Drop City

with a plain-faced woman in a red shirt and jeans, and Howard Walpole too, good sports, good sports all, though she could have done without Howard. The harmonica left off and the silence blew in. Even the dogs fell quiet. She could hear the river sliding over its riffles and sinking into its holes. Do you take this man? I do, she said, I do.
    Then there was hilarity, the kind of unbridled, unself-conscious, rollicking, full-bore, take-no-prisoners hilarity that only a bush town sunk deep in its ruts could generate. Somebody had a guitar, somebody else a fiddle. A banjo appeared. A washboard. There was dancing, drinking, eating, the cake dwindled through its layers and disappeared in a pale picked-over detritus of frosting and crumbs, the steaks and ribs fell away to fragments of gnawed bone, bottles went clear and gave up the ghost. She stood there beside Sess, her arm round his waist, drinking river-cooled champagne out of a plastic cup, while people she didn't know came up and talked in her face and she thanked them for their gifts of smoked sheefish, nasturtium seeds, fish gaffs and motor oil, and the more practical things too, like a fifty-pound sack of cornmeal and a nightie the size of three slices of bread cobbled together.
    “Sess, I know you're the outdoors type,” her mother was saying, “just like my Victor, but that doesn't mean you have to be out traipsing through the woods for days at a time while my girl lays up lonely and heartbroken in that tiny little cabin, does it? Because I worry. I do.”
    “I worry too,” Sess told her with an even smile, “but you can bury any fears you might have on your daughter's account . . .” He was about to drop her mother's name into the void at the end of this little declaration, but Pamela could see he didn't know quite what to call her yet, whether “Mom” would float or if he should fall back on “Mariette” or “Mrs. McCoon” or maybe just clear his throat instead. That was cute, that little glitch. It was endearing. And Pamela was right there with him, heart and soul, tucked in under his arm like a text he hadn't read yet but meant to get to directly, and she hadn't stopped smiling since she'd woken up this morning.
    “My wife's going to have plenty to keep her occupied,” Sess said, a hint of slyness creeping into his voice, “what with skinning out carcasses, tanning hides, hauling ice up out of the river for water, cutting wood for the stove, sewing, mending, feeding the dogs--feeding me, for that matter. Isn't that what wives are for?”
    Her mother had been drinking vodka for three hours. The sun pounded at her face, beat cruelly at the thin flaps of skin the plastic surgeon in Tempe had worked like hide over her cheekbones and firmed round the orbits of her eyes. She gave a little laugh and took Sess's other arm, the free one, and leaned into him. “If you ask me,” she said, and she paused for effect, “a woman needs to be good, really good, at one thing only--”
    Sess colored, and her mother, enjoying herself, went on: “And I don't think I have to tell a grown man like you just what that might be, now do I, Sess?”
    That was when Pris, in the middle of the crush of dancers, let out a whoop and they all three turned their heads to see her in the grip of something uncontainable, a romping flailing black-headed blur of motion that might have been a bear going for her throat but wasn't. It took Pamela a minute to understand, because she was new here and she was caught up in the whirl of her own drama: Joe Bosky had crashed the party. He was wearing an old faded military shirt and the blue jeans that were a second skin to him, and he was flapping his feet like a spastic and leaning in to twirl Pris under the eggbeater of his right arm. And Pris, pretty in lavender satin and with her hair piled up atop her head, had no idea who he was or what his motives might have been or that he was the sole resident of the town and its environs who was here uninvited. Expressly uninvited. Adamantly uninvited. She had that wild look on her face that Pamela knew only too well, the cigarette look, the vodka look, the look that said the party had only just begun and there was no stopping her now. Joe Bosky brought her to his chest, spun her away, pulled her in close again. “Yee-ha!” she shrieked, and you could hear the piping breathless cry over the clash of the band like the mating call of some exotic bird.
    Pamela felt Sess stiffen. Her mother