of the U–shaped spruce blue natural stone driveway in front of my half Tuscan, half modern home sits the red bulldog revving its engine. I hop in. Fenced in a summery bloom, in the center region of the driveway, poses a white marble sculpture of my grandfather on top of a mustang horse, embracing the drumming of rain for it works to polish. Remarkably, the sculpture remains white unlike the others of tortoises in the front yard which have transitioned to more of a light gray marble dulled by years of pitiless weather.
The light rain patters upon the marble statue, hitting it at an angle so that a congestion of raindrops at the horse’s right lower lid effuses the blue snapshot of a crying stallion. Malia steers the car leisurely around the dark salmon and peach pink yarrows encircling the crackerjack statue. Together, the flowers and the perennial spitting image of a jockey, who’d once espoused cavalry mores in his youth, are positively baroque.
The car eases into the presence of the ten–foot dual swing, aluminum contrived, and burly gate. At once the automatic gate opens from the car sensor. Malia stomps on the pedal before I can ask, “Where’s Carrera?”
At first, seeing it was her who drove the Jeep on the beach took me by surprise. I now know. Jake only uses his Jeep when he goes to the beach. His great ardor for sports cars took a front seat when he met Malia, whose Porsche he loves more than apple pie, a sweetness no one can deny. It’s his adopted kid now.
He’d been driving the Jeep when he got me earlier in the day, around civil twilight to go surf. He and Lucas ditched me at the beach to go get ready for the wedding. She must’ve stopped by his house on her way to the beach to switch cars since a two–seater Porsche has no vacancy for a surfboard, unless that surfboard’s attached to a keychain.
The hurricane weather hinders into a simple drizzle. The streets are still flooded with vast black puddles.
We’re going 90 in a 45–mph zone—in a Jeep! I love living life like there’s a world where there’s no speed limit, but this isn’t the autobahn and we’re in a freaking Jeep! It in no way rivals her Porsche Carrera. These cars are not built for speed. At best, this car could go 115.
At least the top is on now.
Malia’s changing lanes without using her blinkers.
“At the intersection ahead of us we have to make a left,” I inform her without vigor.
The car slid across the coming turn having its rubber wheels screech and another car almost collide with us. The silver vehicle was making a U–turn from the parallel road onto the same lane. They sound their horn coming to a complete stop as we drive off. Hearing cursing from behind, I turn my body to her.
Whoa Fish, you wouldn’t want to get ourselves killed now, would you? I try and verbalize, stunned by her driving. Out comes a gaggle fuck of words. “Wow–ish, would not us killed right?”
“We had the right of way,” Malia sings as if to mock my shock.
The Kombucha energy shot kicks into full gear hyping up my awareness. “We nearly died.”
She’s mad. I can tell by the way she’s gripping onto the steering wheel that she wants to tear my head off. The news correspondent on the radio reports that Hurricane Raziel will diminish by tonight. I’m unsure of her own certainty as the wind howls loudly from out on the streets where small houses are left roofless and palm trees have been ripped right off the grounds of our neighboring towns. It’s mainly the impoverished folk who get the greatest portion in property damages.
The news correspondent begins stating some new Guinness World Records. Her flamboyant voice makes the weather report sound like an intro to a game show. This hurricane has stolen the lifespan record from Hurricane John which lasted thirty–one days in 1994. It also takes the record from Hurricane John for farthest distance traveled. Today would make Raziel fifty–two days old and a traveler of 10,000 miles compared to John’s 8,000 miles. This news is trivial to me. By the looks of it we’re going to make it.
Suddenly, the whole world comes together and there’s that brief tightening in my stomach where I realize that my sister’s getting married. I never thought this day would come. At least not this early. Not insinuating she’s ugly but she’s still young. Even if being an adult starts at eighteen in some cultures, marriage at twenty–three, the decision of that lifelong commitment being made at twenty–three is puzzling. Her fiancé holds a four–year seniority over her, which may not constitute a significant age gap. His perspective on what the appropriate age is to get married certainly differs.
