Olympia Read Free Page B

aisle that runs up the middle of the deck to a white altar perched at the tip of the bow. Honey bees buzz in dizzy circles, attracted by the bouquets of flowers placed in white porcelain vases. Everyone boards but my grandparents, who haven’t arrived yet. They plan to meet us out in the middle of the lake, chauffeured in a polished mahogany cigarboat—I’ve seen the brochure—with a tiny Ontario Union Jack sticking out its nose.

    People are fishing out on the water, not far from where the houseboats are docked. Any serious fisherman knows you fish for walleye at dusk, or better yet after dark and under a full moon. As I watch them cast out their lines, I wonder whether my grandparents had known ahead of time that they were planning on being remarried in the middle of a full-blown walleye tournament, surrounded by professional anglers from all over the continent. Both my father and I knew this because we were here two years ago, just when the tournament began.

    In the middle of the lake we are surrounded by boats of various sizes: dinghies, aluminium outboards, canoes, cruisers. We’re still waiting for our grandparents to arrive. The shoreline is clearly visible from here, a clean continuous wall of pines broken only for a moment by a cabin or dock. We’re milling about, waiting for things to get started. Everything is in place. All we have to do is sit down. The pastor is ready. After the ceremony we’re staying on the houseboat for the reception. The food and drink are set up at the stern under the awning. There is also a squared-off area, possibly a dance floor. Who is going to dance?

    Pulling up in a separate boat, where did they get that idea from? Just like their first wedding somewhere in Germany long before I was born. These are all rituals of the land, clumsily transferred to the sea. Limo to the floating church. The only difference is water slows movement, makes things lighter, more dream-like. Probably this is why our floating church is named
Sweet Dreams.

    Somebody’s head turns and we all look towards a dock on the far side of the lake. My grandparents. One of the employees from the boat rental helps my grandmother into the boat first. When she gets both feet in safely she motions to the young man. He leans towards her and she kisses him on the cheek. As she does, I see an earring catch the sun like a hot pinpoint. Then he helps my grandfather get in. The pastor’s head is still gently bobbing up and down, his smile eager and calm. A few minutes later they pull up alongside the houseboat and are taken aboard. After more kisses and handshakes, my grandparents meet one another at the tip of the bow, nervous as two virgins. The polished mahogany cigarboat with the Ontario Union Jack has returned to the dock at the far end of the lake. Sitting beside the boat, smoking a cigarette, is her pilot, the young man my grandmother kissed, his feet hanging over the edge of the dock, his head turned towards us.

    My father has helped everyone to their seat. We are respectful and quiet, as if at a funeral. Silence drops over us and I listen to the lake noises come from all directions, the hum of motorboats, splashing, weak conversations that pass over the flat water like tired sparrows. A speedboat roars by in the distance. The pastor formally welcomes us and thanks the Lord for this beautiful day. I am sitting beside Ruby. Although we know this is a serious matter, we feel like laughing and jumping into the water.

    â€œDearly beloved,” he says. “We are gathered here this afternoon to reaffirm the holy bond of matrimony between this man and this woman.” The pastor’s head nods more deeply now. He is like a plastic bird poised on the edge of a drinking glass, insatiable, monotonous. On the upswing he looks into the eyes of my grandparents. As he does this the houseboat begins to rock, slowly, once, twice, echoes of the speedboat that has passed by in the distance.