Page 90 of Head Room

There are stretches of Wyoming driving when you can safely look at a wedding spreadsheet.I was in one as I left the Circle B and headed toward Sherman.

Especially if you don’t look too closely at what’s on the screen.

“Uh-huh.”I glanced at it to make the words the truth, because mothers are natural lie detectors.At least mine is.“What is this on the timeline in red, Mom?”

“First look.”

“I know that’s what the words say, but what is it and why is it in red?”

She clicked her tongue.“To ask you about, of course.As for what it is, have you not stayed up-to-date with weddings at all?”

“No.”For accuracy, I added, “Other than being a guest.And there isn’t that much new or different about watching, listening, best-wishing, toasting, eating, and dancing.”

Another tongue click.“Well, the modern twist on the moment the bride starts down the aisle and the groom sees her for the first time is to set aside time before the ceremony.The groom has his back turned and the bride comes up behind him and — First Look.”

“Mom, it’s not thebride and groom.It’s Tom and me.And...I like it.”

She paused a beat.“You do?”She caught herself immediately.“Of course you do.If you want more time for the First Look photos, we can move up the schedule and—”

“No photos.”

“But that’s the practical reason to do it.Get them taken, then you don’t miss out on—”

“The fun of the reception or hold up the guests.Got it.But since Tom and I will first see each other in our wedding finery in Cody on Friday morning and the reception isn’t until Saturday evening, there’s no hurry for us.”

“But—”

“I’ll double-check with Tom, but I’m in favor of us having a few minutes alone together before the wedding.”

“Alone?But that’s a moment—”

She cut off her own words, but they still showed up like cartoon script between us.

A mother would love to see.

“Alone,” I said firmly.“I suspect we’ll need it.Maybe we can do it before the ceremony Saturday, too.”

****

The Sherman WesternFrontier Life Museum is housed in an unremarkable brick building on Cottonwood Avenue toward the west side of town.

It’s where we would hold our reception after that Saturday ceremony.

Now, instead of parking in front and entering the door our guests would come through, I turned left on the cross street before the museum.

The back door was sometimes unlocked during the day, especially when curator Clara Atwood was working in her office.

It was worth a shot, because going in the front door would allow whichever volunteer was at the front desk to ask Clara if she was available, giving her a chance to say no.

The back door was unlocked.

The hallway wasn’t any emptier than the previous time I’d seen it, although the stacks of boxes were more orderly.

Clara’s office is also always crowded with overflow materials, even more so since the museum inherited the holdings of a rich man, including the land the vets wanted to buy.

On the eastern section of that land, closer to the highway, stood historical buildings the man — Russell Teague — had gathered the way junkyards gather old cars.A handful were in good shape.More had promise.Others were wrecks.

This Old West town came complete with underground parking to preserve its Main Street’s historical appearance.But the jumble — inside and outside — each building required a lot of culling.