I love my sister and I’m more than happy to welcome her fiancé, Erik Manta, into the picture. Being a Marine, he ain’t as stiff as I’d expected the man to be, and boy does he know how to party. That bachelor party was totally rad. I could write a novel on that night alone. If I start to think about it too much, I’ll get pumped and say something about last night better left unsaid at a wedding ceremony. All I know is that he’s a respectable guy and I trust him with someone as special as Jade.
“We’re here,” Malia informs me as she unstraps her seatbelt and gets out of the car, lending the valet her keys.
I was beginning to think she’d swallowed her own tongue. The thoroughly kempt blue–black–haired, dimpled young man in his black dress shirt and supplemental bright blue dress pants, opens up a transparent umbrella for her but is cruelly ignored. Malia shoves him out of her way. He then comes to my door and knocks on it while I sit there buttoned up in my tux. I hadn’t even noticed the car stop.
That was quick.
I know he’s knocking but from the corner of my eye, his wide eyes and nervous smile are priceless. I can see clearly from his worried pushing to get my attention that he’s been informed of us two being late. I finally open the door in a hurry and Malia is already jogging in high heels to the common area where all guests are to be seated. I don’t know how she managed to drive with those on.
I step out of the car and then it hits me just how fast that Jeep was moving. The dizziness takes its toll on me as I too ignore the valet attendant’s offered umbrella and continue walking.
“W–wait up!” I croak as I sway from side to side looking like a complete drunk. Great, now the aftermath of the bachelor party is flooding back to me. I press my hand to my stomach and bend forward.
Malia stops jogging and starts walking when she gets up to the main entrance where a curvy, crushed stone walkway awaits leading the path towards the temporary great hall of Califf Manor, giving me some time to catch up. The actual great hall is undergoing construction in another part of the manor, away from the wedding. A widespread white tent is over the area where the wedding is to take place. An alluring view from my position as it seems I’m about to enter a fine circus.
“We’re almost there idiot! I’m in high heels and I’m ahead of you,” she shouts out with her head turned drastically over her shoulder as if she were an owl and this were a race.
She seems to enjoy the pain of my headache caused by her lunatic driving. I stand up straight and gently grasp the inside of my tux jacket from each side as it’s slipping off my shoulders from trying to reach Malia. I realize I’m sweating. It could be some leftover ocean water on my tux. I sniff it just to make sure.
Nope, that’s definitely man stink.
Should’ve put on more cologne. Oh gosh, if I wasn’t already in a panic from Malia’s driving this sure did the trick. It reeks of onions. Almost got a tear out of me. Malia turns once again to look back at me as I go through the silver arch that’s the main entrance.
“Are you crying?”
“No, it’s just my man stink!” I exclaim in thought that I may be duplicating a homeless puppy’s appearance in her eyes.
I don’t cry. Men don’t cry and that debate’s over—finito.
Preoccupied with my scent, I don’t notice the crowd fast approaching. A host of redness. The world comes back into perspective as the smell sweet flowers…I take a long sniff of the air.
No. Not just any flowers—
Roses. Lemon, apple, clove. Their capricious fragrance fills the air. Often, I find there’s no smell to a rose, but an old rose emanates a musk, loamy scent.
Califf Manor—a western country club possessing an enormous garden lined with miles of red roses, only available to us because of the company my sister works for. Availability to rent out this place is slim to none. Only to elite members of the company is this area open for events such as this. I’m uncertain of what her position in that company requires of her. She Core is the company name. I normally tend not to ask questions and go with the flow. So, if I receive an invitation to a lavish garden party that happens to double as a wedding affair, complete with delectable food, you can count me in.
Besides this place having my last name in its title and being an associated She Core partnering events holder; I can’t make any other connections as to why the wedding is here. Figures point to it being owned by someone in the family. Perchance a distant cousin.
