Wedding in Great Neck (9781101607701) (30 page)

L
incoln was quietly frantic. Angelica was supposed to meet him right here by the entrance to the tent. In a matter of minutes he was going to be walking her down the white-carpeted aisle, and even though he had not been able to make the rehearsal last night, he knew exactly where he was to be and what he needed to do. So where was she? His eyes anxiously scanned the assembled group as he searched for her, but she was nowhere in sight.

He stepped back and looked up. The tent was an elaborate structure with its own shiny, wood-like flooring and arched windows. Although it was enclosed, it felt permeable because it allowed the rain-rinsed air to circulate freely. Lincoln had never seen such a thing before and could only imagine what it must have cost. The deluxe white folding chairs (padded, faux silver trim) had been set up in neat rows. Garlands of white flowers were looped through the backs of those chairs, and the poles supporting the lofting canopy were also covered in flowers, all of them heavy with scent and white, white, white. The guests in their expensive
clothes and more expensive jewels were all seated and murmuring with subdued but evident anticipation.

The other tent, where the dinner would be held, was even more ornate, with chandeliers and a polished dance floor. Lincoln knew that Don had ponied up most of the money; Angelica and Ohad had contributed the rest. Lincoln had given not a single penny, and his offer of a five-hundred-dollar savings bond as a wedding gift had been gently but firmly refused. “I’m not taking your money, Daddy,” Angelica had said. “I don’t need it; you do.” Lincoln burned at the memory. She was right, of course. But her refusal left him feeling insufficient and ashamed. Wasn’t the father of the bride supposed to pay for the wedding? And yet despite all his failings, financial and otherwise, she had put his name on the invitation and asked him to give her away. He preened inwardly at the honor. Only, where the hell
was
she?

Lincoln paced in the small space allotted to him, nervously smoothing back his hair and readjusting his tie. At least he looked good; he had to thank Don for that. The other members of the processional were all here: Ohad’s mother and his uncle, who would escort her down the aisle since his father had been killed years earlier while fighting in the never-ending conflict in Israel. Don, with his arm locked around Betsy’s waist. The twins; his own sons; a bevy of bridesmaids in simple but lovely pale gray dresses; their escorts, many of whom were Israeli; the flower girl, basket brimming with petals as she hopped from one foot to the other in her excitement. But still no Angelica.

Lincoln leaned over to ask Betsy just where the hell she could be, but right then the first strains of Pachelbel’s Canon—predictable but still so right for the occasion—began, and there was no chance to say anything. The bridesmaids were taking their turns walking down the aisle, and then the twins. When they had all reached the
chuppah
, Ohad’s mother—deeply tanned and even more deeply wrinkled—moved to join them with her brother by her side. She seemed so solemn with her small white bouquet; she did not look right or left but kept her gaze straight ahead as she walked. As soon she got there and turned around, Betsy and Don began their walk; they were followed by the flower girl, who was all by herself.

The child—the granddaughter of one of Betsy’s first cousins—took her job very seriously and was intent on covering every inch of the white path with her petals. No one else seemed to mind, though Lincoln wished she would hurry up. About three-quarters of the way down, she realized her basket was empty. She froze, eyes darting anxiously around. Betsy smiled, gesturing for her to keep on walking. Still she did not move. The musicians grew silent; the girl looked ready to cry. But then Ohad appeared, his shining black shoes covering the petal-strewn path in just a few long strides. He reached the panicked flower girl and, taking her hand in his, walked toward the
chuppah.

Good, at least
that
was over. The musicians began to play again, and then finally,
finally
there was Angelica arriving in a golf cart! A flower-decked golf cart, no less! Now, who would have thought of
that
? But Lincoln had to concede
that it was actually a very clever idea: it protected her long white dress from grass stains and allowed her to make quite an entrance.

As she stepped out and came toward him, he wanted to ask her where the hell she had been, but was stopped—stunned really—by her appearance. What was she wearing over her face? Jesus, it was her
veil.
Her entire head was obscured by the elaborate cloud of white netting, rendering her mysterious, even alien. Hardly the baby with whom he’d been instantly smitten or the girl who’d continued to enchant him. No, the veil created a vexing distance between her and everyone else; she was like an apparition, hovering just slightly apart and out of reach.

