Wedding Season (18 page)

“It was like Invasion of the Body Snatchers up there,” I say, as James attempts to wring out the handkerchief. “Someone replaced Mom and Daddy with pleasant, well-adjusted human beings.” At the prewedding reception for the families of the happy couple, my parents were not only cordial but actually warm to each other, and to their disbelieving offspring. Mom even complimented me on my dress. I’m still in shock about it.

“They’re on their best behavior for the blessed day,”
James says. “Or maybe they’re both feeling so good about Josh marrying a nice normal lady they’ve forgotten that they hate each other. Don’t worry, baby girl. It won’t last. Hello, there,” he tells a fat couple in straw hats who have arrived at the gates, puffing and beaming. “Take the path around there to the seats.”

“Oh, my,” the woman gasps at me. “It’s so hot out today.”

“So, what do you think of me and Charles?” James watches the fat couple as they trundle away.

“I’m not going to answer that question. I don’t think anything about it. I don’t want to know anything about it. I’m Switzerland. And you—don’t ask, don’t tell.”

“I never kiss and tell.”

“Since when? Hello, welcome,” I address a man with an infant in his arms, trailed by a glamorous young woman wearing an outrageously patterned, extremely short dress, her face obscured by a huge, flower-laden hat. A child clutches each of her hands.

“Joy!” The woman looks up, and I recognize Abby, a cousin on my father’s side. We used to spend time together at my grandparents’ house when we were little, and went out sometimes when we were in high school. She’s a couple of years older than I, and she was a wild girl, a troublemaking teenager. I had my first drink with her, went to my first dance club with her, stayed out past my curfew for the first time with her. Of course, she drove her parents and mine to distraction. Of course, I adored her. We lost touch after high school; she ran off to Europe and lived for years in Prague, having affairs with impoverished counts, vacationing with reputed Mafiosi and porn stars, and occasionally sending me postcards from Venice or Paris or Amsterdam. A few years back she returned to the States, having eloped with an American businessman she met there, and moved to the
fancy Chicago suburb where he resided. I’ve met him only once, when she was pregnant with her first child and they came to New York for a holiday.

“James, Joy, you remember Richard,” Abby says. The man with the infant nods and smiles at us. “And this is Max, and Zoe.” She lifts the fat little paws of each toddler in turn. “And that handsome creature is Morris, our latest effort. My god, it’s been years. How great to see you guys!”

“This one was still in the oven the last time we saw you.” James solemnly shakes Max’s hand as I wave and point to another group of guests down the path.

“He’s almost four now,” Abby tells James.

“You’ve been busy.” I kiss her cheek.

“Lucky streak,” Richard says. “Though I think we’re done for the time being.”

“Damn right,” Abby says. “Poor Zoe—the only girl, and the middle child. Just like you, Joy.”

James laughs and pretends to lunge at me, his face contorted into a menacing scowl. Zoe shrieks with laughter, and he turns on her instead and tickles her.

“Looks like she’ll do just fine,” I tell the placid parents. “You’d better go get seats while there’s still shade to be had.”

“Joy, come find me at the reception,” Abby says. “I want to hear everything.”

Richard, in whose mouth the infant Morris has lodged one tiny hand, nods to us as they pass into the park.

James and I take turns wiping Abby’s bright orange lipstick traces from our cheeks with the handkerchief. James looks at his watch.

“That must be nearly everybody.”

“Ceremony’s supposed to start in about five minutes.” I peer out of the gates and see a familiar figure coming down the sidewalk. “James. Oh, my god. You invited Charles?”

James bats his lashes at me demurely.

“You did. James, this is my business partner we’re talking about, here. If you break his heart—”

“I’m subjecting him to the family, baby girl. You must therefore conclude that my intention is not to break his heart.”

“It never is, and you always do.”

“Shut up. Hello, gorgeous!” James waves to Charles.

“Hello, gorgeous and gorgeous.” Charles kisses my cheek. I raise an eyebrow at him and he giggles nervously. “Surprise, Joy!”

“Hello, Vern.”

“Glad to see me?” Charles loops his arm through my brother’s. I roll my eyes as they kiss, and march ahead of them along the gravel path, wishing there were some agnostic version of the sign of the cross that I could make to protect myself against—whatever.

