Wedding Season (21 page)

“Gabe, I think I’m drunk,” I told him, as the swimmers struggled back onto the raft in a damp tangle of naked limbs.

“I think I also am drunk,” Gabe said, and he and Evelyn laughed together.

“I think I need to go home,” I said. Topher flung himself down beside us.

“New York? Did you forget something?” Gabe asked. Evelyn laughed again and stroked Christopher’s hair.

“The hotel. I need to go back to the hotel.”

“You need to go right now? We’re still swimming.”

“I need to go now.” I hadn’t needed to leave quite so urgently thirty seconds ago, but the more Gabe resisted, the more annoying I found the situation generally and his proximity to Evelyn specifically.

“I’m in no shape to drive, Joy. Can you wait? Could you just take a nap on the couch?”

“The hotel,” I told him.

“If you really need to go, I can drive you,” Topher said. “I wouldn’t be long,” he told Evelyn, and she nodded.

“Is that okay, Joy?” Gabe patted my arm. “I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

I shook my head gravely, not looking at him, and lowered myself into the water. Topher slid in beside me.

B
Y THE TIME
we had dried off and dressed, I had mostly sobered up, but I didn’t say so to Topher. We climbed into his car, drove slowly down the bumpy road to the highway, and turned toward town. The windows were open and the radio played some song about summer. Topher hummed along, and I turned to watch his profile and faintly remembered having made the same drive with him fifteen years earlier, half my life ago.

“How did you and Evelyn meet?” I asked. “How do people meet in L.A.?”

“Some party. Mutual friends. Same way they do in New York.”

“When was that?”

“In September it’ll be two years.”

“Same as me and Gabe. We met at a wedding.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not a romantic.” Topher laughed.

“I never said I wasn’t. Just that I don’t want to get married. When did you know you wanted to marry Evelyn?”

“Honestly? I still don’t know for sure.” Topher glanced into the rearview mirror, then sideways at me. “It seems impossible you could ever really know for certain that you’ll be able to spend the rest of your life with a particular person.”

“Then why get married?”

“She wants to, which is reasonable, given cultural pressures and biological clocks and all. And if you
can’t
ever know for certain, why not try? I like Evelyn, I like spending time with her. I don’t get bored. It’s pretty unlikely that some perfect mate is going to come along and make me more certain.”

“Fine, but that doesn’t really answer the question.”

“I’ve never been married before. I’m curious to see how it’ll change things,” Topher said, signaling a turn at an utterly deserted intersection. “Society responds pretty strongly to participation in the institution, and those responses are bound to shift our experience of the relationship.”

“Pretty fancy talk for a sitcom writer,” I said, as we passed the gas station and town market, both closed. “You’ll forgive me if I say your views on marriage don’t sound particularly romantic in any traditional sense.”

“Ah, but I never said I was a romantic. I only said that you were.”

We pulled into the shadows behind the little hotel and parked the car. The engine shuddered and quieted.

“It’s good to see you, Joy.” Topher turned and drew me into his arms. I rested my cheek against the warm familiar curve of his neck, conscious of a vague sadness. I sighed and Topher pulled back and looked at me; his face was inches away, and without thinking I slipped my hand around the back of his head and tugged a little to bring his mouth onto mine. He kissed me back, lightly, and I pressed closer to him.

“Hey.” He pushed me away gently, then reached to smooth my hair.

“What?” I leaned in for another kiss.

“This isn’t the best time to get nostalgic, Joy.” Less gently than before, he put me back into my seat.

I crossed my arms and stared out the windshield to the dark windows of my empty room. “Why not? When do we get nostalgic, then?” I heard myself say this as if from a great distance. “What are nights like this for? Do you really think Gabe isn’t getting nostalgic out there on the lake with Evelyn?”

Topher was silent. I opened the car door but didn’t make a move to climb out.

“That’s a specious argument if I’ve ever heard one,” he finally said, turning from me and twisting the key in the ignition. “Your jealousy doesn’t require that there be anything to substantiate it. Go to bed, Joy. It won’t feel like this tomorrow.”

H
E WAS RIGHT
. It feels much worse.

