Henry & Eva and the Famous People Ghosts Page 2

  Because, you see, the place for these nuptials is not a quaint little white-clad church, or a rustic seaside affair with a clambake and maybe tiki torches for the reception.

  Nope.

  The location of the wedding is none other than:

  Hearst Castle.

  It’s okay, I’ll wait. You can look it up.

  3

  SO, YOU’VE SEEN it now? Hearst Castle? Great. So, let’s unpack this for a minute, shall we? Hearst Castle is a giant, absurd, bajillion-dollar place, perched atop a vast stretch of land on the California Central Coast. Now, most people think of traffic or movies when they think of California, but this is the rolling hills, unspoiled, wine-country part of California that kind of looks like the south of France. It is all protected, so no giant hotels everywhere. Many people, in fact, from other countries who come to the States, if they find themselves on this particular stretch of road, between Morro Bay and Monterey . . . pretty much freak out. Like they never thought this country of ours had such a hidden jewel. And this is something everyone in California is desperately trying to keep this way.

  But I digress. So, this is what happened. In 1865, George Hearst purchased 40,000 acres of land on the aforementioned rolling hills. After his mother’s death in 1919, William Randolph Hearst inherited said thousands of acres of this land, and over time, he purchased more. Eventually he owned about 250,000 acres. With architect Julia Morgan, Hearst dreamed up a little haven he called La Cuesta Encantada—which translates to “Enchanted Hill.” By 1947, Hearst’s health faltered and he had to leave the remote location, because it really was in the middle of nowhere and if he got sick, he’d be pretty much out of luck.

  So even though the estate comprised 165 rooms and 123 acres of gardens, terraces, pools, and walkways—all built to Hearst’s specifications and showcasing a legendary art collection consisting of everything from Egyptian antiquities, to Roman and Greek sculptures, to whatever was the most expensive anything old William Randolph could buy—to this day it is still unfinished. Sidebar: Apparently he detested modern art. So, if you’re looking for anything abstract, you’ve come to the wrong castle.

  So this lonely, classical art–stuffed, Spanish Revival castle sits looking across the Pacific Ocean like a great Sphinx confused by the riddle of its existence. And, you, too, can see it for the ticket price of $25 or $12 depending on how old you are. Because now it’s a museum. I am unaffiliated with and not compensated by said estate, but I’d say it’s worth the trip.

  Although, to be honest, our tour of the place seems a bit whitewashed. Hearst, in the audio guide, comes off as kind of a hero. While Henry called the place “an unexamined slobbering rant of conspicuous consumption.” And I can’t help agreeing. Keep in mind, this guy, Hearst, built this huge temple to avarice smack-dab in the middle of the Great Depression. While there were soup-kitchen lines around the block, tent cities called Hoovervilles, and mothers unable to feed their starving children.

  So, I am just going to give that ranting Hearst tour a rating of “Ahem.” One star.

  However, I forgot the best part. Over the years, in its heyday, it was considered very awesome to be invited to said conspicuous castle by old Billy, and here is a list of some folks who were lucky enough to win that golden ticket:

  Winston Churchill

  Howard Hughes

  Charles Lindbergh

  George Bernard Shaw

  Charlie Chaplin

  Gary Cooper

  Joan Crawford

  Douglas Fairbanks Jr.

  Errol Flynn

  Clark Gable

  Greta Garbo

  Cary Grant

  Buster Keaton

  Harpo Marx

  Groucho Marx

  Now, most of these were stars of silent film back in the day, so you probably have never heard of them. But believe me, at the time, this would’ve been like having a couple of friends over for the weekend and it would be like, “Pass the peas, Beyoncé.” Oh, and, “I’m not sure you’ve met my friend Leonardo DiCaprio but he has the best story about the time we almost tripped off Randolph’s boat!”

  Like that.

  So you see, the idea of having your wedding at said absurd castle is, well, absurd. I mean, seriously.

  But Binky seems to be the straw that stirs the drink.

  I bet you’re wondering what Binky looks like. Well, it’s not what you think. She has long chestnut hair that she often wears in braids. Her feet are frequently shod in clogs. Also, she wears glasses. So, again, the Hearst Castle thing is totally unexpected. She could, I suppose, take off those glasses, clogs, and braids and be a hotty-potatty but I haven’t seen any indication of hotty- potattyness so far, glasses or no.

