Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes."
It's about the zillionth time I've asked Melody to marry me. Each time, she's said "Not yet." I'm so used to hearing it that . . .
"For real?"
She smiles.
"Yes, Gavy, I'll marry you," she says. "It's time enough."
Several kisses later, I gaze into her sweet eyes and ask:
"When?"
"When?"
"Yes, when. Pick a date,"
A small frown crinkles the skin above her nose. This means she's thinking--not that she's angry. Her nose squinches when she's angry. Suddenly, another smile:
"Halloween," she says.
"I need to see a doctor," I say.
"Why?"
"Have to get my hearing checked. I could have sworn you said 'Halloween.'"
"I did say Halloween," she responds, pulling me toward a sofa. We're in her apartment just back from a date. We'd just seen a romantic movie and enjoyed a candle-lit dinner. On the way to her place, I'd decided--for the Umpteenth time--to try to ruin our friendship by proposing marriage. This time, I'd lucked out.
Sort of.
"Melody," I say, sitting with her, "Why on earth would you want Halloween?"
"Think about it, Gavy. You peep for supernaturals for a living. Almost every thing you know is mystical, magical, or otherwise odd. You'll want them to be comfortable at our wedding and what better day than Halloween?"
I see her point--I just hadn't thought about it. Probably because I hadn't thought about inviting anyone I knew to the wedding.
"But what about your family?" I ask.
She flips a hand, "My folks are more flexible than you think. Besides," she adds, throwing her arms around my neck, "They need to expand their horizons."
Melody's folks have charter membership in the gotbux society. They're about as flexible as adamantine and myopic in their horizons. I kiss her adorable nose.
"OK sweetie," I say, "Halloween it is. Where do we tie the knot?"
"How about the Inter D?"
"The where?"
"The Interdenominational Chapel," she says,. "With all the different types of client you attract, it’s the best choice. And for the reception, we'll book the Manse?"
The Manse is a cross-dimensional monolith approximately the size of Passaic. I couldn't afford it if I quadrupled my lifetime salary. I mention this.
"Silly," she says, "The bride's family pays the wedding bills. You just do the ritual."
I am, I think understandably, nonplussed.
"Ritual?"
"Yes, the Drummond wedding ritual. My family has been doing it since forever. The person coming into the family completes it the day before the wedding."
"What is it?"
"October 30th, silly. Halloween's the 31st and . . ."
I count to five. I love this girl, but talking to her is often an exercise in confusion.
"Let me rephrase: what is the ritual?"
"Oh, that. I don't know."
"You don't . . ."
"Daddy's the only one who knows. After all, he's the eldest of the Drummonds."
"Terrific," I say. "Melody, I don't know if you noticed, but your dad doesn't like me."
"But he loves me," she replies, "And he'll love you, too, once he gets to know you."
I remember my last meeting with Melody's dad. In it, I'd buried my fist in his stomach and threatened him with dire bodily harm. Not exactly a warm family moment.
"Can't we just run to Vegas and get married without this ritual business?" I ask. Melody places her hands on her hips.
"Been there, done that. Remember? And look what happened! No." she says. "The Drummond family ritual is important to me, Gavy. It'll help me forget that mess with Gremmy."
I nod. That mess with Gremmy involved a fake marriage, sorcerous quests, a trek to Jersey, and an excursion into poetry. It'd also put Mel's life in danger -- that's what provoked my fist in Mel's dad's gut. He'd unwittingly nearly gotten Melody killed -- something Mel didn't know.
"All right," I say to get her hands off her hips. She smiles. "Can I ask Duck to help?"
"Don't see why not," she says, moving toward the door. "Nothing in the rules against it."
"There's rules?" I ask, but she's out the door and I'm left to call Peter Drummond. Joy.
***
It's two days later and I'm cooling my heels outside Drummond's office. I've been sitting here for two hours beyond my appointment time and his secretary is eyeing me askance. I hate it when they do that. Suddenly her intercom squawks.
"Is he still here?" comes a voice I could happily never hear again.
"Yes Mr. Drummond."
"Too bad," he says. "All right, send him in."
She clicks off the squawker. "Mr. Drummond will see you now."
At a loss for a smart-ass remark, I stand creakily (two hours in an office chair is about an hour too much) and stagger through the great man's door. He's seated behind the kind of desk you see in old movies. I'm reminded of Jimmy Stewart's boss's office in It's a Wonderful Life. Drummond's probably meaner, though.
"Sit McQue," he says, nodding at another office chair.
"Mind if I stand, Mr. Drummond? Been sitting a long time."
If he catches my sarcasm he doesn't show it. "Sit, stand, what's the difference? You're here for the ritual."
"Yes sir."
