Chapter 8: Noon, Again

At noon I sat in the front row of the chapel, in the same seat as yesterday.

The poll was gone from the screen. A plain white square glowed in its place.

Gwen stood at the altar in her white satin dress, with her father's hand under her elbow.

Marcello stood across from her in a black suit, and he did not look at the doors.

He looked at me.

Marcy sat on my left, holding my cold hand with both of hers.

On my right, one pew back, sat the flat-nosed man.

I could feel him there.

All eleven of Gwen's father's men filled the three pews on the left side, shoulder to shoulder, in dark coats.

Marcello's men lined the walls on the right.

Nobody had a rifle. Everybody had a pistol under a coat.

Roxanne sat three rows behind me in her dark green dress.

She had smiled at me when she came in. I had not smiled back.

The officiant opened his book.

His hands were shaking so badly that the pages rattled.

"Dearly beloved," he began, and then he stopped and looked at Marcello.

Marcello nodded once.

The old man swallowed and went on, in a voice thin as paper.

I put my free hand inside my sleeve, where I had pinned the drive with a safety pin from the bathroom drawer.

I had spent the whole morning in front of a mirror deciding how I would stand when the time came.

"If anyone present knows a reason these two should not be joined," the officiant said, "let them speak now."

I stood up.

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