"It is not the Protestants!" Mother screams. "It is my patience! Exploding!"
She marches into the centre of the aisle, vibrating with rage.
"This is a farce! We have a waddling groom! A drunk priest! A pretzel-eating Best Man! And a son who is calculating the probability of my stroke instead of helping me!"
She points a finger at me.
"Maxwell! Fix this! Make them behave! Make them...Yorks!"
I look at the scene.
Jax is leaning against a pillar, rubbing his bleeding heels. O’Malley is cowering behind the altar, muttering about the Reformation. Luke is trying to wipe mustard off his chin with his scrub top. Preston is holding a giant pretzel like it’s a piece of radioactive waste. Rosa is laughing so hard she is choking on a cashew in the front pew.
“It appears, at least to me,” I say calmly, " that the entropy ofthis system has reached a critical threshold. Further rehearsal will yield diminishing returns."
"You are firing me?" Mother gasps. "From my own rehearsal?"
"I am suggesting a recess," I say. "Before the Archbishop accidentally excommunicates the choir."
Before Mother can explode again, the massive oak doors open one more time.
Alistair York strolls in.
He is late. He is glowing. He is wearing a linen suit that is entirely too casual, sunglasses, and he is carrying a portable speaker that is currently playingThe Girl from Ipanema.
The Bossa Nova beat echoes strangely against the Gothic arches.
"Hola! Familia!" Alistair booms, strutting down the aisle. "Why the long faces? Why the screaming? I could hear Catherine from the vestibule!"
He stops next to Mother. He looks at the clipboard on the floor. He looks at O’Malley hiding behind the altar. He looks at Preston holding the pretzel.
Alistair grins.
"Wonderful!" he declares. "It’s a circus! I love a circus! Preston, give me a bite of that pretzel."
He takes the pretzel from Preston and takes a massive bite, chewing with gusto in the middle of the Cathedral.
"Alistair!" Mother shrieks. "You are eating gluten in the sanctuary!"
"I am eating, Catherine," Alistair says, crumbs falling onto his linen lapel. "And O’Malley! Get up! You look like a turtle! We have a boat to catch!"
"The boat," Jax whimpers. "Oh god. I forgot the boat."
"Yes! The boat!" Alistair cheers. "TheS.S. Sovereign! I brought Dramamine! I brought tequila! I brought earplugs for when your mother starts reviewing the seating chart!"
"I hate you," Mother whispers, her eyes twitching. "I hate allof you. You are undisciplined. You are chaotic. You are ruining my vision."
"Your vision is boring, Cathy," Alistair says, winking at me. "Our vision has pretzels. And drunk priests. O’Malley! Are you coming? Or are you waiting for the Rapture?"
O’Malley pops his head up. "Is there an open bar on the nautical vessel?"
"There is," Alistair confirms.
"Then I am resurrected!" O’Malley declares, struggling to his feet. "Praise be to the Gay Pope!"
"We are done," Mother says. She sounds defeated. She sounds dangerous. "The rehearsal is over. You are all incompetent. We will fix this tonight. On the boat. Where none of you can escape. Where there are no pretzels. And no exits."
She turns her icy gaze to Jax.
