As she watched him say his vows, she was struck with the change in him. She flattered herself that she had been responsible for that change. He had been that diamond in the rough women often seek. She had cut him to her liking, and she would wear him proudly.
That he was marrying her, or anyone, was an indication of the transformation. But even the fact that he was wearing clean clothes and smelled of cologne rather than oil and sweat was a sign of the new, improved Timothy Sloane. The name itself was new to his adult life. Though he would probably never go by 'Timothy', at least now he went by 'Tim' instead of 'Stick'.
God, how she hated that nickname. It reminded her of his former friends. Crude and vulgar, but worse, they were cruel and violent. If they had been with him when she met him, she wouldn't have met him. If Daddy had ever seen them, she wouldn't have been marrying him today, or ever.
But here he was in St. Vincent's cathedral, wearing a tuxedo and saying things like, "With this ring, I thee wed." Here he was, clean and shaven promising to "take thee, Allison Pauley, to have and to hold, . . . for better and for worse until death do us part." Here he was, after years of sleeping with uncounted women he would never have married, marrying one women he had never slept with. Here he was, a new Timothy Sloane and she loved him with a special love-the love Pygmalion felt for Galatea. And she knew that he loved her, for she knew what she had made.
As she said her vows and looked at him, she couldn't remember what he had been before. 'Change' was too weak a word; he had undergone a metamorphosis-a butterfly from a grub. One might as well say that Tim had been born full-grown and his birth had been the death of Stick.
They walked down the aisle, him in his midnight blue tux and her in white satin, and dodged into a back room of the church. It was the first time they had been together alone this whole hectic day. They exchanged a second and more meaningful kiss in their privacy.
The reception was picture perfect for the guests and a blur for Tim and Allison. At random moments, they would spot one another across the room and the drone of voices would be shut out for a moment. But something would impinge on these moments and each would be forced back into the hubbub.
At a rare time when they were actually within touching distance of each other, they talked long enough to arrange an early get-away. So without changing, they made for the kitchen to get a couple bottles of champagne, and headed for the car.
The get-away was early but not secret. They had to run through the traditional hail of rice and confetti. And despite her griping about it being in her hair and down her dress, Allison would have been disappointed if they had escaped the assault. It didn't matter now anyway. They were on their way to the beach cabin they had rented for a week of blissful solitude.
* * *
It was a postcard setting: a small sandy beach sheltered in a crevice of rocky cliffs. The cabin was just where the beach yielded to the forest. They reached it as the sun was setting over the ocean. The sky was marbled orange and pink and purple, and two thin low-hanging clouds were almost fluorescent orange. Higher up, the darkness was approaching.
They unloaded the luggage and presents from the car and by the time darkness engulfed the cabin, they were nestled in front of the fire with champagne and a pile of presents waiting to be opened.
"So, what do you want to open first," she asked.
As he reached for the zipper of her dress, she slapped his hand lightly. "No, that's the last one you get to open. It won't hurt you to wait a few more minutes."
"Won't hurt me? It already does. I'm in agony," he said grabbing his chest in feigned pain. "I can't believe that I married such a heartless woman."
"Don't worry, you'll live. And in the meantime, just remember, the longer I make you wait, the better I'll have to make it just so the wait will be worthwhile." With mocked sympathy she gave him a motherly kiss and an unmotherly pat on the crotch.
"I'll wait. But remember, it can't be good enough to make the wait worthwhile if I die first."
"You won't die. Now pick a present to unwrap."
They opened up the usual mix of wedding presents: towels, two blenders, a bread maker, sheets, and sundry stuff. They opened a second bottle of champagne and watched the bubbles rise in their glasses as they listened to the sounds of the fire and the surf.
Those were peaceful and persistent sounds. But below them rose a grumble. The grumble grew to the unmistakable sound of motorcycles which, even unmistakable as it was, took a few seconds to register on the newlyweds.
"Oh, Jesus!" Tim yelled as he jumped up to the window.
Allison watched him and understood. "No. They can't be coming here. How could they have found out where we would be? You didn't talk to them did you?"
"I haven't even seen any of them in months. I don't know. It wasn't a secret where we were going, you know. Maybe they asked someone who knew us. Maybe they followed us. I don't know, but it is them and whether we like it or not, they're here."
