Someone Else's Shotgun

“A good compromise is when both parties are dissatisfied.”—Larry David

            Minutes before walking down the aisle, Nicki felt she had to feed the baby. Ryan abandoned the front pew to assume his role as burper, then set the buggy just so, for volunteers in the narthex to jig as needed.

            The church was torrid, just outside of Busch Gardens, Tampa (Ryan’s choice to make the day less ‘boring’ for the guests), even though the sun was down by now. She was keen on getting married, not so much on being a bride. Ryan was the opposite, planning everything in hopes their sometimes shaky partnership would benefit from a memorable ceremony.

            He wrote their vows, for instance, in reflection of their first date—a hack download of Lion King II. Reading them out publically made him sweat a private doubt. Nicki didn’t make her own, but nodded her head to agree:

In darkness we became best friends;

in light of that, our love has grown

to handle ups and downs and bends,

to cuddle more or leave alone.

Along the way we dreamed a pride,

like lions stretching from the lair;

then heaven sent a little guide—

Kiara—answering our prayer.

As blessed, we take a vow for three:

in sickness, health or any state

that may ring chords of harmony;

these rings today will seal that fate.

            The pastor was impatient, omitting things like “if anyone knows any reason these two should not…” or “you may now kiss…,” which they did without direction. Nicki had to whisper, though—“Ry, what’s this bulge on your side?”

            They traipsed to the narthex where Kiara was crying, and Ryan instinctively took over from his over-bouncy aunt. He cooed the baby asleep and watched Nicki, who was all hugs and happiness to the guests, seeming to linger on Steve, whom they argued about inviting. “None of my exes are coming, for fuck’s sake.”

            “Now, don’t be jealous. Steve would never be as good a dad as you.”

            “How do I even know he isn’t Kaybe’s father?”

            “I know. That’s enough!”

            The reception hall was nearby and almost as hot—its bit of aircon added to the stink. Kiara thankfully kept sleeping, checked on by a lot of proxy moms; other kids were everywhere, products of Ryan’s dozen cousins and Nicki’s many friends from high school. Some adults were single, like Steve. A fair amount of divorcees. But dances, drunker on, tended to blur those differences.

            Ryan was congratulated plentifully but never dragged to the parquet, as opposed to Nicki, who was glad to doff her veil and sleeves and train and ivories to get out there and dance. She did grab her hubby for a slow one, Elvis crooning: wise.. men.. say.. ‘only fools.. rush.. in…’ Ryan held her close around the waist, trying to hide his bulge, and kissed her with the final falling in love.. with.. you. He headed to the punchbowl at the transition: You ain’ nothing but a hound dog! In no time, Steve had cut in.

            Well, there was Sherilyn getting punch, ladling a top-off for herself and a double on the rocks for Ryan. She wasn’t one of his exes—he really didn’t have any—but, for sake of argument, they’d flirted once or twice over the years. She bat her long lashes and seemed to purr, I love the Lion King, you know. Ryan spilled a little in the act of asking, the original? or sequel? She blotched the fresh pink spot on his shirt with her fingertips, but pulled away at the sense of a strap underneath: what’s that? He looked down and blushed, oh, that’s nothing…

            Ryan finished his punch alone. From across the noisy room, he heard Kiara’s cry—his pride of recognition put a penguin’s skip into his step. He was forced to shake some hands from this drunk cousin and that old friend of Nicki, so by the time he got to the perambulator, Kiara was gone.

            Colors of the place and moment blurred like a cyclorama of tie-dyed bedsheets. Ryan’s eyes darted while the rest of his body froze. He thought he heard a snide hey Simba! from some Scar across the room—or maybe it was Kovu. From a circle of her bridesmaids, Nicki pointed at him and laughed. She wasn’t drunk—hadn’t taken more than a symbolic sip of champagne for thirteen months, through pregnancy and breastfeeding. Her mirth was more a can you feel the love tonight? She twirled her finger for Ryan to turn around. Behind him in the darkest corner of the hall was Steve, cradling Kiara with a rockabye sway.

            Ryan ripped off his tuxedo and pulled his punch-stained shirt from the tuck of his pants. “Kidnapper!” he screamed, and drew out a handgun.

            Quick as a cat, Nicki dashed to attack his unsteady arm. “What the hell are you doing?! Where’d this come from?” 

            “This shotgun’s wedding,” Ryan blubbered, “is cuz o’ him—”

            “No! Not a bit! Steve’s just—”

            Steve, for his part, didn’t have an idea what to do. He looked down at the baby and dimwittedly decided to hold her forward, under her armpits. If it looked to some like a Rafiki blessing, it also smacked of a King Solomon quandary: you aim for me, you risk hitting her.

            Ryan had all but dropped the gun. “Maybe I jus’ do my own self in,” he mumbled. “Stan’ my ground against myself.”

            The band had stopped; the drummer unholstered his own open-carry and, hiding behind his kit, trained it on Ryan. Syllables of cousins and other guests swirled with labored breathing: don’.. man.. do.. why.. this..

            “Ungrip it,” Nicki stroked his arm, “please.” Kiara began again to bleat. “Then you can go get her.”

            “Kidnap her, you mean, from Steve?”

            Nicki looked over to the drummer’s shift. “Ry, baby, you just gotta trust me…”

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2020)