"And the rules say I have to set the ritual for you," he stands and leans over the desk. "But that doesn't mean I have to like doing it. I don't. Get this straight, McQue, I think you're an opportunistic little nobody who wants to glom onto a rich bimbo's money. Melody's besotted with you for some ungodly reason and that besotment won't last. I've taken steps to make sure that, once that besotment ends, you don't get a penny in spousal support. Nada. Not a cent. Capish?"
"Need me to sign something to that effect, Drummond? Got a contract so I can stipulate it?" I shift forward and lean toward the man. "You've been straight with me, I'll be straight with you. I'm marrying Melody, not her dad's money. I'd marry her if she was penniless. I'd even marry her if her father was a control freak jerk who almost got her killed. Oh, wait, I am doing that, aren't I?"
Drummond pulls back, a nasty smile on his face. "Maybe, McQue. First, you have to complete the ritual."
"And you're gonna tell me what that is when?"
"Now," his smile gets nastier. He opens a drawer in his desk and removes an old-looking sheet of parchment. "Here's the quote from the ritual document," he reads: "The Drummond wedding ritual differs for each supplicant. The eldest Drummond makes a request; the supplicant to be tries to satisfy it. If he or she do so, he or she weds. If not, they must abandon all hope for nuptials."
I wait. Wait some more. Finally . . .
"That's it?" I ask.
"That's it," he says.
"No request written on the ritual document?"
"Nope."
"So that means . . ."
"It means I get to name the request," his nasty smile again. "And I have a lu-lu."
"A lu-lu?"
"A lu-lu, McQue. Hah! Rhymes. Love it. Your task: bring me the horn of a Unicorn."
I shake my head. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"The Unicorn," I say, "is a mythical beast."
"So says James Thurber, yes, I read it too. And that Unicorn was in a Garden. You live in a fantasy land, McQue. Look around those Seven Counties you're so fond of. Cast bones. Gut a chicken and look at the entrails. Consult a crystal ball. Hire a seer. Must be a garden with a Unicorn in it somewhere." He stifles a snicker.
I hold up a hand. "Ignoring the utter impossibility of finding something that doesn't exist," I say. "Why on earth . . . "
"Would I want a Unicorn's horn? That's need to know, McQue, and you don't need to know. Besides," he settles onto his office chair, "as you said, the Unicorn doesn't exist. So why I want one is irrelevant, hmmmm? Why you want one, now, that's very relevant. Without it, you can forget about Melody. Now get out," he turns to the paperwork on his desk, "I have eviction notices to sign."
I stand there for a minute, too stunned to move, but there's little I can do. And it seems I have a mythical beast to find. I turn to go.
"Oh, McQue, one other thing." he says, not looking up from his papers.
I turn back.
"Taking a Unicorn's horn is fatal to the Unicorn. So anyone who takes the horn is guilty of a heinous deed. You'll kill a beautiful creature noted for innocence and goodness--all to satisfy your own, selfish desires. Despicable." He looks up, "So you see, McQue, this is sort of a win-win for me. If you do manage the impossible: find the Unicorn and bring me its horn, Melody will never forgive you. She'll drop you like the inexcrable piece of human detritus you are. If you don't find a Unicorn--far more likely--you can't complete the ritual and can't marry Melody." He smiles. "Have a nice day." He lowers his head to his work again.
No snappy comeback, no parting shot, I'm speechless for one of the few times I can remember. I open the office door to leave . . .
"And McQue," he sings in that sneering, superior voice of his. I stop halfway through the door. "It's October 29th. You have 24 hours to complete the ritual." He starts to laugh. "I guess you won't have a nice day, after all."
I leave his office and close the door on his merriment. I gotta get to Duck.
***
"The unicorn," Duck says, "is a mythical beast."
"What is this? Thurber appreciation week? I know, I know, already." I'm in Duck's "office"--a pawn shop just off the Treegreen town round. I've run my ritual assignment by him in the hopes he could help me. So far, uh-uh.
"So whaddya want from me?"
"Call in some favors from a coupla your contacts," I say. "You know a beast or two--a lot of them mythical."
"Lemme get this strait, McQue, you gotta find a unicorn and deliver its horn to Peter Drummond by midnight tomorrow. Otherwise, you can't marry Melody."
"That's it."
"Ordinarily," he muses, "I'd say that was a good thing. Marriage and me ain't exactly sympatico."
"Listen Duck . . ."
He holds up a hand. "But I like Melody and I know she loves you. Can't say much for her taste . . ."
"Hey!"
"But I like her, anyway. She'd be unhappy if she had to look for a new hubby." He turns to his laptop and arpeggios its keyboard. "So, we gotta get you a Unicorn and . . ." He hits "Enter" "We got one." He turns the laptop to me and I view a Unicorn--sure enough--in a garden cropping roses. "Looks like Jimmy
Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes."
