The Short History of a Prince Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Jane Hamilton
Rawson had driven Mitch to the inner wall and was lecturing him on George Balanchine. She was telling him about the time she’d seen Diana Adams, Maria Tallchief and Tanny LeClerq dance Apollo . Walter could tell by the way Mitch was nodding and smiling that he wasn’t listening to a word Sue Rawson said, that the star male of the Kenton School of Ballet had no interest in a history of dance that did not yet include him.
“Father Flannery!” Aunt Jeannie screeched through the cluster of guests. “There you are.” The priest had come out on the porch quietly, without letting the screen door slam behind him. She rushed to him, clutched his arm and bore right into his pink face. Walter noted that two out of the three Rawson sisters on the porch were overpowering a helpless male simultaneously. His mother was the only one minding her own business. Aunt Jeannie had been born into the Presbyterian Church, but she’d converted to Catholicism before she married. It had been Father Flannery himself who had performed the wedding ceremony at Ascension Church in Oak Ridge twenty-five years earlier. He had come up from Indiana, for the repeat performance.
“It’s wonderful, so wonderful you’re here!” Jeannie’s hairpiece was quivering, the stiff curls slipping away from the pins. “Isn’t it a glorious day? Did you see the children? They’re delighted you could come!”
Walter doubted that his cousins would give so much as a fig for Father Flannery. His black robes looked to have given him prickly heat on his scrawny neck and possibly down below, underneath, on his spongy skin that never saw the light of day. Aunt Jeannie continued to fuss at him and he probably had no choice but to forbear. “Itrained on our wedding day all those years ago!” She was so wound up she was shouting. “Do you remember? It poured just as we came from the church, and you carried my train, you, by yourself, to the car. I’ll never forget that, never.”
Walter could see that even though he had God on his side, the pastor needed rescue. It was precisely for rescue that Aunt Jeannie had hired him. She had given the team careful instructions about circulation. He picked up his tray, made his way to the center of the room, and thrust the drinks between the bride and her priest. “Champagne, Father?” he asked.
“Not until after the ceremony, my friend.” He spoke reprovingly, as if it were common knowledge that saying a mass under the influence was not only dangerous but illegal.
“Ted! Ted!” Aunt Jeannie cried. “Where are you? Father Flannery is here! He’s here!”
Her husband was already standing at the dresser that had been dragged out to the porch for the altar, standing just as he should have been, waiting for his wife to come forward. The presents, wrapped in silver paper, had been stacked at his side. Aunt Jeannie swept through the porch, the living room, the kitchen. She shrieked down the hill, trying to find her two boys and the four girls.
It took half an hour to round up the six Donleavys and make them presentable. Francie, the oldest daughter, had invited an Oak Ridge boy named Roger Miller to go up to the barn with her to see the bats hanging from the rafters. She was sixteen and had not yet kissed anyone. She was a hefty girl, and her mother worried that too often she hid her sweet face behind her long straggly hair. They sat on the one bale of straw in the barn and Roger Miller explained how a bat uses radar to find its food. It was so interesting, Francie said. He had weak eyes, long pale lashes and fragile wire-rimmed glasses. She had the urge to do something protective, to hold his head to her breast, and she looked at him thinking how to do that, how to take his face in both hands and draw it to her. When Aunt Jeannie, in the search for her children, finally saw the couple heading out to the woods, she ordered five-year-old Peter to snag them. Her anger was immediately tempered by the fact that Francie was
“Father Flannery!” Aunt Jeannie screeched through the cluster of guests. “There you are.” The priest had come out on the porch quietly, without letting the screen door slam behind him. She rushed to him, clutched his arm and bore right into his pink face. Walter noted that two out of the three Rawson sisters on the porch were overpowering a helpless male simultaneously. His mother was the only one minding her own business. Aunt Jeannie had been born into the Presbyterian Church, but she’d converted to Catholicism before she married. It had been Father Flannery himself who had performed the wedding ceremony at Ascension Church in Oak Ridge twenty-five years earlier. He had come up from Indiana, for the repeat performance.
“It’s wonderful, so wonderful you’re here!” Jeannie’s hairpiece was quivering, the stiff curls slipping away from the pins. “Isn’t it a glorious day? Did you see the children? They’re delighted you could come!”
Walter doubted that his cousins would give so much as a fig for Father Flannery. His black robes looked to have given him prickly heat on his scrawny neck and possibly down below, underneath, on his spongy skin that never saw the light of day. Aunt Jeannie continued to fuss at him and he probably had no choice but to forbear. “Itrained on our wedding day all those years ago!” She was so wound up she was shouting. “Do you remember? It poured just as we came from the church, and you carried my train, you, by yourself, to the car. I’ll never forget that, never.”
Walter could see that even though he had God on his side, the pastor needed rescue. It was precisely for rescue that Aunt Jeannie had hired him. She had given the team careful instructions about circulation. He picked up his tray, made his way to the center of the room, and thrust the drinks between the bride and her priest. “Champagne, Father?” he asked.
“Not until after the ceremony, my friend.” He spoke reprovingly, as if it were common knowledge that saying a mass under the influence was not only dangerous but illegal.
“Ted! Ted!” Aunt Jeannie cried. “Where are you? Father Flannery is here! He’s here!”
Her husband was already standing at the dresser that had been dragged out to the porch for the altar, standing just as he should have been, waiting for his wife to come forward. The presents, wrapped in silver paper, had been stacked at his side. Aunt Jeannie swept through the porch, the living room, the kitchen. She shrieked down the hill, trying to find her two boys and the four girls.
It took half an hour to round up the six Donleavys and make them presentable. Francie, the oldest daughter, had invited an Oak Ridge boy named Roger Miller to go up to the barn with her to see the bats hanging from the rafters. She was sixteen and had not yet kissed anyone. She was a hefty girl, and her mother worried that too often she hid her sweet face behind her long straggly hair. They sat on the one bale of straw in the barn and Roger Miller explained how a bat uses radar to find its food. It was so interesting, Francie said. He had weak eyes, long pale lashes and fragile wire-rimmed glasses. She had the urge to do something protective, to hold his head to her breast, and she looked at him thinking how to do that, how to take his face in both hands and draw it to her. When Aunt Jeannie, in the search for her children, finally saw the couple heading out to the woods, she ordered five-year-old Peter to snag them. Her anger was immediately tempered by the fact that Francie was