  So why Hearst?

  Here is a discussion I had with Henry about said mystery:

  “Okay, so, Henry. Don’t you find this a bit strange?”

  “Find what?”

  “This whole Hearst Castle wedding thing . . . I mean, don’t you find it a bit out of character?”

  “Perhaps.” Henry thinks. “However, it does happen to be filled with antiquities from both the Assyrian and Sumerian civilizations, and she does have her PhD in classics from Bryn Mawr, arguably the best graduate program in the country on the matter. My deduction is it’s simply a love of Mesopotamian fertility figures and artifacts from the Silk Road that prompted the choice.”

  “But it seems so . . . gaudy,” I add.

  “I suppose, if you think an interest in the ancient empires, from the Anunnaki to the fall of Rome is . . . gaudy. I find it fascinating! What there is to be learned from the fall of empires!”

  “That’s just what I mean. This is the fall of Rome. So decadent!”

  Henry shrugs. “It’s Binky’s wedding. Not yours.”

  Touché.

  Henry goes back to his magnet experiment. He is trying to create a portal using magnets and the frequencies found in the lines of a mandala. I know. I give him about ten months until we’re stepping into the multiverse. We can study their empires then.

  While Henry’s point is true, this still doesn’t quite square with the finances of an ancient antiquities scholar (Binky) and a small-town newspaper chief (Zeb’s dad). Sure, Binky has written a few books on the matter. Assyrians and the Invention of Cruelty, Egypt: Racism Beyond the Nile, and her most famous, Aristotle and the Seeds of Slavery. But all those books are just boring enough to be important. And important doesn’t necessarily translate to massive wealth.

  I can only assume Binky comes from a rich family. And she would have to. I mean, her name is Binky. Not exactly a moniker from the mean streets of Hardscrabble, USA. In Hardscrabble, you’d probably get beat up a lot for a name like that. By your own relatives.

  All of this is really just a preamble to the feeling I have at this very moment, which can best be described as, “Why am I here?”

  Because you see, where we are, Henry and I, is about fifteen rows back from Zeb, who is basically starring in this wedding, as the eleven-year-old best man to his father. And above us are soaring rafters with gold gilded everything, red velvet everything else, and Greco-Roman statues everywhere. Popping out of the woodwork. Practically falling out of the windows. It’s as if at any moment one of them is just going to grab my hand and say, “Get me out of here!”

  I vow to help, if necessary.

  If you’re wondering where our beloved uncle Claude and aunt Terri are, the answer is, they dropped us off here with Marisol. They showered us with kisses and hugs, scruffed us on the hair, and then took off to Paris. Yes, just like that. I’m not sure, exactly, why Paris, except that Terri said something about shopping and romance and nonrefundable tickets. In that order.

  You may be wondering where Marisol is, and that’s where I look like a jerk. You see, Marisol has decided to get her pilot’s license. I have to say, I’m confident in her abilities as she has always been an excellent driver. But it takes lots of hours; pilots call it “logging hours.” To get said license. S
o, I sorta kinda told Marisol we’ve got this covered so she can fly off into the great blue sky and someday become a commercial pilot, which, let’s face it, would be awesome. I would give a thousand dollars just to hear her voice come over the airplane intercom. “Hallo, dees is jour captain e-speaking. Our flight time is e-six hours today.” Also, I have this feeling Marisol will somehow end up the head of the airline. She’s just that person.

  My imaginary dreamscape of Marisol at the head of the United Airlines boardroom table is interrupted by the melancholy sounds of the string quartet playing Mozart, because that has to happen. I mean, no string quartet, no wedding. Everyone is sort of looking around, looking at the program, looking at each other, giving a few kind nods, wedding nods, this is a happy occasion. There are a few confused folks near the back who seem to be wondering if they are in the wrong place—not because they are here for a tour, as Binky rented out the entirety of the place, which must have cost a king’s ransom, but because it’s just such a ludicrous, luxurious place to celebrate anything, really.

  It’s not a perfect day for a wedding. Not a bright blue day. More of a hmm-it-might-rain sort of day. Now, in most places that might just mean maybe grab an umbrella or wear your galoshes. Not around here though. The last time it rained and rained and rained, they had to shut down the Pacific Coast Highway, also known as the only way in and out of Big Sur. Supplies needed to be airlifted in till the road was fixed. So, a little rain is fun, but a lot of rain is, well, not so fun.