"Well don't let them in. Lock the door."
"Come on. That's stupid. That's not going to keep them out.
"So what do we do?"
There was no time for an answer. The door opened without a knock. They could hear Cal bellow before they could see him.
"Hey, hey, hey, how are the newlyweds?"
He came in banging the door all the way open as he did. His mangy gang followed, complete with its current "girl friends". Cal was the biggest of the bunch, in every dimension. He had a gut, but he wasn't fat. He was just big. His biceps looked like Tim's thighs. He had curly black, thinning, hair and an untrimmed scraggly beard. He was, as he seemed always to be, sweaty and smelly.
He was followed by Starker holding a cheap beer with one hand and a cheap woman with the other. The beer wasn't ugly. Starker's most prominent feature was his acne potmarked face and his left eye which stared in the same direction no matter where his right eye was aimed. If you ignored that, which was almost impossible, he would look pretty normal.
The girl was trying to stuff a considerable amount of lard into tight black pants and a halter top. Her black jacket covered a lot but was unzipped enough to show the roll of flab that her enormous breasts rode on. Her face might have been passable if she weren't so heavy but her hair lay flat against her scalp and looked as if it hadn't been washed in months.
Allison couldn't remember her name but she knew her function. She was the Doofer. Whatever anyone else in the group wanted done, she'd do for them. Even though these guys were no prizes, they could attract better looking girls than this. But they couldn't get more compliant ones. They took pleasure in degrading her and making her degrade herself, and she did it willingly for the scraps of acceptance they showed her in their less cruel moments and perhaps for the vicarious feeling of power she felt at being a part (even the part she was) of that group.
Floyd would have been almost good looking if he had been clean and dressed neatly, which of course he never was. He was tall and thin with longish blond hair, a prominent chin and chiseled features. Not handsome really, but in this crowd, a knockout. 'Floyd' wasn't his real name. It was short for 'Pretty Boy Floyd', in honor of his relative attractiveness.
With him was a girl Allison had not seen before and would not have pictured with this gang. It wasn't that she was classy, and she wasn't beautiful, but she was pretty-and pretty sexy-and, most striking of all in this company, she looked clean. She had long blonde hair, a cute cleft chin Ali would have killed for and a little turned-up nose. And she would have been tall and long-legged even without her heels. She still looked cheap, but it was a higher class of cheap.
Gnat brought up the rear and brought in the beer-two cases of it. He was short and skinny and looked like a pathetic, pimply, pubescent punk-which he was, except for being too old.
The door slammed.
"Aren't you going to ask us to sit down?" Cal said as if he cared about an invitation. His voice was coarse and always loud. It made him sound dumb even when he managed to speak grammatically. But Allison knew that he wasn't dumb. Tim had told her stories of the people who had fucked themselves over by assuming that Cal was as stupid as he sounded. The air of stupidity was a mask that Cal used to great advantage.
"What are you guys here for anyway?" Tim asked.
"Stick, Stick . . . Oh, I'm sorry. It's 'Timothy' now, isn't it? We were hurt. We were crushed. Here we are, your best friends, and you didn't invite us to your wedding. I understand it; you're ashamed of your old friends. But Starker and Floyd took it hard. And ya know it ripped little Gnat to pieces. I mean, he's always loved you and looked up to you like a big brother. Anyway, we got to talking about it and we decided to let you know that we don't want to embarrass you, we just want what's best for you. We wanted to come here and drink a few toasts to you and your pretty bride and maybe reminisce about old times a little. Nothing wrong with that, is there?"
Allison softened slightly. Perhaps she had been too harsh on Tim's friends. To come by now, when they wanted more than anything to be alone, was rude and inconsiderate. But it was better than showing up at the wedding or the reception.
Tim looked at Ali quickly and then said, "Okay, but just for a bit. We are pretty tired."
"Of course. Of course. I know you want to be alone. We'll just stay for a little piece and then be on our way." He turned to his disciples. "Gnat, open those cases. Let's have a toast to Sti . . . uh . . . Timothy who made good and married this sweet little thing here." And as he finished, he threw his sweaty tattooed arm around Allison and pulled her to his side. She forced a smile.
