Demonology by Rick Moody Page A

asked:
    —What’s in the bag?
    She was referring to my Wal-Mart shopping bag, Sis. I think the Wal-Mart policy which asserts that
employees are not to let a customer pass without asking if this customer
needs help
is incredibly enlightened. I think the way to a devoted customer is through his or her dignity. In the shopping bag, I was
     carrying the wedding gift I had brought for Brice McCann and Sarah Wilton. I didn’t know if I should reveal this gift to Linda,
     because I didn’t know if she would understand, but I told her anyhow.
Is this what it’s like to discover, all at once, that you are sharing your life?
    —Oh, that’s some of my sister.
    —Andrew, Linda said, and then she apparently didn’t know how to continue. Her voice, in a pair of false starts, oscillated
     with worry. Her smile was grim. —Maybe this would be a good time to leave.
    But I didn’t leave, Sis. I brought out the most dangerous weapon in my arsenal, the pinnacle of my nefarious plans for this
     event, also stored in my Wal-Mart bag. The Chicken Mask. That’s right, Sis. I had been saving it ever since my days at Hot
     Bird, and as Brice had yet to understand that I had crashed his wedding for a specific reason, I slipped this mask over my
     neatly parted hair, and over the collar of the wash-and-wear suit that I had bought that week for this occasion. I must say,
     in the mirrored reception area in the Rip Van Winkle Room, I was one elegant chicken. I immediately began to search the premises
     for the groom, and it was difficult to find him at first, since there were any number of like-minded beret-wearing motivational
     speakers slouching against pillars and counters. At last, though, I espied him preening in the middle of a small group of
     maidens, over by the electric fountain we had installed for the ceremony. He was laughing good-naturedly. When he first saw
     me, in the Chicken Mask, working my way toward him, I’m sure he saw me as an omen for his new union.
Terrific! We’ve got a
chicken at the ceremony! Poultry is always reassuring at wedding time!
Linda was trailing me across the room. Trying to distract me. I had to be short with her. I told her to go find herself a
     husband.
    I worked my way into McCann’s limber and witty reception chatter and mimed a certain Chicken-style affability. Then, when
     one of those disagreeable conversational silences overtook the group, I ventured a question of your intended:
    —So, Brice, how do you think your last fiancée, Eileen, would be reacting to your first-class nuptial ceremony today? Would
     she have liked it?
    There was a confused hush, as the three or four of the secretarial beauties of his circle considered the best way to respond
     to this thorny question.
    —Well, since she’s passed away, I think she would probably be smiling down on us from above. I’ve felt her presence throughout
     the decision to marry Sarah, and I think Eileen knows that I’ll never forget her. That I’ll always love her.
    —Oh, is that right? I said, —because the funny thing is I happen to have her
with me here,
and…
    Then I opened up the small box of you (you were in a Tiffany jewelry box that I had spirited out of Mom’s jewelry cache because
     I liked its pale teal shade: the color of rigor mortis as I imagined it), held it up toward Brice and then tossed some of
     it. I’m sure you know, Sis, that chips of bone tend to be heavier and therefore to fall more quickly to the ground, while
     the rest of the ashes make a sort of cloud when you throw them, when you cast them aloft. Under the circumstances, this cloud
     seemed to have a character, a personality.
Thus, you darted and feinted around Brice’s head,
Sis, so that he began coughing and wiping the corners of his eyes, dusty with your remains. His consorts were hacking as well,
     among them Sarah Wilton, his betrothed. How had I missed her before? She was radiant like a woman whose prayers have been
     answered, who sees the