I follow Malia up the walkway as all I can think of as I look her down is, That’s a perfect ass.
I can’t believe Jake won over such a bombshell but then again, this Adonis of a surfer, Jake Gauthier, isn’t so bad looking himself. He, like Malia, is five years my senior. He’s a few inches taller than me with long sunny blond dreadlocks that fall below his shoulders, lazily humorous light–green eyes, and a slim but toned body. Still, Malia’s modelesque figure is out of his league by a long shot.
I don’t try to give off the wrong impression when people ask me about her. She attracts much attention. Malia is a beautiful gal, but Jake Gauthier is one of my best friends and I’d never do him wrong. Plus, he and Malia are bonded like gum to a shoe. Those two love birds are inseparable. They’re such cutie pies, I think to myself as we reach another silver arch. This time into the tent.
We walk into the temporary great hall where the wedding is about to start. People are seated on jumbo, bean–shaped lavender pillows laid out haphazardly across massive sky blue blankets. The mix of people on blankets remind me of an early afternoon picnic at the park, beside a lake. Families are gathered in groups on the floor and pillows instead of your regular lined bench seating in church weddings. They sit in various formations with some lying with their legs flat out in front of them on the blanket and others sitting Indian style, knees to chest, and mermaid style. The last position is used principally by the women of the crowd. All these men and women are in vogue wear including the children who look about ready for a fashion photoshoot.
The tent has a retractable roof that’s motorized by some control room in the range of the gardens. It opens, I assume, by a lever as the ceiling divides above us in a diagonal line. It raises up two right triangles that form a rectangular roof when together but panel out by separating to show the skies. Each triangle bends outward, curling over the longer walls of the rectangular compound and attach themselves to the outside gardens. Upon touching the grass outside of this temporary great hall, the cessation of motion from the flexible, sturdy poles upholding the structure induces subtle ground vibrations.
Promptly the skies rid themselves of any weather that’d inconvenience guests. The drifting hurricane was a glint in the eye of the skies as we drove here, with the sun gradually managing to come out the closer we got to Califf Manor.
The unique wedding altar between the bridesmaids and groomsmen is a fireproof and soundproof glass sphere that can hold a group of five adults inside. It has a rectangular opening that Erik stands in front of, waiting to take Jade’s hand so that together they can enter the sphere. It’ll close to contain the bride and groom at the time of their vows, offering them some unconventional privacy in what’s commonly a shared moment with guests.
On top of the sphere sits a bald Buddhist monk in the Indian lotus position. He wears a mustard yellow robe that’s been wrapped to cover his left shoulder but leaves the right shoulder and arm bare. He’ll be the wedding officiant today. There’s a flammable gel coat over the sphere spread thin enough so that it’s unnoticeable to the human eye. Using a match, the sphere will be lit on fire by the monk after the ending ceremony kiss. In a manic magic trick, he, Jade, and Erik will disappear in the flames to be seen again at the reception.
The Buddhist monk’s simulated self–immolation is his art piece as asked to be performed by Jade in remembrance of Quảng Đức—a Vietnamese Mahayana Buddhist monk who stood up for religious equality. Something Jade as an activist, past journalist, and caring human being feels strongly about.
Two professional photographers at the front of the hall will be ready to take the perfect snapshots as this and other memorable moments occur throughout the wedding and reception. One photographer was hired by Erik for their personal use in collecting memories while the other was invited by Jade to post the photos on some political media forum. Hoping it’ll attract attention for a cause she believes has long been forgotten. Mainly in countries that’ve dwindling religious diversity due to an overreaching regime.
I quickly run to the groomsmen side where my spot is last in line. Malia has to go on the opposite side with the girls but not before she gives Jake a big smooch right on the lips, getting beige nude lipstick all over him. Jake jokes that her kissing quota has been filled for the day. I overhear another groomsman mutter under his breath, “Lucky bastard.”
I look to Jake, only two groomsmen to my right now that I’m facing the pool of two hundred guests. He crisply utters, “I know.”