  That might be part of the nervous energy. Or maybe it’s because Zeb’s dad just met Binky about six months ago, so that’s not exactly a lengthy courtship.

  Zeb’s mom is already remarried to a “venture capitalist.” I’m not sure what it means, but one time Zeb referred to him as a “vulture capitalist” so that doesn’t sound good. Henry said when Zeb went to visit his mom and his “new dad,” there was not a detail left unchecked in the fun department. Pool? Check. Tree house? Check. Air hockey table? Check. Batting cage? Check. Foosball table? Check. Pool table? Check. Giant playroom full of Zeb’s experiments and Lego creations? Check. Elaborate train set around the whole yard? Check and check.

  So, whatever it is that this “vulture capitalist” does . . . it seems to be working out.

  There is something else that’s a little off, too. When we were coming up the tram to this here Hearst Castle, there were loads and loads of trucks. Flower trucks. Catering trucks. Entertainment trucks. Linen trucks. I mean . . . so many trucks. It was like a truck convention. I had the distinct thought that there must be about a million people coming to the wedding, or at least a thousand.

  And yet.

  When we reached the chapel itself, which is more of a cathedral than a chapel, really, there were only about one hundred guests. Yes, one hundred guests, of which Henry and I make two. So ninety-eight guests besides us, but let’s not get bogged down with the minutiae here. The point is . . . that sure seems like a lot of trucks for one hundred guests. Not that I’m a wedding planner or anything.

  I mentioned it to Henry and this was about how that went:

  Me: “Doesn’t that seem like a lot of trucks for this many people?”

  Henry: “Hmm. Interesting observation. I can only assume that Binky has decided to attend to every detail in the most elaborate way possible.”

  Me: “But why? It’s not like Zeb’s dad cares. I mean, he’s so crunchy his Birkenstocks practically navigate themselves to the nearest protest.”

  Henry: “Amusing. Perhaps her great family wealth has put him on par with his ex-wife’s new husband, the venture capitalist, who is clearly part of the one percent. It’s possible this is a kind of sweet revenge.”

  Me: “Well, what does Zeb have to say about it?”

  Henry: “Not much. Although I do think he enjoys his new waterslide. And I don’t blame him. There is a kind of reckless glee in flinging oneself onto it.”

  And at this moment, the embodiment of reckless flinging pokes his head between us.

  “Mini sushirritos, anyone?”

  It’s Zeb, offering a small plate of tiny sushi burritos to us, his face a big pumpkin smile.

  “I’d offer the mini Korean tacos, but they’re harder to eat. Like, I’ve had to change my shirt twice.”

  “Ooo, thanks, Zeb. That’s nice of you.”

  “I just don’t want you guys to die of boredom. This may take a while. Also, I’m supposed to do a reading and it’s so cheesy I know I’m going to laugh.”

  “What? You can’t laugh!” I say, amused.

  “Well, what exactly is it?” Henry asks.

  “Put it this way, at some point I am supposed to say ‘Love is like a salad.’”

  Henry and I both stifle a laugh.

  “You should just say love is like a sushi burrito,” Henry whispers.

  “No! A Korean taco. It’s messy!” I add.

  The three of us try to keep it down, though our pew neighbors are clearly starting to get annoyed.

  Zeb’s dad waves him back from the altar and Zeb gives us a shrug, heading back. As he goes, he gestures around at the vast, excessive cathedral and rolls his eyes, as if to say, “Isn’t this all ridiculous?”

  We nod back, smiling in accordance. It’s so hard to not like him. You could drop him anywhere and he’d just kind of go with it, like, “Oh, yeah. Okay, this is what we’re doing. Cool.”

  But for some reason it angers me. Zeb’s ability to navigate the world with such carefree abandon. Maybe I’m jealous. Maybe I’m too stressed out. Maybe I’m too lame. That is a definite possibility. It’s a mystery. Like the great pyramids of Giza. Or the stones at Puma Punku. Or why Trader Joe’s parking lots are always so squirrelly.

  The music has been going on for a while, but according to the program the wedding party doesn’t start their march in until “Pachelbel’s Canon.” So, we are all in an essential holding pattern.

