“Very thoughtful,” I said. It was ten to five. “We should go now.”
He offered me his arm even though it was just a walk out of our room to the elevator. Two couples, the men in tuxes, older, joined us when it stopped at a lower floor.
“Are we all going to the Armstrong wedding?” I asked.
They answered with smiles and nods.
One woman, who was wearing a purple-feathered fascinator, asked, “Are you the couple from New York?”
Jeremy, grinning, asked, “What gave us away?”
“Bonnie said that Peter had a daughter she hadn’t met yet who lived in New York.”
Just like that.
I said, “The daughter part of that hasn’t quite been established.”
“Oh! I’m sorry! Bonnie gave me the distinct impression . . .”
The bigmouth’s husband said, “Sheila and Bonnie are very close.”
As the doors opened, I made myself say, “Enjoy the evening,” in dignified fashion rather than the scolding she deserved. Life had taught me that the Sheila you have words with on your way to an event is the Sheila who inevitably ends up at your table.
I’d met Peter Armstrong exactly once, at the reunion, newly elected to state office and having fulfilled his most-likely-to-succeed early promise. He was a very good-looking sixty-eight-year-old groom, dressed in black, the kind of sharp suit actors wear to the Academy Awards instead of a tux. Bonnie came down the aisle on the arm of what must’ve been her father, who was wearing a kilt, which explained the bagpipe soloist. In its understated elegance, her dress, with its deep ivory silk, its sleeves to the elbow, the pearls of a political wife, seemed to say, Yes, this is my second marriage; I know that, so I’m not going over-the-top bridal.
Her two daughters were also manifestations of good taste: empire-waisted matching black velvet dresses with lace collars, skewing younger than their preteen ages.
Had I been expecting cheesy? I must’ve. I hadn’t been to a wedding since my own, which had been a bare-bones ceremony without—I could see in retrospect—any feeling. This one was unexpectedly touching, performed by a judge who seemed to know—in fact, love—them both. Maybe Bonnie wasn’t the adulteress I’d pegged her for, or Peter the sexual harasser of his office manager. I checked the seats around me—the underpopulated groom’s side, where the oldest celebrants were sitting—in case Peter’s parents were there. Dead or alive? I’d never asked. His best man, next to him at the makeshift altar, looked enough like Peter to be a brother. Had he gone to Pickering High, too? My dad would know.
And then there were the vows delivered by the bride and groom facing each other, voices choked. Maybe I shouldn’t have let one crazy act of mail vandalism color my opinion. Bonnie seemed so committed, so adoring. And today she was beautiful. The very act of hiring her must’ve sealed this lifelong bachelor’s fate.
I found myself getting teary-eyed. I looked over to my father and Kathi, in our row, and caught the moment that my father reached for Kathi’s hand. Weddings did that to people. Just as I was thinking it was too bad I wasn’t here with a boyfriend who’d be similarly moved by the juxtaposition of wedding vows and me, Jeremy took my hand.
It was the familiar service, very Book of Common Prayer–ish, plus customized vows about their domestic life, pets, the State House, their always-and-foreverness, the two girls he was getting in the bargain. And then they were pronounced husband and wife to a round of applause, a bagpipe recessional, and, though I could’ve been mistaken, a smile from Peter that landed directly on me.
Our table: my dad and Kathi, plus the mayor of Pickering, who was a son of the groom’s high school classmate who’d died tragically and heroically trying to rescue the driver of an overturned car on I-93. How had I not known that Pickering had elected a gay mayor? Or did Pickering not realize they had?
I told him I’d moved away two-plus years ago but surely would’ve voted for him.
“Did you change your voter registration?” he asked.
“He’s thinking absentee ballot,” my father explained.
Also seated with us: the mayor’s mother. And, oddly not at some secondary head table, were Bonnie’s mother and stepfather. Was this because I was considered a branch of the family? They’d driven up from Danbury, Connecticut, and would be taking the granddaughters back with them when Bonnie and Peter headed to Santa Barbara for their honeymoon.
