The Chapel Wars (14 page)

“We didn’t. I did.”

“You’re provoking me,” Mom said.

“Whatever. I’m going in. Tell Dad thanks for not coming.” He kicked at the door and didn’t look back when Mom called after him.

“Find us after your performance.”

“I don’t care,” he yelled.

Mom and I were silent. It could have been worse. At least he didn’t actually call her a name—he’d done that. Or break something or punch a hole in the wall or break his hand punching a hole in the wall. Mrs. Georgia told us that his hands are his outlet for his anger. Without the piano, it would be worse.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said.

“Next year for Christmas, let’s go on a cruise.” Mom chewed on her lip. “I should probably go in and save us some seats. Can you wait for your father?”

“I guess,” I said. “I didn’t want to watch anyway.”

“He’s coming,” Mom said decisively.

I didn’t say he wasn’t. It might just be
after
the concert that he actually showed up.

The fountain outside was probably considered modern when it was built, but now it just looked like an afterthought sculpture with leaking water. I counted all the coins inside, the number of women wearing hats, and the minutes. I was pretty accurate at knowing how many minutes went by without counting seconds.

Twenty-one minutes later, Dad came huffing up the stairs. “Sorry. Late. Had. A. Meeting.”

“It’s fine.” I checked my watch. Twenty-two minutes. Close. “James will actually have a reason to be mad at you this time. You okay?”

Dad bent over, hands on knees, and caught his breath. “Was your mother upset?”

“Is she ever upset?” I paused. “It’s Christmas. What kind of meeting would you have on Christmas?”

“What?” Dad yanked open the lobby door.

“The reason you were late.”

“Just some thing for work.”

“I know, but what kind of thing?” I asked. Because my dad didn’t ever have “meetings.” He had “shoots” or “jobs” or even “appointments.” But I never heard him say “meeting.” And I don’t care what job you have, meetings are never scheduled on Christmas morning.

Dad hurried across the hallway. “Wow, third degree. I had to meet someone, okay? How about you, how was your morning?”

“So it wasn’t a thing, it was a who. Is this who a she?”

“What’s with you?”

He didn’t answer my question. Why wouldn’t he answer my question? Why couldn’t he just tell me the truth for once? Tell me why he divorced my mom and if he was dating someone now. That’s not a lot to ask. It’s not like I cared all that much what he was doing, I just hated that he was shady about it. If he wanted to protect Mom, fine, then tell me that. Be an adult. “I just wonder at what age you’ll start to be honest with me.”

“Who says I’m not? You’re on one today.” He cracked open the door to the theater. “There’s your mom. We made it.”

“I’m not
on one
, I just want—”

He was already down the aisle, halfway across the pew. He didn’t hear me; he never heard me. I don’t know why I let in those little pricks of caring. It wasn’t worth it. James was proof.

The choir ended, and someone got up and read scriptures about Christ’s birth. Our family had always been vaguely Catholic, going to church on holidays and wherever James had a concert. In the last year or so, his reputation had landed him more and more religious gigs, so we were getting closer to churchgoer status.

This particular church I liked because they didn’t let the babies in the chapel and the acoustics made James’s music soar. James walked across the stage, all slouchy posture and pinched features. He flopped down on the bench, shook out his hands, then tore into his piece, fingers pounding in a frenzy.

Mom put James and me into piano when I was nine and he was five. My brief piano career lasted approximately thirteen months, until my mom learned I was paying the piano teacher, a keyboardist for a struggling Strip headliner, three dollars a session
not
to make me practice. Mom promptly ditched that teacher and hired Mrs. Georgia, who would not accept such a lazy student and used that extra half hour to prodigize my little brother. James went from once-a-week half-hour lessons to hours and hours of tutelage. My parents poured money neither of them had into his magical fingers. James played at churches,
colleges, festivals, and competitions. Even with all the angst and turmoil he’d had over the last couple of years, he still played every day, without fail.

Someone coughed a few rows ahead of us, but besides that, the only sound in that church was James’s music. Jesus crescendoed to life and died in a stretch of mournful notes. James hit the final part, the part that Mrs. Georgia told him was supposed to be hopeful. The emotion soared from his fingers, but the song was bittersweet. Tears pricked my eyes. The Christmas story was joyful, but I couldn’t feel it in James’s interpretation. Only longing, so much longing.

James didn’t even acknowledge the thick applause, just flicked his gaze to our pew. Dad waved and James dropped his eyes. Those same hands that had filled the church with such harrowing music were now fiercely clenched as he walked off the stage.

I’d never been more stressed about New Year’s Eve in my life. This included last year, when Grant got a room at the Excalibur, a Camelot-themed hotel that is more smoke than magic. No matter, we were on the Strip, and the boys would be able to find girls to kiss in the new year. But there was also a curfew, and a cop spotted us the minute we walked outside. Instead, we had to stay in the hotel and play stupid carnival games and couldn’t leave until early morning because everything was blocked off, and we all got in trouble and what did we have to show for it? A fake sword Grant won from Skeeball Tickets.

No, this year was even worse. Because after a month and a half, we had increased our wedding numbers by only 25 percent. Great under normal circumstances, but not when we were
shooting for 100 percent. That 75 percent was going to take some effort and imagination.

And if not imagination, then Elvis.

I am not exaggerating when I say that almost every single chapel on the Las Vegas strip offered some sort of Elvis package. Although there were only a handful of really good impersonators, there were plenty of guys willing to stick on a suit and snarl their lips. So at any given second in this city, “Love Me Tender” is being serenaded to a giggling bride.