T
HE WEDDING IS
actually quite beautiful, not to mention brief—a mercy for the two-hundred-odd guests who sit fanning themselves and mopping their brows in the full afternoon sun before the chuppah under which Josh and Ruth take their vows. An old friend of Ruth’s family, a woman named Mina, is the rabbi, and though there are flower girls and bridesmaids and attendants in great abundance, the ceremony itself is a simple one. My little brother, serious and calm, declares his eternal devotion to Ruth, and her to him—and I find that I believe them. Why not? I ask myself, as they exchange rings. Here are two people who actually seem built to live this way, able to keep these promises. Why not? As they turn to face us, husband and wife, my mother weeps loudly into her handkerchief. My father puts his arm around his fiancée. James and Charles whistle and clap. I
look at Gabe, who looks farther out into the park with a dazed expression.

A
FTER THE CEREMONY
, the guests march across the street and into a fancy old social club where the reception is being held. Gabe and I, with James and Charles, pick up our seating assignments and hunt down our table, where the rabbi and her husband are already seated. Abby is at the next table, and I am introducing Gabriel to her when I hear James, who had been checking the remaining place cards, let out a groan. Gabe excuses himself and goes in search of the bathrooms.

“Abby,” James hisses. “Quick, trade me one of your place cards.”

“You don’t want them.” Abby laughs. “It’s my parents and my grandmother.”

“We’ll take the grandmother. She’ll love it. The rabbi is here. Hurry!”

“James, what are you doing?” I ask.

“Ora Mitelman.” James hastily restores the place card to the right of Gabe’s seat, as the young lady in question arrives at our table.

“Ora. What are you doing here?” My tone is not precisely welcoming.

“Lovely to see you, too, Joy. Ruth and I went to school together, as it happens. Hello, gentlemen.”

“Ora Mitelman.” Charles extends his hand to her. “I was just this very morning reading that great piece on you in
City
magazine. I’m Charles Vernon, Joy’s business partner.”

“How nice.” Ora beams at him, all graciousness. “And you must be Joy’s brother.” She looks to James, who gives her a cold smile. He is the one person, besides Henry, with
whom I have discussed my altercation with Ora. “You look so alike!” Ora tells him, whether oblivious to or ignoring his chill response, I can’t be sure.

“We’ve met.” James turns from her.

“Charles, you must save me a dance this evening.” Ora smiles sweetly.

“With pleasure.” Charles looks from her to James and me.

“Ora!” says Gabriel, who has just returned to the table. I can’t read the tone of his voice.

“What is going on?” Charles whispers to James, just over my shoulder.

“Gabriel, how nice to see you.” Ora takes his hand and proffers her cheek, which he kisses.

“Nothing,” James whispers back. “You don’t even want to know.”

“Our article turned out so beautifully, didn’t it? Thank you so much.” Ora has yet to release Gabe’s hand.

“But Charles, my love,” James whispers, “if you dance with the bitch I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Glad you liked it,” Gabe tells Ora. “Do you know Joy Silverman, Josh’s sister?”

“We’ve met.” I beg your pardon—did he just introduce me as Josh’s sister?

“Temper, temper,” Charles whispers to James.

“Joy and I know each other through Joan.” Ora smiles at Gabe. “And Ruth is an old friend of mine. When I made the connection and realized that Josh was Joy’s brother and that you’d be here, I asked specially to be seated with you all.” She turns her sparkling smile on me.

“This is the tip of the iceberg, darling,” James hisses at Charles. “Trust me.”

“Have you met Charles and James?” Gabe asks. The boys give Ora tight smiles. Gabe holds a chair for Ora, then for
me, and sits down between us. I take a moment to bestow a silent curse of eternal suffering on whoever was in charge of the seating arrangements.

“Mina,” Ora says, inclining her head to the rabbi, “the ceremony was wonderful.”

“Thank you, Ora. You remember my husband, Jacob?”

“Of course. Lovely to see you again, Jacob. Gabe, didn’t you just love the ceremony?”

“Abby,” I whisper over the back of my chair. “Let me trade places with someone. Zoe, come here.”

“Leave my daughter out of this,” Abby tells me, grinning. “What the hell is going on?”

“See the blonde? She’s after my boyfriend.”

“Ah. Well, you can’t do much about that, can you?” Abby says. “She chases, and he’ll either let himself be caught, or not.”

