CHAPTER 4  

Vows

This truck isn’t mine, these diamonds aren’t mine, and this Grace beside me, this suddenly here, utterly soaked woman, she’s not mine, either. But God, she’s lovely.

“You’re lovely,” I say.

“Uh-huh.” The redhead rolls her eyes. She’s riding shotgun in wet blue jeans, a wet white T-shirt, brown leather boots. A few exits back, she walked through a car wash to get to me.

“Well, what’m I supposed to say?” I’m driving on Route 90 in Wisconsin. The morning sun’s out, and I see signs for strange towns. Baraboo. Hustler.

“Stop off at this exit,” says Grace.

“Why?”

She smiles. Her teeth are thirty-two perfect reasons to shut up and obey.

“Well, Henry Dante, if I’m hitching west with you, I’ll need to buy some things.”

So I pull off. This Grace, she directs me to a white concrete superstore, where she runs inside alone. I wait in the truck, cursing the weakness of man, knowing I should bolt.

“Dammit,” I say. Stashed below my seat is the gun I took from Roger. I took his pride, too, and he’ll want both things back. He and Honey will come for me soon enough. So I ask myself the right questions. Why’d you grab the diamonds, Dante? Why’d you pick up the woman?

The thing is, there are bold moments sometimes, moments that scare you and call to you all at once. When I was young, my parents’ house was as ramshackle as their marriage, but we lived close to the Plainfield Drive-in, and late on summer nights, while my mother and father fucked or fought in their bedroom, I crawled up through our attic to the batshit-caked roof. I stared at the drive-in from there, saw giant, glowing humans, and bats flapped close. When I huddled on high like that, my blood raced. The bats thrilled past my ears, and Karen Allen’s cleavage was in tight trouble on the screen, and common sense softened in my head. I had longings, made impossible decisions to run away. I would become a Portuguese matador, or scale three Himalayas in a week, or discover the formula for cold fusion but share it only with leggy Southern belles.

“Dammit,” I say again, staring at the superstore.

It wasn’t just the drive-in that ripped the world open for me, made me want to explode, break out. One time when I was thirteen, walking in the woods near my house, I found a frog that seemed to have a six-foot tail. As it turned out, the frog was being swallowed by a snake, and the snake’s mouth, stretched wide, was taking its deadly, horrible time. I stood frozen, my arm hairs tingling. What I was seeing might have repulsed other kids, but to me, it presented possibilities. At that moment, the frog and snake weren’t just themselves anymore, they’d become a brand-new creature, a mystical thing like a griffin, but a thing only I could recognize. Seeing that creature charged me up, made me want to become a new animal too.

What I mean is, sometimes the atoms of the world rush together, and burst out of their regular day jobs, and give you a show. They dare you to do something fresh, something right, something beautiful. That’s all the explanation I’ve got for what’s gone on this morning. That lucky, living squirrel, the Planets, Helena Pressman—they teamed up on me, got me primed to steal and flee and let a sopping wet vision into my truck.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

Grace comes out of the superstore. She’s still in her leather work boots, but she’s no longer sopping. In fact, she’s in a dress now, a mustard-colored Navajo-looking buckskin thing with the price tag still on the hem. Also, she’s got a new black satchel over her shoulder and it’s full of who knows what. Feminine wiles, probably.

“Even lovelier,” I say, when she’s back beside me. We head west on the 90, but my attention’s on Grace, on the tiny whorls of down along her jawbone. Her feet are out of her boots now. She spreads ten marvelous toes on the dashboard, dries them in the sun.

“They had an ATM. I took out three hundred dollars, but I’ve got more in my account.”

I’m still checking out her feet, her everything.

“I’ve got eight thousand dollars,” says Grace.

She bites the price tag off her dress, fidgets under my gaze. She fidgets and blushes and thinks her own thoughts. Her eyes are like chocolate, or the ground in a forest. On the other hand, how the hell do I know what her eyes are like? I’m only thirty-two.

“You just gonna keep staring at me?”

I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Till when?”

Till the moon splits in three, I think. Till the Red Sox win the Series. Till we both get what we want.

Grace tosses back her hair, which is the best red stuff I’ve seen. There’s no radio on, no perfect song by the Eagles or the Grateful Dead playing around us. But there might as well be.

“You’d better pull over,” says Grace.

