ODD NUMBERS

by M. Grace Bernardin

  “I’ll return the ring and let you pick out one of your own. We’ll do it together,” he said still on his knees as he took hold of her hand and kissed it.

  “Let me see it again,” Allison said. Frank took the ring out of his pocket and popped open the lid. Allison took the box from him and examined the ring. “It’s beautiful. I don’t see any need to get another one because this is exactly the kind of ring I would want.” Allison thought the ring looked as if it fit her style much more so than Vicky’s, and wondered if Frank was right when he said perhaps the ring was intended for her all along. Perhaps some cosmic force truly does exist which controls and guides the destiny of us all, she thought. Some force of pure energy that not even the physicists could ever contain or fully understand. Perhaps this was meant to be her ring all along.

  “Put it on my finger, Frank,” she said handing the box back to him. “I don’t want to waste anymore time either. I don’t want to wait to wear this ring.”

  “I’m speechless,” was all he said as he put the ring on her finger and Allison noticed tears also brimming in his eyes. He put the ring on her finger, rose to his feet and kissed her.

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to wait to wear it,” Allison said wiggling the ring around on her finger. “It’s too big. It’ll have to be resized. Here, let me put it back in the box. I don’t want it to slip off my hand.”

  “Let’s meet tomorrow for lunch and then swing by the jewelry store where we can have it refitted,” Frank said. Allison handed the box to him and he, in turn, handed it back to her. “It’s yours now. Don’t forget that.” he said and together the two lovers kissed there in their sacred space in the middle of the hall as all of time came to a sudden stop.

  Chapter 30

  December 1985

  Mildred Diefendorf lived next door to the Brinkmeyer farm ever since Allison could remember. She sold eggs to their family, the surrounding farms, and in town. She had a little ritual when she came around to sell her eggs. She’d give a perfunctory knock on the back door of the Brinkmeyer’s house, wait a second or two, then just turn the door knob (since it was always unlocked anyway) and walk in with her basket draped over her arm. She’d call out “egg lady” and Allison’s mother would say, “Mildred is that you?” Of course she knew it was her. And why Mildred didn’t just announce herself as “Mildred” instead of “egg lady”, Allison never knew. Then after the egg transaction had been made she would sit down to coffee with Allison’s mother and fill her in on all the neighborhood gossip.

  She was in some ways, Allison thought, the old German version of Sally. Their personalities and styles were different, but the basic spirit was the same. True, Mildred wasn’t modern and forward thinking like Sally; nor jovial and boisterous like Sally. Mildred was sullen and chronically irritated and didn’t have a fun bone in her body. Still, like Sally, Mildred Diefendorf had a talent for finding out your business, your deepest secrets, your vulnerabilities and embarrassments and dangling them over your head with an invisible string. She was the all knowing neighbor. Like Sally, Mildred had a knack for getting you to a place so close to despising her, only to turn it around and do something kind and endearing. Then when you’re all set to forgive and give a second chance, she’d revert back and do something just awful, making you hate her anew. And thus it was when Mildred Diefendorf announced she wanted to give a bridal shower for Allison because, of course, she’d always been like a second daughter to her.

  The day of the bridal shower in September of that year, an incongruous hodge-podge of assorted women descended upon the old farm house in one great hen symposium. They were all there, all the important women from Allison’s life. Everyone from the backward country cousins with their ten years gone out of style clothes and hair, and Grandma Brinkmeyer whose poorly fitting dentures clinked and clanked around in her mouth and slipped each time she pronounced a word with “th” in it (but at least she wore them that day), to her sorority sisters and new found friends from the Junior League and Museum Guild.

  It was here at Mildred’s house, amid the white bread egg salad, ham salad, and chicken salad sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and the red Kool Aide, orange juice, and seven up punch concoction, all pretty in Mildred’s big silver punchbowl with orange slices floating on top and served up with a silver ladle by Allison’s mother and sister Paula; it was here that Mildred let her thoughts be known about the stupidity of having a December wedding. It was too close to Christmas, she said, and you never could count on the weather. What if it snowed? What if there was a blizzard, for crying out loud? Remember the blizzard of ‘78?

