[Sidebar] The Worcester Phoenix
December 4 - 11, 1998

[Tales From Tritown]

Up the hill

The testimonial or `Jack and Jill' precedes Tritown weddings

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Lennie Peterson

Tritown124 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.


The Tales From Tritown archive


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