Three miles later, I park at a rest stop. Grace and I pull each other into the truck bed. I tug my silver suitcase back there with us and toss it at my feet. The air mattress is already inflated, thanks to Charles Chalk. Everything happens fast and right. Off comes Grace’s dress and bra and panties, ditto my shirt, jeans, and the rest, and we’re at it. We claw and kiss. Grace tells me no screwing, which is fine, I guess, as long as certain mouths end up on certain things, which they do for both parties. Then there are moans, and busy tongues, and I’m tasting not just her body but her whole female swirl, her IQ, and her humor, maybe even her womb. We let out two huge yelps, and the ceremony’s done. We lie naked and stunned in each other’s arms, and the sun from the window’s across our bellies in the shape of a gift box, the kind long roses or rifles come in.

“God,” I say. “God, that was good.”

Neither of us has had anything better, ever. We don’t say that, but I feel it spread through my body like the truth, like the opposite of cancer. What I mean is, Bella Cavasti has been lying on a daybed in my mind for years, but she just stood up and left the room.

Grace kisses my neck, turns me on my side, and inspects my back, where my Four Horsemen tattoo stretches black and purple from my shoulders to my ass.

Grace whistles. “Whoa, mama.”

“That’s the Apocalypse.”

“I know what it is.” Grace touches the muzzle of one horse, Pestilence, I think, or else War. “When’d you get these guys?”

“High school. They’ve been chasing me ever since.”

Grace kisses each horse, rolls me back over, saddles herself on my stomach, her knees at my kidneys.

“Why’d you ever get such a creepy tattoo?”

I close my eyes, and for a flash, I’m fifteen again, bad at math, a Chicago sophomore, bulky, glaring, slouched against lockers. I remember skulking around the Coal Mine Tattoo Parlor, craving brutal colors, wanting a wild end to things, or a wild beginning.

When I open my eyes again, though, geometry’s gone, and so are my parents, who died in a car crash when I was twenty, and so is Honey Pobrinkis and me crewing for him. Instead there’s this Grace, with her thighs a tent over my torso, with her freckled Wisconsin skin.

“Maybe I got my Four Horsemen for the same reason you got in this truck.”

She leans down, kisses me. She likes what I just said. We share tongues until sweat and other juices of hers drip down her thighs to my ribs. I roll her onto her back and we’re at it again, but she still won’t let me have her the old-fashioned way. I ask what gives.

“I’m trying for heaven,” says Grace. “And if you want me, so are you.”

I don’t understand, but she’s right that I want her. So we get creative again, stroking and lapping, till we yelp the two yelps. We lie back, panting.

Her eyes snoop around the truck bed, the books and soup cans. “I was in a tree house like this once.”

“Wait,” I say. “So you’re religious?”

“I’m a Christian. I’m trying for heaven.”

I scratch my jaw. I was christened Catholic in my diaper days, but I haven’t been to church since forever. The secrets I’ve whispered to women’s thighs are the nearest I’ve come to confession.

“Trying for heaven,” I say. It sounds like a song name.

We’re both naked and it’s not yet noon. Grace sits up. She stares at my bullet-wound scars. “Those are from guns. You got shot, Henry Dante.”

“Three times.”

Grace fingers my scars, first the one above my hip, then the one on my shoulder, then the one on my neck. Her touch is timid, a little fearful. I can feel her asking questions, and I don’t blame her. They’re like nasty, raised volcano mouths, my scars are, except the ripples down their sides are skin instead of lava. Grace traces her fingertips over these eruptions, then looks away. She pokes her foot at my silver suitcase, like it’s a safe thing to focus on.

“If I’m going to stick around, you have to show me what’s in here.”

So I sit up, too, hold the case in my lap, pry it open, spill my story. I tell her about Don Canto, Honey Pobrinkis, Charles Chalk, Helena Pressman. I tell about how I’m on the lam, about some of the lives that I’ve smashed.

Grace stares at the Planets, absorbing. “So . . . you’re a tough one. A tough motherfucker.”

“Not always.”

“I’m not sure I should hang with a tough motherfucker.”

She hasn’t dared to touch the diamonds yet. Neither have I.

“I’m not so bad,” I say. “I’ve never greased somebody. Never killed anyone, I mean.”

“But your boss. Honey Pobrinkis. He kills people.”

I glance at the shotgun Charles mounted on the wall, the stack of shell boxes below it. I know what’s coming.

“If you work for a killer . . .” Grace swallows, like she needs extra air or food to say this. “If you work for a killer, if you help him at all, you’re a killer too.”

I’m a foot or so taller than this woman, almost twice her weight. I could beat her bones into pudding, talk sharp to her, argue high and hard for the man I’ve tried to be. But I’ve gone all my years without skin like hers kissing mine, and everything she’s said is true. Not only that, but, like I said before, the atoms of the world are in high gear this morning. They’re jumping out of their grooves and ganging up on me, daring me to choose this Grace. They’re prodding me to side with her instead of siding with my last seven years, where I’ve slept alone and never hung holiday lights.

