The day before the double-weddings was an emotional day for all.
The Skipper had spent the past few days trying not to cry whenever he called Gilligan his 'little buddy.' Mrs. Howell had been sniffling nonstop, but at least hers were tears of joy and excitement. Even Mr. Howell cut short his rant about the interest he was no longer collecting on his accounts, in order to simply stare at Ginger and Mary Ann as they unveiled a test run of a coconut wedding cake.
For the four who were actually getting married, there were plenty of highs and lows. Mary Ann and Ginger had both sobbed the whole time it took Ginger to move the majority of her possessions over to the Professor's. Once that was done, loud arguments could then be heard from the Professor and Ginger about where to put everything. Gilligan didn't have nearly as much stuff, but Mary Ann put up a fight as well when he tried to bring over a trunk containing the molted skins of giant spiders.
On the other hand, both couples seemed to be getting along better. Gilligan and Mary Ann shared sweet smiles and long walks, and Ginger and the Professor had kissed in public—twice. While none of them may have been quite ready for the altar, it did seem silly to postpone the wedding any longer. They would have plenty of time to fall in love after they were married.
"Hopefully you all had planned on honeymooning on a tropical island," Mr. Howell had said that morning, before laughing at his own joke.
The island itself—thanks to Mrs. Howell—had been decorated beautifully, with bouquets of tropical flowers all around the huts. In order to make the weddings legally binding, the actual ceremony would of course have to take place on water, where Skipper had authority as a Captain. The men were all currently inspecting the sea-worthiness of the simple raft, hoping it could at least hold everyone for ten minutes or so. The Skipper had no plans to drag out the ceremony beyond that.
"Gilligan! Would you get over here with the bucket of pitch?" growled the Skipper, frowning at a crack between two of the bamboo rods. "We've got to seal this up now so that it has time to dry overnight."
"I'm coming, Skipper!" called the first mate, nearly tripping over his shoelaces in haste.
The Skipper just shook his head, suddenly feeling very frustrated with life in general. How was it that Gilligan—of all people—was getting married the next day? And not just that, but married to a sweet and completely beautiful girl? The same went for the Professor… The Skipper turned his head to view the other groom, who was currently tightening the knots on the raft in silence. Perhaps the Professor was a little more deserving, but still! The man knew nothing of romance, and yet he was marrying one of the most attractive women in all existence! How was that fair?
The Skipper knew his bad mood was just stemming from jealousy. MaryAnn and Ginger wouldn't flirt with him anymore once they were married—and if for some reason they did attempt a little sweet talk, thought the Skipper, thinking mainly of Ginger—it certainly wouldn't be right to play along.
No, the Skipper was doomed to be a bachelor forever. Which maybe wouldn't have been too terrible, if he had known that the marrying couples were actually in love. Then maybe he could've been happy for them. But since the weddings were just a duty… the Skipper couldn't help but wish he'd been ten years younger. And maybe a little thinner. Then maybe it would've been his duty to marry one of the girls.
And not just 'marry' as in, officiate…
"Well men, you're nearly there!" Mr. Howell was standing to the side, sipping a glass of coconut punch. As typical, he had appointed himself the project supervisor. "But Gilligan my boy, you do realize you're standing in the glue?"
"What?" Gilligan looked down at where he was standing on the raft and tried to step away.
He was unsuccessful.
"Gilligan, you've done it again," the Skipper growled, his annoyance flaring. "I have half a mind to—"
The Professor interrupted the Skipper's threat. "Gilligan. Untie your shoes and jump off the raft barefooted. Then you can use a knife to pry your shoes free." With that suggestion, the Professor went back to work, once more silent.
"Yes, yes, that was exactly what I was about to suggest," said Mr. Howell, taking another sip of his drink. The cup was apparently empty, because he gazed at it forlornly a moment before tossing it over his shoulder and coming up with a new suggestion.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen. Do you realize what today is?"
Gilligan—barefoot and attempting to free his shoes—quickly raised a hand. "It's Thursday! No…it's Friday! No…it's Sat—"
"It's the night we have a little stag party and maybe…" Mr. Howell lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Maybe…we have a few sips of bubbly after the women have gone to bed." He chuckled to himself, rubbing his hands together.
The Skipper thought for a moment, then perked up a little. It'd been a long time since he'd actually sipped anything alcoholic. None of them were big drinkers, as they'd discussed before their vodka night with the Russians…but perhaps a fun evening would take the edge off his mood.
Unfortunately, the Professor replied first. "Mr. Howell, a bachelor party is really not necessary," the man looked up from his work, frowning. "We're not college students intent on imbibing the loss of our freedom. Tomorrow is just another day and then life will carry on as usual."