I gape at Abby. She shrugs.

“Look, I speak from experience. As a former chaser of other women’s men.”

“Thanks. Very helpful.”

“Yeah, well. Sorry about that. You could always marry him,” she adds, as Richard sits down beside her. “Makes it a little harder for them to get away. Isn’t that right, my darling?”

“Whatever you say, my own.” Richard relieves Zoe of the fistfuls of silverware she has been collecting. “Max, you’re not quite old enough to appreciate the subtle charms of Chardonnay. Please put Mommy’s glass down. What are we talking about, again?”

“Nothing,” I tell him. “Nothing worth further discussion. Max, hand that glass over here.”

Dinner is distinctly less than pleasant. The final guest at our table is a distant cousin of ours, a young woman who has just graduated from college with a major in creative writing.

She has apparently read both of Ora’s books several times, and spends the entirety of the meal fawning from her seat between James and Charles. This necessitates that Charles, by virtue of his position between her and Ora, participate at least nominally in the homage. Ora accepts these attentions with elaborate graciousness, meanwhile directing little asides, in a hushed and intimate tone, to Gabe. He shifts in his chair toward her by degrees in response to these attentions, like a flower following the sun, until his back is to me. Watching them, I feel as if I had been removed to a very high altitude and were looking on through the thin air down to some scene taking place far below me. James makes all efforts, within the realm of the reasonably polite, to reorient the dynamic of the table away from Ora, but she’s too good for him. At last, he glares ferociously at Charles and turns his attentions to the rabbi and her husband.

“You must have presided over thousands of weddings at this point,” James says to Mina as the waiters hand dinner plates around.

“Not quite.” Mina laughs. “But a few. I lost count after a hundred. I do about ten a year, I think. More this year, for some reason. People seem to have the marrying bug this year.”

“How do you do it, Rabbi?” James asks. “You must get so bored with doing the same thing, month after month, bride after groom.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Mina says. “Far from it. But remember, much of religion is about just that—repetition. You read the same texts hundreds or thousands of times, you say the same prayers day in and day out, you celebrate the same holidays year after year. The idea is that meaning accrues and deepens, rather than diminishing. That’s how rituals function. It’s why they work, if they do. And marriages, for that matter.”

I look over at Gabe, who is nodding and smiling at Ora as she addresses the doting graduate.

“But weddings,” James says. “Other people’s weddings. It doesn’t get tedious, at all?”

“Not really. Each couple is different, so in many ways it doesn’t feel like a repetition. The newness of their experience, that’s what keeps the desire for union and the belief in it fresh for people. But it’s the sameness of the weddings that I like, actually.”

“I don’t know if all those couples you’ve united would like hearing they’re all the same to you.” James drains his glass.

“Too bad for them.” Mina laughs. “What could possibly be less original than falling in love or getting married? There’s no reason that weddings should be or feel original, because marriage isn’t about novelty. Quite the opposite. Like any tradition, religious or otherwise, marriage is about continuity. And the pleasures of repetition. Same person beside you day after day when you wake up, when you fall asleep.” She nudges her husband. “I haven’t found myself bored yet. Have you, Jacob?”

“No,” he answers. “But it’s only been, what, twenty-three years? There’s still plenty of time for me to bore you, Rabbi.”

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Ruth’s father stands with his wife at the microphone in the empty space of the dance floor, with the band behind them. Ousted from his place, the band leader shifts sheepishly off to one side, hands folded and eyes downcast. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?”

“Hey.” Gabe turns to me. “How are you holding up, Red?”

“Fine,” I whisper back, not looking at him. “Hush.”

“Thank you,” Ruth’s father says. “Thank you all so much for coming to be with us today, and being part of it. And
today, we want to give special thanks to Josh’s grandparents, Morris and Eleanor Silverman, who, I think we can all agree, are a model of what a marriage can and should be. Josh tells me they have been an inspiration to him all his life. And yesterday, they celebrated their sixtieth anniversary. Eleanor and Morris, please come up here.” My grandparents, my dad’s mother and father, whom I adore, stand as the guests applaud and make their way to the front of the room, where they exchange kisses and embraces with Ruth’s parents. Waiters begin handing around glasses of champagne to the guests. Papa offers Nana the microphone, but she laughs, says something to him, and pushes it back into his hands.