I clear my throat. “I don’t work for him anymore.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t.”

“Is that a promise?”

I laugh, just a little. I’ve got seven wonders in my lap. I study Grace’s ribs, try to see the beliefs they’re guarding.

“Sure. Absolutely. It’s a promise.”

“Good.”

Out the window, a van of college dudes pulls in. They park three spaces down and tumble out, all laughter and language and baseball caps. The dudes lope into some shrubs, drop their pants, piss. I scowl out the window at them.

“May I say something else?” asks Grace.

“Say whatever you’d like.”

“Okay. Listen.” She leans close. “You have a soul, Henry Dante.”

“I know I have a soul.”

Grace licks her forefinger, traces it around my navel. “Well . . . it looks like you could use some help taking care of it.”

All of her body faces me, and so does something behind her eyes. I know I’m signing a declaration of dependence, but I don’t mind. Maybe Grace gets off on tending bad boys, but I don’t mind that either. She’s coming at me straight on, no pussy politics, and that jazzes me. I’m in. “Go for it,” I tell her.

“I will.”

I take the case from my lap, set it between us. We gaze at the stones. The Planets look hot and special in the late-morning sun. Grace and I glance at each other, children seeking permission. Then we give in, touch the Planets. We lie beside each other, hold these worlds in our palms, pass them back and forth. We clink Mars against Mercury, like we’re toasting champagne. We stack Saturn, Uranus, and Jupiter, then topple them. Light dances crazy off of each cut and facet, and Grace places Venus under her tongue like a gumdrop. She grins at me like she’ll swallow if I dare her, or else buy a mansion with what’s in her mouth. And just then, watching Grace, watching joy bulge her cheeks, I get it. I get why Charles grabbed for the Planets, why I took them myself, why I couldn’t leave them with Floyd and Roger or haul them back to Honey. They were made for sex and sunshine, these Planets were, for stupendous moments like the one in this truck. My groin goes hard, and I pick up the Earth, lick and kiss it all over. I push Grace on her back, get my hands between her calves.

“Olmph,” says Grace, surprised. She’s got Venus under her tongue, I’ve got the wet Earth sliding up her thigh, and her eyes say a naughty yes. She’s breathing heavy. I’m teasing Earth and my fingers higher, toward slick delight, when Grace sits up. She stops my hand, spits out Venus.

“Wait a minute,” she breathes.

“What?”

Grace takes Earth from me, sets it firmly in the suitcase foam. She puts the other six Planets back in too.

“What’s wrong?” I reach for her, but she bats my hand away.

“I just realized.” Grace finds her bra. “These diamonds. They were paid for with blood money.”

“Blood money?” I grin. Someone’s seen her share of movies.

“They were paid for by Honey Pobrinkis, right?”

“Right.”

Grace straps on her bra. “That’s blood money.”

I don’t know what to say. My cock deflates. Grace puts her panties back on. The panties look new and black, and they’ve got a stitched-on pink ladybug up around the belly.

“I don’t get it.”

Grace juts her chin toward the Planets. “If I’m going to stick around, we have to get rid of those. Give them away or something.”

“That’s crazy. They’re worth forty million bucks.”

She tugs her dress on.

“We could fly to Sri Lanka,” I suggest. “Buy a palace. Raise elephants.”

Grace crawls toward the cab like she’s leaving. I grab her ankle. She kicks me hard in the chest.

“Let me go!”

“Wait.” I’m still holding her foot.

Grace twists and kicks. “You can’t just sex me up with blood-money diamonds! I’ve got morals.”

“All right. All right. Just . . . hold on. Truce.”

Grace stops struggling, sits in a cross-legged pout. She arranges her hem over her knees. “Well?”

I look at the Planets. As of yesterday, I’d never seen them, but now they’re here, like destiny.

“Let me think.” I pull my jeans on. “This is a lot to . . . just let me think a minute.”

Grace looks around her, touches the Coleman stove, flips through a paperback called Little Julia Rants and Raves. “So this was Charles and Helena’s truck?”

“I—yes.”

“And Honey Pobrinkis won’t go after them, but he’ll come after you?”

“Right.”

Grace returns the book to its stack. “So why not ditch this truck and get another?”

I sigh, overcome by her topics. I put my hands on Grace’s shoulders, give her the dope about me. The dope about me is, no pussy politics. I can’t just duck charges, switch trucks or license plates. It sounds crazy, I tell her, but everyone deserves a sporting chance, even Honey.

“Hmm.” Grace gives me all of her eyes. “Can I say what I think about this?”

“Sure.”

“I think you’re seeking rectitude. I think that you, in a somewhat fucked-up way, want to atone for your sins.”

