And I? My résumé is as flimsy as ever. Still, I have let go of my position at McDonald’s and am seeking some employment that doesn’t involve a grill. Perhaps I will work with the dying, somehow. It seems I have a gift for it.
Yours in Christ,
Mike
Bonnie Carlisle and Bob Schofield had scheduled their wedding ceremony for the second Saturday in December. Rebecca spent that morning working in the in-law apartment with Mike, installing grab bars in the shower, a tub bench, a handheld shower head, and no-slip pads, preparing the place for Phoebe to move in. Her mother was due to move out of the rehab center on Monday, and Rebecca had had to concede that the in-law apartment was the natural place for her to come. Phoebe was moving around on a walker now, and progressing day by day in the vast new labor of life’s simplest tasks, learning to eat left-handed, to dress herself in clothes with Velcro fasteners instead of buttons, to “toilet,” as the occupational therapist put it delicately. Her speech had improved, and she had begun to work on her reading; often she and Mary Martha would spend their afternoons with one of Mary Martha’s Dick-and-Jane books, worrying out laborious sentences of three words or less, sounding out the words together. At the moment, Mary Martha was slightly ahead, but Phoebe was coming on fast.
Rebecca had been quietly dreading this day since she had received the wedding invitation. She had not said a word to Mike about his marriage proposal in the weeks since the afternoon at Phoebe’s cottage, and she was afraid that he would take advantage of Bonnie and Bob’s nuptials to make his case anew. She’d felt terrible, cruel even, leaving him dangling in such uncertainty, but she’d simply been unable to address the issue. It was hard to say why, even to herself. She knew that he was sincere; she didn’t believe for a moment that he’d proposed just so he wouldn’t have to lose his cleaning deposit. This was a guy who had arrived without a penny in his pocket, carrying all his possessions in a satchel the size of a gym bag.
Nor was it that she didn’t love him. She did feel some concern that the prosaic reality of Phoebe’s need to move into the in-law had forced Mike into a premature commitment, but commitments were where you found them, and if Phoebe’s situation had forced them to go straight from courtship to crisis, it had also deepened their intimacy. In many ways, they were like war veterans together now; they had the cryptic understandings, the dark humor, and the easy camaraderie forged in shared combat. She trusted him, more than she had ever expected to trust anyone; she relied on him, so much that it was a little scary. She knew that she could never have been so magnanimous with Rory if she hadn’t known she was going to be able to come home and relate the whole court scene to Mike in all its irony and incongruity, as a funny story, as a strange, now-shared slice of life. And she could remember thinking, watching him with her mother when it seemed that Phoebe wouldn’t make it, that she wanted him there with her when Phoebe died. She’d thought then that she wanted him with her always.
That feeling had only gotten stronger as the crisis passed and the realities of daily life began to come into focus again. Every day of relative normality seemed to bring an endearing new revelation. Mike sang old Eagles’ hits in the shower, and he’d shown an unsuspected passion for Mexican food. He’d discovered Sue Grafton’s mystery novels, but he was only up to B Is for Burglar, which she’d told him laughingly was real evidence of having been in a monastery for twenty years. He was truly bad with money, to be sure; he spent it like a man who believed that God would provide, with no thought for the morrow, but she could live with that. She could live with everything she’d learned about him and, she honestly felt, with everything she was going to learn. That wasn’t the issue.
What was the issue, then? Maybe it was just too much, too fast. This was a man who had spent twenty years in resolute opposition to what most people thought of as normal life. She didn’t want Mike to wake up one day five or ten years down the line thinking he had thrown away his chance for God—whatever that meant—for the secular mediocrity of marriage to her. But Rebecca didn’t really believe this. Mike knew what he was doing; he’d made it abundantly clear to her that he thought this was the right move even for his soul.
