very much like the Boston Pops Symphony minus the Boston and minus the Symphony. Hawes, a music lover by nature, could barely sit still as he listened to the cacophony. He was also slightly disturbed by the fact that neither Sam Jones nor Ben Darcy was yet in evidence anywhere on the grounds. In truth, it was becoming increasingly more difficult to locate anyone in the Carella back yard. Immediately following the ceremony, the Carella household had been overrun by wedding guests who hugged and embraced and kissed each other as if they had not seen each other since the last wedding or funeral—which, in all probability, they hadn’t. The bedroom and adjoining bathroom on the main floor of the Carella home had been set aside for the female guests, another similar setup upstairs having been made available for the gentlemen. As soon as all the embracing and kissing was concluded, the women trotted into the downstairs bedroom to freshen up, so that there was a constant flow of traffic from back yard to back porch to bedroom to bathroom and out again. Hawes was getting somewhat dizzy. In all that sea of strange faces, he longed only to see the vaguely familiar faces of Darcy and Jones, but for the time being he seemed to have lost them completely.
“What’s the matter?” Christine asked him.
“I’m just wondering where Darcy and Jones went.”
“Oh, they’re probably around somewhere.”
“Yes, but where?”
“Have you tried the men’s room?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you?”
“All right, I will. Don’t pick up any stray men while I’m gone.”
“Now, Cotton, would I do a thing like that?”
“Yes.”
He went into the house. A woman coming out of the bedroom said to another woman, “She’s pregnant again, can you imagine? I haven’t been to a wedding in the past five years that she hasn’t been pregnant.”
“She likes children,” her friend said.
“That isn’t what she likes,” the woman said, and they both laughed hysterically, almost bumping into Hawes as he made his way to the steps.
“Oh, excuse me,” the first woman said. Tittering, they went out of the house. Hawes climbed upstairs. The bedroom was cluttered with near and distant relatives of the Carellas and Giordanos. A tall, blue-eyed blond man lounging against the doorjamb said, “Full house, Mac.”
“Mmm,” Hawes said. “I’ll wait.”
“We got a choice?” the blond said.
“The Thunderbird ain’t a sports car,” a man near them said to his friend. “And neither is the Corvette. I got news for you, Charlie. There ain’t no such animal as an American sports car.”
“No?” Charlie said. “Then how come they call them sports cars?”
“What do you want they should call them: armored tanks? You know something?”
“What?” Charlie said.
“When a real sports-car owner passes an American sports car on the road, he don’t even wave.”
“So what?”
“So that’s the sign of courtesy, like tipping your hat to a broad. And they don’t do it. Because American sports cars ain’t sports cars. They’re considered like cockroaches on the road. That’s a fact.”
“Then what’s a sports car?” Charlie asked.
“An MG, or a Jaguar, or a Talbot, or an Alfa Romeo, or a Ferrari, or Ghia, or…”
“All right, all right,” Charlie said.
“…or a Mercedes-Benz, or a…”
“All right,” Charlie said, “I come up here to go to the John, not to hear a lecture about foreign cars.”
The door to the bathroom opened. A slender man wearing eyeglasses stepped out, zipping his fly.
“Anybody else in there?” Hawes asked him.
“What?”
“In the bathroom.”
“No,” the bespectacled man said. “Of course not. Who else would be in there with me?” He paused. Indignantly, he said, “Who are you?”
“Water Commissioner,” Hawes said. “Just checking.”
“Oh.” The man paused. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, fine, thank you.” He took a last look around the bedroom. No. No Darcy or Jones. He was starting downstairs again when a cheer went up from the back yard. For a moment, Hawes thought the caterers had struck oil. And then he realized what it was.
“They’re here!” someone shouted. “They’re here!”
And at that instant, Sal Martino’s orchestra began playing “Here Comes the Bride.” Hawes joined the general exodus down the steps. Women were pouring out of the downstairs bedroom. Children were screaming and giggling, rushing onto the back porch, anxious for a glimpse of the newly arrived bride and groom. Sighing, Hawes vowed never to get married.
When he got out to the porch at last, he found Christine talking to Sam Jones.
“Well, well,” he said, “this is a surprise. Where’ve you been, Jonesy?”
“Why? Someone looking for me?”
“No, I was just curious.”
“Oh, I’ve been roaming around,” Jonesy said.
Hawes looked