He’s only wearing the vest portion of his tuxedo above the waist, with gray dress pants and black surf leather sandals under the belt. The gray vest has trim white lines that run vertically down the fabric and is at the very least buttoned.
“Dude seriously? To a formal event?”
“Yea bro, you know me. Always on that beach bum status on and off the beach.” He sticks his tongue out and does the surfer hand gesture called the shaka. The right hand’s three center fingers curled into the palm and the thumb and pinky sticking out in opposite directions like a pretend cellphone. Jake owns the surfer stereotype.
I should’ve worn a tank top. Then I wouldn’t be sweating right now. All other eight groomsmen match my outfit. I stop staring in Jake’s direction and avert my gaze down to my black dress shoes after I see Erik being the resolute groom in his Marine’s navy blue uniform, giving me the evil eye.
Erik’s a tall, blond crew–cut, trim man with a square jawline and chiseled nose. His piercing dark brown, velvety eyes condemn me for tardiness. Doubtless I’m late but better I got the surfing out of my system this morning or I wouldn’t be at the reception.
With a subtle flicker of nervousness, I direct my sight to the long white carpet at the smack center of the temporary great hall. Two flower girls emerge, wearing pink spaghetti strap organza gowns, bearing hefty baskets akin to big bird nests, brimming with pink ballerina rose petals. They’re Erik’s nieces. As they glide forward, each step a dance of grace, the weight of their burden seems but a whisper in the breeze, delicately offloading the petals and coating the white carpet. It’s as if nature herself had laid down a pathway of solemn benediction for the bride’s sacred passage.
There I stand waiting for my sister to walk down the aisle when she comes out ever so majestically. A princess so buoyant she could float in the scene of these warm blue skies emulated by the floor blankets guests are seated. Dressed in a sparkling white dress that’s long sleeved at the top and bloated with ruffles of shantung fabric at the bottom. The bouquet itself is an arrangement of eight–inch hot pink peonies with teal turquoise jewels, wrapped in a wide sheet of taupe silk.
Flamenco music progresses with sounds of rhythmic hand clapping and finger snapping. A petite woman in a brown floral lace dress with a white hat that resembles an orthopedic pillow, sits on a small, raised strawberry garden bed at the far right of the guests. The strawberries are in tune with her ruddy lipstick.
She begins to play her acoustic guitar producing a romantic Latin rhythm. More music follows with the band to her side coming together to add an ornamentation of festive elements from drums to trumpets and maracas. The whole crowd turns to look at the bride as she dances and twirls her way down the aisle smiling as if she’s in an ad for whitening toothpaste.
The top half of the gown is practically all lacing. At her waist is a teal skinny belt which matches us groomsmen’s teal ties. Being strapless at the top, her neck holds no jewelry, but her ears carry large teardrop diamond earrings. The blue hair pin with three white pearls that my father had given her, glistens so softly as it pinches her hair, one might miss it.
One of the most beautiful and glorious sights I’ve seen since the waves from last summer’s surf session in Peru. She brightens up the entire outdoors with her beauty. Her dazzling big brown eyes give life to anime animators. Her long brown hair is rolled up in a high–rise bun with her favorite flower, a light pink dahlia, sitting frail above her right ear. There’re blue–black viburnum berries on a slim delicate branch next to that flower, matching her dark chocolate hair color. If her hair wasn’t styled up it’d fall ending at her hips.
The music playing is cheerful and heartwarming. A tear runs down my cheek. The man stink, I think. Wait…no–no–no–nope. Can it be that I’m actually getting emotional? I haven’t cried in eight years since my dad died when I was nine. Now I’m tearing up a bit for the first time in so long. It was contradicting of me to think that men don’t cry.
All men are supposed to be emotionally ostracized from showing any sort of emotional passion towards anything in this world. A man draws a tear and he’s not a real man. Can’t believe I gave in to that illogical thinking walking into this wedding. I wipe the low–key tears from my face and smile as she dances down the aisle escorted by my older brother Kosta. He’s to her right, letting her take center stage as he walks two steps behind her clapping along with the sound of music.
