Chapter 5 The Tour of Terror #2
"You know what this smells like?" he says, to no one in particular.
"It smells like a gallery in Düsseldorf where I spent a very confusing weekend in 1986.
A conceptual artist named Klaus insisted we eat dinner in total darkness to 'interrogate our relationship with sustenance'.
We sat in a room just like this. Concrete.
No windows. No chairs. Klaus served us foam.
" He looks pointedly at Catherine. "Just foam. Flavoured air. On a slate."
"The foam was art, Alistair," Catherine says tightly.
"The foam was a cry for help," Alistair replies.
"Klaus is selling insurance in Hamburg now.
The point is," he continues, raising his voice to address the room at large, "I have stood in this room before.
Metaphorically. And I left hungry, spiritually confused, and with a lower back complaint that lasted until 1991.
" He turns to Stefan, the venue manager, who has been slowly pressing himself against the concrete wall. "What's the minimum guest count?"
"Fifty," Stefan squeaks.
"And the heating?"
"We recommend guests wear layers."
Alistair stares at him for a long moment.
"We are not asking three hundred people to wear layers to a wedding," Alistair says, with the calm finality of a man closing a meeting.
"My wife will be wearing couture. My son will be wearing bespoke.
If I tell Rosa Ortiz to wear layers, she will remove a layer of my skin.
" He turns to Catherine. "Veto. And burn Klaus's number from your contacts while you're at it. "
"Hey, I'm just thanking God we managed to get the list down to three hundred to begin with," Jax interjects, offering my father a wry smile. "If we were still at twelve hundred guests, we'd have to issue thermal exhaustion warnings with the invitations."
I adjust my glasses, highly satisfied that Jax recognizes the tactical victory of my seating chart reductions.
"You have no vision, all of you,” Mother snaps, slamming her notebook shut. "You want pedestrian? Fine. I will show you nature. I will show you opulence."
"I’m scared," Jax whispers to me. "What does she mean by nature?"
“Knowing my mother,” I say. “It’s something carnivorous."
Venue 3: The Conservatory
Location: The New York Botanical Garden
We arrive at the final venue. It is a massive Victorian glasshouse, steamy and verdant.
"The Orchidarium," Mother announces, throwing open the doors.
We are hit by a wall of heat. The air is thick, humid, and smells aggressively of pollen and potting soil. Inside, thousands of rare, black orchids hang from the ceiling like sleeping bats. There is a waterfall. There is a koi pond. There is a humidity level of ninety-nine percent.
"We have imported five thousand 'Dracula' orchids," Mother says, inhaling deeply. "The humidity is maintained at a tropical level to preserve the blooms."
"It’s a sauna," Jax says, instantly sweating through his shirt. "Max, I can’t breathe. The air is soup. Why is the air soup?"
"My hair," Rosa says. She touches her perfectly coiffed bob. "Catherine. Look at me. I have spent forty dollars on this blowout. In five minutes, I will look like a poodle. Do you hate hair? Is that it?"
"It is atmospheric," Mother says, ignoring the fact that Preston is currently fanning himself with his pocket square, looking faint. "We will serve tropical cocktails. We will release butterflies at the 'I do'."
"Butterflies?" I ask, alarmed. "Insects? At a sterile event? They are vectors for disease. And they will land on the cake."
"They are imported Monarchs!" Mother shouts, losing her cool. "They are majestic!"
"They are bugs!" Rosa shouts back. "Catherine, this is a swamp! The guests will sweat through their silk. The makeup will melt. You will have a room full of wet, angry people swatting at moths!"
"They are not moths!" Mother shrieks. "They are Lepidoptera!"
Alistair is not where anyone left him. He has wandered to the far end of the Orchidarium and is standing ankle-deep in the koi pond, shoes removed, trousers rolled to the knee, examining a hanging cluster of black Dracula orchids with his reading glasses perched on his nose.
Everyone stares.
"The Dracula vampira," Alistair announces reverently, not looking up.
"Spectacular. Do you know they only bloom in high humidity and low light?
They evolved to look like the face of a monkey to attract fungus gnats.
The entire flower is a lie. A beautiful, elaborate lie designed to seduce an insect into doing exactly what the plant needs.
" He straightens up, looking directly at Catherine. "I've always found that interesting."
Catherine's left eye twitches. "Get out of the pond, Alistair."
"In a moment." He steps out, unhurried, water streaming off his shins.
He accepts Preston's pocket square to dry his feet, which Preston surrenders with the expression of a man watching something he loved die.