Mr. Howell adjusted his tie. "Life as usual? Ha! If that's your thought, you're in for a surprise!" He dropped his voice a bit. "And not necessarily a good surprise. Ooh, don't tell Lovey I said that…"
"I'll go to your party, Mr. Howell," said Gilligan. "I think it's awful nice of you to invite us."
"Count me in," the Skipper tapped himself on the chest, grinning.
The Professor reluctantly accepted the invitation too, not wanting to be left out.
"Very good." Mr. Howell rubbed his hands together, again. "Let's meet back here after dark."
Both Ginger and MaryAnn had spent most of the morning with Mrs. Howell. They'd tried on their wedding dresses and the older woman had cooed happily, proclaiming both girls 'simply ravishing.'
Ginger had to agree. She found herself hoping the Professor would also be impressed.
"Do you have any advice for us?" MaryAnn asked Mrs. Howell, even as she twirled in her white dress, smiling at the mirror.
"Well…" Mrs. Howell put a finger to her chin. "I do believe my mother told me to marry a rich man." She waved her hands a little, laughing. "Ooh, I was such a good daughter, wasn't I?"
"But Gilligan and the Professor don't have any money. Nor do we," MaryAnn replied. "Is there any other advice you can give us?"
Ginger thought MaryAnn's tone was a little desperate-sounding. But she couldn't blame the girl. MaryAnn was marrying Gilligan after all.
Mrs. Howell apparently seemed to be considering the same thing. "Well, dear…" She pressed her hands together. "How about you give me the afternoon to think on it, and tonight, after the men have gone to bed, we'll meet back up for a secret hen party! Ooh, yes! And we'll open a bottle of bubbly and go over all your questions, from the wedding night to retirement!"
Ginger laughed a little. "If we're going to talk about the wedding night, we'll need that bottle of bubbly."
MaryAnn giggled as well, blushing. She hugged Mrs. Howell and thanked her for the invitation. "I'm so glad you're here."
Ginger was thankful as well. If it wasn't for Mrs. Howell's fashion sense, she might have ended up with the pink bouquet—which would clash horribly with her hair.
Mrs. Howell helped both girls change back into their usual dresses and then waved as they hurried off to work on lunch. Once the door had swung shut, the woman put her hands on her hips and surveyed the hut. Now let's see…she wondered. Where was Thurston's best bottle of champagne?
Since everyone had been busy throughout the day, dinner was later that evening. The sun had already set by the time the group convened at the table; the first few stars were beginning to show in the clear August sky.
"What a beautiful night," Mrs. Howell cooed. "The weather tomorrow will be simply marvelous."
"Yes," Mr. Howell added dryly. "You won't have to worry about snowstorms on your way to the altar." He elbowed Gilligan with a laugh.
"But Mr. Howell, it never snows here," the first mate pointed out.
"And good thing too," Mr. Howell replied. "After all the labor I've put in today, I would hate for anyone to get cold feet tomorrow. Ha! Did you catch that, Lovey? Cold feet!"
Everyone else around the table smiled politely, but there was a certain level of apprehension in the air. Having 'cold feet' was a luxury that no one on the island could afford. For the sake of the world, they needed to go through with their plans.
The Skipper cleared his throat, then glanced at the other men pointedly. "Well, folks. I'm about ready to call it a night."
"Yes, us too," said Ginger, shooting stares at Mrs. Howell and MaryAnn.
With some more murmured agreements, everyone cleared the table with record speed and hurried off to their respective huts. In the Howell hut, however, there was suddenly a different sort of apprehension in the air.
"Goodnight, Lovey. Sleep soundly," Mr. Howell said, still fully dressed.
"Thank you, dear. But you have already said that twice," said Mrs. Howell. She was fully dressed as well, fluffing her hair by the mirror. "Perhaps you should also go to sleep now. I'm sure you're tired. You did work so hard today!"
"Work?" Mr. Howell sniffed. "A Howell supervises the work, my dear. But yes," he added, making an exasperated face. "It was positively exhausting."
"Yes, dear," Mrs. Howell sympathized. "All the more reason to go to bed."
"You're absolutely right!" said Mr. Howell. He reached for his robe and pulled it on over his clothes, hoping his wife wasn't looking too closely. "You should go to bed too."
"And I will. Soon," replied Mrs. Howell. Her eyes wandered to the bamboo cabinet where the champagne was tucked away. Why was Thurston being so impossible? Usually he was asleep by the time she finished putting her curlers in!
"But Lovey, it's so dark," he was still arguing. "You must come to bed. You'll strain your eyes with this horrid lighting. These candles are hardly a replacement for our diamond chandeliers!"
