Giant Men and Violent Women

Where Were You?

ASHLEY

Could it all be so simple? I'm standing in front of St. Bartholomew Catholic Church now, waiting for my bride.

Strangely enough, I went back to sleep after Gram told me to earlier. I was awakened by the smell of butter, sugar, and Black Honey. I threw on a shirt and went downstairs to find slaves in the kitchen, bustling around. Desserts and tarts and miniature shepherd's pies were being brought out of the oven and cooled on the counters. I went ahead and helped myself to a few.

"Don't go overboard," Pope warned me.

These were for Presley Ann's close family and relatives. I assumed I'd be staying to enjoy some.

"No," Pope notified me. "Just the women will be here. The men are heading to the bar."

Sounded like a plan. So, I spent the remaining hours of my bachelorhood at Dar Bar with my family and close friends. However, the men in Presley Ann's family were noticeably missing. I thought that was odd. Pop had no idea why they didn't show.

"I sure nuff invited them," he said.

And, now...

St. Bartholomew Catholic Church is dark, candlelit, and silent, except for a single flute. It was the only instrument Presley Ann wanted. It feels ghostly in here, but I'm sure that's what she is going for. There's no use in having a large Catholic bell-ringing, filled with traditions, when this marriage is anything but. Instead of traditional, she'd rather it be called mystical tomorrow in Boston Society. While tomorrow it might be called ethereal, I wonder how history will retell this evening.

How will the children sitting in the pews now with uncertain faces tell their grandchildren of the day Presley Ann Scots and Ashley Bragg rang their bells? Will they speak of the sinister lone flute? Will they talk about the dimness of the church? The dancing candles creating menacing shadows? Will they mention the slaves who buzzed around, driving guests to the church, gossiping outside, waiting for Presley Ann to become a Bragg? How will they remember the first bell-ringing to have ever taken place in their new nation, the House of New Hampshire? How will they remember the dark beauty, Presley Ann? Or her groom, the giant heir of the finished judge? How will they remember the week that they stopped being Americans and started becoming New Hampshirites?

How will they remember the day of January 12?

I look around.

Mercer and my brother are on my left. Hyacinth and Swanee are on my right. Presley Ann is down the aisle.

At this very moment, I'm watching her walk to me. She's on her father's arm, dressed in a bell-ringing gown, given to her by her paternal grandmother. Vintage. Cream. Lace. Silk.

Have I ever met her grandmother?

She has no veil; her hair is down and wavy, just like it was at the president's New Year's Eve party. In fact, I think she's wearing the same gemstone earrings she had on in that picture in Boston Society where she was surrounded by Pop, Jewels, and the president.

Strange that she chose her hair and earrings to look as they did in the Bad Luck and Lucky Devils picture where Boston Society called her a smart cookie.

Her gemstone earrings sparkle among the candlelight. Presley Ann's not smiling at me, but grinning at those around who've come to see us marry. About four hundred people, a normal gathering for our set.

Unlike for Louisiana's and my bell-ringing, there were no festivities that led up to this moment. Once God had awakened, people drove at frantic paces from Boston, Concord, and the surrounding mountains to witness the event. And—who are we kidding?—to be photographed at the bellringing. Even my brother and his best friend, Plains, suspended their search for Louisiana so they could be here.