Fat Tuesday(95)

But when he opened his eyes, they weren't greeted by the louvered shutters on the windows overlooking the courtyard behind his townhouse.

Instead he saw a pair of ugly curtains hanging unevenly from an oxidized brass rod. Meager gray light leaked through the faded calico.

Raindrops as heavy as sinkers dripped from the eaves of the house in which he'd spent the night.

He had blessed his rescuers for saving him. He had thanked them profusely for their hospitality. They, in turn, had asked his blessing on their son and his pregnant second cousin. Father Gregory, having no alternative that he could see, had agreed to perform a wedding ceremony.

It was planned for today. He hoped he remembered all the words.

Seminary seemed eons ago. But then so did all his life prior to the night Basile had arrested him in that men's room in City Park.

Gregory cursed his rotten luck. What had compelled him to cruise the park that evening? Why hadn't he gone to the movies instead?

It wouldn't have mattered, he thought dismally as he pulled on his soiled clothes. Sooner or later Basile would have conscripted him to fight in his private war against Pinkie Duvall. Basile had needed someone with Gregory's unique combination of qualifications. If Basile hadn't accosted him in the park, it would have been somewhere else.

After checking his appearance in the cloudy mirror, he left the bedroom. The family were gathered in the large room where the kitchen was separated from the living area by a bar. The groom was sitting at it slurping up Lucky Charms, the bride putting curlers in her hair.

Preparations for the wedding were in full swing. A cup of coffee was pushed into his hand as he was introduced to the grandmas, aunts, and nieces who had already arrived, volunteers pitching in to get everything ready in time for the guests' arrival. The rain was goodnaturedly cursed, he was asked to intercede and ask God for sunshine later in the day. Smiling sickly, he promised to pass along the request. Delicious cooking aromas emanated from the cook stove. Cases of beer were carried in on the shoulders of burly male relatives. Being as unobtrusive as possible, Gregory moved from window to window, looking through the rain in search of an avenue of escape. Last night it had seemed that the house was built on an island. He was relieved to see that it was actually situated on the tip of a peninsula with a crushed-shell road about fifty yards long, leading from solid ground along that narrow finger of land to the house.

By noon the house had begun to fill up with friends and relatives, all bearing food gumbos and crawfish, andouille and boudin sausages, shrimp creole, red beans and rice, smoked pork, even a multitiered white coconut cake with a plastic bride and groom on top.

Gregory understood only a few words of their lively conversation.

It was obvious they were a closely knit group, and that he was definitely the sole outsider. Each new arrival regarded him with suspicion. He tried to dispel their distrust with a beatific smile, although he wasn't sure it was convincing since his face still looked like it had been trampled by a horde of linebackers. None of the family or wedding guests asked why he was willing to perform the ceremony when other priests had declined on moral grounds. When he signed the marriage license, the father mumbled thanks.

Although they didn't embrace the stranger in their midst, they thoroughly enjoyed being around each other. The walls of the house seemed to expand and recede with the racket they generated, especially when the musicians began tuning their instruments.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, the bride sheepishly entered the large room. She was wearing a long, flowered dress Gregory had seen one of the grandmas hastily altering earlier, presumably to accommodate her distended stomach. The menfolk shoved the stumbling, half-drunk groom forward to take his place at the side of his blushing bride.

Together they faced Father Gregory, who began the ceremony by invoking God's blessing on this wonderful gathering of family and friends If he boggled the sacrament, they weren't sober enough to notice.

In under five minutes, the happy couple turned to one another to seal with a kiss a marriage that was entirely fraudulent. Father Gregory didn't give a flying you-know-what. He just wanted to get the hell out of there before he was exposed as an imposter.

He ate with them. He drank one beer. They showed no such restraint and consumed seemingly endless quantities of it. The more they drank, the louder the music became and the more energetic the dancing. Two fistfights erupted but were settled with a minimum of bloodshed. As dusk fell, the interior of the house grew steamy from the simmering food, sweating people, and the passion that seemed to fuel everything they did. Someone opened the doors to help ventilate the house.

And it was through one of those doors that Father Gregory sneaked out, wearing one of the male cousin's wool jacket and cap.

Rain pelted him, but as soon as he cleared the doorway, he made a mad dash for the shed that sheltered the boat that had conveyed them there the night before. He didn't even consider getting back into the boat he'd stolen from Dredd and which was now moored beside the family's craft. No more swamp, thank you very much. From now on, he'd take his chances on land. It was rife with potential hazards, but at least they weren't quite as alien.

Looking back toward the house, he saw no sign that anyone had noticed his escape. He ducked his head against the rain and ran from the shed.

Moving along in a crouch, he ran as hard as he'd ever run in his life, exerting himself to the maximum of his limited capacity, racing until he thought his lungs would burst. He sobbed with unrestrained joy when he reached the end of the lane.