  By the end of her long diatribe, Allison’s mother was in agreement with Mildred and they both spent the remainder of the shower trying to convince the bride-to-be to bump the wedding up to October, just one month away. Allison tried to explain that there was no way they could have the wedding so soon. Allison’s mother, fueled on by Mildred, said by gosh if she’d just agree to have the reception in the church basement and let Uncle Herbert spin records and all of them decorate it real nice instead of having this fancy-schmancy show at the Lamasco Country Club. Didn’t she know how hurt Uncle Herbert was that she’d hired some band instead? Who was she trying to impress anyway? And then Grandma Brinkmeyer kept saying “eh, what’s that?” and then they’d repeat themselves in their loud voices that nobody could miss, not even her Junior League or Museum Guild friends, and Grandma Brinkmeyer would say, “Well, I never heard such a thing,” and her dentures would slip when she’d say “thing” and up would go the hand trying to conceal the faulty fitting upper plate and discreetly shove them back into place. The more egg salad Grandma Brinkmeyer consumed, the worse the “th” slippage problem became.

  It’s not that Allison and Frank wanted a December wedding, originally they’d scheduled it for September but three months just wasn’t enough time to plan the kind of wedding they wanted. So they backed it off to October, then November, then finally the first week in December. Allison quickly adjusted her thinking and decided she would make the most out of a December wedding. It was, after all, her favorite time of year. And so the wedding would be adorned with all things Christmas; holly and mistletoe, shades of deep burgundy red, forests greens, velvet bows, golden baubles, and snow white satin beset with sparkling crystals. Secretly she hoped it would snow. Not enough to paralyze the Southern Indiana town (which really didn’t take much), just enough to coat the streets maybe, just enough to create that childlike stir of excitement and anticipation of Christmas, just enough to make the day a bit more magical.

  It did not snow that day, a fact which Mildred Diefendorf and her mother were quick to point out to her and told her she ought to be doggone thankful. Other things didn’t go exactly as planned either, but no matter. Allison remembered what the minister told her and Frank the night before at the rehearsal. He said that as long as the bride, the groom, two witnesses, and someone to perform the ceremony are present you will still get married. Everything else can go wrong but that is all you need in God’s eyes to have a successful wedding day.

  She made a bargain with God that morning after throwing up from a combination of anxiety, red wine and rich food from the night before. After all she was already on her knees. She figured she might as well pray, even if it was in front of a toilet. She chuckled at the thought that many people must utter prayers in this very position, on their knees in front of the toilet. Prayers like, “God, let me live” or “God, let me die” depending on the condition of the sufferer.

  “Dear God,” she began slowly trying to remember how to pray. She hadn’t done so since her high school youth group days. Then it occurred to her that she might be bothering the Almighty. “I’m sorry to bother you because I know you have much bigger things to contend with, what with famines, earthquakes, poverty, wars, and violence, but if I could trouble you just this once, and you know I never do, but just this once… Please get Frank, the Reverend, and let’s see… at least two witnesses, though it might be a
sking for a miracle to get Frank’s brother Tony there, and Sally, and, of course, me–get us all to the church on time–and don’t let me worry about anything else. Thank you, God. Amen.”

  And there they all were and she was in the back of church with her father getting ready to walk down the aisle. There was Frank standing at the foot of the sanctuary waiting for her. She remembered one other thing the minister had told her and Frank. He told them to try to remember the day because it goes by in such a blinding blur. So there she stood in the back of church, holding on to her father’s arm, taking deep breaths, recording each moment as a freeze frame in her memory.

  She wanted to remember everything, the expression on her father’s face and what he said to her right before they started down the aisle. “You ready, missy?”