  Maybe I can dazzle my brother with some knowledge about this place that I gained from an intense study of the Googles. “Henry, did you know they have a bunch of statues here from Egypt?”

  “Yes. Four pieces, exactly, of art dated from the New Kingdom. In the middle is Sekhmet, which translates to ‘the powerful,’ depicted with the body of a woman and the head of a lioness. She was portrayed as the bloodthirsty protector of Ra, the sun god.”

  Of course. Because Henry.

  “If you’re curious about the New Kingdom, sometimes referred to as the Egyptian Empire, it was the period in ancient Egyptian history between the sixteenth century BC and the eleventh century BC, covering the Eighteenth, Nineteenth, and Twentieth Dynasties of Egypt.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Henry smiles.

  “Well, I for one am looking forward to seeing these statues. Who could resist the bloodthirsty protector of the sun god?”

  A hush falls over the crowd, and then it starts—“Pachelbel’s Canon.”

  “A bit somber for a wedding, really,” Henry says. “I suppose Binky finds the traditional ‘Wedding March’ passé.”

  Henry’s probably right. He seems to really have an instinct when it comes to Binky. A sort of attention out of character for him. Wait a minute. Does my brother, Henry, have a little crush on Binky?

  The officiant, who I’m told is a Unitarian Universalist, steps humbly up to the altar.

  Zeb’s dad steps out to the altar from the side, wearing a black-and-white tuxedo, looking a bit sheepish.

  And now Zeb steps out as well. The best man. Maybe it is a bit unusual to have your son as the best man, but what else was he going to be? The ring bearer? Too old. An usher? Too vague. Almost an insult for your own son, really. I get the feeling his dad is trying to make this as easy as possible for Zeb. A transition that won’t traumatize him. But with Zeb trauma doesn’t seem to be a factor.

  The melancholy canon continues and so does the parade down the aisle of whoever all these people are. I peer through the many heads bobbing up and around, in assorted curiosity an
d awe, to catch Zeb there, at the altar, next to his dad. He gives a funny little nod. An acknowledgment of the pomp of this matrimony. And I feel a funny thing then, almost a sense of relief. Yes, this is all very expensive. And yes, this is all very glamorous and gold-gilded and all the rest of the words involving a G and an L. But somehow, Zeb’s attitude, the way he takes it . . . is a license not to care. And with that license not to care is a kind of freedom.

  The procession comes to an end and then we are left in the moment of sort of forced anticipation. I can’t help but think there is a kind of hold here. A moment to prepare us for the almost certain collective gasp we obviously will be having at first glance of the bride. Of Binky!

  Henry whispers into my ear, “Is there a purpose to this somewhat elongated pause?”

  “I think the purpose is for us to freak out,” I whisper back.

  Henry smiles. I’ve always enjoyed making my kid brother laugh, or smile, or demonstrate any kind of amusement. You see, he is a fragile, focused, sometimes brooding little boy, and it’s important for me to make life less serious. Our parents’ death didn’t help. And my job as the mood lightener became all the more important then. Keeping us happy, shining. I know our mom would’ve wanted it that way. When we were growing up, if we felt like we’d disappointed them, my mom would always say, “Oh, honey. Your father and I just want you to be healthy and happy and kind. That’s all we care about. That’s the most important thing, in the end.” If she were talking to Henry she would say, “No squinty eyes. You’re much too handsome to brood. I won’t allow it!” And, of course, then Henry would smile and blush.

  Ah, speaking of blushing, here she is! The beautiful blushing bride! Well, look at her. There’s no denying she really put something into this. And, I have to admit, I’ve never seen anything like this dress before. It has embroidered lace around the neck, and all around the body, but then there’s a kind of downward triangle from the collarbone to the waist, pointing to the floor, sleeves that kind of look like butterflies, then the same lace going down tight, but somehow there is flowing involved. Maybe the butterflies are the flowy part? I get it. Her brunette hair is cascading down around everything and she could practically be on the cover of Paris Bride magazine, if that even exists. If it doesn’t, it exists in my imagination and is therefore existent in some form. Either way, she has earned the collective gasp she was setting us all up to inhale. It is a synchronistic breath of exultation and awe. Binky has done it!