Follow Me by Joanna Scott

door at a run.
    There was another sign of trouble when one of the Fitzgerald girls started crying because she didn’t like her curls. But Erna
     managed to comfort her, whispering something in her ear, which aroused the suspicion of the other Fitzgerald girl, so Sally
     took it upon herself to assure this sister in a whisper that she’d catch the boys’ eyes that day. Both girls left contented.
     And while they waited for Gladdy Toffit to join them, Erna fixed Sally’s hair in a French braid secured at the end with a
     ribbon that matched her waistband. They kept waiting as long as they could without being late for the wedding, but Gladdy
     never showed up.
    The ceremony was held in the gazebo at the edge of the lawn, along the bank of the narrow Tuskee. There’d been plenty of rain
     that season, and the current was stronger than usual, the water running so loudly over the loose stones that it was hard to
     hear the minister who was presiding, or the bride and groom as they were led through their vows. At that point there were
     about fifty guests either sitting on wooden chairs or standing about the lawn. But as soon as the vows were completed and
     the bride and groom had kissed, other guests started to arrive, some appearing at the back door of the Party House, as though
     they’d been given the signal to emerge, and others coming from their cars in the parking lot.
    Uncle Mason was dressed in an old-fashioned white tie and tails that looked, to Sally’s eyes, more than a little ridiculous,
     especially since the waiter pouring the champagne was wearing a similar outfit. Swill wore a plain black suit, as though in
     mourning, Sally thought — a contrast to the contented smile on his face. He made dozens of toasts, and when the fiddler played
     a fast jig, Swill was out there on the platform bouncing higher than any younger man, catching the girls by the elbows and
     swinging them around. At one point he even grabbed hold of Sally, skipped along with her, and called to her over the music,
     “You’re looking lovely,” as though the weight of his disapproval had lifted in an instant.
    His wife watched serenely from her chair, Uncle Mason by her side. During nearly three years in Fishkill Notch, Sally had
     never met Swill’s wife face to face. She didn’t even know her proper name. She was only ever
Swill’s wife.
People called her that as though she didn’t have another name and wasn’t even real enough to fill up the passenger seat of
     a car. Sally had come to think of her as a woman who existed only in a shadow form.
    But there she sat in a polka-dot dress and red hat, a plump woman with freckled arms and cheeks already brown from the spring
     sun and a heavy bosom that she propped up with her folded arms. Sally was surprised to see Swill’s flesh-and-blood wife —
     and even more surprised to see her tapping the foot of her good leg to the music, tipping her head back and forth in time,
     and grinning a grin that matched her husband’s.
    Life felt good and simple again at Georgie’s wedding. Sally was reminded of a day when she was eight or nine and had gone
     to watch her father and uncle help the Jensons raise a new barn. The way the boards came together into a frame was like the
     way everyone here came together to make a celebration. Georgie looked lovely in her sky blue satin dress trimmed with rose
     point lace. Swill and Mason Jackson, unused to their suits, managed to look more like themselves as the day went on, Swill
     more ruffled and messy, Mason more modest. Little Stevie strutted around with an air of being someone very important and held
     out his hand to greet every stranger in his path. Harvey Fitzgerald was a bearish man, burly, with a heavy beard, but his
     face expressed shy sweetness, and he let Stevie ride on his back while he was dancing with Georgie. And what a fine dancer
     he was, stepping nimbly across the crowded floor.
    “Well, won’t you look at that,” Sally said to