Except, of course, at our chapel. We turned away at least one couple a week because they wanted Elvis and only Elvis. It’s not like Minister Dan couldn’t do it—he was a private contractor, so he worked at other chapels. At sixty-two, he wasn’t the most convincing Elvis, but the Germans and Koreans always seemed to like him. We could use the German and Korean money too, you know. And the British, the Taiwanese, the Brazilian, the Ethiopian …

In years past, Grandpa had closed the chapel at seven so we could get out of downtown before the New Year’s crazies came out. This year, I scheduled an all-night shift and an all-day shift so we could compete with the round-the-clockers.

I was praying that the crazies came out tonight.

In order to get the word out that Elvis was now in the building, I had everyone,
everyone
, dress like Elvis. Minister Dan got the authentic rental. The rest of us wore cheap knock-offs or homemade costumes. You can guess how this mandate was received.

“This jumpsuit makes me look like I have cellulite on my
butt,” Sam said. “I’m too young and too much of a man to worry about cellulite, Holls.”

“I think your butt looks cute.” Camille gave it a slap for good measure. “And I love the sequins. The world should wear more sequins.”

“I appreciate your positive attitude,” I said.

She squinted at me. “You need some eye shadow. You can’t wear something like that without makeup, it totally washes you out.”

“There is a chipped rhinestone falcon on my back. I think I’m making enough of a statement.”

“It’s New Year’s. An overdose of sparkle is like a law. Bride’s Room. Go.”

And that’s how I found myself getting the full Elvis makeover.

Camille talked a torrent as she tweezed, teased, and perfumed. “I don’t want you to think I do this all the time. I think it’s gross using your makeup on someone else. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“You need to work what your mama gave you more.” She blew a curl out of her face. “A selfish part of me is glad you go for the whole androgynous look so I don’t have to worry about you and Sam, but I’m your friend too.”

“Camille, I don’t think anyone puts as much thought into this kind of stuff as you.”

“Yes they do. It’s called the fashion and beauty industry. Look, I get that you have this whole wear-black-and-white thing going
for you, but … you don’t really have that going for you. You know?”

“Are you done? You’ve already insulted me four times.”

She turned me around to face the mirror. “And complimented you seven. Now don’t let a parking lot get in your way tonight.”

I sneezed glitter. “What, like, Dax? He’s working. I’m working.”

“A hundred feet away from each other. So find some time to work
it
. You look sexy in that suit. I would have told you to go with a push-up bra, but still.”

“A push-up bra’s not going to matter for you because you’re wearing the sandwich board on the Strip.”

Camille grimaced. “Next time I give you a makeover, remind me to give you the how-to-hook-a-sister-up talk. You’re a failure.”

“It could be worse. James and I have to stand in front of the chapel and wave signs around. At least you and Sam get to go to the Strip. If you see anyone coupley, give them a brochure. And please make sure you don’t make out all night.”

“Would you notice two Elvis’s kissing?”

“Yes.”

“See? Good advertising. I’ll be sure and turn so they see the sandwich board.” She blew me a kiss and flounced out with a bag full of flyers.

Alarmingly, I was starting to like that girl.

The adults were in the break room. They stopped talking when I came in. I almost started singing “Viva Las Vegas,” but they didn’t look up for it.

Mom had on a blue jumpsuit with a wide white belt and white scarf. Dad’s was classic black, muted, with only a few rhinestones. Minister Dan looked the best, in a blindingly bedazzled white getup complete with a red-and-gold cape, sunglasses, and sideburns that could almost pass as real.

And then there was Donna. Oh, Donna. A mauve suit today. She might as well have given me the middle finger.

It’s not like I wanted to do this whole Elvis promotion either. Yes, the man represented Vegas—he was fake married here for
Viva Las Vegas
, real married here to Priscilla Presley, and headlined for years. But I’d never understood how having some stranger dress up like a dead guy and sing was romantic to people.

“Donna, why haven’t you changed your clothes?”

“Because I’m not going to change,” Donna said crisply. “I find this whole thing incredibly offensive. You know how your grandfather felt about Elvis.”

I wiped my hands on my polyester pants. This suit was already giving me a wedgie. “Okay. I’ve said it to everyone individually at some point, but let me say it collectively now. We’re doing Elvis. We’re doing Marilyn.”

“Monroe or Manson?” Dad asked.

“Either. Or. And. I understand and agree with everyone that this is new territory for us, territory that Grandpa would rather not have explored. But as I see it, we have about two months to make a miracle happen, and the only way that miracle is going to happen is if we slap on some bell bottoms and give the people
what they want. I’m not saying we sell out forever, just a little. Just for now.”

“It’s your chapel,” Mom said. “Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not sure. I have no idea what I’m doing. But I’m trying
something
. So come on, little lady.” I knelt on the ground and held up one hand. I tried to do the Elvis lip snarl, but I’m pretty sure I just looked like I had to sneeze. “Who’s with me?”

“Uh-uh-huh!” Minister Dan said in a spot-on impersonation.

“I swear this suit is chafing me. Is anyone else chafing?” Dad grabbed a soda and wandered out of the room. Mom started talking schedule. I was still kneeling, waiting for applause. Donna held out a hand. “He might have hated Elvis, but he would have loved that awful speech.”

“Maybe he heard. Maybe he’s sitting on a cloud watching.”

“Maybe.” She puckered her lips. “Now why don’t you go outside and make sure our next couple makes it into the chapel. Once Cranston gets wind that we’ve gone Elvis, he’s going to start outselling us right in the parking lot.”

If you wear it, the people will come. They came in jeans, they came in tank tops. Dresses and top hats, wranglers and vests. They came planned, they came spontaneously. They came somber, sober, or drunk. It didn’t matter. The people came.

In only six and a half hours, we married more couples than we had on any date in the last two years. I bounced along the street, swaying my hips like I was the King himself. We were in
new territory, tacky territory, but also that magical place where the “im” part of “impossible” faded into the casino smoke.