Sins, I think. Sins. “I’ve made some mistakes, if that’s what you mean.”

“I also think you’d like to screw me. To fill me with bliss.”

“Bingo.”

“Then here’s how it’ll be,” begins Grace.

A big, delicious pause happens. We’re in America, with a half tank of gas, and I’m sick of Chicago, the predictable grid. The long claw of Honey Pobrinkis might stretch out strong, but today my money’s on me. I’m a new animal, ready for wilderness.

“In the interest of atonement,” says Grace, “we’ll keep the truck, but ditch the Planets. We’ll give them away. Agreed?”

She’s perching her eyebrows, waiting on a yes.

I glance at the diamonds. “On one condition.”

“What?”

I clear my throat. Grace’s flavors are still on my tongue. “Well, the guy who made these, he was trying to give someone a stupendous gift. . . .”

“And?”

“And if we give them away, we should do it like he did.” I frown. I’m lousy at talking. “We should give each one away . . . stupendously.”

She kisses me. “Stupendously it is.”

I close the silver case. Grace and I are holding hands.

“Oh, one more thing,” she says. “In the interest of bliss, we’ll get married.”

I stare at this red, radical woman. So far this morning there’s been a hawk, sheep, and spilled blood. But Grace is the best crash yet in this bright, booming day.

I squeeze her hand. If she’s bewitching, I’m bewitched.

“Deal,” I say.

*  *  *

It turns out, though, that no one will marry us. Well, maybe a justice of the peace would, but Grace says we need a Christian wedding. After seven churches, though—Baptist, Methodist, Lutheran—we’re still just Henry and Grace, lovers in a truck, crossing the Minnesota border. All the preachers we’ve seen—some women, some men, one guy with breath like a mutt—want addresses, waiting periods, birth certificates. But Grace and I truck on into Minnesota, and Grace says God will give us a sign.

“Like lightning?” I joke. “Like a river of frogs?”

Grace says just wait, I’ll see. “It’ll be cool. It’ll be right.”

She’s in her Navajo dress, and I’m driving. It’s still today, the day we met, but it’s five in the afternoon. The sun’s got some batteries left. There’s an early peek of moon in the sky, and we’ve got the windows open. We breeze across the south of the state, still bearing west on the 90, and the sweetgrass smell of the wind is just right. Grace is just right too. She sits beside me with her legs drawn to her chest, her cheek on her knees, her eyes out her window. Her hair blusters, but she looks content, as if we’re an adventure instead of a madness, and maybe we are.

Grace whoops. “Here! Get off here. The next exit, I mean.”

“Why? How do you know there’s—”

“Look.” She points to a billboard that says blue earth, 1 mile. “I’ve never heard a better name for a place. Blue Earth. It sounds like a poem.”

“A poem?”

“A sign.”

So I get off the highway, onto a rural road. We pass gas stations, a Burger King, farmhouses, a carnival. The carnival’s set up on a sprawling, fallow field. It’s one of those traveling-show midways, the sort that plunks down in a new town each week. There’s a Ferris wheel, a Tilt-A-Whirl, and livestock shows and gaming booths. It’s Friday, and even though the midway lights aren’t glowing yet, they will be soon. I can almost smell those lights, just like I can smell the hundreds of Blue Earth children aching to arrive here tonight, aching to hurl darts at balloons and devour taffy. I recall Bella Cavasti, and our Foster Ave. magic, until Grace leans over and tongues at my neck.

I nod at the fairgrounds. “Should we stop?”

She shakes her head. We pass farms and fields, then homes with sweeping lawns and gabled roofs. Along the road before one such estate are shiny Cadillacs, sports cars, limousines. The limo closest to the house has a just married sign.

“Pull over,” says Grace.

I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I park. We walk up the driveway, which is full of James Bond–type cars. I’ve got my Planets case in one hand and Grace’s hand in my other, and I’m loving the evening air. Like me, Grace doesn’t know a soul here, but there’s shiny music from the backyard, so we round some white-brick corners and there’s the party.

“Damn,” says Grace.

Spread out on a lawn that looks blue in the tapering sun are three busy dance floors, and a brass band, and fountains of arcing waters. There’s an inground pool with no one in it, and there are hundreds of guests. All the men wear smooth black tuxes, while the women are in red. I check the men out first, looking for marks, for danger, but there’s not a gun-toting temper in sight, just martinis and big, easy bellies. The women are a trip. They’re chatting in squadrons of three or four, and their dresses and suits are as varied as valentines. Some are ruby, some pink, some are spitfire bright, and near a dance floor stands the lily-white bride, one hand on her veil.

Three waiters in gray blouses pass by, bearing bowls of caviar.

