Father of the Bride (2 page)

After a few stiff moments they would both rush, unleashed, into the night.

Who was this bounder who had invaded the sanctity of his home and snatched his child from under his nose? Child—that’s what she was—a child. What did she know about the qualities in a man which are so necessary to a successful marriage? She was only a child who, a few months ago, was running around in pigtails—was it a few months or a few years?

He mustn’t let himself go on like this or he would be a gibbering idiot in the office tomorrow.

Snatched. That was the word for it. She was sleeping in her own room, but only in body. Her spirit had moved out. She would always love them of course, but never in the old way—never again with her whole trusting, needing self. From here in her love would be doled out like a farmer’s wife tossing scraps to the family rooster.

What mawkish bunk! He
must
cut it out. Wasn’t this what he’d always been building up to? He flopped over on his side and tried burying his face in the crook of his arm. He had sometimes found self-smothering helpful.

He knew that, under similar circumstances, he wouldn’t feel this way about Ben and Tommy. Somehow or other Kay was more identified with those early years of married life than either of the boys. He had been used to the idea of parenthood by the time they arrived. Kay had been born in the uncertain days when his relationship to the firm of Barthlum, Henderson and Peck had been as nebulous as his salary—years before he had been made a junior partner and they had bought the white shingled house in Fairview Manor. It had been a happy period in spite of the struggle—a period unmarred by the adolescent features of any questing male.

Well, the beans were spilt now! Casually! Over a cup of tomato soup! Not asking by your leave, but giving him the devil for trying to find out what the goon’s last name was! Outside of his name, what else did Kay know about him? Oh, yes. He was wonderful. That was going to be a great help when he started to raise a family.

Could he support a family? That was the point. How could he know that this guy had what it took? Up to date he’d sounded vaguer than dishwater every time he’d opened his mouth. An impractical dreamer—that’s what he was. Kay was an idealist and she’d fallen for this fellow because he agreed with all her ideas and didn’t make any sense.

He flopped onto his other side and looked over at Mrs. Banks. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Women were inconsistent creatures. If the kids were out at some little dance she couldn’t sleep until she heard them come in. But when it was a question of how (or if) her only daughter was going to eat for the rest of her life, she fell asleep like a baby.

•  •  •

Wise men never discuss topics of a potentially upsetting nature until they have finished their breakfast. The wisest refuse to talk at all until they have been spiritually fortified by a couple of fried eggs.

For many years this had been one of Mr. Banks’ ground rules. It was a sound, functional rule, for by the time he had gulped his breakfast he was invariably late for the eight-fifteen. One could not get into much of a controversy while trotting from the breakfast table to the garage. Thus the day was automatically started right and morning problems, like morning mists, had a tendency to disperse as the sun rose higher.

But Mr. Banks was no longer a wise man. During these last few days (and nights) he had become aware that his sense of balance was being dragged from under him like sand under the impact of surf.

To his surprise Mrs. Banks did not seem to share his apprehensions although she was usually the timid one when faced with change. On the contrary, she seemed to float through her days in a state of ecstasy. This was an added annoyance to Mr. Banks.

From her casual remarks it became gradually clear to him that her mind was not on Buckley at all, but rather on the ceremony which he promised to bring into being and on the material things connected with it—on dresses and hats and shoes—on underwear and sheets and towels—on all the thousand things which, to a woman, truly legalize a marriage.

He had always known that, at heart, Mrs. Banks was a natural-born purchasing agent, although her talents had been somewhat restricted by circumstances. Now at last she was presented with a buyers’ field day, fully authorized and aboveboard, and she was merely letting her imagination take a trial run around the track to get the stiffness out of its joints.

Mr. Banks was standing before the medicine cabinet mirror, thoughtfully lathering his face. It rather pleased him to think that he could detect lines in it that had not been there a week before.

“Kay’s going to make a beautiful bride,” murmured Mrs. Banks dreamily, half to herself, half to Mr. Banks’ pajamaed back. “She’s got just the figure and the coloring. I know exactly the kind of a dress she should have—the sleeves long and tight-fitting—and the skirt—”

Mr. Banks’ hand trembled and a drop of blood discolored the soap on his chin. The stout, dependable dam which had heretofore restrained his morning thoughts gave way without warning. Over Mrs. Banks’ unprepared head poured the swollen torrent of his accumulated apprehensions.

He was possessed of a doomsday eloquence. As he warmed up to his theme it began to sound like a description of Hiroshima. She listened in dismay to the recital of possibilities that she had not even considered. By the time her husband’s emotional reservoir was emptied he had missed three trains to the city. Shaken to the roots, she did not attempt to follow him downstairs.

When she heard him slam up the patent garage door she watched anxiously from the bedroom window as he backed the sedan into the drive and disappeared around the corner in a spray of gravel.

•  •  •

Mr. Banks found himself a seat on the eight-forty-two and opened his morning paper. Theoretically his day was ruined. Actually, and to his surprise, he was conscious of a pleasant feeling of lightness. The sun shone impartially on the alternating garbage dumps and suburban developments that flashed past the window. The air was dry and bracing. The world was suddenly beginning to snap back into place.