The golf cart pulled away, and for a few seconds Lincoln felt intoxicated—though he’d had nothing alcoholic to drink—by his daughter’s unfamiliar aspect. Angelica. His angel. Then he got hold of himself. Goddamn, but he had a job to do, and he was going to do it. “Ready?” he whispered, and when the white nimbus that was her head inclined slightly, he took her hand, and they began to walk.

Lincoln felt the stares of the assembled guests like so many glowing stars, so many bursts of heat. Not for him, of course—this was not about him. He was the conduit, no more. As they walked, he saw people from his old life with Betsy—the odious Kleiers (God, but the wife was a bitch!), the Sugarmans, the Driscolls. Phil Driscoll gave him a pleasant nod, as did Ned Sugarman. Ned Sugarman was not a bad guy. And Phil—he’d always liked Phil. He’d make a point of
talking to him later. Then Lincoln spied Ennis sitting there with his head down. He did not look happy.

Lincoln’s ruined tooth began to throb again even through the cocooning haze of Betsy’s painkiller. Yet it was a subtle and almost welcome feeling, one that kept him tethered to this earth, this life. Slowly and proudly he led his daughter toward the flower-covered
chuppah
that awaited her, and when they arrived, he stepped gallantly aside.

Betsy briefly pressed both her palms together when Angelica reached the
chuppah
. Although she looked as though she was praying, she was in fact merely dispelling the tension she had felt during the flower girl’s mini-meltdown. But all was well now. Lincoln had conducted himself with dignity and poise, and Angelica—enveloped by the white veil—had seemed to float rather than walk down the aisle.

The veil was a surprise, at once radical and retrograde. Angelica had mentioned that she planned to wear it in her hair, not that she was going to cover her entire face and head with it. Well, that was certainly in keeping with her daughter’s character. She had rarely turned to Betsy for advice, and even more rare were the times Angelica confided in her. That had never been her way, and yet Betsy mourned it afresh, as if it were a newly realized insight. Would married life change Angelica at all? Betsy doubted it. But maybe, just maybe, if and when Angelica had a baby, she would need Betsy in a way she had not needed her before. You needed
your mother when you had a baby, Betsy thought, remembering her own early days of motherhood. And you appreciated her too.

The music had stopped, and the rabbi stood looking out at the expectant crowd. Betsy watched as he brought his hands together—this time the gesture really did suggest prayer—and began to speak. “What a joyful day,” he began, “a happy day in the lives of this couple and all those who love them….” She stopped listening. She was instead overcome by just how much she wanted her previously unarticulated wish to come true, the desire seizing her in a way that felt urgent, even physical. The tears—for the
third
time today—that rose in her eyes were the manifest proof of her desire, her hope that one day her beautiful, distant daughter would come back to her, would come home at last.

The rabbi—Where had he come from? Gretchen had missed his entrance somehow—stepped forward. He was dark skinned, dark eyed, and possessed of a serious unibrow; he looked like another member of Ohad’s large family—clustered on one side of the aisle and many wearing yarmulkes on their blue-black hair—though Gretchen doubted this was the case.

It felt odd to be sitting here watching when her daughters, brothers, and parents were all up there by the
chuppah.
But Gretchen had declined her sister’s offer to be her matron of honor; given the wreckage of her own marriage, she had been in no state to be a member of a wedding party when the
invitation had been issued. Angelica said she understood, and asked one of her med-school friends, a haughty auburn-haired woman named Drew, instead. Gretchen had disliked her instantly and was sure the feeling was mutual. There was Drew now, elegant in her pearl-gray dress, carefully cradling Angelica’s bouquet. Looking at her Gretchen felt shamed. She, not Drew, should have been up there today; maybe she
had
been self-centered and churlish in her refusal.

“Beloved family and friends, tonight we are here to celebrate the union of two very special people, Angelica Silverstein and Ohad Oz.” He paused briefly to smile at the couple, but Ohad and Angelica were looking only at each other. “Marriage is a holy state,” he began again. “A joyful, much wished-for, fervently sought-after, and deeply desired state. And it brings us all”—he spread his hands out to the expectant group of guests—“great happiness to watch Ohad and Angelica enter into it.” He talked for a few minutes about marriage, what it was and wasn’t, how it could grow stronger or weaker depending on the commitment of those involved.