“Let’s find whoever married them,” says Grace. “Let’s find the preacher.”

We split up and wander different sides of the gig. I watch for holy folks, keep a bead on Grace. A small man with a pocket watch on his tux takes me aside.

“I’m the father of the bride. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I’m Roger,” I tell him. “Roger Pobrinkis.”

Mr. Pocket Watch smiles, does the math. His breath smells like sour mix, like a woman’s drink. “I don’t recall your name from the guest list, Roger.”

“I’m with the band. I do keyboards. And anthropology.”

“Ah. The band.” He nods at my denim jacket. “Hence the attire.”

“Henry! Over here!”

I turn, and beyond the pool is Grace. She’s standing by a white wooden fence. I walk over.

“In here.” Grace leads me through a door. The fence, it turns out, is an enclosure with four tall walls and no roof. It’s been built around a black metal monolith, a humming power box. It’s a filter, probably, a gizmo that keeps the pool clean and upper-class and warm. Sitting in deck chairs around the machine are three men. Two are waiters, sharing a joint, their blouses untucked, and the other’s a priest in a Roman collar. The priest looks my side of forty. He holds a tumbler of whiskey.

“Found him,” says Grace.

The priest wears a black shirt and black pants and has his bare feet against the monolith. “I’m Arthur Kelly,” he declares. “This is my third drink.”

“Dude.” The waiter holding the joint shakes my hand. “I’m Joe Kelly. I’m his cousin.”

The other waiter looks Cuban. His sideburns are as long as thumbs, and his eyes are delighted with Grace.

“Joseph and Alphonse are smoking weed,” says Arthur. “I am not, though I did in my past.”

“I work for the Timbersons.” Joe Kelly drags, holds his smoke. “Ron and Sheila. This is their house, man. You look like party crashers.”

“I forsook cannabis and took the cloth.”

Joe asks if we want a hit, but we don’t. Beneath us all is thick green grass.

“Alphonse speaks no English,” says the priest.

“Please join our hiatus,” says Joe.

“We’re happy to meet you,” says Arthur.

Joe’s eyes are bloodshot. “What’s in the suitcase?”

Grace clears her throat. “I’m Grace McGlone. This is Henry Dante. We’re trying for heaven.”

The priest swishes his tumbler, making the whiskey seesaw. “Again, please?”

“We need to get married,” explains Grace, “but I have questions for you first, please, Father Kelly.”

Alphonse frowns. The conversation is clouding his fine Caribbean high.

“Um . . . Listen here, call me Arthur. But I’m not sure I—”

“I have to make sure you’re legit, Arthur. Just a couple questions.”

Beyond the fence are party sounds, but we’re in the eye of the storm. The black machine hums on.

“My cousin’s ordained, man.” Joe passes Alphonse the roach. “He’s blessed and shit. I was there.”

Grace faces Arthur Kelly. “Can you tell me, please, Father Arthur, which book of the Bible contains the four songs of the suffering servant of Yahweh?”

The priest sets his whiskey in the grass. He sits up straight and looks at Grace, intrigued. “Isaiah.”

Grace nods. “And . . . hmm. It says in the Old Testament, and I quote, ‘Whoever gets up early to seek her will have no trouble but will find her sitting at the door. For she searches everywhere for those who are worthy of her.’ ” Grace adjusts her bra strap. “Well, Father? Who’s the ‘she’ in that quote?”

Joe pokes his cousin’s shoulder. “Guess Mary. I’ll bet it’s Mary.”

Alphonse drags on the roach, crosses himself.

“Wisdom.” Arthur shoos Joseph’s poking fingers. “The answer is Wisdom herself, Wisdom personified as a woman.”

Grace looks at me. “This guy’s pretty good.”

“All right,” I say.

“I’ll ask him one more.”

“All right.”

Joe crosses his arms. “Fifty bucks he gets it, man.”

Grace thinks. The band outside plays “Silhouettes.” Despite the warm black box, Grace has goose bumps on her arms. I take my coat off, give it to her.

“Is this all really necessary?” says the priest.

Grace arranges my coat on her shoulders. “All right, Father. In the Gospels, Jesus cures a possessed man. The Lord makes the demons leave the man, but lets them enter a nearby herd. Then the possessed animals charge down a hill and drown in a lake. What kind of animals were they?”

“Goats, Art,” whispers Joe. “In Bible times the world was chock-full of goats.”

Arthur says, “Pigs. I’m not a fundamentalist, and we could debate the literal veracity of the incident, but the animals are pigs.”

“Dude, hold up. Are you sure? It’s pigs?”

“It’s pigs,” confirms Grace.