His pleasure at this discovery was dimmed at the edges, however, by a small gnawing sense of guilt lest he might have upset Ellie unduly. Women were so emotional about these matters and inclined to take them overseriously. He toyed with the idea of calling her up when he got to town. Then he became interested in the paper and forgot about it.

But not so Mrs. Banks. All day long the Seidlitz powder of anxiety which her husband had dumped into her tranquil soul seethed and boiled within her. As she made her rounds from the A. & P. Supermarket to Kohoe’s Fish Store to Sammy Lee’s Hand Laundry, the uneasiness within her mounted to a bubbling panic.

She was not a complex person. Although she had strong instinctive convictions, years of battering by the massed forces of male reasoning caused moments when her self-confidence wavered.

Of course she never let Mr. Banks know about these weaknesses. Under attack she would defend her position as if it were the Alamo. But in this particular case she had had no chance to fight. The onslaught had been so unexpected and violent that it had left her stunned. Until this moment her world had seemed so beautiful. Now it lay in pieces about her.

•  •  •

When Mr. Banks re-entered the house that evening he still retained the pleasant sensation of being at once relaxed and gathered and he hummed a little tune as he threw his hat on the shelf of the coat closet. Mrs. Banks came out of the living room and put her hands on his shoulders. As he kissed her he was surprised by the worried look in her eyes. One might have thought she had been crying.

“Stan, I’m so upset about Kay.”

“Kay? What’s the matter with Kay? What’s she done now?” he asked absentmindedly, removing his overcoat.

“Oh, Stan, suppose Buckley
shouldn’t
be the man for her. How can
we
tell? We know so little about him. And she’s
so
young. Suppose he
didn’t
have business judgment and
couldn’t
earn a decent living. Suppose he made Kay
unhappy.
Suppose—”

Mr. Banks stopped fumbling for the coathook. He stared at her in amazement. “For heaven’s sake, Ellie, what in the world’s getting into you? For years you’ve been worried about Kay’s not getting married. Now she finds herself a perfectly nice guy and you get the jitters. I’ll bet he’ll do a better job than that poopadoop you were so crazy about that hung around here all last winter.”

He took her chin in his cupped hand and gazed down at her thoughtfully. “You know what, darling? I think you’re tired. You’ve been going it too hard lately. You’ve got to take care of yourself. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll knock together a couple of old-fashioneds. It’ll do you good. And we’ll drink a little toast to the bride and groom.”

Mr. Banks stared at her in amazement.

   2   

GETTING ACQUAINTED

Buckley, Kay informed her parents with her best Old School irony,
also
had a father and mother. It seemed to her that the situation called for a minimum display of interest from the Banks family unless, of course, they preferred to make it look like a shotgun wedding and introduce themselves at the altar rail.

Mr. Banks agreed moodily. The obvious fact that he must do something about meeting Buckley’s family had been weighing on him for some time. Although he had never considered himself a shy man, the idea gave him as much pleasure as a summons to appear before a congressional committee. He had been postponing action from day to day in the same way that he put off wearing a pair of new shoes to the office.

“I suppose Kay’s right,” he admitted gloomily to Mrs. Banks. “We’ve got to face it.”

“I don’t understand why you get in such a lather about it,” she said. “What’s so awful about meeting Buckley’s father and mother?”

“Who said I was in a lather?” he retorted sharply. “All I mean is you’d think Kay might have picked out somebody we knew instead of a family we never laid eyes on and that are probably God-awful. I just know the kind of people they are. It’s going to be terrible.”

“Stanley Banks, for a grown man you sometimes don’t make any sense. In the first place I don’t see why you assume the Dunstans are terrible and in the second you’re not marrying Buckley’s family.”

“I might just as well be,” groaned Mr. Banks. “I’ll probably have to support them.”

The Dunstans eventually took matters into their own hands and invited Mr. and Mrs. Banks to East Smithfield for Sunday dinner; just the four of them—without Kay and Buckley—so they could get acquainted.

“That’s the pay-off,” said Mr. Banks. “They’re the cozy type.”

He made no further comment, but during the intervening days he showed all the symptoms of a debutante about to be introduced at Buckingham Palace. On Sunday morning he dressed carefully in a sport coat and slacks, then went upstairs after breakfast and changed into a business suit. He insisted on starting half an hour earlier than was necessary—just to allow for a blowout or something. The result was that they arrived in East Smithfield shortly after twelve.

Mr. Banks said he’d be damned if he was going to sit and moon at the Dunstans’ for an hour. He preferred to slum around the town and get a line on the natives.

“I’ll bet they won’t even have a drink before dinner,” he said gloomily.

“How do you know they won’t?”

“Because I know. That’s the kind of people they are.”

“Well, suppose they don’t. You’re not an alcoholic, are you?”

Mr. Banks sighed but didn’t pursue the argument.

“I think it might be more intelligent to find out where the Dunstans live instead of driving around aimlessly,” said Mrs. Banks. “At least we won’t end up by being late.”

“I’ll bet it’s a shack,” said Mr. Banks.

When they finally located it, the Dunstan shack turned out to be a large, whitewashed brick house about a mile out of town. It sat well back from the road surrounded by old elm trees. The discovery that it was at least twice the size of his own seemed to add fuel to Mr. Banks’ agitation. He looked at his watch.