  “You can’t call me that anymore,” she whispered to him. “You’ll have to call me missus-y now.” Her father actually laughed at her bad joke. He walked her down the aisle in the same manner in which he drove, cautiously and at a maddeningly slow pace, tugging gently at her arm every time she began walking too fast. She thought she saw emotion welling up in his eyes as he kissed her goodbye and presented her to Frank; not quite tears for his proud stubborn Germanic heritage would not allow for that, but something akin to tears. That’s when she started crying.

  Then came the moment she and Frank stood before one another to exchange vows and rings. She had the same feeling as when they met in that small space of hallway between their two apartments in Camelot. Time was suspended and all her senses heightened. She wept through much of the ceremony until there was nothing left of the wadded up ball of Kleenexes she clutched in a sweaty fist along with the stem of her bouquet. She stuck the damp sinewy fragments of the tissue into the wrists of her long sleeves. Frank handed her his neatly ironed, perfectly folded monogrammed handkerchief out of the pocket of his day coat. Wedding guests must’ve noticed this thoughtful gesture because a few “ahs” arose from some of the female members of the congregation who were particularly touched. Allison looked at the white linen cloth with the delicate navy threaded monogram, afraid to soil it with her tears, snot and mascara. I’m messing up his handkerchief and I’m about to mess up his life, she thought. She attempted to convey her thoughts to Frank with a funny expression. She could tell by the silent chuckle that rippled through him that he got the message.

  The minister pronounced them man and wife. They kissed. The congregation applauded. Sally, whom she and Frank had decided upon as the only illogically logical choice for their maid of honor, touched Allison lightly on the arm and handed her the bouquet which she held for her during the exchange of vows and rings. Sally’s brightly colored eyes and cheeks shone with tears, but still her thickly coated mascara stayed stiffly in place with ne’er a smudge or streak. They turned and walked arm and arm down the aisle, husband and wife, and Allison now knew what married people meant when they talked about the blinding blur of the wedding day. Time had been graciously suspended for them for just that brief moment and now it was over. It had ended so quickly. Time would start up again and continue to move forward at its ever accelerating rate.

  They arrived at the Lamasco Country Club and Sally was waiting for them at the door to whisk Allison off to some discreet corner to hook up her long train and detach the cathedral length veil. Sally then nervously herded all straggling guests into the main reception hall, being certain all the while to keep Frank and Allison out of sight until that moment when she motioned to them in covert whispers to make their grand entrance. Frank’s brother announced their arrival via microphone, introducing them as Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hamilton.

  The sight of so many loved ones there to greet them with smiles and applause was almost an overload of joy for Allison who didn’t exactly know how to cope with such exhilaration. A waiter stood by the door with a smile on his face and a tray filled with glasses of champagne. “Congratulations,” he said to her and Frank as he offered them a glass. They toasted each other, locked arms and drank from the glasses. Allison, typically not a big drinker, gulped the sweet bubbly liquid down quickly. She just had to come down from all this euphoria if she was to make it through this reception without becoming miserably tongue-tied or paralyzed.

  The club was decorated beautifully for Christmas with a tall skinny slightly crooked but thoroughly alive evergreen in the corner of the entrance hall, decorated with all manner of bows and streamers, shiny ornaments, some delicate some gaudy, but all of them working together to create an affect of an old fashioned Christmas. It filled the hallway with the fragrance of pine, triggering in all who lingered there a sweet sad nostalgia of Christmas past. Above every doorway hung mistletoe, and greenery gathered at the ends with red velvet bows draped the door frames. Fresh holly encircling candles served as centerpieces; more holly with its festive red berries encircled glass hurricane lamps at either end of the cake table. Everything so perfect, the tables set with silver for the sit down dinner, linen cloths and napkins folded crown style and sitting upright atop china plates; two glasses at each setting, a large goblet for water and a wine glass. A string quartet played Vivaldi while the guests mulled around during the cocktail hour. Of course no one else but the Buccaneers would do for the dance which would follow dinner.