Joe throws his arms up, Rocky style. “It’s pigs! It’s pigs, man! Arthur wins!”

“Well done, Father. We’d like you to marry us now.” Grace fixes her hair.

“Marry you?”

“Yes. Right here, right now, please. Sorry about the questions, but I had to check your credentials.”

Joseph lights up a fresh joint, drags. “You know who it sucks to be in that story? The pig farmer. His porkers go ballistic and drown themselves? Guy’s wife must’ve been ripshit.”

“Cerdos muertos,” says Alphonse.

“You want me to marry you?” The priest is standing, facing Grace and me.

“Yes, please,” says Grace.

Arthur looks us over. He’s probably sizing us up in some sneaky way they taught him at seminary, but I’m unafraid, curious. My hand is in Grace’s, and the power box is churning, and it’s spring.

“Is either of you Catholic?”

“We’re Christians,” says Grace.

I tell him I was baptized Catholic.

Arthur rubs his chin. “Are you going to quiz me too?”

I don’t remember much about church. There were smells, stories, boredom. I study the fence around us, the way it hides us from the real guests.

“Nope,” I say.

Joe Kelly throws his head back, peers at the sky. “Henry and Grace have got a suitcase. What’s in the suitcase, Henry and Grace?”

“Marry us,” Grace tells the priest, “we’re ready.”

And the thing is, we are. I know I shouldn’t have the truck, or the two guns. I know there’s supposed to be years of fights and picnics, and she hates cats, and I learn to listen. But sometimes it’s not that way. Sometimes it’s fast, barely lawful. Sometimes it’s two strangers with sex in their teeth and they just want a green light.

“And you really crashed this party?” The priest is close to us. “You just drove in from nowhere?”

“From the east,” I say.

“And you stopped at this house because . . . ?”

Grace puts her palm to his cheek. Her bosom is rising and falling, and great things inside me are rising and falling too.

She pats his cheek softly. “We were looking for you, Father. We honestly were.”

“Right here, you say.” The priest gazes at the length of me, the stance of Grace. “Marry you, right here, right now.”

“We’ll devote ourselves to Christ,” promises Grace.

Joe is still staring up. “Tell you what. Ron and Sheila have a bitchy daughter.”

“And screwing,” adds Grace. “We’ll devote ourselves to Christ and screwing and bliss.”

Arthur laughs. “Will you indeed.”

“The bitchy bride beyond these walls,” says Joe, “is Jane Timberson.”

We can all smell the joint and the tiki torches being lit outside the fence.

Joe nods at his cousin. “Go ahead, Art. Marry them.”

The priest draws a breath. As if amazed by the taste, he draws another.

I kneel, open my suitcase, turn it toward the men. There’s a couple of spare tikis inside the fence, so I spike them in the ground, grab Joe’s joint, fire up the torches. When the tikis spit flame, the Planets gleam.

“Holy shit,” whispers Joe.

Alphonse leaps up. He crosses himself, points at the suitcase. “Los Planetas!”

“Are those diamonds?” says the priest. “They’re enormous.”

“Los Planetas de don Canto!”

Joe jumps up and seizes Alphonse by the shoulders. They spew Spanish to each other.

“These are the Planets,” I announce. “They’re worth forty million.”

“They’re beautiful,” says Arthur.

“Alphonse has become way stimulated,” says Joe. “He knows those diamonds. He’s asking where you got them.”

“None of his business. Or yours.” From the suitcase I pluck out the Saturn stone. With the grooved band etched around it, I figure it has a nuptial theme.

“Here.” I place the diamond in Arthur’s hand. “A present. A stupendous gift. You know, for marrying us.”

Grace studies the suitcase, the foam crater where Saturn lived. She nods at me, proud.

“I—” Art Kelly clears his throat. He pets what’s in his palm. “I can’t accept this.”

I tell him he can. Alphonse squawks and blusters.

Joe says, “Alphonse claims you can’t split up the Planets. He says they’re mythical or something. They’re supposed to be together.”

“We’re supposed to be together,” says Grace. “Henry and me. That’s what this is about.”

Alphonse starts fussing, so I hug him. With one arm around his thin, bony shoulder, I guide him to the door and open it.

“We love you, Alphonse.” I push him out. “Thanks for being here. Go away now.”

Alphonse starts to protest, but I hold up a finger, shut the door in his face.

“You shouldn’t piss off Alphonse,” says Joe. “His brother’s a cop.”

I turn to the priest and tuck my shirt, which is a red flannel deal, into my jeans. “Look, Father, you can keep the diamond, or give it to Alphonse, or hock it and treat Minnesota to steak and potatoes.”

“Marry us,” says Grace. “We don’t care about certificates. Just the vows.”