It was that notion—the idea of rightness for the soul—that came closest to the heart of her resistance. Maybe that was why it was so hard for her to admit it even to herself. Mike believed wholeheartedly that this marriage would be good for his soul; but Rebecca was not so sure it would be good for her own. To put it that bluntly unnerved her. These were not terms in which she was accustomed to thinking; the language of matters of the soul had seemed like so much bad hocus-pocus to her for so long that she was hesitant, even embarrassed, to use it now. But there it was. Mike had thrown himself into the challenges and dilemmas of the everyday with a kind of passion and found a spiritual significance in grappling with the machinery of regular life; for him it was a giant step forward. But it was precisely the machinery of regular life that gave Rebecca pause now. She kept going back to those days and nights at her mother’s bedside, remembering the hush that had finally come upon her there, the beauty of the silence beneath the sea of grief. Something extraordinary had happened, something had opened in her then, and she didn’t want to just write it off as an interesting aberration and get back to the heedless grind.
She’d found herself unwilling to go back to work at Utopian Images as well. She had tried, as things had calmed down and it became impossible to plead Phoebe’s condition as an excuse. She’d stood at the N-Judah stop with her sketch case, in her new code-compliant outfit, and the train had pulled up and the doors had opened and the rest of the commuters had boarded. The driver had looked at her and she had just stood there; she simply hadn’t been able to make herself get on. The doors closed and the train pulled away and still she just stood there on the sidewalk, until another train came along. The doors had opened, the fresh group of commuters duly boarded, and again she hadn’t been able to make herself move and the train had rumbled off downtown. And the next train too, until she finally just went home, where she had sat quietly in the backyard, marveling at the delicate orange blossoms on the pumpkin plants and thinking that she must be nuts, that she’d lost it completely, that she’d degenerated into an irresponsible freak.
It seemed too ironic—ridiculous, even. She’d fought so long and hard to make her tiny life work, and her tiny life had been blown open in spite of everything. Now Mike was offering her a chance to put that tiny life back together in an immeasurably more appealing way. How could she tell this ex-monk, who had come so far to make his peace with the world and offered his own life so generously to the constraining realities of her own, that she was afraid to marry him and succumb to the demands of the ordinary? But it was close to the truth. She didn’t want to lose sight of the still, calm place she’d glimpsed from Phoebe’s bedside. She wanted to give this weird, deep pause a chance.
Despite her concerns, Mike played it cool throughout the morning, keeping to the work at hand so resolutely that Rebecca suspected, as she often did, that he had read her mind. He was surprisingly deft, handling the drill with a jaunty air, frankly showing off. They had fun at the hardware store, picking out a long-handled shower brush and a cute washing mitt with a pocket for soap. They laughed over how few possessions Mike had to move upstairs. And still he didn’t say a word on the spectacular obviousness of the subject of marriage. It was almost maddening.
They broke off at noon to dress for the wedding. Bonnie had gone all out, and Rebecca’s bridesmaid’s dress was an extravagant concoction in lavender that made her feel like a big carnation with a floppy purple hat. But there was no help for that. Mike had bought himself a stiff new navy blue jacket much like the one Rory had worn in court, not necessarily well fitted, with matching new slacks that bunched at the ankles. The knot in his tie was uneven, but his hair was carefully combed. He looked awkward and earnest, like a high school basketball player complying with a road game dress code.
“I hope you didn’t blow your
life savings on this outfit,” Rebecca said.
Mike shrugged. “My life savings were only three weeks old.”
“It’s just Bonnie and Bob.”
“It’s us in public. I can’t believe how nervous I am. I feel like I’m taking you to the prom or something.”
“So where’s my corsage?”
He hesitated, then sheepishly brought his hand out from behind his back to reveal a boxed gardenia on a pin. Rebecca laughed.
Just then Mary Martha poked her head around Rebecca’s hip. She was already dressed for the event in a blue dress with a white lace collar and a brocaded bodice, a lavish little outfit that Phoebe had bought for her last birthday.
“Hey, we’re color coordinated,” Mike exclaimed, and Mary Martha laughed.
“What’s in the box?” she asked.
“It’s a flower.”
“For who?”
“For you, of course,” Mike told her without missing a beat.
Mary Martha gave a gratifying coo. As Mike knelt to pin the gardenia to her dress, he gave Rebecca a half-apologetic glance over Mary Martha’s shoulder. But Rebecca just smiled back at him reassuringly. Flowers were easy; it was family life that was tough. She’d been looking for years for a man who could handle the fact that his prom date had a daughter.