  The expense of such an event was exorbitant. In the beginning Frank and his family insisted on picking up the greater part of the expense. They were encouraged to back off on their offer because this had wounded the pride of Allison’s dad, who in turn insisted that he was the father of the bride and, by gosh, he would pay all of it; all the while trying to talk Allison out of all this high class expensive folderol. Allison’s mother said it wasn’t a question of expense because “that tight fisted old Dutchman” could surely afford it. “Why, he has more money stashed in a sock in the basement than most people will ever see in an entire lifetime,” Allison’s mother would say. It wasn’t a question of the money it was a matter of all this extravagant waste. How could Allison ever make her parents, who had never been to Paris, possibly understand that beauty and refinement is never a waste of money? She could never make them see how important it was to her that her guests not have to sit on metal folding chairs and eat with plastic utensils off of paper plates in the church basement.

  Because of hurt pride her father put up half the expense but simply would not nor could not bring himself to pay more than this. So the fact that Frank and family picked up the other half was a source of embarrassment to Allison’s father who seemed so hangdog during the meeting of the parents and the night before at the rehearsal dinner.

  Although much to Allison’s happy surprise, today proved different. Mr. Brinkmeyer was in high spirits and even joked around some with Frank’s father before the ceremony. There all the parents stood together, laughing, and applauding. The meeting of two worlds and nothing like a wedding to bring those two worlds together. What joy, Allison thought.

  Allison had one and a half glasses of champagne. She had to abandon the second glass after two or three sips, placing it back on the tray of a waiter who bustled busily by. Combined with all the emotions and the empty stomach, one and a half glasses were all it took to dull her previously heightened senses. Sally helped organize the bridal party together into a receiving line in the back of the room. Then the real blinding blur of the day commenced with a barrage of faces and smiles, handshakes and hugs, congratulations and compliments, words of wisdom and advice, all moving along quickly one person to the next–dear old friends, distant and obscure relatives, veritable strangers having to introduce themselves as the bride and groom grappled for their names.

  Allison was glad she’d imbibed in a little champagne because she was just numb enough to not be bothered by her feet, which she was vaguely aware were throbbing and beginning to swell in her high heels.

  “How are your feet holding out?” She said out of the corner of her mouth to the bevy of bridesmaids that stood in line to her right.

  “Beauty is torture,” sa
id Sally, who stood directly to her right.

  “Well, I’ve had enough of this torture,” said Allison’s big sister Paula. She lifted up the hem of her long burgundy velvet gown to reveal stocking feet, her dyed to match pumps off to the side and slightly askew. She reached into the U shaped neckline of her gown and pulled out a pair of white cotton footies.

  “Oh, please tell me you didn’t have those stuffed down your dress during the ceremony,” said Allison.

  “You mean you didn’t notice I was particularly buxom today?” said Paula.

  “I thought maybe you got a boob job just for the occasion,” Sally quipped back.

  “You’re kidding me, right? You’re not really going to put those on, are you? Not this time?” said Allison.

  “Why not? You are going to have a dance, aren’t you? You don’t expect me to dance in my stocking feet? I’ll ruin my panty hose. I paid enough money for these stupid hose. You made me get the most expensive brand. I’m not about to wear them once and run holes in them.”

  “Excuse me, darling,” said Frank who stood to her left. “You remember Mrs. Jones, don’t you?” he said drawing her attention to the regal looking lady before him.

  “Why, yes. Hello Mrs. Jones. Thank you so much for coming.”

  “Lovely wedding, my dear. I wish you every happiness,” she said with that restrained smile which only the socially elite of a gone by era can pull off.

  “Thank you,” Allison said, bowing her head slightly. She found herself just naturally bowing her head to some of these older rich people. Mrs. Jones moved down the line to Sally.

  “We got extra footies,” Paula called from down the line to Allison as she hopped around on one foot while putting on her sock. “You want some? Oh, come on, Allison, don’t be so stuck up.”