Gretchen, aware of Ennis in the row behind her, could not help but feel that these remarks were addressed to her in particular. How committed had she been to her own marriage? Had she taken Ennis for granted, left herself slip away from him, if not physically, then emotionally? She shifted uncomfortably in her seat as if her thoughts had been made tangible, like something sharp poking her from behind. Ever since that awful day when Eve had shown up at their house, Gretchen had nurtured, even cherished the role of victim, the one who had been wounded, wronged, and betrayed. But
what if she had ignored her own role in the sequence of events? What if she had pushed Ennis out and right into the arms of someone else, someone who would give him the warmth and tenderness that she lacked? Their conversation earlier today had raised some doubts; this ceremony was raising yet more.

She did not like thinking this way and tried instead to focus on her sister, wrapped in white and standing straight and slim as one of the lilies in the numerous floral arrangements. But even this image would not stay fixed in her mind. She saw instead Angelica as a baby, waving her little fists in the air when Gretchen came into the room, reaching eagerly with both arms for Gretchen to pick her up. It was a sweet memory; she had loved her baby sister, doll-like and dimple kneed, and had loved the way her infant helplessness had recast her own position in the family. Unlike Teddy and Caleb, who were both closer to her in age, Angelica was almost ten years younger, and her birth had allowed Gretchen to assume a new, quasi-adult status among the Silversteins. How important that had made her feel. How proud.

The rabbi was quiet now and looked expectantly at Angelica and Ohad. Gretchen looked at them too. What would their married life be like? Filled with delight or disappointment or more likely an ever-changing mixture of both? Again she felt the presence of Ennis behind her. Was he aware of her? Thinking of her? She was tempted to turn around, but, no, she would not give him the satisfaction.

Justine stood very still in her place amid the wedding party. Her calf itched, but she did not move to scratch it; she was almost afraid to move, afraid to jar the fragile equilibrium that allowed her to be here at all, so close to Ohad that she could once again smell him. Nestled in the bodice of her dress, just above the bra that Grandma L. had approved, was a small cloth bag—Grandma L. had provided that too—containing Angelica’s diamond ring, the ring that Justine now needed to give back as badly as she had earlier needed to steal it.

She was grateful her sister was beside her now, and even more grateful that she did not have to say anything to her. Portia had cornered her before the wedding demanding to know where she had been, but Justine had been able to put her off—at least temporarily. She looked around. There were a lot of people here she didn’t know—friends of Angelica’s, she supposed. The bridesmaids were strangers to her. The matron of honor too; Justine thought she looked bratty. What had her mother been saying before about Angelica and her former best friend? She hadn’t supplied too many details, but it sounded as though Angelica had betrayed her somehow. Justine was still struggling to realign her previous perception of her aunt with this new information.

And what about Ohad? Was he really a murderer? It was hard to believe, seeing how sweet he’d been with that little flower girl. Grandma L. had said she didn’t know what he had done as a soldier and a pilot; she had not been there. And she had to admit that Grandma L. just might have had a point when she said Ohad was complex. Then again,
wasn’t everyone complex if you got right down to it? Even the most boring, vapid person on the face of the earth? Too bad. It was so much easier to think someone you didn’t like was a dickwad; it was much harder to acknowledge that they too had some kind of inner life, one you would never have a clue about.

As Justine watched, Ohad leaned over to lift Angelica’s veil from her face in a gesture so intimate and tender that Justine almost could not bear to witness it. She was hideously aware of the engagement ring pressing against her chest. God, she wished she could get rid of it now. She tried to banish the panic that was hovering over her like a pair of black wings spread and beating near—much too near—her face.

She was saved by Ohad, who had started to speak in Hebrew, the unfamiliar, jagged cadences yanking her out of whatever it was that had threatened to engulf her. She listened, rapt, and then he translated.
Thy lips, O my bride, drop honey—honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.
That was from the
Song of Songs
; Justine had read the whole thing in her English lit class in a recent segment on love poetry. And she had liked it too, even if she thought it was a bit over-the-top. But, then, it was okay if love poetry was over-the-top: passionate, extravagant, and emotional. She had said as much in the class discussion, and her teacher, Ms. Drezner, had started nodding excitedly, yes, yes, the way she did when some student—often Justine—made exactly the point she was hoping to get across.