I'm So Happy for You

by Lucinda Rosenfeld

  “Yes, it is,” the woman answered stolidly.

  Finally, there was the bride to greet. Daphne quickly swallowed Wendy into a bear hug.

  “You look so beautiful,” said Wendy.

  “Thank you—and thank you for coming,” said Daphne. “I’m just so happy you’re here. My oldest friend! Or practically. And Adam!” Daphne abruptly released Wendy and took Wendy’s husband in her arms.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Sonnenberg,” he said, one side of his smile rising higher than the other.

  “This is crazy, isn’t it?” Wendy could have sworn she heard Daphne mumble in Adam’s ear.

  “It’s not crazy at all,” he mumbled back. “It’s great.”

  Wendy had no idea what to make of their exchange. It seemed to reference some earlier conversation in which she’d had no part. It also seemed intimate in a way that surpassed the casual friendship she understood the two of them currently to have. What’s more, Daphne and Adam’s embrace seemed to last seconds longer than it needed to, and to be tighter, too. Or had Wendy imagined the whole tableau? Confused and agitated and suddenly craving a cigarette—and the illusion that she didn’t need anyone or anything, nicotine excepted—Wendy walked back out onto the balcony.

  There, she found a small group of teenage girls and older women lighting up. None of their faces were familiar to her. “I’m sorry,” Wendy began. A pack of Parliaments soon appeared in her face, courtesy of a sullen-faced wraith in combat boots with eight-inch platform soles. Wendy thanked her. The girl grunted in reply.

  Wendy was busy taking her first heady inhale, when Paige Ryan appeared in her purview. “Well, I guess you’re still not pregnant!” she announced, loud enough for the entire wedding party to hear.

  And I guess you’re still a psychotic bitch, Wendy thought.

  Adam appeared moments later. “Hey! I was wondering what happened to you,” he began in a judgmental voice. At least it sounded judgmental to Wendy. (Adam was the kind of pot smoker who considered smoking marijuana a wholesome and possibly even salubrious experience, whereas mass-produced cigarettes were clearly the devil’s own calling cards.)

  “What was that about with Daphne in the receiving line?” asked Wendy, in no mood to apologize.

  “What was what about?” he said.

  “I heard you whispering about how crazy it was. What’s it?”

  “Oh, that was nothing.” Adam flung back his head. “It was just that Daphne really didn’t want a big formal wedding. And Jonathan did. So she was just bugging a little about all the pomp and circumstance, so to speak.”

  “I thought you guys talked about having sick parents.”

  “We do.”

  “Among other topics, I guess.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Adam. “You should be happy your husband gets along so well with your friends!”

  “I’m thrilled,” Wendy told him. “Ecstatic, even.” She’d never heard herself sound so jealous. Then again, she’d never before had a reason to feel that way.

  Sixteen circular tables covered with crisp white tablecloths had been set up in the hall. At the center of each table was a cylindrical glass vase crammed full of white tulips. Champagne in hand, Wendy found her place card at table three and sat down. To her relief, Adam’s card was opposite hers. Somewhat less pleasingly, Paige’s scripted name appeared two places from her own, while Pamela, Sara, and Gretchen, and their respective spouses (and spouse-equivalents) had all apparently been seated at another table. “Yo, Shakespeare Lady,” began a short bald guy with popping eyes. “I’m Steve.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Wendy. “I’m Wendy.”

  “And this is my leading lady, Deb.” He motioned at a scowling woman seated to his right.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” said Wendy.

  The woman lifted the corners of her mouth in distant imitation of a smile, but said nothing.

  “And I’m Wendy’s husband, Adam,” Adam called from across the table.

  “Pleasure,” said Steve, motioning with his chin while lifting a highball glass to his lips. “So check this out. Ever heard the story of how Jonathan dressed up as Aunt Jemima for Spring Fling? Fucker nearly got himself kicked off campus.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Wendy, thankful for any information that put the groom in a bad light.

  “I’m guessing you two were in the same fraternity?” said Adam.

  “You assume correctly,” said Steve. “Delta Chi. Cornell University. Class of ninety-one. But the Sonnenbitch studied harder than me. Which is probably why I’m in wine distribution and he’s a federal prosecutor. Now, who has more fun is another matter. Right, Deb?” He nudged his wife, who continued to stare peevishly at the wall.

