Giant Men and Violent Women

Meanwhile, in Boston

ASHLEY

Chap is not a happy camper. Usually, with a monthly battle approaching for Rebels of the Revelation, he has an extra glide in his stride. Something about reliving Darling's heyday—when our people, against all the odds, defeated not one, but three enemies before stealing land from the Joki tribe and creating the town of Darling—brings out the best in him. But not this morning.

While I was on the phone with the city manager of Chippewa Creek, a small town—near the New Hampshire and Maine border—Chap and my father were heading to Boston to attend the meeting for community leaders. This meeting is pissing Chap off.

"I don't get this new trend of people working through their problems," Chap said as he prepared to leave this morning. "In my day, if somebody with power told you to shut the fuck up, that's what you did."

So, this was Chap's mood when he and my father drifted away toward Boston while I waved good-bye.

And, now...

"Tell me why some of us marry beauty queens and some of us marry Bad Lucks?" Pop asks me.

He might as well be asking why some men marry for necessity and others for love.

"Because you rarely marry Bad Lucks," I tell him. "They won't let you love them. It's part of the reason they're Bad Luck."

He puffs on his cigar and gives me a nod, as though he never considered that. Like the extra books of the Apocrypha Catholic Bible show, every destroyed king and crippled kingdom came to their doom because of the love for and power of a dark-haired woman. You can't love this type of woman. You can only want her.

Pop ponders my answer as he watches me in the mirror while I adjust my bow tie.

We're at Chap's home, getting dressed in what he calls The Gentleman's Room, a spot where he can smoke cigars in peace without Gram telling him he'll die soon. I've gotta say, I'm on Chap's side with this one. The man should be able to smoke as many cigars as he wants, being that he made it to old-as-hell. The Gentleman's Room looks like a sports bar with several televisions lining the walls so that people can watch every college football game at the same time. A fireplace blazes on one wall with leather seats surrounding it, making it perfect for puffing smoke and downing tequila. There's even a bar counter with a prison worker acting as a bartender behind it now.

At the bar, Mercer and my brother recount stories of old from Harvard to a group of Dartmouth men of all ages. Naturally, I'm the focus of these stories as tales of my late-night frat-boy exploits with older sorority girls get rounds of laughter and thunderous applause.

Such is mountain life. At your funeral, people will only remember you at your best and at your wedding, your worst.

And, while they're focused on the past, Pop and I are focused on the here and now because I'm getting married to Louisiana in less than an hour, and he wants to know why.

"I don't know," Pop says to me. "It's just that Dainty and I have had a good run. Hasn't been perfect—thank God"—he smiles at me—"because the best days are the shitty ones. They end real good." He flashes his eyebrows at me.

"I'd rather not have a mental image of my grandmother ending her day on a high note."

"I'm just saying, who wants perfection?"

"Not me." And I mean that. I've never wanted or needed to be perfect, so I don't require it of anyone else. So, no matter what kind of pressure Louisiana puts on herself, I've never expected her or any other sorority girl to be perfect. I have good reasons for this.