Oh don’t look so appalled; we’ve already discussed how shallow I was back then.

            The initial photo’s ensemble was the closest thing I had to dress clothes, which included some off-brand big and tall version of Z Cavariccis.  The pants were aggressively ill-fitting due to the generous pleating at the waist that competed with the pegged-for-you-by-the-manufacturer straight legs which gave the illusion that my torso was sitting atop a hot air balloon mid-descent.  It was a pretty as you would imagine.  If you pair that with a two year-old very tight Miami Vice jacket (in sea foam green, no less) and a plaid tie and you get the picture.  Thank goodness I was on the yearbook staff and refused to have that photo printed, in black and white or color.  Oh, I didn’t throw a fit or anything; I just destroyed the photo and negative in a lab accident, like you do. 
             Now, the reshoot was a bit better due to the borrowing of clothing more, but still not quite, appropriate for the occasion.  You see, America had been getting fatter by the decade and the clothing options were changing, but as an over-achiever, I had been getting fatter much more quickly than my fellow countrymen.  In 1988 there was no size 38 (inches) in Girbaud or Guess jeans.  By 1990, when those sizes premiered publicly, I was sporting a 40-inch waist.  Beyond feeling fat and ugly, it came to pass that the only person the same size as I and with whom I could borrow clothes was my father.  Can’t you just feel my excitement?  If I ever wanted to be a stand-in on ‘Hee-Haw’ or break into the country music scene in 1975, I was ready, people. 

If you look very closely, the jacket is of a fabric that hangs in an interesting manner.  Those in the fashion business call it leather.  Yes, dear readers, I was wearing a caramel-colored leather sport coat.  The pants were forest green and the tie was green, white and pink plaid, but not in that fantastic Ralph Lauren sort of way.  It was more along the lines of the are-there-any-ties-at-Hudson’s-Salvage-Center-that-have-green-in-them-smoke-damaged-is-okay-my-mom-can-get-the-smell-out sort of way that most people shop.  Thus the reality of black and white photographs in the Who’s Who section when you know I wanted that photograph in full color on the front, and every subsequent, page.  Upon revisiting the photo this week, it looks disturbingly like the commemoration of the wedding of some cult preacher and his 5^th sister wife who is missing her left thumb.

I ended up wearing that same outfit in my sister’s wedding the following September, where I sang “The Wedding Song” and “Lost in Your Eyes” hidden ever so discretely behind a (rather large) fern.  My sister and the wedding planner both claimed the other had the idea to hide me.  If feel sure they were both telling the truth. 

However, once I transferred to MUW and pledged a fraternity, I had to find a navy blazer.  It was our Delta Sigma Omega uniform, along with our gold and navy striped ties and khakis.  These guys had just gifted me with a chance to be a regular “guy” guy and I was not about to mess this up.  God took pity on my shallow butt and I was able to find a double-breasted navy blazer at Hudson’s for something like $2 due to the fact that it had survived a mudslide in Argentina.

Mind you my significant research into a gentleman’s guide to dressing appropriately had taught me that any man who himself has double breasts, should not wear a double-breasted jacket as it tends to draw the eye to the mid-section and emphasize the girth.  But let’s be honest, it wasn’t the button configuration that brought the attention to my belly; it was the fact that I had a belly.  But it was now a member-of-a-fraternity-belly and that was all that I cared about.  It’s all about having your priorities in place, am I right?

And that’s all I’m saying for now.