  “Aw—lawyers are a dime a dozen in New York,” offered Adam.

  “Nice of you to say,” said Steve. “And your trade, if I may ask?”

  “At the moment, I’m writing a comic screenplay about sperm and living off my wife.”

  At least he’s honest in that regard, Wendy thought.

  “Nice work. I toast you, my friend!” Steve raised his glass.

  Next to appear was a forty-something guy with a pink complexion, graying temples, and deep creases around his slate blue eyes. He wasn’t terrible looking, Wendy thought, but there was something puffy and almost misshapen about him. His shoulders seemed too narrow for his frame. Or maybe it was that his belly seemed to belong to a much larger man. He was wearing a sports jersey of some kind with a high V-neck and a numeral 9 emblazoned on the front of it, and an ill-fitting blazer over that. “Name’s Jeremy,” he offered in a grumbly English accent, his right hand darting into the air as he sat down in the empty seat next to Wendy’s. (He had a Guinness in the left.)

  “Name’s Wendy,” said Wendy. “Nice to meet you.”

  Paige’s matching orange evening bag appeared before Paige did. She chucked it onto her bread plate. Then she yanked out her chair. “So, what’s for dinner?” she said.

  “Wait—let me guess,” she answered her own question before anyone else had the chance to do so. “A choice of grilled Angus hanger steak or braised salmon in a tarragon-leek sauce, both served with julienned vegetables and potato au gratin.” Her eyes combed the figure to her right. “And you must be Daphne and Jonathan’s live-in carpenter.”

  “I do a bit of carpentry every now and then.” Jeremy shrugged.

  “But don’t you live in Daphne’s house?”

  “I let the flat downstairs.” He shrugged again.

  “Paige Ryan,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m sorry to have to report that the bride has set us up.”

  “Lucky you,” he said grimly, his own hand not quite extended.

  “So can you hear them up there having sex?” It occurred suddenly to Wendy that Paige was wasted—and also that, for reasons of her own (her recent divorce, perhaps?), she, too, might be suffering through Daphne’s wedding.

  “Never heard anything,” replied Jeremy, apparently unflappable. “Thick walls, I guess.”

  Paige finished off her single malt in a single sip, before looking away and declaring, “Anyway, you should know that I have certain unresolved hostility issues with regard to the opposite sex.”

  “I never would have guessed,” Jeremy murmured into his beer.

  It was dinnertime. Nearly true to Paige’s prediction, the menu choice was filet mignon or halibut vertically piled with julienned zucchini and rosemary potatoes. (Wendy ordered the halibut, Adam the steak.) Table three was the table situated closest to the four-piece jazz band, which played standards throughout the meal. Which meant that it was hard to make conversation. Which was fine by Wendy, since she’d already run out of things to say to both Steve and Jeremy; Deb didn’t talk, and Wendy had no particular inclination at that moment to speak to her husband or Paige.

  While Wendy ate, she watched Daphne flitting between tables, throwing her arms around her guests or grasping their forearms conspiratorially and whispering in their ears, as if
each were her nearest and dearest. And as if Wendy were one of a hundred-odd intimates, and yet the only one among them who had somehow failed to grasp this essential fact—that Wendy was no more important to Daphne than anyone else in the room.

  The evidence was suddenly piling up: when Daphne finally made it over to Wendy’s table, she addressed them as a group and stood between Jeremy and Paige. “Are you guys having fun? Is the food okay? I’m such a nervous hostess. I swear it’s why I never throw parties!”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Steve assured her. “We’re having a frigging blast.”

  “Juicy steak,” added Adam.

  “Only the best for you,” said Daphne, winking.

  Wendy smiled, but said nothing.

  Richard Uberoff had never been accused of disliking the sound of his own voice. His wedding toast, the first to be delivered that night, failed to provide fodder for a counterargument. Beginning with a detailed disquisition on Voltaire’s view of marriage, it perambulated its way through the centuries, stopping off at Hegel, Macaulay, and Tocqueville. By the time he reached Wittgenstein, Steve the Wine Distributor had taken off. “If you’ll all excuse me,” he’d announced in a stage whisper. “A line awaits me in the men’s room—so to speak.”