The wedding was at Grace Cathedral, on Nob Hill in downtown San Francisco. Bonnie and Bob had spared no expense. As Rebecca, Mike, and Mary Martha came up from the parking garage into the dilute light of an overcast sky, they were greeted by a tuxedoed usher, who gravely directed them into the cathedral’s cool interior. The nave was lined with flowers, and the front pews were already full; Rebecca spotted a sizable crew from Utopian Images, most of whom she hadn’t seen since Phoebe’s stroke. The three of them skirted the labyrinth tapestry on the entrance floor, and Mike and Mary Martha seated themselves in an empty row, while Rebecca hurried off to join Bonnie in the dressing room next to the vestry.
She found her friend in front of a floor-length mirror with her mother, fretting over her cleavage. The princess gown was beautiful, with sleeves of alençon lace and a full satin skirt overlaid with billowing crinoline, but the neckline seemed a little racy.
“I think Bob will love it,” Rebecca offered.
Mrs. Carlisle looked dubious. She was a solid, kindly woman with a big laugh much like her daughter’s and the same slightly mournful blue eyes. Bonnie gave the gown a little hitch around her breasts and peered at herself critically in the mirror.
“Oh, what the hell,” she said at last. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”
The great organ boomed Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.” Rebecca gave Mike and Mary Martha a wink as she paraded in with Bob’s best man and took her place to the left of the high altar with its blocks of Sierra Nevada granite and redwood top. Bob was waiting with the priest, a tanned, buoyant woman who seemed capable of shedding her black robes at a moment’s notice and doing some serious rock climbing. The swallowtail lines of Bob’s cutaway black tux made him look taller, Rebecca noted with some relief; Bonnie had been concerned that she would tower over him in her heels. He gave Rebecca a proud smile, a little impersonal; he seemed almost dazed with happiness.
Bonnie came up the aisle on her father’s arm, kissed him, and took her place beside Bob. From Rebecca’s vantage point, the imposing east window shone above the couple, Il Cantico di Frate Sole, luminous in rose and blue and gold. Bonnie was radiant, her face shining beneath the tulle blusher veil. Even Bob seemed to have acquired some dignity in his devotion. The cathedral fell quiet as the priest launched into the ceremony in simple, ringing tones, the classic vows: for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health. Bonnie’s mother was weeping quietly in the front row, and Rebecca’s eyes filled and spilled over too, because it was so beautiful and so right. She had expected more irony, somehow.
The newlyweds embraced and made their recessional promenade to Widor’s “Toccata.” Outside, they were pelted with birdseed instead of rice, to spare the digestive tracts of the local pigeons. As the forty-four bells of the cathedral carillon chimed from the Singing Tower, the sun broke through the clouds, to the wedding photographer’s delight. It really was as perfect as it could be.
At the reception afterward, in the spacious banquet room of the Diocesan House, Bob got a little tipsy after the toasts and began regaling the guests with the story of how he had proposed to Bonnie. He had taken her to a wonderful little Italian restaurant in North Beach and had the waitress bring an enormous bouquet of lilies to the table; he’d gotten down on one knee, right in front of the whole restaurant, and when Bonnie had accepted, a violinist had appeared, playing one of Brahms’s Hungarian dances.
Everyone oohed and aahed over how romantic it was. Bonnie’s eyes met Rebecca’s, begging her to be kind. Rebecca just gave her a wry little smile. It seemed easier to be kind lately.
Jeff Burgess was dancing with his wife. He had recently moved back into his house on Potrero Hill and was already speaking of the interval with Moira as a “midlife fling.” He actually seemed happy, in a chastened way, and certainly his time with Moira had improved his wardrobe. Rebecca had told him the week before that she wouldn’t be coming back to Utopian Images, but he didn’t seem to have a problem with that. The lightbulb man campaign for PG&E, its final touches applied by Bonnie, had recently hit the airwaves and was a big success. The commercials seemed to be everywhere: the lightbulb man in Rebecca’s final, pure Gene Kelly version, whirling around lampposts and singing in the rain, interspersed with gritty, moving shots of PG&E workers repairing downed lines in bad weather. There were lightbulb man posters at bus stops and on the sides of the MUNI trains. There was a lightbulb man action toy. It made Rebecca wish she had asked for a percentage of the proceeds.