It's about the zillionth time I've asked Melody to marry me. Each time, she's said "Not yet." I'm so used to hearing it that . . .
"For real?"
She smiles.
"Yes, Gavy, I'll marry you," she says. "It's time enough."
Several kisses later, I gaze into her sweet eyes and ask:
"When?"
"When?"
"Yes, when. Pick a date,"
A small frown crinkles the skin above her nose. This means she's thinking--not that she's angry. Her nose squinches when she's angry. Suddenly, another smile:
"Halloween," she says.
"I need to see a doctor," I say.
"Why?"
"Have to get my hearing checked. I could have sworn you said 'Halloween.'"
"I did say Halloween," she responds, pulling me toward a sofa. We're in her apartment just back from a date. We'd just seen a romantic movie and enjoyed a candle-lit dinner. On the way to her place, I'd decided--for the Umpteenth time--to try to ruin our friendship by proposing marriage. This time, I'd lucked out.
Sort of.
"Melody," I say, sitting with her, "Why on earth would you want Halloween?"
"Think about it, Gavy. You peep for supernaturals for a living. Almost every thing you know is mystical, magical, or otherwise odd. You'll want them to be comfortable at our wedding and what better day than Halloween?"
I see her point--I just hadn't thought about it. Probably because I hadn't thought about inviting anyone I knew to the wedding.
"But what about your family?" I ask.
She flips a hand, "My folks are more flexible than you think. Besides," she adds, throwing her arms around my neck, "They need to expand their horizons."
Melody's folks have charter membership in the gotbux society. They're about as flexible as adamantine and myopic in their horizons. I kiss her adorable nose.
"OK sweetie," I say, "Halloween it is. Where do we tie the knot?"
"How about the Inter D?"
"The where?"
"The Interdenominational Chapel," she says,. "With all the different types of client you attract, it’s the best choice. And for the reception, we'll book the Manse?"
The Manse is a cross-dimensional monolith approximately the size of Passaic. I couldn't afford it if I quadrupled my lifetime salary. I mention this.
"Silly," she says, "The bride's family pays the wedding bills. You just do the ritual."
I am, I think understandably, nonplussed.
"Ritual?"
"Yes, the Drummond wedding ritual. My family has been doing it since forever. The person coming into the family completes it the day before the wedding."
"What is it?"
"October 30th, silly. Halloween's the 31st and . . ."
I count to five. I love this girl, but talking to her is often an exercise in confusion.
"Let me rephrase: what is the ritual?"
"Oh, that. I don't know."
"You don't . . ."
"Daddy's the only one who knows. After all, he's the eldest of the Drummonds."
"Terrific," I say. "Melody, I don't know if you noticed, but your dad doesn't like me."
"But he loves me," she replies, "And he'll love you, too, once he gets to know you."
I remember my last meeting with Melody's dad. In it, I'd buried my fist in his stomach and threatened him with dire bodily harm. Not exactly a warm family moment.
"Can't we just run to Vegas and get married without this ritual business?" I ask. Melody places her hands on her hips.
"Been there, done that. Remember? And look what happened! No." she says. "The Drummond family ritual is important to me, Gavy. It'll help me forget that mess with Gremmy."
I nod. That mess with Gremmy involved a fake marriage, sorcerous quests, a trek to Jersey, and an excursion into poetry. It'd also put Mel's life in danger -- that's what provoked my fist in Mel's dad's gut. He'd unwittingly nearly gotten Melody killed -- something Mel didn't know.
"All right," I say to get her hands off her hips. She smiles. "Can I ask Duck to help?"
"Don't see why not," she says, moving toward the door. "Nothing in the rules against it."
"There's rules?" I ask, but she's out the door and I'm left to call Peter Drummond. Joy.
***
It's two days later and I'm cooling my heels outside Drummond's office. I've been sitting here for two hours beyond my appointment time and his secretary is eyeing me askance. I hate it when they do that. Suddenly her intercom squawks.
"Is he still here?" comes a voice I could happily never hear again.
"Yes Mr. Drummond."
"Too bad," he says. "All right, send him in."
She clicks off the squawker. "Mr. Drummond will see you now."
At a loss for a smart-ass remark, I stand creakily (two hours in an office chair is about an hour too much) and stagger through the great man's door. He's seated behind the kind of desk you see in old movies. I'm reminded of Jimmy Stewart's boss's office in It's a Wonderful Life. Drummond's probably meaner, though.
"Sit McQue," he says, nodding at another office chair.
"Mind if I stand, Mr. Drummond? Been sitting a long time."
If he catches my sarcasm he doesn't show it. "Sit, stand, what's the difference? You're here for the ritual."
"Yes sir."
