Father of the Bride (19 page)

When he had stood at the foot of other people’s staircases waiting to throw damp paper at their daughters, his heart had been warm with sympathy for the fathers of the brides, who strolled with such brave nonchalance among their guests. He had hoped that he would have equal courage when his time came.

Now that it was here he only felt numbness. He had rehearsed it all so often in his mind—he had hugged his private sadness to his bosom so many times—that its fulfillment was less real than its anticipation.

A bridesmaid peered around the corner of the stair landing, grinned sheepishly and disappeared. Someone cried, “Here they come,” as if it were a horse race. Then Kay and Buckley, conspicuously new in every detail, were tearing across the landing and down the final flight of stairs with that hunched, headlong look of charging moose that Mr. Banks had observed in all brides and grooms coming downstairs.

A bridesmaid peered around the corner . . . grinned sheepishly and disappeared.

They were on the front walk now, their shoulders covered with confetti, their heads still lowered between their shoulders. Mr. Banks was right behind them, running in form, the ushers and bridesmaids bringing up the rear in full cry. Buckley’s car stood at the end of the walk. It was amazing how these details fell into place against all odds. They were in. Kay leaned through the open window while Buckley fought off ushers on the other side.

“Good-by, Pops. You’ve been wonderful. I love you.”

The car lurched forward. Mr. Banks revolved off the rear mudguard into the arms of a bridesmaid. “Good-by, good luck.” They were already half a block away. A few ushers, who had gone through the usual routine of almost being run over in the getaway, were brushing the dirt from their trousers.

When Mr. Banks returned to the house he realized that the reception had entered a new and final phase. Its connection with the bride and groom had already been forgotten. For all practical purposes the bride and groom themselves had been forgotten. The Reception had become a Party and only a few cutaways and bridesmaids’ dresses recalled the event that had brought it into being.

The more conservative element began to leave. A few said good-by. The majority took advantage of the confusion and merely walked away. Officer Mullins, who had undertaken to act as parking attendant, had long since left his post and retired to the kitchen, where one or two other members of the force were already at work on material furnished by the ever-thoughtful Mr. Massoula.

Officer Mullins had packed the parking field efficiently and solidly before he left. This had been quite satisfactory during the parking, but unfortunately the guests were not departing on the modern accounting basis of last in first out. If there were any order to their leaving, it appeared to be just the opposite.

And so it came about that, while Officer Mullins exchanged views on wine and women with his fellow craftsmen, the more prominent citizens of Fairview Manor locked bumpers and cursed in the scarred field behind the house.

Mr. Banks felt restless. A sudden desire seized him to speed his parting guests. He wandered out of the house and across the lawn in the direction of the parking field, carefully balancing a glass of champagne as he walked. The scene which burst upon him as he rounded the lilac hedge reminded him of a picture in an old geography of sampans milling on a Chinese river front.

For the next half hour, disregarding the dangerous snugness of his cutaway, he leaped up and down on entwined bumpers, directed backing cars into other backing cars and helped angry citizens to pull their bashed mudguards free from their tires.

The more prominent citizens of Fairview Manor locked bumpers and cursed.

Then, retrieving his glass, which he had left on a fence post, he returned to the house, dirty but satisfied, feeling that for the first time in many hours he had been of some practical use in the world.

The bitter-enders were in full swing. The Neapolitan push-and-pull artist was hard and soundlessly at work in the living room, which was jammed with people, all of them obviously prepared to see the thing through to the final bottle.

   16   

ALL OVER

The last guest had gone. The last damp hand had been wrung. The bridal party had disappeared noisily to seek bigger and newer adventure. The Dunstans had left. The relatives had returned to the oblivion from which they had emerged. Mr. and Mrs. Banks were alone with the wreckage.

They sat limply in two armchairs which Mr. Banks had dragged down from upstairs. The rug was covered with confetti. The few casual tables which Mr. Massoula had left in the living room were garnished with gray rings. Here and there on the white paint of the sills were the dark signatures of cigarettes. The floral background of the reception line obliterated the fireplace. They stared at it in silence.

“She did look lovely in that going-away suit,” said Mrs. Banks dreamily. “Didn’t you think it was good-looking?”

Mr. Banks couldn’t remember it very well. He knew she had had on something tan. There his detail stopped. But her face was etched forever on his memory as she stood on the landing waiting to throw the bride’s bouquet.

“She’s a darling,” he said.

“Queer the Griswolds didn’t come,” mused Mrs. Banks. “They accepted and Jane told me they were coming.”

“I don’t see how you know whether they came or not.”

“I know everybody that was here and everybody that wasn’t,” said Mrs. Banks complacently.

