Sunday Best

by Edward O. Phillips

  “I think the anta-say is unk-dray,” I stage-whispered to Mildred, reverting to the codes of our childhood.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she hissed, at which point the Santa tugged “this goddamned pillow” from under his red jacket and demanded a dry martini, Santa Claus style.

  “Call me when it’s over,” I said to no one in particular, and retreated to my room.

  The party ended with Jennifer in tears, her belief in Santa Claus irretrievably shattered, the Santa himself led away in disgrace, and Mildred predictably furious. Most of her anger was directed at me, for no reason other than that I had removed myself from the arena before the kill.

  After that I saw my nephews and nieces once in a while, enough to be aware that they were growing up. And suddenly the small girl, who had stood saucer-eyed while jolly old Santa ranted and swore, was on the verge of being married. “Où sont les neiges d’antan!”

  My intercom rang. “A Miss Carson to see you, Mr. Chadwick,” said the porter.

  “Thank you. Please send her up.”

  Unlike the security guard in Mother’s building, horribly chatty and detestably affable, the porter in my building plays the Phantom. He blends into the furniture and doesn’t miss a trick. I could easily imagine his wondering why a young woman was visiting Mr. Chadwick. Now, were the visitor a young man …

  I walked to the elevator to meet Jennifer. As luck would have it the hall stood empty. I could hear the elevator clanking closer, then saw the shaft of light between the closed doors, which opened.

  “Ta-da!” I sang by way of greeting.

  Out stepped the old bag who runs Prints Charming. “The welcoming committee! Oh, Mary, you shouldn’t have bothered!”

  “To be candid, I thought you were my niece.”

  “I’m too old and too beautiful!” He swept down the hall and into his apartment. Loretta Young on television never went through a door with half the éclat of Prints Charming and his lynx coat.

  By now the second elevator was en route. I waited until the doors opened to reveal a young woman who reminded me of my niece. But I had put all my spontaneity into that first ta-da.

  “Jennifer,” I said without fanfare.

  “Uncle Geoffry!”

  We embraced cautiously, two strangers who happen to be related.

  “This way.” I led her down the hall to the door of my apartment, where Jennifer paused to remove her boots. To give credit to my sister, she has taught her children manners, the social graphite that eases friction between generations.

  “Let me take your coat.”

  “Wow! I like your apartment, Uncle Geoffry. Really cool!” She put the last into the verbal equivalent of quotation marks.

  “Thank you. I just had it redecorated, the second in fact I knew you were coming by.”

  “Very impressive! You sure know how to treat a girl.”

  “We try harder. Now, I know your Mother must have given you serious warnings about going to older men’s apartments and drinking strong liquors, but under the circs I think you might take the chance.”

  “If she doesn’t know about it she can’t scold. Could I have white wine and soda, please?” She smiled a large, slow smile to reveal teeth tamed by a retainer into a perfect military row.

  The same bottle of soda went into my scotch and Jennifer’s white wine. We moved to the conversation area, a couch and three chairs grouped around a coffee table.

  “Jennifer, let us not beat about the bush. Mildred has asked me to give you away. I am happy to do so, although I did suggest your older brother was closer and possibly more suitable. Small matter. I would have been at the wedding anyway. Furthermore, your grandmother has agreed to underwrite the ceremony. As I am now her attorney, which means in effect that I will be paying the bills, I will be very much a part of the wedding, from the wings as it were. What I would like to know, without preamble or circumlocution, is what kind of wedding do you yourself really want?”

  Jennifer put down her glass, but only after reaching for a coaster. She was interesting to watch, almost as if she were taking shape before my eyes. Already a young woman, she still had the round, fluid look of someone who, like moist clay, has not fully set. She would one day mature into beauty; what she had at the moment was that splendid glow of youth, the sheen of a fine pearl, which gave to her skin, hair, eyes a lustre that would have made cosmetics seem coarse and superfluous. Her heavy auburn hair fell in a French braid down her back. She wore a plain long-sleeved white silk blouse and a long black skirt, almost as if she were part of a group that specialized in unaccompanied choral singing.