To me, they looked a little tight-lipped about the marriage we’d just witnessed. I didn’t have to imagine the whys and wherefores of that because, upon hearing that my father had been Peter’s high school principal, Bonnie’s mom asked what kind of youngster Peter had been. “As the twig is bent, so grows the tree,” the stepfather added.
My father said, “Top student. Went on to Dartmouth.”
“And was voted most likely to succeed,” I added.
“Did he date in high school?” she asked.
My father said, “That sort of thing doesn’t make its way into the principal’s office unless there’s some kind of trouble. Why do you ask?”
The bride’s mom said, “I guess . . . a lifelong bachelor.”
“Some of us are late bloomers,” said Jeremy, knocking his shoulder into mine.
I checked the mayor’s expression. He was looking a little tight-lipped himself. His mother said, “I went to high school with Pete, and I can tell you this: He was not a late bloomer.”
Kathi must’ve been avoiding the same thing I was, which was the topic of the groom’s past love life, because she said to the bride’s mother, “Your granddaughters are adorable.”
Their dual ungenerous, churchy responses were looks that conveyed, Handsome is as handsome does.
I thought all of this prickliness deserved a quasi-rude question: “They won’t be staying with their father while their mother’s away?”
“Their father . . . hasn’t quite made peace with the divorce yet,” said the stepdad. And even though most of us had started in on our salads, he changed the subject by asking if we could say grace. One by one we joined hands. Jeremy and I kept our eyes open while Pastor Stepdad—as it turned out—intoned, “Dear Lord, thank you for the blessing of bringing Bonnie and Peter together in marriage today. We ask you to bless their marriage and their family. Help them stay strong in any adversity and treasure and protect the joy of marriage. Please bless this food we are about to receive, and let this reception be an honor to You. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
“Amen,” we echoed. Jeremy gave me an ironic New York City smile. Kathi said, “That was lovely. Thank you.”
I said, “Very positive.”
“You’re a man of the cloth?” asked the mayor’s mother.
“I am. Retired.”
I asked why he hadn’t performed the ceremony.
There was a brief silence. His wife said, “The reverend doesn’t perform ceremonies for divorced people.”
It begged the question, But aren’t you Bonnie’s stepfather? Doesn’t that mean, by definition, that you married a divorcée?
The mayor asked, “Do you perform same-sex ceremonies?”
That earned only a frown from the stepdad and a shake of his wife’s head.
“Not because you’re homophobic, though, right?” I asked.
My father was giving me a look. Don’t spoil the party. Be nice.
I said, “I withdraw the question.”
Kathi, skilled changer of subjects, asked Jeremy if he’d started shooting a third season, then offered, “Jeremy stars in a television series called Riverdale.”
“Not stars in,” he corrected. “Just a minor character.”
The mayor said, “Riverdale! No kidding! I love that show.”
His mother asked, “Do I watch that with you?”
“Not so far. I watch it over at Greg’s.”
Jeremy asked, as if it were his own fondest wish, “You get to live with your mom? How great is that?”
His mom said, “Just since I lost my husband.”
“Though I’m not. He likes to say that.”
“And I’m known at city hall for the lunches she packs me.”
“I don’t know why,” said his mom. “Tuna fish five days a week. Even though I warn him about the mercury.”
Kathi said, “Maybe just the novelty of a mayor brown-bagging it.”
I said, “I don’t live with my dad, but we’re neighbors. He moved to New York after my mom died”—my messaging to the wet blankets: not divorced but widowed.
“We both walk dogs for the same outfit,” my dad said.
“Which is how we met,” said Kathi. “He walked my Westie.”
“Still do,” said my dad.
A waiter was circling, asking, “Salmon or filet mignon?” and pouring either red or white accordingly.
And then the bride and groom were standing behind Bonnie’s mom and stepdad, and asking if everyone was having a good time.
I said, “So far so good.”
“This must be Jeremy,” Peter said.
