Chapter 9 The Rehearsal #2
"It’s unsalted!" Luke offers, realizing his mistake. "Well, mostly. I shook some of it off in the narthex."
"In the narthex," Mother repeats. "You shook salt... onto the floor where Cardinals have walked."
"It was artisanal salt?" Luke tries.
"You are desecrating the venue!" Mother roars. "Luke Silva! Put that carbohydrate away immediately! This is the Body of Christ, not the Body of Auntie Anne!"
"I’ll hold it," Preston offers, taking the pretzel with a look of extreme distaste. He holds it between two fingers, as far away from his silk suit as possible. "I feel like I’m holding a biological weapon."
"It’s delicious," Luke whispers. "Don't drop it. It’s holy now."
"Enough!" Mother shouts. She throws her clipboard onto the floor. It clatters loudly on the marble, startling O’Malley, who jumps and nearly knocks over the chalice.
"Who shot?" O’Malley yells, ducking behind the altar. "Is it the Protestants? I told them I surrender!"
"It is not the Protestants!" Mother screams. "It is my patience! Exploding!"
She marches into the centre of the aisle, vibrating with rage.
"This is a farce! We have a waddling groom! A drunk priest! A pretzel-eating Best Man! And a son who is calculating the probability of my stroke instead of helping me!"
She points a finger at me.
"Maxwell! Fix this! Make them behave! Make them... Yorks!"
I look at the scene.
Jax is leaning against a pillar, rubbing his bleeding heels.
O’Malley is cowering behind the altar, muttering about the Reformation.
Luke is trying to wipe mustard off his chin with his scrub top.
Preston is holding a giant pretzel like it’s a piece of radioactive waste.
Rosa is laughing so hard she is choking on a cashew in the front pew.
“It appears, at least to me,” I say calmly, " that the entropy of this system has reached a critical threshold. Further rehearsal will yield diminishing returns."
"You are firing me?" Mother gasps. "From my own rehearsal?"
"I am suggesting a recess," I say. "Before the Archbishop accidentally excommunicates the choir."
Before Mother can explode again, the massive oak doors open one more time.
Alistair York strolls in.
He is late. He is glowing. He is wearing a linen suit that is entirely too casual, sunglasses, and he is carrying a portable speaker that is currently playing The Girl from Ipanema.
The Bossa Nova beat echoes strangely against the Gothic arches.
"Hola! Familia!" Alistair booms, strutting down the aisle. "Why the long faces? Why the screaming? I could hear Catherine from the vestibule!"
He stops next to Mother. He looks at the clipboard on the floor. He looks at O’Malley hiding behind the altar. He looks at Preston holding the pretzel.
Alistair grins.
"Wonderful!" he declares. "It’s a circus! I love a circus! Preston, give me a bite of that pretzel."
He takes the pretzel from Preston and takes a massive bite, chewing with gusto in the middle of the Cathedral.
"Alistair!" Mother shrieks. "You are eating gluten in the sanctuary!"
"I am eating, Catherine," Alistair says, crumbs falling onto his linen lapel. "And O’Malley! Get up! You look like a turtle! We have a boat to catch!"
"The boat," Jax whimpers. "Oh god. I forgot the boat."
"Yes! The boat!" Alistair cheers. "The S.S. Sovereign! I brought Dramamine! I brought tequila! I brought earplugs for when your mother starts reviewing the seating chart!"
"I hate you," Mother whispers, her eyes twitching. "I hate all of you. You are undisciplined. You are chaotic. You are ruining my vision."
"Your vision is boring, Cathy," Alistair says, winking at me. "Our vision has pretzels. And drunk priests. O’Malley! Are you coming? Or are you waiting for the Rapture?"
O’Malley pops his head up. "Is there an open bar on the nautical vessel?"
"There is," Alistair confirms.
"Then I am resurrected!" O’Malley declares, struggling to his feet. "Praise be to the Gay Pope!"
"We are done," Mother says. She sounds defeated. She sounds dangerous. "The rehearsal is over. You are all incompetent. We will fix this tonight. On the boat. Where none of you can escape. Where there are no pretzels. And no exits."
She turns her icy gaze to Jax.
"And Jackson... if you are not gliding by 18:00.. I will have Enzo break your legs and reset them myself."
She marches out of the Cathedral, her heels clicking like gunshots on the marble.
The silence returns.
"Well," Preston says, dusting salt off his hands. "That went well. I particularly enjoyed the part where O'Malley praised the Pontiff for the open bar."
"She’s going to kill me," Jax says, sliding down the pillar until he is sitting on the holy floor. "She’s going to throw me overboard. I’m going to die in the Hudson. I’ll be Jennifer the Drowned Bride."
"Jennifer is a survivor," Luke says, patting Jax on the head. "Here. Have some pretzel. It absorbs the fear."