  After a moment’s hesitation she spoke. “That is a serious question, Uncle Geoffry. If I don’t have a ready answer it is because no one has asked me before. Once Douglas and I had decided to get married it seemed as if the whole thing was taken out of my hands. Mother was so excited at the prospect of my wedding that I couldn’t bring myself to contradict her. And with Dad so recently dead it gave her something else to think about.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Jennifer. What kind of wedding do you want? Remember, this is the one time in your life when you can legitimately be selfish. At the risk of sounding like a game-show host, this is your day. Obviously you want both your mother’s cooperation and enjoyment. But whatever therapeutic value the occasion may have for Mildred remains secondary. The ceremony is to celebrate your marriage, not alleviate her widowhood.”

  The girl reached up to smooth her already sleek hair, the reassuring touch that convinces self really exists. She smiled a nervous little smile. “To be honest, Uncle Geoffry, I would prefer no ceremony at all – a minister and two witnesses. But I suppose there’s no chance of that. Otherwise, I’d like a small wedding. I want my sister, Elizabeth, to attend me, and Linda Tyler; she and I have been friends since elementary school. I’d like my brother, Richard, to be head usher, and I’d really like you to give me away. For the rest, I don’t much care, although I’d prefer it small, smaller than it is. Mother wants me to have five bridesmaids so the wedding will include cousins on Dad’s side of the family.”

  “It’s your wedding, Jennifer. Do you want two attendants or five?”

  “Two. Perhaps I shouldn’t even tell you this, but Mother and I had a big row over the number of bridesmaids. I said I wanted only two attendants. Mother gave me one of those looks, as though I was three feet tall and retarded, and announced that five bridesmaids are what Father would have wanted.

  “I said how could she be so sure what Father would have wanted. We only announced the engagement after the funeral. Besides, Father was dead and I wasn’t and it was my wedding. Mother burst into tears. And you know as well as I do she never cries. I was shocked. It was like watching Darth Vader cry. I decided that trying to cope with her attitude was too much effort. Once I was married I would be moving away. And it just seems easier to go with the flow than to have an argument over every detail of the wedding.”

  I put down my tumbler. “Point taken re number of bridesmaids. Am I correct in assuming that you want the rest of the ceremony and reception in proportion, which is to say small and manageable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll see what I can do. Now, one more question. Do you have strong views on a wedding gown?”

  “Not really. Mother has grandiose ideas for a dress. She wants me all bridey-widey. Not my style at all. I’d prefer something simple. I only hope we won’t have another fight over the gown. But I don’t want to look like a character on one of those costume movies on late-night TV.”

  “Your grandmother thinks you would look well in a Regency gown, rather like the heroine of a Jane Austen novel. I am not a designer myself, but I think the style would suit you very well. And as your grandmother is paying the bills, unless you have strong objections to the contrary, I think in this instance you could accommodate her.”

  “I love the Regency look. I don’t have a waistline, and I never will. It’s Mother who needs convin
cing, not me. Just so long as I don’t have to wear one of those floral tiaras – a Walkman without the sound. I’ll be nervous enough as it is.”

  “Let me have a try at persuading your mother.” I was about to add that Mother is the necessity of invention, but decided to curb my tongue. “And, truly, Jennifer, what is there to be nervous about? You have only to walk down the aisle on my arm, give your responses, and answer a few simple questions. Remember: a wedding is the only theatrical presentation I can think of where the prompter stands up facing the audience and feeds lines to the principal players. You couldn’t go wrong if you tried.”

  “It’s not just the wedding, Uncle Geoffry. It’s what follows.”

  “You mean the future? That is a hurdle, I know. The problem with the future is that there’s so much of it, for all of us.”

  Up to now the conversation had been a game of twenty questions; moreover, I had learned what I wanted to know. “It’s a big step you are about to undertake. And you appear to be going against the trend. People today seem to be delaying marriage, at least until they have one foot on the ladder of a career.”

