You just don't expect to see gunfire at a wedding.
I know, because I've been in a lot of weddings, despite
my well–known aversion to them. "Always a bridesmaid,
never a bride" is not just a cautionary adage, it's my
personal credo.
Having a gigolo for a father might have contributed
something to that philosophy. Who really knows for sure?
Today Alexa, my best friend since grade school, glided
down the aisle of the chapel to the accompaniment of a
string quartet playing an elegant Handel air. For this
wedding, she wore a white strapless dress, complete with
tulle and beaded embroidery that made all the women sigh as
she passed. The low v–back and body–hugging
mermaid shape, along with her icy blonde beauty, provoked
quite a different response from the males in the
congregation.
I clutched my single calla lily, watching her entrance
with a mixture of awe and disbelief. How had Alexa
persuaded me to be her maid of honor, again?
And again.
And yet again.
"Shelby, you're my good luck charm," she had cooed
while I suffered through the circle of hell known
as "trying on bridesmaid dresses."
"How do you figure that?" I had asked, peeling off a
poufy satin monstrosity the color of Mountain Dew. "Every
time I've been your maid of honor, you've gotten divorced!"
"Oh, that has nothing to do with anything. Everything
goes off without a hitch when you're there."
"Maybe that's the problem. If I weren't around, there
would be some sort of hitch, and then you wouldn't be
hitched."
I admired Alexa's wildly unwavering enthusiasm for
weddings, and commitment, and all that "'til death do us
part" stuff. Especially since none of her marriages seemed
to last very long. Two years was the record so far, and
that was because her husband was working overseas for one
of those years.
Which was supposedly the reason for the end of that
union.
That, and the next husband was already in her sights.
When the evil wedding consultant gleefully rolled in
another torture rack crammed with dresses for me to endure,
I shuddered. "Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe,
marriage isn't right for you?"
"That one." Alexa pointed to a strapless hot pink
mini–dress that could have worked—if Hooters
ever decided to cater weddings. "And why all these
concerns? Don't you like Jordan?"
"Of course I like him, silly. He seems perfect."
He was handsome, loving, and completely ga–ga for
his bride. Alexa told me during our numerous wedding
planning get–togethers, which thankfully required a
great deal of wine, about Jordan's great sense of humor,
and even greater job. Who wouldn't want him for a husband?
If I were the marrying kind, even I would want him for a
husband.
Although, as I recall, Husbands One through Three were
pretty darn perfect too.
Alexa smiled, spinning her index finger to indicate I
should twirl in front of her. "Maybe, Shelby, you're afraid
all of these weddings will change your mind about marriage."
"Ha!" I, the eternal bachelorette, scoffed, and quite
eloquently. Alexa raised her eyebrow as if debating whether
to get out of her chair and start the Heimlich maneuver on
me.
In the end, I gave up trying to make Alexa see the
multiple incredible benefits to staying single. I'll
probably be her bridesmaid when we're bunkmates in the
nursing home, although by then I'll be adjusting the tapes
of her adult diaper, rather than the tiers of her
lace–edged wedding veil.
I agreed to be her maid of honor this one last time.
Of course, I didn't realize when I made the promise
this would be Alexa's final chance to stand at the altar.
At the minister's signal, Alexa handed me her bouquet
of cascading white lilies and then she faced Jordan, ready
to promise to love, cherish, and obey the (fourth) man of
her dreams. She beamed at him, eliciting a few more wistful
sighs behind us at the evidence of true love. Or maybe it
was for the handsome groom in his single–breasted
designer tuxedo, beaming right back at her.
Reverend Deering asked Alexa to repeat the vows she
most likely had memorized several ceremonies ago. I had
heard them often enough that I could have stepped in to
recite the words if either of them were prevented from
completing their duties.
"I, Alexa, take thee Jordan—"
A ray of June sunshine chose that moment to burst
through the chapel windows, highlighting the promise
contained in the newlyweds' expressions. Even I felt swept
up in the optimism that accompanied each and every one of
Alexa's weddings. My heart beat with hopefulness, and I
wondered if someday I would—
Out of nowhere, gunfire erupted, a quick succession of
pop, pop, pop.
Screams quickly followed, along with the frantic sounds
of the congregation scrambling for shelter under the wooden
pews.
"Sonofabitch!" I tossed the bouquet over my shoulder,
as I'd seen Alexa do millions of times, and darted toward
my suddenly bleeding best friend, knocking her to the floor
to prevent any further harm.
I looked up and saw the minister cowering under a pew,
tugging at the tulle swag that moments ago had been
decoration, not flimsy protection against wayward bullets.
My heart pounded while my brain struggled with two wildly
different thoughts.
One, the blood spurting from Alexa's shoulder ensured I
would never have to wear this
peach–yogurt–colored dress again.
And two, who could possibly hate weddings more than I
did?