Jax takes a bite of the pretzel. He chews slowly.
"It needs salt," Jax decides.
"I told you," Luke says.
"To the boat," I say, reaching down to help Jax up. "We have one hour to change. And Jax?"
"Yeah?"
"Change the shoes."
"Oh, thank god," Jax breathes. "I was going to amputate my feet in the limo."
We are standing outside of our apartment building. The city is loud, busy, and indifferent to our drama.
A white stretch limousine pulls up. It is gaudy. It is excessive. It is Alistair’s.
The window rolls down. Alistair leans out. He has changed into his "Boat Attire"—the white dinner jacket and the neon magenta cummerbund.
"Get in, losers!" Alistair shouts, turning down the volume on The Girl from Ipanema. "We’re going to sea! I brought the life vests! And the Xanax!"
"Why life vests?" Jax asks, eyeing the car with suspicion.
"Because we are sinking!" Alistair laughs, a maniacal, joyful sound. "This family is a sinking ship, Jackson! But we’re going down with style! And an open bar!"
"He’s not wrong," Preston says, opening the door. "Shotgun."
"You can't call shotgun in a limo," Luke argues, diving in after him.
I look at Jax. He is pale. He is holding a packet of ginger chews like a rosary.
"Ready?" I ask.
"No," Jax says. "But I love you. So... let’s go get yelled at on a boat."
"That is the spirit," I say.
We climb into the limo. The door shuts. The air conditioning hits us. And as the car pulls away into the Manhattan traffic, heading toward the pier and the inevitable disaster of the S.S. Sovereign, I take Jax’s hand.
"If I were to work out the probabilities," I whisper, "I suspect I would find that we will survive."
"Don't quote me odds," Jax says, resting his head on my shoulder. "Just hold my hand when I throw up."
"Always," I promise.
And we drive toward the water.
The limousine screeches to a halt at the pier. Alistair kicks the door open, the strains of The Girl from Ipanema on repeat still leaking out into the cool evening air.
"Land ho!" Alistair shouts, stumbling out onto the pavement. "Or... sea ho! Whatever the nautical term is for 'we are about to drink heavily on water'!"
I help Jax out of the car. He is gripping my hand so hard I can feel his metacarpals grinding against mine. He looks at the water. He turns a shade of green that is scientifically fascinating.
We look up at the venue.
The vessel is not a boat. It is a floating city-state with a helipad and a moral deficit.
"It is the S.S. Sovereign," Mother announces, waiting for us at the gangplank. She has beaten us here, presumably by teleporting through a wormhole powered by sheer rage. She is wearing a nautical-themed Chanel suit with gold buttons that makes her look like the Admiral of the Ice Fleet.
"I rented it from a very delightful oligarch who is currently under house arrest in Zurich," Mother explains, checking her watch as we approach. "It sleeps thirty, holds two hundred, and has a panic room. Which I suspect we will need."
"Does it have a stabilizer?" Jax asks, his voice trembling. He is staring at the gentle ripple of the Hudson River with undisguised horror.
"It is a mega-yacht, Jackson," Mother scoffs. "It does not roll. It glides. Now, board. The captain is waiting, and I have a schedule to keep. Cocktails are at 18:30. Toasts at 19:00. Despair at 19:30."
"She didn't say despair," Luke whispers to Preston as we step onto the gangplank.
"She implied it," Preston corrects, adjusting his cuffs. "It was in the subtext. Also, the font on the invitation was basically screaming 'Abandon All Hope'."
We board the ship.
As soon as my foot hits the teak deck, I feel it. The subtle, rhythmic sway of the river. To me, it is a mild vestibular input, a variable to be accounted for. To Jax, it is the apocalypse.
"I need a focal point," Jax wheezes, clutching the railing. "Max. Give me a focal point. The world is tilting."
"Look at the Freedom Tower," I instruct, guiding him toward a bench near the stern. "It is stationary. Do not look at the water. Do not look at the horizon. And do not, under any circumstances, look at Mother’s dangling earrings. They are swaying in counter-rhythm to the boat."
"I brought supplies," a voice announces.
Rosa Ortiz appears beside us like a sequined angel of mercy. She is wearing a floor-length gown that glitters like a disco ball and is entirely inappropriate for a Monday, which makes it perfect.
She presses a care package into Jax’s shaking hand.
"Ginger chews. Scopolamine patch. And a Xanax," Rosa lists off. "Take them all. Now."
"I love you," Jax whimpers, slapping the patch onto his neck immediately.
"I know," Rosa says, patting his cheek. "Now, pull it together. If you vomit on this teak, Catherine will charge you a cleaning fee that could fund a heart transplant. And I am not doing the paperwork for that."
The sun is setting over New Jersey, casting a blood-red glow over the water. The guests have arrived. It is a small crowd—only the "inner circle," which in York terms means fifty people who hate each other but love free champagne.