  “You’re right, Uncle Geoffry. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind waiting for a while. There are lots of things I want to see and do before I begin to have children. I really enjoy teaching, and it would be interesting to teach in another country. But Douglas is very anxious to get married. And in spite of her claim of being totally liberated, Mother really does not like the idea of our living together. There is pressure on all sides. I decided it was easier just to have the wedding.”

  “I suppose it is,” I added without conviction. Expediency does not strike me as an adequate reason for marriage. Maybe it was in the thirteenth century, when duchies, castles, vineyards, the very survival of the family depended on making the most useful alliance. But women are no longer chattels, to be traded and married off at the whim of an autocratic father or mother. Even parenthood, once a prime motive for marriage, has come up for reappraisal, what with single and surrogate mothers, artificial insemination, subsidized daycare. Fathers have become redundant. We will one day face an entire generation of fatherless children who will look quizzically at any man with warts or hair on his palm. “Daddy, is it really you?”

  “But,” I added brightly, “when what used to be called ‘the tender emotion’ strikes you down, you might just as well roll over and enjoy, smiling. Somebody once sent me a card which read: ‘Love is the shortest distance between two hearts.’ Is it still true? I’ve just about forgotten.”

  I was trying rather harder than I should have to inject a few carbon dioxide bubbles into the heavy water of our talk. I guess I hoped that Jennifer would giggle, laugh out loud, admit that she was happy, at least excited. Like an augur I was looking for a sign, a blush, a tear, a ripple of laughter that would indicate a heightened emotional state at the prospect of her wedding.

  Jennifer did laugh, uncomfortably. “Come on, Uncle Geoffry, gimme a break.”

  “Okay, Jennifer. But remember: marriage is a big undertaking, even if you are one hundred and ten percent certain.” I checked my watch. “We’d better think of getting along. I shouldn’t imagine Lady Fullerton would like us to be late.”

  At once I was sorry I had been so flip. Me and my mouth. I glanced up to see Jennifer looking at me steadily. Our eyes joined in a glance brimming with eloquence. Young though she might be, Jennifer was no fool. How could she not realize her future mother-in-law was a bit much?

  “I have a question, for myself,” I began, trying to cover up my gaffe. “I would appreciate some direction on what you want for a wedding present. I am not about to lumber you with a silver-plated chafing dish, twelve twin-handled bouillon cups, or a wicker picnic basket with its own enamel plates and cups, which requires two hands to lift. How about a cheque? Then you can buy Tupperware in your favourite shade, or a set of presentation coins from the Franklin Mint.”

  “I’d like you to choose something, Uncle Geoffry. Whatever it is, I know it will be interesting.”

  “You lay on me a heavy burden. As the French would say: I will do my possible. Now we had better drink up and push off.”

  MY FIRST IMPRESSION OF DOUGLAS FULLERTON was that he was any mother’s freewheeling fantasy of a prospective son-in-law. Tall and tailored, he moved with the assurance of a young man who, as a small boy, had been driven to day camp by the chauffeur. The dark suit showed off his athletic figure; I suspected the buttons on the cuffs actually buttoned. Tiny snaffle bits decorated his loafers, while across his tie marched a regular pattern of small objects, which on closer inspection turned out to be spurs.

  “How do you do, Mr. Chadwick,” he said, striding across the foyer after the maid had taken both my coat and bottle of excellent brandy, which I had chosen instead of flowers as a way of paying for my dinner. (The first rule in being a successful guest is to put your hostess on the defensive.)

  “How do you do, Douglas,” I replied, returning his smile and shaking his hand.

  “Hi there.” He acknowledged his bride-to-be with a quick kiss on the lips.

  I watched without appearing to. I do not think engaged couples should dry-hump every time they meet, particularly when other people are present, but I couldn’t help thinking this greeting was totally without chemistry. I felt as if I were watching a brother greet a sister who has been away for a while.

  “Mother will be down shortly. My orders are to see that you are given a scotch right away.”

  He led the way into the library, I was glad to see. There was something chilly and intimidating about that pale blue drawing room and its period furniture.

  “May I pour my own? That way I won’t slide in a drunken stupor under the dining-room table.”