"Of course you're right, dear," Mrs. Howell said, frowning. "I'll go to sleep as soon as you do."
"Fine. I'm going to sleep now then!" Mr. Howell's voice rose, like he was pouting about something. Mrs. Howell fought against a spark of annoyance.
"Good." She marched over to her bed, and blew out the candles with a huff. "Sleep soundly, Thurston."
"No, no, you sleep soundly," he argued back.
Mrs. Howell pulled on a robe over her dinner dress. What an odd man she had married! Sometimes he was positively ridiculous.
In the dark room, Mr. Howell crawled onto his cot and began faking a snore. He knew his wife never fell asleep as fast as he did, which was quite unfortunate. He was going to strain his throat with all the feigned snoring he'd have to do!
A few minutes later, there was a rustling noise by the door. Mr. Howell stopped his snoring and opened his eyes. Had someone just left the hut? No, that was silliness. There was a shadowy lump still in his wife's bed. And obviously Teddy hadn't wandered off. Mr. Howell gave the stuffed animal a squeeze.
"Lovey?" Mr. Howell whispered into the dark. "Are you asleep yet?"
There was no answer, so Mr. Howell grinned to himself and threw off his robe dramatically. He tiptoed to the bamboo cabinet, grinning to himself. Sometimes, it was oh-so-fun to be sneaky.
MaryAnn jumped up from her bed at Mrs. Howell's careful knock. She hurried to the door, smiling.
"Glad you're here, Mrs. Howell! Did you sneak out all right?"
"Oh, yes! I hid a pillow under my covers to make it look like I'm still in bed." Mrs. Howell grinned. "Wasn't that clever of me?"
"For sure," said Ginger. "We were starting to think Mr. Howell had caught you stealing his champagne!"
"His champagne?" Mrs. Howell's smile faded, then came back twice as big. "Dears, let me give you my first pearl of truth. From tomorrow on, you're at perfect liberty to claim anything that belongs to your husbands…as your own possessions." She nodded and held the expensive glass bottle up proudly.
"Great. That means I'm now the proud owner of Facts on Fungus: the Complete Volume," said Ginger, rolling her eyes. "Just what every girl wants."
"Ooh, but that's better than owning molted spider skins," retorted MaryAnn.
"Come now, girls," Mrs. Howell interrupted, sensing their sinking moods. "How about we go out to the lagoon? It's simply a gorgeous night."
"Sure," said Ginger. "I'll make sure the coast is clear."
She stepped outside the hut, but then ducked back inside with a gasp.
"What is it, Ginger?" MaryAnn asked, worry creeping into her thoughts. "Is someone out there?"
The actress frowned. "I think I just saw the Professor sneaking out! Since when does he do anything exciting?" She deepened her frown. "If he's running away…"
"The Professor wouldn't run away," MaryAnn reassured her friend, privately thinking that if anyone snuck off, it'd most likely be Gilligan. "He was probably just enjoying one last walk in the moonlight."
"Yes, because moonlight doesn't exist once you're married," Ginger retorted sarcastically.
"Don't be silly, girls," Mrs. Howell interrupted again. "Let's just head outside."
Following the older woman's example, they grabbed a few empty cups and crept beyond the clearing, tiptoeing along the familiar path to the lagoon.
"Now, girls. I did think of some advice for you," Mrs. Howell chatted as they walked, her voice light. "I was at one of Princess Grace's parties and I recalled another guest quoting a simple phrase that she claimed had saved her marriage. I can't quite remember who was credited with the proverb—when the group was discussing that, I realized one of my diamond earrings had fallen in my drink!"
"What was it?" MaryAnn asked, trying not to trip in the dark sand.
"I'm not sure, dear. Perhaps a white wine?"
"Not the drink, the proverb," Ginger clarified.
"Oh yes, that. It was only two words," Mrs. Howell grinned, looking quite proud of her memory. "The answer to every situation? Be yourself."
"That's all?" MaryAnn tugged at her hair and grimaced.
"Well of course there's more to my story," Mrs. Howell said quickly. "Don't worry, I did rescue my earring before anyone noticed, but—"
"But that's all the advice you have for us?" Ginger shook her head. "That's not much."
"Oh, but it's simple! Don't change your personality when you have a man. Just be yourself. There's no need to worry over the wedding night: simply be yourself! Oh, and when you have children, have no worries about how to raise them properly. Just be yourself, and they'll learn by example." Mrs. Howell waved the bottle of champagne excitedly. "You girls are so lovely the way you are. There's no need to do anything differently."
MaryAnn and Ginger exchanged glances, still skeptical. "Please don't give this speech to Gilligan or the Professor," Ginger said after a moment. "I think this is the last thing they need to hear."
