Authors: Diana Dempsey
True.
That’s
what beauty queens do.
“But that’s
in the name of pageant competition,” I remind her.
“This is in the name of wedded bliss,” Sally Anne shoots
back.
“Which I am due for, big
time.”
As for myself, I’ve enjoyed wedded bliss for seventeen years
now, half my life.
Safe to say I
married young.
But I can understand
what Sally Anne’s driving at.
“I’m 54 years old!”
By now she’s shouting.
“I’m
a bride for the very first time!”
She throws her arms wide.
“I
want a big fat shindig that nobody will ever forget!”
Shanelle straps on a spangled choker and hands me its evil
twin.
“Well, if you have to wait
that long, I guess you can do whatever the hell you please.”
“You got that right, sister.
Now let’s get this show on the
road.
I don’t want to give Frank
time to think twice.”
Sally Anne
points across the bridal dressing lounge at two rather frothy items calling our
names.
“Put on your headdresses and
let’s skedaddle.”
Flowers in the hair?
Lovely.
A small veil?
A nice touch.
But Shanelle and I are called upon to
sport two feet of ostrich plumes atop a spangled crown.
Shanelle sidles closer.
“How many ostriches gave their lives for these things?”
“Whole flocks of them.”
I settle it on my head.
“It
doesn’t sit nearly as well as my tiara.”
Yes, I am the proud owner of a tiara.
From when I, Happy Pennington,
representing the Great State of Ohio, won the title of Ms. America in the
nation’s foremost beauty pageant for married women.
I’ve just begun my reign and so far it’s
everything I ever dreamed it would be.
I didn’t win in quite the usual way but we don’t have time to get into
that now.
Shanelle Walker, otherwise known as Ms. Mississippi, roomed
with me on Oahu during the pageant.
Now she’s one of my best friends.
Sally Anne, not so much.
Because she’s the founder of Crowning
Glory Pageant Shoppe here in Las Vegas, the largest full-service pageant-wear
purveyor west of the Mississippi, I’ve known her for years.
And once you help somebody dodge a
murder rap—another aspect of the long story to which I referred
earlier—I guess they feel closer to you than they did before.
By the way, she asked me to stand up for her just last week,
which is why Shanelle and I are only now getting wind of what we’re required to
wear.
Sally Anne knew our sizes
from Crowning Glory’s database, not that those are so hard to guess for our
ilk.
Shanelle and I may illustrate
that we beauty queens come in a variety of colors—me a pale-skinned
brunette and Shanelle more a darkish toffee—but take any two of us and
you’ll find that we’re pretty much all the same size: skinny and tall.
“One more thing,” Sally Anne says behind me.
I turn to see her holding out two, shall
we say,
unique
bouquets.
“Are those … spray painted, Sally Anne?”
“You bet they are.
I got the brainstorm to spray gold metallic paint on white roses.
You’ve never seen anything like ‘
em
, I bet.”
It is safe to say that I have not.
Shanelle and I do one last check in the mirror as Sally Anne
sashays out of the room.
We are
also sporting white gloves that extend above the elbow and are ornamented by
rhinestone bracelets.
“Is nothing
real here?” Shanelle mutters.
“Let’s hope this romance is real,” I whisper back.
“I get the impression Sally Anne didn’t
know Frank very long before he popped the question.”
And given what she told us, she probably
said yes before Frank got all four words of the proposal out of his mouth.
Shanelle straightens her choker.
“Too bad you didn’t bulldoze Sally Anne
into letting Trixie be a bridesmaid, too.”
“I should have.”
Trixie Barnett is our other best friend from the pageant.
She’s from North Carolina and is the
reigning Ms. Congeniality.
“I miss
her.”
“I do, too.”
Shanelle heaves a sigh.
“We
can’t keep putting it off, girl.
We
best get out there.”
“I suppose so.”
I feel unbelievably naked.
As the foremost representative of the Ms. America pageant, I am called
upon to maintain a dignified appearance at all times.
That’s no easy trick in this getup but
how can I not hew to the bride’s wishes?
The last time I was a bridesmaid I had to wear yards of iridescent blue
satin fashioned into huge poufs.
At
the time I thought it was hideous but now I miss all that fabric.
“Do you think maybe Sally Anne forgot to
hire a photographer?”
Apparently she hears me from the hallway.
“Fat chance.
In fact, the whole shebang is gonna be
streamed live over the Web.
There
are hidden cameras all over the chapel.”
“Fabulous.”
I
hope none of the cameras zero in on my thong.
I wish Sally Anne had popped for the
fantail she reported having considered.
I force myself to step outside the dressing room into a sort of holding
area behind the chapel.
We’re not
in a church, mind you.
We’re in the
Cosmos Hotel, one of the big hotels on the Vegas Strip.
And when I say big, do I mean big.
Of course, everything in Vegas is
humungous.
They don’t do anything
on a modest scale here.
Shanelle is peering into the chapel through a door left
partly open.
I sidle next to her,
righting my plumage as I walk.
Apparently these ostrich feathers do not care to point heavenward even
on approach to a chapel.
“How many
guests are there?”
“Seventy or so.
Hey, I see your mom.
It was
nice of you to bring her to Vegas.
How’s she doing?”
“Only mediocre.”
“Still bummed about the divorce?”
“It’s not really that surprising.
They were married almost fifty
years.
