Handwringing Hank

“Happiness, not in another place, but this place… not for another hour, but this hour.”  ~ Walt Whitman 

“Ah! Did Teresa find you?” The posed query faltered in sincere questioning.

“Yes. She found Handwringing Hank. I understand you’re the one responsible for that handle.” 

“Has a nice ring to it.” Under the weight of Westcott’s deadpan stare, Scott’s expression of confident scholarly phrasing crumbled into feigned concern. “No?” Chin-rubbed thinking took a moment, ending with a snap of the fingers. “Got it. Apprehensive Abe.” Endorsement remained fleeting. “Well, if it’s Cold-footed Carl we have a serious problem on our hands.”

“I appear to be that bad off?”

“No. Not at all. I mean - ” Scott’s hand rested on the groom’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture. “Not for a man about to lose all semblance of his bachelorhood independence.”   

Seth’s laugh sputtered through a sheepish grin while his raised palm halted further non-requested consoling. “Noted. Thank you.” A slow exhale morphed the grin into a hopeful smile. “You saw the little lady?”

“I did.”

“And she’s beautiful.”

Even though the statement didn’t require confirmation, older cousin pride insisted on it. “Let’s say every man here will be thinking you, sir, are one fortunate bastard.”

“Yeah.” Seth squinted toward the lane snaking through the vineyard that would soon be ushering in the day’s guests.” A couple of gents might be crossing out fortunate and penciling in undeserving.” 

“Well, jealousy won’t have a place at the table today.” Scott wasn’t certain but if asked to name Westcott’s couple of gents, overtaxing the brain would not be an issue. 

Jealousy, not to be confused with envy. Most people would consider the two words interchangeable when describing Othello’s green-eyed monster. However, Scott’s way of thinking found jealousy and envy, while related, were quite distinct. 

Envy spoke to the painful feeling of wanting a possession of another. Every man at least once in his life had fallen victim and Scott was no exception. The possession: a majestic black stallion. From the prison’s definition of a window, Scott had spotted the horse trot into camp: its rider, a Reb general. Envy hit hard and it hit fast, not for the man’s superior rank or his clean spotless uniform or the bulge of a well-fed stomach… not even for the general’s freedom to walk outside. At that moment, Scott wanted nothing more than to own that damn magnificent stallion. It had been an emotional response that, while steeped in absurdity considering the circumstances, managed to deliver intense, painful desire.

Jealousy, on the other hand, involved varying degrees of resentment towards another person for fear of the feasible - losing your own possession to the competitor. In the business circles of Harlan Garrett, Scott saw plenty of jealousy reflected in the eyes of his grandfather’s associates. 

Sir, don’t you see these men share a brandy with you while they silently seethe with resentment? 

Of course they resent me, Scotty, and with good reason. Dog eat dog. Does that mean I should turn down the offer of a good brandy?

However, it had been Sarah Sophronia Shaw who introduced him to the intimate side of jealousy. Although never verbally admitting it, gradually losing her affection to his best friend created festering unwanted resentment Scott struggled to shake off. Luckily, strong friendships finally slayed the green-eyed monster.

So, who were Seth’s couple of gents? Well, that would be George West and Johnny Lancer; one wanting from his competitor, the other losing to his competitor. Scott’s gaze joined his friend’s as it journeyed down the vineyard lane where both these invited emotions would travel. Envy and jealousy: related, but distinct.

“Do we need to fetch a shot of scotch?”

Seth’s question cocked an eyebrow. “I believe it’s the best man’s duty in ensuring the well-being of the bride and groom who asks that question.” Scott smiled. “Let me guess. I had a look on my puss.” 

“Nooooo… and I’m not one to point a finger, but… ” Seth's index digit proceeded to make  him a liar. “Spying the puss on that fella yonder, I do believe I need to pass on my reputation of Handwringing Hank.”

Westcott’s observation continued to raise Scott’s brow considering the fella yonder sporting a look was Murdoch.