Gabe comes out of the bathroom and sees me peering from the bed. He is wearing frayed sweatpants, his hair stands on end, a toothbrush sticks out of his mouth, and he is obviously the most fabulous and desirable man in all of creation. Never underestimate the powers of guilt to shed new light on a situation, I tell myself, resisting an urge to fling myself on him and gibber incoherently.

“Morning,” he tells me, through a mouthful of toothpaste. “I feel like hell. Hey, you were out cold when I got back last night. How are you feeling?”

How am I feeling? I have no idea, actually. The question is absurd. I never know how I’m feeling. I think of the look on Topher’s face as I climbed out of his car last night, and then of a photograph Gabe showed me shortly after we’d moved in together, a picture that he’d taken of Evelyn years earlier, and then of Gabe’s naked leg resting against hers on the raft, and I think, nothing could be less interesting to me than how I’m feeling. I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs. I feel like I’m going to pieces. I feel like I do right before a sneeze—that frantic, discombobulated, debilitating tension, overwhelming and unbearable, that precedes an explosion. No wonder I don’t pay attention to my feelings. I can’t imagine why other people are so keen to get in touch with them.

“Fine,” I tell Gabe. “I feel fine. But I haven’t moved yet.”

“You have nothing to lose but your balance.” Gabe returns to the bathroom, and I hear him spit into the sink.

“And your dignity,” he adds.

I pull the covers back over my head. Peekaboo, I think.

Where’s Joy? Where did Joy go?

B
Y TWO O’CLOCK
I am dutifully arrayed and arraigned on the Rushfields’ broad lawn, chatting with distant relatives of the happy couple. I have planted a chaste kiss on Topher’s cheek, returned Evelyn’s embrace, admired half a dozen toddlers in their finery, squeezed Ben’s hand as he passed, complimented the dresses of mothers of both bride and groom, petted three dogs, posed for photographs with a group of high school classmates, nibbled hors d’oeuvres, tucked behind my ear the flower offered to me by Ben’s sister, mounted the creaking stairs to deliver a pitcher of lemonade and murmur niceties into the gabled bedroom where Marilyn was dressing with a flock of women around her. I have been gracious and charmed and charming, penitent and proper, I have been agreeable, sensible, helpful. The afternoon feels as frictionless as the atmosphere of some distant and perfect planet: everyone well groomed, good-natured, the conversations proceeding like easy minuets, the steps pleasantly known, gracefully executed. The sky is a pale, miraculous blue, the roses are in full and righteous bloom, the air is sweet with pollen and lilting voices. Even the weather gives benediction, and who am I to question what seems so fair and flawless, so functional? I give in. I drink iced tea, exchange bright, benign observations with those to whom we are introduced, and shush any critical thoughts that float into my head, as if they were naughty children. After an hour or so, I realize that I’m actually having
a fine time. I’m fine. I’m so fine that when Gabriel departs from a little knot of guests in which we have become ensconced and the woman standing beside me asks when the two of us are getting married, I give her a winning smile and say nothing at all. As word goes around that the ceremony is beginning, I take Gabriel’s arm and move toward the white chairs set in the shade of a big green-and-white striped awning, feeling something almost like pleasant anticipation. Look, I want to tell him, look at your virtuous and good, your beautifully behaved, outlandishly normal girlfriend, your altogether suitable beloved. You can take me anywhere. Whither thou goest, I will go.

The justice of the peace, a small woman in her late forties with a shock of dark, silver-streaked hair and a wry expression, appears at the front of the crowd, and Ben and Topher come to stand on one side of her, Marilyn’s sister on the other. We rustle expectantly, and after a long minute, without cue or music, Marilyn comes out of the house. She’s wearing a simple white summer dress made of a light fabric that flutters at her ankles, and a small bouquet dangles from one hand. She takes the porch steps two at a time to meet her mother and father, who wait for her on the lawn. At the bottom of the stairs she takes their hands, and together they cross toward us. When they reach the head of the aisle, she kisses both of them and practically skips toward the altar. Ben apparently can’t keep still; he takes several steps up the aisle toward her, reaching out his hand for hers, and the justice laughs.

“I’ve known Ben since he was a kid,” she tells the guests. “He’s always been eager to get things done. So I won’t keep him waiting. Dearly beloved,” she says, over a ripple of laughter, “we are gathered here today to witness the marriage of these two wonderful young people. We’ll begin with the readings. Lila?”