  When he returned, Richard had only just reached 1970—and Daphne’s arrival in the world. From there, he quickly segued to his feelings on fatherhood. It was another ten minutes before he returned to the subject of the bride. “Let no man say that Daphne Uberoff, when in possession of a need or want, has ever taken the opportunity to practice forbearance. My dear son-in-law, I do hope you’re listening!” In twenty-eight minutes, there was no other mention of Jonathan Sonnenberg than that. Her feelings about the groom notwithstanding, Wendy found it shocking and amazing that Daphne’s father hadn’t taken more time to acknowledge the man who’d rescued his daughter from a life of pill popping and mistress-hood. Then again, in Professor Uberoff ’s defense, he’d only met his son-in-law on one previous occasion—namely, Thanksgiving. He also lived in Michigan, was obsessed with his own reputation, and was quite possibly unaware of Daphne’s.

  As Richard raised his glass, Wendy thought she saw a fleeting expression of contempt pass across Daphne’s face. What’s more, the look seemed to be directed at table three, if not at Wendy. Glancing over the tulips, she could have sworn she saw Adam roll his eyes in concert with Daphne. Was it possible that he was the intended recipient of her gaze? Or had Wendy imagined this, too? (It was too late to say.) Daphne was already approaching the microphone, where, with a great display of mirth and gratitude, she embraced her father, albeit remembering to turn her head for the benefit of the wedding photographer.

  Jonathan’s father was next. In a shaky voice, he spoke of the first time his son had beat him at squash. He also recalled a camping trip for which eight-year-old Jonathan—thank goodness—had remembered to bring a compass. If it was a far shorter toast than Richard Uberoff ’s, it was also less than scintillating. A third of the way in, a restive murmur of conversation spread through the room. It didn’t subside until Mr. Sonnenberg had finished speaking.

  Finally, it was Wendy’s turn, the turn that Wendy had spent the entire previous month dreading. Prior to the wedding, she’d composed a list of talking points. Each referenced an amusing anecdote that, in lightly roasting Daphne’s egotism, revealed both her affinity for friendship and her unrivaled desirability to the opposite sex—while studiously avoiding the subject of her recent past. As Wendy stood up from her chair and approached the lectern, however, the list seemed suddenly beside the point. Alcohol, combined with Daphne’s suspicious behavior toward Adam, had left Wendy feeling strangely emboldened, even excited. As if a marvelous, unforeseen opportunity had come her way, an opportunity she couldn’t afford to pass up. She kept the list folded in her left hand and angled the microphone toward her with her right.

  “I’m Daphne’s friend Wendy.” She began to improvise. “I hate public speaking. So I’m going to keep this short. Daphne and I went to college together. Back then, Daphne changed majors as often as she changed boyfriends. First, there was Comparative Literature—and Josh. Then there was Government—and Craig. Then there was Film Studies—and Andy. The list goes on. And on. But it always seemed to me that Daphne’s main field of expertise was herself.” A sprinkling of giggles greeted Wendy’s ears, goading her on. “Not only is she the most entertaining and insightful relayer of her own emotional highs and lows that I’ve ever met, but Daphne’s life has always been a little more exciting and dramatic than the average person’s.” Wendy paused. “I guess my main worry about Daphne becoming a happy married lady is that she’s going to get just as boring as the rest of us.” More chuckling. “On the upside, I suspect she’ll be less likely to wake me and my husband up at two in the morning, threatening to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. Because, really, what is there to say when you’ve gone domestic with a good and available”—Wendy paused to accentuate the novelty of this concept—“guy?” She raised her voice an octave in imitation of Daphne. “ ‘You won’t believe the latest—Jonathan and I roasted a chicken and rented a movie!’ For once, I think I’ll be within my rights to say, ‘I’m sleeping, Daphne. Can we talk about this in the morning?’ ”

  The crowd—if not Daphne herself—erupted in guffaws. (A quick glance in Daphne’s direction revealed only an amused smile. Or was it bemused?) Had Wendy gone too far? As the laughter died down, Wendy felt suddenly panicked at the thought that Daphne would be furious at her. “But, really,” she went on, “over the years, Daphne has been a warm and wonderful friend who’s made life more interesting, more stylish, and generally more fun. Please join me in raising a glass on behalf of my old and dear friend Daphne and my new friend Jonathan. Some people say there’s no such thing as love at first sight. But Daphne and Jonathan have proven us all wrong.” Wendy paused, unable to stop herself. “That, or they were both desperate.” She paused again. “Just kidding!”