  “Of course, sir. We got a wedding present today, Jenny. Come and have a look. Would you excuse us, please?”

  “Reluctantly.” I made myself a drink and stood in front of the fire. I wasn’t the least bit cold, but there is something profoundly sensual in heat radiating from open combustion.

  “You must be Jennifer’s mysterious Uncle Geoffry,” said a voice from the door. I turned to confront another young man. Short and stocky, he was buttoned into a grey flannel suit that threatened to burst seams and pop buttons, so snugly did it cling to the wearer’s contours. A tangle of soft brown curls framed a face that made me think of a slightly debauched cherub. “You don’t look nearly so terrifying as you are made to sound.”

  I gave a short laugh. “I assure you I am. The G really stands for Grinch. Mothers have only to mention my name and recalcitrant children are instantly reduced to whimpering obedience. You know my name, which is supposed to give you an advantage. Are you prepared to divulge yours?”

  “At once. Charles Grant. Overjoyed, I’m sure.” He extended a short, square hand. The grip was strong. “I’m to be the best man, in a manner of speaking. I’d far sooner be maid of honour, but my problem figure kills my chances every time.”

  “You know what they say. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.”

  “True, but the rehearsals are such heaven, especially the one for the honeymoon. I thought Jennifer was coming with you.”

  “She did, but Douglas took her away to look at an early wedding present, and perhaps to greet her the way he couldn’t in front of her uncle.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it. I suppose Auntie Lois is upstairs getting it all together. I wish I knew how she does it. Silicone? Polyfilla? Beauty secrets from Queen Hatshepsut? Now, shall I have a drink? Calories! Calories! I just checked out the kitchen, and there’s a chocolate cheesecake for dessert that’s to absolutely die.”

  With my mouth full of single malt whisky, the mere mention of chocolate cheesecake made my gold crowns jump. Charles moved to the drink trolley.

  “Maybe I’ll crack under pressure and have a gin and ginger ale, low-cal ginger ale.”

  “Sounds suitably innocuous,” I replied. “Are you a friend of Douglas, from university, perhaps?”

  “R
ight. We both did honours English. Who needs it? I mean, twelve books of Paradise Lost to learn Eve ate the apple? Doug went on to graduate school, and I went to work. I’m in the catering business. I’m going to have my own operation some day. A class act.”

  “You mean all those chicken livers wrapped in strips of bacon will actually be served hot?”

  Charles Grant laughed, an intense, physical laugh involving every part of his body. His large grey eyes wrinkled engagingly at the corners. I found myself laughing, more from sympathy than mirth.

  “Correct. And those little mushroom patties are not going to crumble and fall, half into your cleavage and half onto the freshly shampooed wall-to-wall.”

  We continued to laugh. “Will you sit up until four a.m.,” I asked, “carving radishes into rosettes?”

  “All night if necessary. But my real show stopper is a large cabbage with the centre hollowed out and filled with Russian dressing, fifty-fifty mayo and ketchup. Yuk! Then I cover the outside of the cabbage with toothpicks, and onto each toothpick I stick a shrimp. You take the toothpick, dip the shrimp into the sauce …”

  “Which then drips down, half onto your Ralph Lauren tie and half onto the freshly shampooed wall-to-wall.”

  We were both laughing when Jennifer and Douglas came into the library. For just a fleeting second I had an intimation of absence, of absolutely no current flowing between them. Jennifer did not have the look of a girl who has just been kissed until her lips felt like grapes. Douglas did not stand with the base of his spine convex, his jacket carefully buttoned to conceal an erection.

  I did not have time for further speculation for, with timing and panache that would have put any Las Vegas headliner to shame, Lois Fullerton made her entrance.

  “Geoffry, how lovely you could come.” She bore down upon me, a pre-Raphaelite vision in an artfully draped gown of sage, mauve, and teal. For all the yards of fabric gathered into the dress, it still contrived to leave a lot of Lois bare. She had that creamy, flawless skin that is its own presence. “And thank you for that sinful bottle of brandy.”