Mr. Banks did not question it. This woman who couldn’t remember the details of the most elementary problem for five minutes would remember now and forever everyone who came, everyone who didn’t—and also those who crashed the gate.

“My God,” exclaimed Mrs. Banks, pressing her hand over her face. “We forgot to ask the Storers.”

“We couldn’t have,” said Mr. Banks.

“We did, though.”

“That’s terrible. Couldn’t we pretend we sent them an invitation? You could call Esther tomorrow and ask her why she didn’t come.”

“I might at that,” said Mrs. Banks.

There was a brief silence. “What are we going to do with all those presents?” asked Mr. Banks.

“I don’t know. Somebody’s got to pack them, I suppose. I think I’ll just leave them as they are for a while.”

“I guess that’s the best thing,” said Mr. Banks.

They lapsed into exhausted silence. In the brain of each a projector was unreeling the film of the day’s events. It would have amazed them if they could have known how different the films were.

In another compartment of Mr. Banks’ brain an adding machine was relentlessly at work. The figures came pouring out and each time they were greater than before.

“Didn’t the decorations in the church look too lovely?” asked Mrs. Banks.

Mr. Banks was startled to discover that he had not even noticed if there were any decorations in the church. It was a relief to know that someone had checked on that dog-robber Tim.

“They were beautiful,” he said simply.

“Mr. Tim did a wonderful job considering how little money we gave him to work with,” said Mrs. Banks. Her husband started, then pressed his lips together and made no comment.

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Banks, “we ought to get out the vacuum cleaner and not leave this whole mess for Delilah tomorrow. I’ll go up and change my dress.”

Mr. Banks followed her upstairs glumly. Like a fog blowing in from the sea, he could feel the first wisps of depression fingering into his soul.

Here was the place where she had stood. He paused and looked over the rail at the confetti-strewn hall. Queer about places and houses. They remained the same yet they were never the same. By no stretch of the imagination was this the spot from which Kay had tossed her flowers to the waving arms below.

He continued up the stairs, thinking of all the money and energy that was wasted each year visiting the scenes of great events under the impression that they were still the same places.

At the door of the spare room where the presents were on display, he paused, then lit the light and went in. This morning it had been a gay, exciting place, full of anticipation and promise of things to come. The animating spirit was gone. Now it was just a bare room with card tables along the walls covered with china and glassware. It was as impersonal as a store.

He tried to shake off the cloud that was settling over him. In the bathroom a single bottle of champagne rested quietly in the washbasin. It had been put there by someone just before Mr. Massoula ran out. Heaven knew what for. It was still cold. For a moment he debated whether to open it. Then he turned, went downstairs and got out the vacuum cleaner.

An hour later the last particle of confetti had been transferred to the bulging bag of the machine. They sat once more in their chairs in the living room gazing with exhausted faces at the banked greens in front of the fireplace.

He paused and looked over the rail at the confetti-strewn hall.

On the floor near the edge of the rug Mr. Banks spied a few bits of confetti that the cleaner had overlooked. He rose to pick them up. There seemed to be more just under the edge. He turned back the corner and disclosed a solid mat of multicolored paper.

Without comment he dropped the rug back into place. Mrs. Banks was watching, but said nothing. He went quietly up to the bathroom and drew the cork in the last remaining bottle. From the spare room he selected two of Kay’s new champagne glasses and returned to his wife.

Carefully he filled the two glasses and handed one to Mrs. Banks. Behind the floral background the clock on the mantle struck twelve. The whistle of a train from the city hooted in the distance as it rounded the curve into the Fairview Manor station. A dog was barking somewhere.

“How,” said Mr. Banks raising his glass.

“How,” said Mrs. Banks.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Edward Streeter

(1891-1976)

From an early age, Edward Streeter had an affinity for writing. He edited the school paper and the class book at the Pomfret School, and he was editorin-chief of the Harvard
Lampoon
until he graduated in 1914.

From Harvard he went to work for a building-supply business in Buffalo, but he soon began to write for the
Buffalo Express
. He continued to contribute articles to the
Express
while he was stationed on the Mexican border with the New York National Guard. It was there in his division’s newspaper that the first of his famous “Dere Mable” columns appeared. In 1918 Streeter published a collection of these columns,
Dere Mable: Love Letters of a Rookie
, which became a bestseller while he was away fighting in France. He wrote three sequels:
That’s Me All Over, Mable
(1919),
Same Old Bill, Eh, Mable
(1919), and
As You Were, Bill
(1920).

Though he still published stories in magazines, Streeter gave up the literary life to become a successful banker. After eighteen years, Streeter published
Daily Except Sundays
and began his second career as a satirist, following in the footsteps of contemporaries like Robert Benchley and Ogden Nash.