“He looks a little sad,” Mike had noted when he saw the commercial on TV. Rebecca had loved him for that. No one else had mentioned the lightbulb man’s obvious ambivalence, the poignancy of his plight as a misshapen artist.
“He’s just dancing as fast as he can,” she had told him.
At a table in the far corner, Moira Donnell was crying quietly over her champagne. Rebecca crossed the room and sat down beside her.
“Chin up, sweetie,” she said.
“That bastard,” Moira said. “He told me twice a week he was going to divorce her, the whole time we were together.”
“These big commitments have a life of their own. But it’s better in a way, isn’t it? That marriage is so stubborn. You’ll find yours.”
“I don’t know if I can ever believe in love again.”
“You didn’t love Jeff, honey,” Rebecca insisted gently.
Moira snagged a champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.
“He cleans up well, doesn’t he?” she said morosely, her eyes on Jeff and his wife. “I mean, I gave him that haircut. I bought him that tie.”
There was a stir near the door. Bonnie had apparently decided that Bob had had enough to drink, and the happy couple were making their grand exit. A crowd of giddy young women hastily gathered in anticipation of the bridal bouquet. Bonnie surveyed the scene serenely; her eyes met Rebecca’s in a knowing glance. Rebecca shook her head slightly, but Bonnie just laughed and flung the bouquet like a football across the room. There was nothing to do but catch it.
A cheer went up. Bonnie and Bob waved gaily and headed for their limousine. The band swung into “You Are the Sunshine of My Life,” and Jeff took his wife out for another spin. Across the room, Mike was dancing with Mary Martha, which was so adorable that Rebecca thought her heart might burst.
Moira was eyeing the bouquet with undisguised drunken sentiment: purple and pink anemones, hydrangea, roses, and sweet pea, with a sprig of fuchsia, more evidence of her sad plight. Rebecca hesitated, then handed her the flowers, and Moira smiled self-consciously at her readiness to accept them.
“Christ, I’m pathetic,” she said. “Did you notice the shoulders on the bes
t man?”
On the way to the car, Mary Martha discovered the white and gray terrazzo labyrinth in the courtyard and plunged in. Rebecca and Mike sat down on a bench to the side, under some plum trees. A few massive calla lilies were still blooming, their velvety white heads drooping, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine. At home, she knew, there were pumpkins on the vine: unlikely greenish-orange things the size of Mary Martha’s fist. It seemed like a sort of miracle to Rebecca. They were going to have pumpkins for Christmas.
“I can’t wait to get out of this dress,” Rebecca said.
“What a production,” Mike agreed, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his jacket. “I’m thinking that if we ever do this, we’ll go to a justice of the peace, with Mary Martha and the building’s janitor as witnesses. I’m thinking a Wednesday afternoon.”
“I’m thinking Lake Tahoe,” Rebecca said. “One of those little instant wedding chapels on the Nevada side. I’m thinking we have Mexican food and margaritas in some dive afterward and are in bed by nine o’clock.”
“Is that a yes?”
Rebecca laughed. “I knew you were going to do this.”
Mike smiled smugly. “I knew you knew.”
Mary Martha had reached the center of the labyrinth and started the outward spiral again, hopscotching now, singing to herself. Mike’s eyes met Rebecca’s and they smiled quietly. It was fun, playing parent.
“She’s not always this cute,” Rebecca said.
“Don’t I know it.”
They watched in silence for a moment. Beyond the cathedral spires, the early winter sunset had flecked the high clouds with rose. Behind them, the traffic on Taylor and California seemed distant, baffled by the plum trees to a dull roar like the ocean’s. A sparrow sang in the branches above them, two sharp notes and a lilting treble.
“This is what it felt like in the hospital sometimes,” Rebecca said. “Like a secret. Like love is the only thing that was ever real.” She glanced at Mike. “Is that how it was for you in the monastery?”
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