I asked Pop to come on this
trip since he couldn’t go to Oahu but he didn’t want to.”
I don’t say why.
It bothers me, though since the divorce
he has every right.
“Jason would’ve
come but he couldn’t get off pit school this weekend,” I add.
She chuckles.
“Your husband, the NASCAR stud.
When he finishes his training, he’s gonna get hired on some pit crew,
girl.
I just feel it.
You best prepare yourself.”
“I know.
I’m
trying.”
I had to push Jason into
pit school, even though he’s wanted to go forever, but now that he’s there he’s
really getting into it.
I’m kind of
taken aback by how much.
“And Rachel’s a senior now, right?
How goes the whole applying-to-college
thing?”
“She’s studying for the SATs.
Which is why she’s not here this
weekend.”
I don’t mention that
Rachel has proposed a course of action other than college next year.
I cannot dwell on that possibility or
I’ll get too upset.
Just so you
know, I was Rachel’s age when I got pregnant.
I don’t let myself think about that
much, either, but when I do I understand my mom a whole lot better.
“What’s the latest with Lamar and
Devon?”
We’re just getting started on Shanelle’s husband and son
when Sally Anne appears behind us.
“Follow me,” she instructs.
We wend our way to the wide corridor outside the chapel’s
entrance.
It’s teeming with the
usual Vegas horde, people on their way to or from the gigantic lobby-level
casino, a midday show, a restaurant, or the Olympic-size pool beyond a glass
panel.
And before us, behind wide
double doors, is the
Forever Yours
chapel, which according to its signage offers nuptial services of the quickie
or planned variety.
That’s not all that’s in front of us.
Shanelle sets her hands on her hips.
“Whoa!
Is that a Rolls Royce or is that a Rolls
Royce?”
I’ve never seen one like it.
Convertible.
Mirrored exterior.
Hot pink leather interior.
Uniformed chauffeur behind the wheel.
“Of course it’s a Rolls.”
Sally Anne hoists herself atop the rear
bench seat.
“This is Vegas, baby!”
she chortles.
“Why does she keep saying that?” I mutter to Shanelle.
I attempt to follow Sally Anne into the
Rolls but she leans forward and slaps my fishnet-
stockinged
leg.
“Are you crazy?” she demands.
“You think I’m gonna make my entrance
with you two in the car?
Nobody’ll
give me so much as a glance!
You walk behind.”
“No way!” Shanelle says.
“The bridesmaids always go first up the
aisle.”
“Not this time, sister.
I want all eyes on me.”
I gesture to Shanelle to retreat.
It is Sally Anne’s Big Day, after all.
We get into position behind the Rolls.
A middle-aged woman in a pastel suit
emerges from the chapel to huddle with Sally Anne.
I’m guessing she’s the wedding planner.
A few minutes later she gives Shanelle and me the high
sign.
Apparently all systems are
go.
The chapel’s double doors swing
slowly open.
By this point I
wouldn’t expect anything traditional out of this wedding, but to my amazement I
hear the opening strains of Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus” pipe from the music
system.
On a more unconventional
note, pink smoke billows from a fog machine, providing rather a contrast with
the dignity of the processional music.
Of course, neither the Rolls nor the showgirl costumes are exactly
elegant touches.
The Rolls moves forward.
Shanelle and I follow clutching our
sprayed rose bouquets.
On both
sides of the aisle guests stand and crane their necks in our direction.
Ahead at the altar I spy the tuxedoed
groom and best man.
Frank Richter, Sally Anne’s intended, can best be described
as burly.
He’s not the tallest of
individuals, nor has he been gifted with a full head of hair.
Most of what remains has faded from
brown to gray.
But I am happy to
see that his eyes positively glow as they fix on his bride.
Frank’s best man is his nephew Danny.
He’s good-looking in a bad-boy way.
He sports stubble along his chiseled jaw
line and clearly puts in the hours in the gym.
He has kind of a cocky attitude, too, I
can tell, even though he’s just standing there.
“Are my eyes playing tricks,” Shanelle whispers, “or does
the best man have a black eye?”
“He does.
That’s
weird.”
Even stranger, though, is that by this point I am having
trouble seeing what’s ahead of me.
The rose-colored smoke is doing a bang-up job of filling the chapel.
Beside me Shanelle coughs.
“Dang, I hope my asthma doesn’t act up.”
“What’s going on with this smoke?” a man bellows from the
east forty.
Soon all I can see is the rear of the Rolls and Sally Anne’s
hulking outline up top.
I note that
Shanelle is no longer the only person coughing.
As we creep up the aisle, I hear hacking
from every quarter.
An older woman
stumbles past me making for the exit, her hand over her mouth.
It’s not my mom, though I can hardly
imagine she’s sitting still through this.
Then I hear a few popping sounds.
“Now the damn Rolls is backfiring,” I manage to spit
out.
I’m close to wheezing.
Poor Sally Anne.
She may have a hard edge but I want her
to be happy.
I don’t think that’ll
be the case if her wedding guests get asphyxiated.
I clutch Shanelle’s arm.
“Is it just me or are you feeling dizzy,
too?”
“I’m way past dizzy,” Shanelle gasps.
“I can barely get air in my lungs.
I can’t take much more of this.”
“Then get out, Shanelle.
If you can’t breathe, get out.”
She needs no more encouragement to bolt.
And she has lots of company.
This chapel is emptying faster than a
beach after a shark sighting.