Marilyn’s sister steps forward.

“This is a selection from the seventeenth-century
Book of Common Prayer,”
Lila announces. “The marriage vows. ’Matrimony is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church; and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained. First, It was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord, and to the praise of His holy Name. Secondly, It was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ’s body. Thirdly, It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. O God, who by thy mighty power hast made all things of nothing; who also didst appoint, that out of man, created after thine own image and similitude, woman should take her beginning; and, knitting them together, didst teach that it should never be lawful to put asunder those whom thou by Matrimony hadst made one, look mercifully upon these thy servants.’”

Lila gives the largely secular and very stunned assembly a crooked smile and retreats. The wedding proceeds.

As the vows are made, the rings offered and accepted, I am surprised to feel tears stinging to my eyes. I’m not generally given to emotional outbursts of any kind. I don’t like to make a scene, and growing up with two brothers, a father who teased us constantly, and a mother whose weeping fits confused and embarrassed me, I learned not to cry. I never
cry. Ever. But I’m crying now, and I can’t seem to stop. The bride and groom turn to face us, beaming, and the guests rise, smiling back. Sobs beat against my rib cage. Ben and Marilyn pass down the aisle and the guests leave their places to greet, press, murmur, wish, and I push past bodies in the row beside me and walk swiftly toward the apple trees on the far side of the house. Out of sight of the striped awning and the smiling faces, I slip off my shoes, leave them in the grass, and break into a run for the little orchard. The grass underneath the trees is lush and warm from the afternoon sun, and light filters in shifting green shadows through the bright leaves. I stop and lean against the low branch of one old tree, my breath coming in ragged sighs, then hitch up the skirt of my dress and climb the tree to a cleft where two branches meet and the leaves are thick around me. I sit with my legs dangling, my shins scraped, one knee bleeding a little, my arms wrapped around the tree’s trunk, and weep the way girls do in movies when their hearts are breaking.

I’m not sure how much time has passed when I hear Gabriel call my name. I consider climbing higher into the branches and out of sight, but before I can move, he appears at the base of the tree, carrying my shoes in one hand.

“Joy, what the hell?” He peers up through the branches at me, scowling. “Why are you causing such a scene? You’re acting like—You’re crying?” Gabe has never seen me cry before. “Are you okay?”

I press my face against the tree as if it could save me and whisper no, no, no into the rough dusty bark.

“Red, what’s wrong?” Gabe puts my shoes down and moves closer.

“I don’t know.” It comes out in a sob. I really don’t know.

“Can I come up?” Gabe puts his hands on the low branches.

“No.” My voice trembles. “No, I’m coming down. I’m sorry.” I shift off my branch and lower myself toward him. When I’m close enough, he reaches for my waist and lifts me down, sets me on the ground. “I’m sorry,” I tell him again.

“Hey, you’re the apple of my eye.” He brushes twigs from my hair. “We’ll get to the root of the problem. You just can’t see the forest for the trees. Maybe we just need to branch out a little, turn over a new leaf.”

I laugh, and open my mouth, hoping some rational explanation will emerge. Instead, I begin to cry again. He puts his arms around me, and I sob into his shoulder.

“Don’t leave me,” I hear myself plead, over and over again, hardly aware that I am the one saying it. “Don’t ever leave me. Promise you won’t ever leave me.”

O
N THE NIGHT BEFORE
my thirtieth birthday my family holds a dinner in my honor at my mother’s apartment uptown. Mom and Bachelor Number Three, Charlotte and Burke, James and Charles, Josh and Ruth—we haven’t been here all together for a long time, and the collective presence of my family has an alchemical effect on the familiar rooms. The atmosphere seems dense with memory—though maybe it’s just the inadequacy of the ancient air-conditioning. We gather in the dining room, which smells faintly of dust and disuse. The walls are still covered with the ill-advised wallpaper that my mother applied during her post-second-divorce decorating frenzy. We sit in the same chairs in which I’ve been seated for meals since my legs were too short to reach the ground, around the same long dining table at which I did my homework, ate two dozen Thanksgiving dinners, listened as my parents informed me and my brothers of their plans to divorce.