********

On a stormy June afternoon in the year of our Lord, 1842, a moderately desirable bachelor, Edwin Wallace Furlong, and Eleanor Louise Garrett, daughter of prominent businessman Fletcher Garrett, were wed in holy matrimony. Less than a year later (nine months to the day to be exact which wagged many an Episcopalian tongue) Kinsey Rose Furlong came into this world.

By the time Kinsey had reached the age of eight, friends would agree Edwin and Eleanor’s parenting skills fell rather short in effectiveness. Fletcher Garrett communicated it best.

Even though business ventures flounder under his figjam ignorance, my son-in-law excels quite nicely as a spineless example of a father who my spoiled granddaughter's domineering mother can fully embrace in her social-climbing endeavors.

Fletcher’s continued less-than-stellar endorsements finally inspired Edwin to relocate his family to Melbourne, Australia, a destination on the other side of the earth from his number one verbal critic. Here, Furlong improved on his financial competency but not on his paternal capacity.

Lait et eau. Kinsey described her father to Scott one afternoon as the cousins rode to Sister Rosa’s mission. Scott had struggled to recall what snippets of the French language he’d studied for his trip to Paris but finally lassoed a translation.

Milk and water.

Her reasoning for the descriptives? Indifferent and detached Edwin Furlong always said yes - always gave in. Yet, when trying to articulate the man she’d recently butted heads with, Kinsey’s words played hide and seek in her silence.

It had taken a moment for Scott to find the two words needed. 

Brique et mortier. 

His little cousin’s nod of agreement and slight smile was all the validation needed.

So, while stepping into the authority figure Edwin Furlong had no desire to fill, brick-and-mortar Murdoch Lancer had naturally inherited the role of -

*********

Scott grinned at the gentleman Seth pointed out. “Why don’t you rustle up that medicinal shot of scotch while I go talk to the father of the bride.”

The best man stood beside his father, assuming a similar stance of clasped hands behind the back. Mirroring Murdoch’s reflective countenance with a hint of disquiet, Scott accompanied the man’s gaze toward the aisle that ended at the grape arbor where the wedding couple would be exchanging their vows. “It should be an easy task, sir. Really nothing to be concerned about.”

A slow-turned head revealed the Lancer patriarch’s expression mutely judging his eldest’s uttered inaccurate conclusion. “Son.”

Delivery of the single word sealed the verdict. Scott dipped his chin for what was to follow.

“Are you suggesting I’m incapable of walking a straight path forward with a bride on my arm so I may present the young lady to her brave beloved?”

Before Scott’s bailout reply could be formulated, the shot of tonic treatment arrived. “Scotch for -”

“The best man.” Relieving Seth of the libation, Scott downed it and surrendered the glass with a smile. “Thank you. That should do it.”

Blink. “You’re welcome.” Westcott, after briefly contemplating the empty shooter in his hand and the two men in front of him, chose an exit line no man could argue with. “I gotta take a piss.” A jabbed thumb over a shoulder turned the gent around, initiating his departure. 

“Right.” Scott’s eye roll accompanying an extended exhale summed up the situation. 

“Your mother deserved more on her wedding day.”

Murdoch speaking of the past. At times, Scott sensed his father’s opening of the door to unspoken memories and could mentally prepare for what laid in wait. On other occasions, they snuck up and reduced Scott’s response to a simple - “Sir?”

“The money Harlan offered me to walk away he then tried to allocate in financing an elopement. It was Catherine’s mother who would have none of it. There would be some manner of a wedding, by God.” 

Remembering what he could of his grandmother resulted in Scott’s soft smile. The woman could be a force to reckon with.

“It was a hasty ceremony. Enough words to make it legal. Immediate family. No friends. No mention in the social pages. We left Boston the next day.” Murdoch's arm swept out to take in the surroundings. “She deserved more like this.”

Scott allowed his father’s melancholy another minute. “Sir, may I speak freely?”

“Of course.”

“On her wedding day, I think my mother received exactly what she deserved - marriage to the man she loved.”

The patriarch’s quick nod pushed out any remaining saddened second guessing and closed the door to his past memory while resting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Let’s say you and I find that shot of scotch for the father of the bride inadvertently drunk by the best man.”