Isn't It Romantic? - Page 36

Natalie would be waiting for Dick in half an hour, so he was flooring his truck headlong and lickety-split over hill and dale, and tossing those in the load bed from side to side with his racetrack cornering.

Worriedly pounding the window, Carlo yelled, “Tupper!” But just as soon as he did so, red lights were flashing on them, and they heard the hoop hoop of a siren. Owen covered his eyes with his hands in a see-no-evil way, and skinny Carlo slumped down, finishing what he’d been about to say: “Take it easy.”

They stopped, and a highway patrolman walked hesitantly up to the side of the truck, a hand on his pistol. Silence happened while he perused the scene. An inebriated Pierre saluted from under his feed cap brim.

The highway patrolman asked, “What’s going on here?”

Orville began giggling. Then Carlo. And then Pierre joined in.

“I guess I missed the punch line,” the highway patrolman said, and shone his flashlight into the truck’s interior.

In a failing effort at explanation, Carlo pointed to Owen’s improbably bulging cheeks, but Owen’s forlorn visage was such that Carlo howled with laughter. Owen looked at him with disbelief.

The officer flashed his light on the faces in the load bed. “I’ll say it again,” he said. “What is going on here?”

They were still laughing. Carlo adjusted the beret on Owen’s head to better the effect, and Owen gave him a wild look, as if homicide was a possibility when all this was over. And that only heightened the hilarity.

“Okay. That’s it,” the highway patrolman said. “I’m arresting you all for disorderly conduct, including the guy with the trumpet piece in his mouth.”

27

Handel’s Water Music was playing delicately on Ursula’s boom box and Natalie and Iona were glancing furtively at their watches as Mrs. Christiansen sat between old Nell and Onetta on the sofa and ever so gently turned the pages of her 1950 wedding album. “And that’s Albert,” Marvyl said. “He was our best man.”

Old Nell asked, “Was he the one we used to call Bill?”

And Mrs. Christiansen said, “No. You’re thinking of William. William’s the one we called Bill.”

“And who was he in the wedding?”

Mrs. Christiansen patiently said, “The husband.”

Iona whispered to Natalie, “I’m sorry I’ve been such a poop, bu

t seeing you and . . . Well, he’s such a beautiful person, and it’s made me realize how stupid and cautious I’ve been since I got back to Seldom. Worrying about what people would say. If you have a dream, you oughta go for it. Even if it seems you’re reaching too high.”

Natalie seemed inclined to concur, but then Mrs. Christiansen interrupted to say, “Why don’t we abridge the evening with a game of charades.”

Dick checked his watch as he hurried out of the highway patrol headquarters ahead of Owen, Pierre, Carlo, Orville, and the Reverend Picarazzi, who’d bailed them out. Owen’s mouth had been freed of its burden by the Emergency Medical Team and his right arm was slung over his tuxedoed bon ami’s shoulders as he gleefully negotiated their deal.

With shame and worry, Pierre said, “But you are not understanding, Owen! ‘Smith et Fils’ is a great name, handed down for generations—my father, my big-father . . .”

“Okay, how about a compromise then? ‘Smith et Fils’ on the front and the Husker scores on the back.”

Thinking of his meeting with Iona, Pierre said, “I have not the time for this.”

Owen slapped his defeated back. “Wealth, Pierre! Champagne evenings! Caviar nights! Pay channels on your TV set!”

Owen, Orville, and Carlo got into the Reverend’s old Volkswagen van and, too late, Carlo noticed who was missing. “Where’s Dick and Pierre?” he shouted.

“In Dick’s truck,” Dante Picarazzi said. “What’s the panic?”

Carlo whined, “I need to be there for her.”

“Who?” Owen asked.

Carlo merely slumped down in his seat, thinking desperately of his Iona: goddess, nymph, perfect, divine, and rare.

The Reverend turned the key in the Volkswagen’s ignition, but it just made a tut-tutting sound. He tried again, but no change. “Owen, we have a problem.”

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