"Oh, but you wouldn't truly want to change them!" Mrs. Howell continued on, not seeing the dubious glance that her two companions shared. "They're such sweet men. They'll be very kind to you."
The girls finally reached the lagoon and MaryAnn sighed. "I suppose you're right, Mrs. Howell. Gilligan and the Professor are nice men. The situation could be much worse."
"Oh, don't say that right now. You're jinxing us!" Ginger hissed with a gasp, pointing to four dark shadows near the water. "Look! Invaders! And since the human race is gone besides us and the headhunters…"
"Headhunters!?" Mrs. Howell gave a little shriek. "They'll ruin my flower-decorations!"
Suddenly there was a familiar shout from near the water. "Did someone say headhunters?! I thought I heard a voice!"
"Was that the Skipper?" MaryAnn frowned. She glanced again at the four shadows, slowly putting the dots together in her mind.
But the panic had already started.
"Oh, cannibals! How vulgar," Mrs. Howell exclaimed. In the men's group, Gilligan dropped the champagne he was pouring and the bottle shattered onto the raft.
"My bubbly!" wailed Mr. Howell, watching as the liquid ran between the bamboo poles.
"Sorry, Mr. Howell," said Gilligan quickly. "Just pretend the raft was a boat. And pretend I was purposefully christening it."
"Where are the headhunters?" the Professor was trying to see across the dark water. "There's not enough light!" He turned to the girls, and waved a hand. "Ginger," he called, "where are they attacking from?"
"We've got to get down!" exclaimed the Skipper, wringing his hat between his hands. "We're sitting ducks just standing here."
Gilligan seemed to tune into the conversation. "But wouldn't that make us standing ducks?"
"...my poor flowers! Oh, I don't want to think about Headhunters at the wedding! Don't they know that gate crashing is horribly rude?"
MaryAnn took in all the chaos around her, from the Skipper's fear to Mr. Howell's broken champagne bottle. She shook her head and then doubled over laughing.
Maybe the pent-up tension contributed to the hilarity, because a moment later, Ginger was in the sand beside MaryAnn, tears of laughter running down her face.
"Good heavens. Is this some sort of prank?" asked the Professor, the anxiety on his face fading to bewilderment. He and the Skipper both ran to where the girls had collapsed.
"Wait. No cannibals? What's happening?" Gilligan took his hat off and scratched his head. He and Mr. Howell left the raft and crowded around the others.
"We…we…thought you four were…the…the headhunters," gasped MaryAnn, clutching her side.
"In the dark…and…and you were supposed to…back in the huts!" Ginger added, her sentence punctuated by giggles.
"Well, this seems to be a simple misunderstanding then," said the Professor. "We were out here, well, having a party."
"About to have a party," sniffed Mr. Howell. "I only got one sip of bubbly! Now Gilligan's gone and dropped the bottle. A 1950!"
"Well, darling, it so happens that we're having a party too," Mrs. Howell said, patting her furious husband's cheek. "And we have a 1949."
"Wait a minute. Does this mean the headhunters are gone?" Gilligan asked, frowning at the giggling girls, then at the Howells.
The Skipper sighed. "Yes, Little Buddy. Far gone."
"Oh. That is funny then." Gilligan forced a few seconds of laughter, then frowned at MaryAnn and Ginger, who were still swiping away tears. "But not…that funny."
"My dear, I would never want to be known as a rogue who crashes hen parties, but what say you to a shared event? And a shared bottle?" Mr. Howell asked, smiling hopefully at his wife.
"I'm sure that will be fine, dear. Besides, I've already finished giving the girls my advice. Everything else can be said in mixed company."
"Er, great!" said the Skipper. "I'll light some torches."
"Yes, so that way we won't have any more headhunter invasions," said the Professor. He helped Ginger to her feet and she clapped a hand over her mouth, hiccupping.
"And we haven't even been drinking yet," laughed MaryAnn, reaching for Gilligan's hand. He pulled her up as well, apologizing for smelling like 1950.
"Hey folks! How 'bout a dance?" called the Skipper, as he finished lighting the last torch. With the moonlight on the water, and the flickering orange flames, the lagoon went very quickly from frightening to romantic.
"Oh, and I'll provide the music!" Gilligan offered. Yet instead of running for the radio, he began humming the Star Spangled Banner.
"Gilligan!" chided MaryAnn, laughing. But then she joined in. As did everyone else.
Mr. Howell poured drinks, the Skipper danced, and the others took turns shouting off-key song requests. Even the Professor had to admit that the party was one of the best he'd ever attended.
If anyone was worried about the future, no one could have guessed. It was a joyful night in the South Pacific.