"And the rules say I have to set the ritual for you," he stands and leans over the desk. "But that doesn't mean I have to like doing it. I don't. Get this straight, McQue, I think you're an opportunistic little nobody who wants to glom onto a rich bimbo's money. Melody's besotted with you for some ungodly reason and that besotment won't last. I've taken steps to make sure that, once that besotment ends, you don't get a penny in spousal support. Nada. Not a cent. Capish?"
"Need me to sign something to that effect, Drummond? Got a contract so I can stipulate it?" I shift forward and lean toward the man. "You've been straight with me, I'll be straight with you. I'm marrying Melody, not her dad's money. I'd marry her if she was penniless. I'd even marry her if her father was a control freak jerk who almost got her killed. Oh, wait, I am doing that, aren't I?"
Drummond pulls back, a nasty smile on his face. "Maybe, McQue. First, you have to complete the ritual."
"And you're gonna tell me what that is when?"
"Now," his smile gets nastier. He opens a drawer in his desk and removes an old-looking sheet of parchment. "Here's the quote from the ritual document," he reads: "The Drummond wedding ritual differs for each supplicant. The eldest Drummond makes a request; the supplicant to be tries to satisfy it. If he or she do so, he or she weds. If not, they must abandon all hope for nuptials."
I wait. Wait some more. Finally . . .
"That's it?" I ask.
"That's it," he says.
"No request written on the ritual document?"
"Nope."
"So that means . . ."
"It means I get to name the request," his nasty smile again. "And I have a lu-lu."
"A lu-lu?"
"A lu-lu, McQue. Hah! Rhymes. Love it. Your task: bring me the horn of a Unicorn."
I shake my head. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"The Unicorn," I say, "is a mythical beast."
"So says James Thurber, yes, I read it too. And that Unicorn was in a Garden. You live in a fantasy land, McQue. Look around those Seven Counties you're so fond of. Cast bones. Gut a chicken and look at the entrails. Consult a crystal ball. Hire a seer. Must be a garden with a Unicorn in it somewhere." He stifles a snicker.
I hold up a hand. "Ignoring the utter impossibility of finding something that doesn't exist," I say. "Why on earth . . . "
"Would I want a Unicorn's horn? That's need to know, McQue, and you don't need to know. Besides," he settles onto his office chair, "as you said, the Unicorn doesn't exist. So why I want one is irrelevant, hmmmm? Why you want one, now, that's very relevant. Without it, you can forget about Melody. Now get out," he turns to the paperwork on his desk, "I have eviction notices to sign."
I stand there for a minute, too stunned to move, but there's little I can do. And it seems I have a mythical beast to find. I turn to go.
"Oh, McQue, one other thing." he says, not looking up from his papers.
I turn back.
"Taking a Unicorn's horn is fatal to the Unicorn. So anyone who takes the horn is guilty of a heinous deed. You'll kill a beautiful creature noted for innocence and goodness--all to satisfy your own, selfish desires. Despicable." He looks up, "So you see, McQue, this is sort of a win-win for me. If you do manage the impossible: find the Unicorn and bring me its horn, Melody will never forgive you. She'll drop you like the inexcrable piece of human detritus you are. If you don't find a Unicorn--far more likely--you can't complete the ritual and can't marry Melody." He smiles. "Have a nice day." He lowers his head to his work again.
No snappy comeback, no parting shot, I'm speechless for one of the few times I can remember. I open the office door to leave . . .
"And McQue," he sings in that sneering, superior voice of his. I stop halfway through the door. "It's October 29th. You have 24 hours to complete the ritual." He starts to laugh. "I guess you won't have a nice day, after all."
I leave his office and close the door on his merriment. I gotta get to Duck.
***
"The unicorn," Duck says, "is a mythical beast."
"What is this? Thurber appreciation week? I know, I know, already." I'm in Duck's "office"--a pawn shop just off the Treegreen town round. I've run my ritual assignment by him in the hopes he could help me. So far, uh-uh.
"So whaddya want from me?"
"Call in some favors from a coupla your contacts," I say. "You know a beast or two--a lot of them mythical."
"Lemme get this strait, McQue, you gotta find a unicorn and deliver its horn to Peter Drummond by midnight tomorrow. Otherwise, you can't marry Melody."
"That's it."
"Ordinarily," he muses, "I'd say that was a good thing. Marriage and me ain't exactly sympatico."
"Listen Duck . . ."
He holds up a hand. "But I like Melody and I know she loves you. Can't say much for her taste . . ."
"Hey!"
"But I like her, anyway. She'd be unhappy if she had to look for a new hubby." He turns to his laptop and arpeggios its keyboard. "So, we gotta get you a Unicorn and . . ." He hits "Enter" "We got one." He turns the laptop to me and I view a Unicorn--sure enough--in a garden cropping roses. "Looks like Jimmy
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