The priest stares at Saturn. Outside, around the fountains, men and women are downing wine, clinking glasses. The band plays Benny Goodman.

Arthur glances up. Stars are out. “Well.” The priest grins at the heavens. For a second, I imagine he’s the pastor of some nineteenth-century town of gold miners, whores, hurdy-gurdy men. In my vision, he sits at a saloon table with gamblers, and when he wins, there’s a diamond the size of a fist among the coins.

“All right.” The priest’s voice is quiet, and his fingers close around Saturn. He pockets the gem. “All right.”

I close the suitcase and stand. Grace and I clasp hands, lock our gazes. I think of my dead mom and dad. I remember Honey, Roger, Floyd, men I’m stronger than.

Art places a hand on Grace’s shoulder, one on mine. “Is Joseph your witness?”

“Sure,” I say.

Joe has his back to the monolith, like a sentry. He watches us with wide eyes.

“Make your promises,” the priest tells us.

“This is so fucking cool,” whispers Joseph. The tikis flicker. They’re like candles the size of men.

Grace kisses my lips. “Henry Dante. I promise to be your woman, always, and to take care of you, always.”

I kiss her back. “Grace McGlone. I’ll always be your man. And I’ll always take care of you.”

Grace sighs, happy. We hug, then stop hugging.

“And will you take care of other people?” asks the priest. “Especially children, if you have them?”

“Sure.”

“Yes,” says Grace.

With his thumb, Arthur Kelly makes the sign of the cross on our foreheads. “Oh, wait.” He pulls a little bottle from his pocket. “Holy Water.” He wets his thumb, marks our foreheads again. “Henry and Grace, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

Grace and I kiss.

“That’s it.” Art Kelly smiles. “That’s all.”

Joe lets out a whoop. He does some sort of rain dance. The brass band thumps out “Mack the Knife.”

*  *  *

For our honeymoon, we drive to the Blue Earth carnival. As we walk to the midway, the sod beneath us smells like manure. I’m carrying the case, the six remaining Planets.

Grace wants candied apples, so we buy some. I want a Ferris wheel ride, so we pay for one. As we get on, I give the guy twenty bucks to stop the ride when we’re up top.

“I love Ferris wheels,” I tell Grace. We’re forty feet in the air, and it’s cool out, and Grace is in my coat. We swing the car like it’s our front porch swing, and we watch the night. Kids on the Tilt-A-Whirl scream, and some guy dressed in a wolf costume is taking tickets at the haunted house. Once, near Halloween a few years back, I had to clobber a mark dressed in a similar outfit. The mark was leaving a costume party, and he owed Honey four grand, and he was dressed as a wolf—a really good wolf, with a lolling red tongue and convincing hairiness about the arms and legs. I knew it was him because I’d been staking out his Miata and I watched him key open the door, then I appeared and pounded him. I tell Grace about this Miata-driving wolf.

“The thing is,” I say, “some other guy tried to intervene, but he was dressed as a Rubik’s Cube. You know, he was wearing a big cardboard box, and it was painted little blocks of colors, and he tried to be a hero. But the paint job on his box was quite shitty.”

Our car is stopped in midair. Grace is trying not to laugh at my story, but she’s my wife now, and laugh she does, for a moment.

“What I mean is, I was already fighting a Wolf-man, and clearly winning. But I was trying not to ruin Wolf-man’s costume too much. I was throwing mid-body punches, you know, soft-tissue punches. Wolf-man had supercool, homemade fangs, and I wanted to give them a sporting chance. But then this other guy, not a mark at all, he intervened, and I had to pulverize him a little too.”

Grace isn’t laughing anymore. Her face goes serious.

“All I’m saying is, I’m a pretty big guy.”

Grace takes my face in her hands, and I feel lousy. I mean, there’s moonlight, and I’m telling this violent tale.

“Henry, baby. We’re responsible for the harm we do.”

For some reason, I’m crying a little.

“I know.” My teeth are clenched. “I know I’m responsible. But I’m big. That’s how I turned out.”

“All right,” says Grace. There’s some wind, but not much. There’s a smell of fried dough.

I rest my head on her shoulder. “I’m just big.”

“All right.” Grace strokes my hair.

We sit there. It’s Friday night, and in the tide of fairgoers I make out Alphonse the waiter. He’s standing by a booth where a well-tossed Ping-Pong ball wins you goldfish, and beside him is a cop who looks like him. They have matching sideburns, anyway, though the cop is roly-poly, and Alphonse stabs a finger in our direction, leading the cop’s gaze.

I wipe my eyes. “There’s Alphonse,” I say, but the Ferris wheel jerks, curves us back to earth.