"Now. The venue." He surveys the room — the sweating guests, Rosa's ruined blowout, Jax wringing humidity out of his collar, the koi regarding them all with magnificent indifference.
"I actually like this one best of the three. "
"You do?" Catherine says, visibly brightening.
"Mm. The orchids are extraordinary. The waterfall has good bones.
And the koi pond is an unexpected delight.
" He pauses, picking a damp leaf off his lapel.
"However. I have just been standing in that pond for four minutes and my core temperature has risen three degrees.
I am seventy-one years old, I am in excellent health, and I am sweating through a four-thousand-dollar jacket.
" He looks around the group. "Max runs cold.
Jax runs hot. In this humidity, within twenty minutes of the ceremony, one of them will be in cardiac distress and the other will be completely comfortable.
I'll leave you to calculate which outcome is preferable for a wedding. "
"The cold one would be fine," Jax offers immediately.
"You were green on a glass less than two hours ago," Alistair says.
"That was different."
"It was not." Alistair picks up his shoes, tucks them under his arm, and pads barefoot toward the exit with the dignity of a man who has never once been embarrassed in his life.
"Veto," he calls back over his shoulder.
"But do ask them if they sell cuttings. I know someone who would love a Dracula vampira. He has the right temperament for it."
Catherine glares at Alistair, then turns on Rosa, her eyes blazing.
"You have vetoed the sky. You have vetoed the art. You are vetoing the flowers. What do you want, Rosa? Do you want a basement with balloons? Do you want a VFW hall with lukewarm ziti?"
"I want a venue where my boys can breathe!" Rosa steps into Mother’s space. She is six inches shorter, but she looms. "I want a place with air conditioning, chairs, and food that doesn't need a physics degree to eat. I want a wedding, Catherine, not a performance art piece!"
"This is a York wedding!" Mother roars, her voice echoing off the glass roof. A few butterflies take flight, terrified. "It is a statement of power! We do not do comfortable! We do memorable!"
"Well, heatstroke is memorable!" Jax yells, unbuttoning his collar. "I’m calling it. Code Red. Thermal compromise. I am vetoing the swamp!"
"You cannot veto the swamp!" Mother points a finger at him. "I put a deposit on the humidity!"
"I am the groom!" Jax shouts.
"I am the matriarch!" Mother counters.
The standoff is absolute. The humidity rises. A butterfly lands on Preston’s shoulder. He shrieks and bats it away like it’s a vampire bat.
"Get it off!" Preston yells. "It has legs! Why does it have so many legs?"
"Okay," Preston says, recovering his dignity and wiping his brow. "I am officially melting. My pores are screaming. We need a tie-breaker. Or an ice bath."
I step forward. I reach into my jacket pocket. I feel the bulk of the papers we printed at 04:00. The NDA. The ledger. The leverage.
But before I can pull it out, Rosa Ortiz laughs.
It is a dark, terrifying sound.
"You want memorable, Catherine?" Rosa asks, reaching into her handbag. "You want a statement?"
She pulls out a Tupperware container.
Mother freezes. "What is that?"
"Arroz con pollo," Rosa says. "Leftovers."
"Why do you have leftovers in a botanical garden?" Mother asks, horrified.
"Because I knew you wouldn't feed us," Rosa says. She pops the lid. The smell of garlic, cilantro, and roasted chicken fills the humid air, overpowering the orchids instantly.
"Put that away," Mother hisses. "You are contaminating the biosphere!"
"I’m hungry," Rosa says, taking a plastic fork out of her purse. She takes a bite. She chews slowly, maintaining eye contact. "And until you show me a venue that has a working AC and a menu that includes carbohydrates, I am going to eat my chicken. Right here. In front of the orchids."
"This is desecration!" Mother gasps.
"This is leverage," Rosa corrects her. She holds out the fork toward Mother. "Want a bite? It’s better than foam."
Mother stares at the fork. She stares at Rosa. She stares at the sweating, miserable grooms.
She looks at me.
I don't pull out the papers. I don't need to. I just look at her.
"Mother," I say calmly. "The humidity is causing your mascara to run. You are losing structural integrity."
Mother’s hand flies to her face. She looks at her reflection in the koi pond. She gasps.
"My face," she whispers. "I’m... melting."
"The swamp wins," Jax whispers victoriously.
"Fine!" Mother screeches, turning on her heel. "Fine! We leave! But if we go to a banquet hall, I am wearing a veil! A black one!"
She marches toward the exit, her heels clicking furiously.
Rosa puts the lid back on her Tupperware. She winks at me.
"She has a weak spot," Rosa whispers. "Vanity. Always go for the vanity. Now I know for next time.”