“Thank you for having me. The ceremony was beautiful. As is the bride.”
Bonnie said, “I like him!”
My dad said, “And I’m Daphne’s father.”
“A lot more than that,” said Peter. “Everyone here know that he was the principal of PHS? And a great one? Though young, right? You were just out of grad school back in the day?”
My dad said, “Well, three years out. I always hoped you wiseacres thought I was older than I was.”
“Wiseacres?” repeated Bonnie’s mother.
“Not I,” said Peter. “Right, Mr. Maritch?” He smiled. “Still can’t call him Tom.”
The bride smiled, but I sensed she was hearing Pickering lore at every table and had had enough. She said to her mother, “Dad did a great job, didn’t he?”
“Walking you down the aisle? Not much he could’ve gotten wrong.” Then to the table: “He was the one in the kilt. Which he didn’t even wear at his own wedding.”
“Did he remarry, too?” I asked.
“I meant to me. He wasn’t so taken with his roots then.”
Bonnie explained: “I gave him a gift certificate to an Ancestry dot com DNA test where you send in your sputum. He came back more than half-Scottish, so he’s all in.”
“How did he know which tartan if he wasn’t sure about his roots?” asked my father.
“Some names he pulled up—maiden names of grandmothers. He just picked the tartan he liked best.”
Peter said to his new mother-in-law and step-father-in-law, “And you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Hizzoner and Mrs. Wojcik?”
“Yes. We’ve all been chatting,” said Bonnie’s mom.
“And you’ve met Daphne?”
“We’ve met everybody,” she said.
Bride Bonnie was staring at me, not so much in a hostile manner but in a diagnostic one. I knew she was conducting a mental DNA test. Was there anything about me that suggested I’d been sired by her new husband?
During the ongoing awkwardness of this table-hop, no one had introduced Kathi, which we discovered when she volunteered, “I’m Kathi Krauss, Tom’s plus-one”—prompting an apology from my father for not introducing her in proper sequence.
“Plus-one hardly says it all,” I added, smiling at Kathi.
“Same over there,” said my dad.
Whoops. He meant Jeremy and me. I said, “Um, Jeremy lives across the hall from me in New York.”
“Directly across,” Jeremy said.
“He’s an actor,” said the mayor’s mother. “I’m going to start watching his show. Remind me what it’s called.”
“Riverdale,” said at least three of us in unison.
“It’s based on the Archie comic books,” said Kathi. “But it’s not a cartoon.”
Was Bonnie still staring at me? I was capable—too capable—of matching her tactless gaze, but I pretended not to notice, pretended the small talk around me was fascinating.
“What a group of luminaries! If I didn’t have to circulate, this is the table I’d want to be at,” boomed Peter.
“Why?” asked Bonnie’s mother.
“You! The reverend and the mayor and his mother and my friend Tom and his lovely partner.” He then walked around the table and put his hands on my shoulders. “And a young woman I’ve known for only a few months, but whose presence here today means a great deal to me.”
Oh, God. Was he going to say more?
Seated on my left, my father, the nicest guy in America, looked up at the man treating us to filet mignon, potatoes dauphinoise, a fine burgundy, and said, “That’s enough, Pete.”
Senator Armstrong snapped out of whatever wistful paternal state he’d fallen into, and said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. Too much champagne already.”
Bonnie said, “Darling, we’d better keep moving. Our first dance was supposed to be between the salad and entrée.”
He said, with one last squeeze of my shoulders, “And I hope to dance with every one of you ladies. The night is young.”
I didn’t answer. Jeremy was passing the basket of rolls. I took one and busied myself shredding it.
38
Just That Simple
I hadn’t accepted the wedding invitation to do what I was about to do: say a final good-bye to Peter Armstrong, careless broadcaster of genetic truths. Following a fox-trot with the real father of my heart and a Kahlúa espresso, I’d come up with what I considered pretty good grounds for a permanent parting—a new DNA test vastly improved over the primitive, unreliable one available at the time of my birth.
