My mother invited him to the wedding. Bucolic Valley. Claustrophobic country life along those sickly-sweet country roads. Keeping up appearances.

I looked away from the Burgesses. I focused on the teeth. There were so many teeth. Probably because people were smiling. At weddings people usually smile, right? Goddamn, it was like being surrounded by Mormons. I always think of Mormons as people with big white teeth. But no one was Mormon here. It was the Foster First United Church. My face was rigid with an enormous pink lipsticked smile. Inside I was panicking, electric zaps in my brain, my heart thrashing against my ribs. What if Seneca appeared, chastising me, imploring me to stand fast and quiet, come to terms with my past?

The teeth became like a haze of cotton and the music was squeaking and droning. God, it was terrible, which surprised me — my brother is a concert violinist. I must have put my hands to my ears because Elizabeth asked me if I was okay. I could see her then, her brown eyes, and I could see her lips moving but I only heard the okay? part. She knew I was going to bail and I knew I was going to bail and Birdie must have been suspecting it back there by the doors where she had been coordinating it all, and I shook my head at Elizabeth and my eyes filled up with tears because even I’m not so selfish I didn’t feel a bit of guilt.

I bolted. I was carried away on wings woven with fine threads of thrill and speed, Seneca behind me shouting a plant which is frequently moved never grows strong. Shut up, Seneca, I shouted back at the fat, miniature floating man only I could see.

Tits to the wind. The second vamoose. The last bail-out. I ran down the aisle and Elizabeth ran after me, the pews filled with tall, gasping shadows. At the steps, I threw the flowers away and ripped off the bodice of the dress. Birdie was saying, “What the fuck are you doing, Seraphina?” and I was saying, “Get your van, get your van.”

And she did. She went and got the van and I was running down the street to the corner with Elizabeth behind me and I would have kept running if Birdie hadn’t roared up.

“Serrie, get in. Get in the fucking van. How could you do this?”

And now I am dangling here, dying for a smoke. “Can someone give me a cigarette?” Birdie rummages through her purse, one hand on the wheel, one hand passing back a cigarette which Elizabeth sticks in my mouth and lights. They don’t notice I’m hooked to the wall. They must know. They do know. This is where they want me.

The stillness of this tiny suspended moment is excruciating. Antique dealer wants to crawl into my head. Such bad breath. So heavy. Now run home to your mother. Sticky crotch. Old-man sweat on my soft teenage skin. Washing up in the bathroom. Crying on the walk home, money in my pocket.