We walk to the fried-dough booth. It’s a white shack, and it smells like a diner at breakfast. Off to one side is a stage. The band setting up is a bunch of punks, three boys with guitars and drums, and a lead singer chick with green hair. The crowd gathered before the stage contains dubious farmers and parents, but mostly other punks. One woman has a stroller and a squalling baby.

“Two fried doughs,” I tell the kid in the shack.

“They’re beignets,” he says. He looks fifteen. He has spastic red hair and pimples, and his shirt tag says Rupert.

“Well, they’re made of fried dough, right?”

“I don’t know.” Rupert shrugs. “They’re beignets.”

Grace pets my arm. “Two beignets, Rupert.”

“Gotcha.”

Grace keeps petting me. The baby in the stroller is shrieking, squealing her heart out. I remember I’m married. I remember the ladybug on Grace’s panties.

“Hurry up,” I tell Rupert.

Rupert grumbles, brings our beignets. He powders them with sugar, I pay. We walk off, biting our beignets, which are hot and greasy. I grab Grace, pull her behind the shack.

“Uh-oh,” she giggles.

It’s dark behind the shack. There are good shadows. The band and crowd are forty feet off, but they’re living their lives, and I back Grace against the shack.

“Henry. We haven’t said I love you yet.”

“I love you.”

Grace spreads her work boots in the dirt. “I love you too.”

“Keep eating.”

Grace chews and chews, watching me.

“Here we go,” says the green-haired chick. Her words echo in the microphone.

I finish my beignet, drop the suitcase, hike Grace’s dress. The pink ladybug’s right where I dreamed she’d be. I coax my hand into the panties, and the ladybug comes alive, shucking and jiving on the black cotton over my working fingers.

“Oh.” Grace scootches back and forth on my hand. “Oh.”

“Keep eating.”

Grace nods, swallows. I drop my pants then, tug the ladybug aside. Guitars begin jamming, and I’m inside my wife.

“Oh my God. Oh my God.”

We’re humping hard, pounding the shack. Grace’s fried dough is gone, and we’re smiling, screwing.

“Did—” Grace grooves her hips with mine. “D-did I tell you I’m a runner?”

“No.” I’m snarling. I’m grinning.

“I am. I’m—God, yes. I’m really fast.”

We thump the shack. The baby’s still crying, but the punk song is louder. The green-haired girl wails, and the shack’s back door opens.

Rupert sticks his head out. “What’s going on out— Holy blue balls.”

Grace says, “Hey, Rupert.”

Rupert stares. In the light from the shack, his pimples are blatant. I keep screwing Grace.

“Rupert. My wife needs one more beignet. Go get it.”

Rupert disappears.

Grace leers into my eyes. Her hair is crazy on her shoulders. She bites at my ear. “You’re a tough one.”

I nod and ram her, slam her, to the rock and roll.

Grace growls into my neck. “You’re a tough motherfucker.”

Rupert comes back. He hands me the beignet, which I feed to Grace’s mouth.

“Um, that’s two dollars, sir.”

Grace’s hips get faster. The beignet’s still in her mouth, but her hands are on my ass, drawing me in. She makes new noises, like something special’s coming, like we’re staking holy ground. Rupert’s watching, and I’m thrusting, and there’s powdered sugar on Grace’s chin, and that’s when I decide that this is holy ground, this whole freaking carnival. I’ll give back, I decide. I kick open the suitcase.

“Goddamn.” Rupert stares at the Planets.

“Take the one on the right,” I pant. “The farthest-out one, Uranus. It’s yours.”

“I . . . I can’t take a diamond.”

If Grace and I weren’t climbing toward the yelps, I’d talk. I’d tell Rupert the stone’s not only for him, it’s a far-out gift for this far-out night, and he’s just an ambassador. But Grace twists and moans, and I’m way past explaining.

“Take it,” I grunt. “Take it and leave.”

Rupert obeys. He takes the diamond, stumbles inside, shuts the door. I kiss Grace’s jaw, love her hard.

“Have some,” she sputters. “Have some, have some.”

The beignet hangs, half-chewed, from her lip. Her ankles rise to my ass, lock around me.

“Oh my God,” she whimpers.

“Wife,” I whisper. “Wife, wife.”

I’m up on my toes. I grind into Grace. There’s manure smell on the wind, and screaming baby, and dough in my teeth, and the singer hits a high note. I’m married, and proving it, but I turn my head, see the diva.

“Henry,” whimpers Grace. “Henry.”

There’s some rough, bright magic in the diva’s lungs, her green hair, her waving arms. She swans her body forward, touches her fingertips to the microphone like she might lick it—then, incredibly, just for a second, just for Grace and me, she does.