I confided this while the band was playing “My Funny Valentine” and I was dancing with the groom. I thought, after hearing my father’s warning—“Enough!”—and because he’d given every other female guest a whirl, alternating songs with the new Mrs. Armstrong, that he’d bypass me as a partner. But when Jeremy and I were dancing to yet another Beach Boys’ hit circa 1965, Peter cut in.
There was no need for conversation while he smiled and nodded, presumably at constituents. “Having a good time?” he finally asked me. I said yes, lovely wedding. Delicious food. Good band. Bonnie very nice. And when the song wasn’t going to last much longer, I announced that I’d gotten a state-of-the-art DNA test and it had told the tale: Tom Maritch was my real father.
He didn’t miss a step or a beat at the same time he said, “You’re lying.”
I didn’t cave. Just the opposite. I said, “Tom Maritch is unquestionably a match. I have the letter from the lab to prove it.”
We did a few more whirls before he said, “You did this through a reputable lab, not some mail-in, fly-by-night outfit?”
“I went to Mount Sinai.”
“And Tom participated?”
Oh, a minor point I’d forgotten to weave into my fabrication—what piece of male DNA was I matching against mine?
“I didn’t have to involve him. We see each other all the time. I just had to fish a dirty Kleenex of his out of my wastebasket.”
“Very resourceful,” said Peter, grimly.
“I’m sorry if it got your hopes up that you had a biological child—”
“Just that simple,” he said.
“You can’t go around telling people that I’m your daughter. That was reckless, and that’s over. You had a fling with my mother. Okay. Everyone has flings. It was huge to you because she was your teacher—”
“Ex-teacher.”
“Fine, ex-teacher. But you have to drop it.”
“We shouldn’t be having this conversation at my wedding. Can I call you?”
“No, bad idea. And, of course, I’ll return the money you’ve been sending me.”
He whispered, right above my ear, “Don’t. She told me you were mine. She used to send me baby pictures.”
Maybe this would be the last time I’d have to en
dure accounts of my mother’s disloyalty. I said, “Well, she was wrong.”
The song was ending and Jeremy was back at my side.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
I said, “I told him about the new test,” hoping my accompanying look signaled Just play along.
“Yes, it had to be said,” Jeremy granted ever so solemnly. “Sometimes ripping the Band-Aid off is the only way.”
We two improvisational talents nodded, Yes, so very true. I asked Jeremy if he wanted to call it a night.
“We haven’t cut the cake yet,” said Peter.
“It’s been a very long day,” I said.
“Too long. I wish it had ended before we had this conversation.”
“I hope you have a long and happy marriage. I really do.”
“I didn’t handle this very well, did I? I plowed right in the first time we met. You’re wiser than I ever was at your age,” said Peter.
“Hey, c’mon. It’s not good-bye,” said Jeremy. “It’s just good night.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” said Peter.
We wound our way over to Kathi and my dad, who hadn’t left the dance floor since the deejay had declared the newlyweds’ first dance, “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You,” now open to all.
“Your father never told me he was a dancer!” said Kathi.
“I chaperoned more than my share of hops. You pick up the moves,” said my dad.
“I heard that people can go dancing in the borough of Manhattan,” said Jeremy. “Maybe you two can look into that.”
I could tell that Kathi was thinking, Sad. We like Jeremy so much. Is there any hope?
In the elevator, just the two of us plus the half-empty bottle of burgundy he’d taken from an abandoned table, Jeremy asked what bomb I’d dropped on Armstrong.
“I told him I’d had a fancy new DNA test that showed that my dad was my dad—”
“Tom?”
“Of course Tom!”
“Did you, in fact, have a test?”
It occurred to me that I could lie to Jeremy, too. But I didn’t. I said, “No test. Just me wanting to put an end to the whole damn thing. I wanted to clear him out of my head. I wanted to go back to the first three decades of my dad being my real dad. He deserves that.”
Good Riddance Page 22