Only two years my elder, Kosta looks exactly like me. Same black hair, shrewd dark brown eyes, five–foot–nine, big strong hands, and a perfect white smile achieved from braces and good hygiene. Although I’m slightly better looking despite the small difference in muscle tone. He has muscle mass and definition over me through his extra doses of protein powder and creatine in the pantry. His distracting tall mohawk though is what truly sets us apart. However, it isn’t as distracting today for my eyes are solely set on the bride.
She’s so happy. Ah, the illimitable human capacity for joy when in love. And the infectious nature of one happy soul to put the squeeze of not thinking too hard about being happy on all others.
The carefree atmosphere leads me to recall memories of us when we were kids. I flash back to a time in which all three of us would fight over the toy in the cereal box. The times we’d play hide–and–seek and she’d lock me in the closet making me sob. The time where she and Kosta taught me how to swim and then scared me into thinking crocodiles rest in the deepest part of our pool. Living in Florida, a backyard pool coming with a side of crocs or gators is not far off from reality. It certainly got tedious having to inspect every nook and cranny of our pool each time we went out for a swim, just in case some primitive reptile decided to set up camp.
Then there’s the moment in which Jade whooped my ass after I popped the heads off all her plastic dolls and hot glued them together to make a soccer ball. Cutting off her favorite unicorn plush toy’s mane was the last straw. I can still sense the faint impressions of scratches over the sides of my neck from when she choked me. Kosta managed to pull her off, slackening her grip by hitting her across the side of the head with a wooden rolling pin.
And then the moment she received that call. That dreadful sorrow of a call explaining that dad was gone—forever. She attempted to relay the message to my brother and I, but she was reasonably shaken and thus unintelligible. The terror on her face said it all. That day all the fighting stopped. We grew up, having to navigate the crucible of childhood amidst the shadow cast by his absence. How much she’s always cared for me comes to mind.
It’s amazing what the human mind can remember. I remember when I was a baby she’d sneak into my room and lift me up from the crib to hold me and play with me. Little did I know from that moment she’d be there for every surfing competition, every birthday, and all my graduations from elementary through high school. Always cooking for Kosta and me.
She cleaned up after our messes. Not just the physical ones in one of our homes. From our brother antics like breaking a window in the penthouse by playing catch to getting us out of trouble at school and helping us ward off crazy ex–girlfriends. The mother I never had. The woman I admire most in my life and aspire to be as courageous as is Jade.
How she could raise two young boys at the age of fifteen I’ll never cease to wonder. I wish our dad could see her today. He would be as immensely proud as I am to see her in all the success she’s accomplished from working. The lifestyle she’s managed to maintain for us after my dad’s passing could only be something of a dream come true.
Money isn’t anything but a current medium of exchange; no longer backed by gold but by debt. Once I was part of that world where materialistic things mattered but no more. I’m grateful for Jade’s success but I’m only happy if she is. And I always take to heart the lessons she and my father bestowed upon Kosta and me. This thought has sustained me throughout the years: to be compassionate and not thrive off stupidity in life is the road to eternal peace within.
As Daniel used to say, ‘Up strawberry vine, then adagio till sunrise.’ The phrase alludes to the natural process that is one’s maturation in life not unlike the ripening of strawberries. ‘Up strawberry vine’ refers to the growth phase which may require an initial climb, while ‘adagio till sunrise’ signifies a period of rest or dormancy until the next phase of growth. The way I see the path to marriage, Jade has earned this period of rest in which she can savor the melody of wedding bells, finding peace in knowing she’s found the one. Soaking up life’s slower moments and patiently immersing herself in a new beginning.
I miss my dad but right there and then, when Kosta handed Jade over to her husband and I saw that aged blue hair pin settled in her hair, I smiled knowing he watches from above.