  There was more laughter, but this time it struck Wendy as being more embarrassed than joyful. Had she proven herself, once and for all, to be a despicable human being? She raised her glass. The crowd raised theirs. “Daphne, Jonathan—congratulations. I’m so happy for you guys.”

  As the crowd applauded, Wendy walked over to table one, where Daphne received her hug with the same jocular expression with which she’d embraced her father. But was this, too, a performance? Despite the liberties she’d taken, Wendy returned to table three telling herself that her toast had been in the spirit of lighthearted fun—even as, on some deeper level, she was aware that it contained the seed of a withering critique.

  The collective verdict seemed to confirm the latter.

  “Ouch,” said Adam.

  “Yo—they ought to call you ‘maid of dishonor,’ ” said Steve.

  “I’m just glad we’re not friends,” quipped Paige.

  Steve’s wife, Deb, continued to add nothing to the conversation, while Jeremy appeared to be reading an English football magazine in his lap.

  Reaching for her chardonnay, Wendy felt suddenly, unpleasantly sober.

  Wendy spent the remainder of the evening regretting her toast. She was still angry at Adam. But she needed his support more and was therefore willing to overlook his trespasses—at least for the moment. “Do you think Daphne hates me now?” she asked, as the jazz band struck up Cole Porter’s “I Get a Kick Out of You,” and Jonathan and Daphne began their “first dance.”

  “She’ll get over it,” said Adam, not exactly reassuring Wendy.

  Yet another drink later, Wendy joined Sara and Gretchen and their respective dates on the dance floor. (Pamela and Todd had jogged home to co-breastfeed Lucas; Adam was too cool to dance in public.) The band was now playing a saxophone-embellished version of the hip-hop single “Hot in Here.” For a few delirious minutes, Wendy allowed the music to transport her to a realm of pure rhythm, a realm diminished only by the incongruous sight of Jeremy twirling a rigi
d but ecstatic-looking Paige across the floor.

  Meanwhile, Sara’s fiancé, Dolph, dressed in an emerald blue Prada suit and lavender tie and with his hair slicked back like a chipmunk’s, had embarked on a series of crotch-centered gyrations performed with one arm bent backward behind his head and the other extended out in front of him. Within minutes, he’d attracted a circle of cheering spectators. Minutes after that, Sara could be seen bent over, her arm across her stomach. “Are you okay?” Wendy yelled over the music. (For a split second, the thought occurred to her that Sara might be dying of embarrassment.)

  “Not really,” Sara yelled back.

  “Do you want me to take you to the ladies’ room?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Leaning over the toilet bowl, Sara revealed she was pregnant with Dolph’s baby.

  “Oh, Sara, that’s wonderful news!” Wendy said, as instantly glassy-eyed as she was amazed and impressed. Apparently, Sara and Dolph had heterosexual sex, after all.

  “I know you’ve been trying,” Sara offered between gags.

  “Don’t worry about me right now,” said Wendy, reaching for Sara’s hair. “Worry about your dinner.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said. And she was.

  It was left to Wendy to clean her up, then fetch Dolph—no easy task, not only because Wendy had to break through his now extensive fan base to reach him, but also because he was in perpetual motion. Finally, she managed to grab hold of his sleeve. “Sara’s sick!” she bellowed over the music. (Nelly had been replaced by ABBA.)

  “Oh, Christ—not again,” he said, eyes rolling, as he followed Wendy off the dance floor. “I know she can’t help it, but the woman really does have impeccable timing. ‘Dancing Queen’ is only my FAVORITE SONG EVER.”

  “Maybe they can play it again?” suggested Wendy.

  “Maybe,” said Dolph. “Anyway, where’s the patient?”