Up the hill
The testimonial or `Jack and Jill' precedes Tritown weddings
by Sally Cragin
Illustration by Lennie Peterson
After the first snow, Hollis the Mountain Man feels a wave of relief.
The skies have been bleached and metallic for days, and the temperature low
enough so that even sound carries more crisply. It usually takes a couple of
storms to build up a base of snow, and from that point on, Hollis feels like
it's a forced march to the solstice and the incremental lengthening of days.
He wakes up one morning shivering under his bedclothes (to wit, from bottom
layer to top: a flannel sheet worn almost transparent from washings; one nappy
army blanket left by brother Mason; one hand-pieced, 19th-century quilt made by
a Mountain clan forerunner that would, in a perfect world, be valued in the
five figures and hanging in a folk-art museum; two crocheted afghans in '60s
hot pink and '70s avocado acrylic yarn that Aunt Winnie crafted -- these have
the weight and insulating properties of mesh, and, finally, Trick and Treat,
the Mountain Lair cats).
But Hollis the Mountain Man is not cold. No, rather, he is shivering from the
unpleasant realization that he will have to socialize with others at Hasky
Tarbox and $erena the Waitress's wedding testimonial that evening.
The "testimonial" (or "Jack and Jill") is an institution peculiar to Tritown
and north Central Massachusetts. It serves primarily as a fundraiser for the
bride and groom. These events are listed in the paper and are usually held at a
VFW or church social hall. Admission is charged and a raffle held (the prize is
usually a case of beer or a bottle of Remy Martin). There is usually snack food
-- perhaps ham salad tucked into miniature egg rolls slit down the middle and,
of course, large cafeteria salad bowls of potato chips. But the main event is
drinking and carrying on. Testimonials are usually the purlieu of those
Tritownies marrying straight out of high school or a few years after -- when
classroom antics are fresh in everyone's mind and adventures confined perhaps
to a tour of duty in the armed forces or months of pulling a double-shift at
the suspender-button factory.
When couples marry, the testimonial is an opportunity for "the gang" to get
together. (Also, for folks who can't come, or won't be invited, to greet the
bride and groom.) Hollis remembers when he graduated from Tritown High and,
under duress and boredom, attended a few of these events. Remembered incidents
flash into his mind. A crowd of beefy Tritownie dudes hanging out in the dirt
parking lot getting drunker and meaner, squinting at anyone who looked at them
as they leaned against their Camaros. Girlfriends, their newly frosted hair
askew, hugging both arms at the elbows, and, in between lighting each other's
cigarettes, asking, for the 23rd time, to go home. There was always some drunk
who kept asking the band to play heavy metal, then concluding loudly that they
suck, yet offering to buy them a beer if he can sing "Heart of Gold." Under the
plastic Tiffany ceiling lamp, the bride and groom look pale, tired and nervous,
hoping they won't be billed for damage . . .
The phone rings, startling Treat. For the millionth time, Hollis wishes he
could get used to his "codless" phone and remember to keep the darn thing by
the bed. He throws off his covers, as dense as a dentist's x-ray apron, and
finds the phone gizmo.
Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee (there was a questionable
great-great-grandmother) is breathless with excitement and anticipation.
"Listen," she says by way of greeting. "Don't forget to pick up the kegs at the
Rod 'n` Reel, and you are going to get two cartons each of chips --
Vinega-Dubl-Salt, Bah-B-Q -- for the raffle, right?"
Hollis holds the phone away from his ear. Treat bounds back on the bed and
swats the antenna. When Hollis moves the phone closer, he hears her continue,
"this is going to be a nice, family occasion, with a lot of old ladies, and can
you remember to wear shoes instead of those gunga boots?"
Hollis looks at his feet, twin lumps under thick layers of bedclothes. For a
moment, he wonders what it would be like to have a girlfriend instead of an
old-friend-who-happened-to-be-a-girl. Probably exactly the same. He waits till
she finishes, and then he says, "absolutely." There is a moment's pause, and
then she says, "I can't stay on the phone all morning. Theresa has to figure
out a way to keep the Leblancs and the Levesques away from each other's
throats."
"Stop serving drinks at 8 o'clock," Hollis says. Delia snorts and hangs up. He
considers snuggling back under the covers and drifting back to sleep. But he
has a vision of small, bullet-shaped Leblancs and lanky, bony Levesques
breaking bottles. The testimonial was originally designed to get both sides of
the family and their friends stinking drunk and see how they interact, he
thinks, stumbling to his feet again.
THAT EVENING, the Tritown VFW and Bowladroma parking lot is crowded with cars.
Delia's little yellow Winksta (bumper sticker: Inner Child in Trunk) is parked
by the door next to Judge Cronin's black Cadillac. The judge is in Florida,
vacationing with his family, presuming that Tarbox Automotive ("Collisions? A
Specialty") is replacing the timing belt and checking the points. Hasky loves
driving the Cad, and $erena, truth be told, finds it infinitely preferable to
her decrepit Volvo, which Hasky holds hostage for months at a time. A motley
array of other vehicles -- rust-stained El Dorados and Buick LeSabres owned by
the geriatrics, the occasional truck with empty rifle rack and NRA decals owned
by rural Leblancs and Levesques, Myrt Scully's white Lincoln -- fills the lot.
The only thing missing is Lorencz the Hermit's yellow school bus with missing
tires.
Hollis parks his truck and sits for a moment. He delivered the kegs and chips
earlier in the day, but he's still obliged to be there, even if Hasky and
$erena did hire a cop (related neither to Leblancs, Levesques, or
Tarboxes) just in case.
He hears the disco beat before he pushes open the swinging doors of the VFW,
and the cigarette smoke makes the figures in the room hazy. He pays his five
bucks admission, like the good guy he is, and makes his way to the bar. One of
$erena's cousins pushes a paper plate heaped with macaroni and three-bean salad
in his hands. Hollis looks around nervously for someone he knows, well, knows
better than to say "Hi-howaya" to.
Then the crowd parts on the dance floor and he notices Delia. Her eyes are
closed, and she's dancing. Hollis sits up a little straighter and sees her
partner.
Whitey Leblanc! (Who with his brother Phil N. Leblanc of Leblanc Brothers
Salvage, handles more junk than the DEA.)
Fiend of the skating pond! Scourge of Myrts! Dancing with Delia! Hollis has
long suspected that stocky Leblanc minor harbored a crush on Delia, and here is
the proof. But what could one do about a situation like this?
to be continued
Thanks this week to friends in Tritown who've endured, and even enjoyed
testimonials: Chris Mulholland, Becky Legros Schulz, Ian Donnis, Pete Greelish,
Andre Goguen, and my brother Hal, who spent part of his youth playing bass on
"We've Only Just Begun" in dimly lit party bunkers.