We Could Be Beautiful

by Swan Huntley

  “I’ll go talk to her.” Caroline pressed her birdlike body into mine and squeezed, and then she teetered away in her strappy silver heels toward Mom.

  The band finished their song. In the pause before they started again, a woman in the street yelled, “Cunt fucker!” and I thought, Why me? It’s always something with me.

  “Catherine, I love this guy.” Bob’s bald head looked like a turkey basting in the sun.

  “So do I,” I said. William put his arm around me. We kissed. Bob said, “Oh, you two,” and someone else (was it drunk Dierdre?) yelled, “Get a room!”

  “Should we go say hello to my mother?”

  “Wonderful,” William said in a cheery way, though it was clear he didn’t think it was so wonderful. He squinted, dutiful, looking around the crowd until his eyes settled on my mother’s red shape. “I’ll go,” he said. “Excuse me.”

  Bob started saying something else about boats—“It’s like a catamaran, but bigger”—but I wasn’t paying attention. I was watching William make his way through the crowd.

  “Sorry, Bob, I’ll be right back.” I touched his arm so he would stop talking and left him. “One second, one second,” I said to all the people who wanted to start a conversation on the way.

  Evelyn stood behind my mother like a secret service agent: serious rectangular sunglasses and her hands behind her back. She wore an unflattering, tight blue dress that accentuated the pearlike curve of her childbearing hips.

  “Mrs. West?” William was saying. “Mrs. West?”

  My mother looked straight ahead into nothing, saying nothing. Caroline, who had been nibbling on a cracker, now plopped herself down on the bench and put her arm around Mom.

  “Get off me,” Mom said, recoiling.

  “God, sor-ry.”

  “I know you?” Evelyn said. It was unclear who she was talking to at first, or why she was talking at all. “I know you, mister?” She was looking at William.

  William put his hand on his chest. “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “I’m sure you have me confused with someone else,” William said.

  “Huh,” Evelyn said. She obviously thought she was right, and she was obviously wrong.

  “Mom?” I didn’t want to squat in my dress, but I did anyway. Because I was a good daughter. And it was just a dress. I put my hands on her knees, looked up into her face. Her eyes seemed to focus and then detach. Her lipstick had smeared onto her chin. I did the kind thing and pretended not to notice.

  “Mrs. West doesn’t like crowds,” Evelyn barked, and scanned the perimeter.

  “Want a drink, Mom? I’ll go get you one,” Caroline said, and sprang up, and I took her place there on the bench. William, who was standing squarely in front of my mother, put his hands in his pockets. Then Evelyn, out of nowhere, having apparently decided the sun was suddenly too much, decisively stuck my mother’s white hat on her head.

  “No! Don’t touch me!” Mom took the hat off and held it up, expecting it to be taken from her. Evelyn waited. Mom waved the hat in jerking motions, threatening to throw, but before she could, Evelyn swiped the hat and put it firmly on her head again. “You will wear this hat, Mrs. West.”

  Mom conceded with a frown.

  “Here, Mom, I got you champagne.” Caroline held out the glass.

  Mom seemed pleased with this. She took it gently by the stem and sipped.

  “Mom,” I said, “do you remember William?”

  Mom took another sip.

  “Mom?”

  “Where’s the girl?” Mom said, panic rising in her voice.

  “Right here, Mrs. West. I’m right here behind you.”

  “I need my purse.”

  “No purse, Mrs. West.”

  “I need my purse.” Mom turned to face Evelyn but couldn’t see her because the brim of her hat was in the way.

  Evelyn pulled the brim back and said into my mother’s face, “No purse, Mrs. West. Drink your champagne.”

  William kneeled now. “I apologize for breaking your vase, Mrs. West. I’m so very sorry. Will you forgive me?”

  My mother looked at his face, her eyes wandering over every part of it. It took a choked gulp of air to make me realize I had stopped breathing again.

  “Who do you say you are?”

  “I am William.” He smiled. Beads of sweat gathered at his hairline because it was so hot.

  “I know you,” my mother said slowly.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Your parents.”

  “Edward and Donna.”

  “Stockton,” she whispered. Her hand began to tremble; the champagne swished up the sides of the glass, almost and then not quite spilling. She became aware of the problem and used her other hand to steady the glass. I remember thinking, I should have taken the glass out of her hand. Why hadn’t I thought of that faster?

  “Mrs. West, I am sorry I broke your vase.” William’s face took on a strained apologetic look and froze there. The poor guy. He looked so innocent.

  “You,” she said, and we all waited. “You, you, you. You…are, you are, you must, you…you must leave.”

  “What the hell?” Caroline mouthed.

  Evelyn rubbed my mother’s shoulders with force, and my mother seemed fine with that, her head bobbing like a ragdoll’s. “Be nice to the man,” Evelyn said. “He’s apologizing to you, Mrs. West.”

  Mom turned away. Of course she did. That was so like her. William looked very disappointed. I felt so bad for him. He didn’t deserve this. I stood and softly, sadly wrapped my arms around his waist in a way that said, At least we have each other.

  When the band paused between songs this time, the woman in the street yelled, “Rats, rats, rats, rats!”

  “And now,” the bandleader said into the microphone, “I think it’s time for a little toast. William, my man, where are you?” The bandleader shaded his eyes with his hand. The chatter on the roof receded and receded until all eyes were on us.

  William said, “Come,” and took my hand and led me toward the band. I was aware of everyone watching and smiled. We stood in front of the stage. Someone handed us fresh glasses of champagne.

  William took the microphone. “First, thank you all for coming.” His voice was strong, firm, even. I thought I would faint. I couldn’t see my mother’s face. I could only see her hat. When I looked at the crowd, that white splotch was all I saw.

  “We are gathered here today,” he said, and everyone laughed. “Catherine and I met only recently, but we have fallen very much in love.” He looked at me then, squinting. “Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye. Though Catherine is not difficult to look at”—more requisite laughter—“it is my heart that knows she is the one for me.” So poetic, especially when he repeated, “It is my heart that knows, darling.”

  We kissed. I was so happy. I was also so self-conscious. My expression was caught between delight and disbelief. It was hard to know how to look, and hard to sustain these emotions in front of all these people for so long.

  “And so a toast.”

  “Toast!” someone yelled, raising a glass to catch the light.

  “A toast to my fiancée, Catherine.”

  We clinked, sipped, kissed again. I had no idea what was happening; my hands were just doing things.

  “And now,” the bandleader said, “a special presentation by the talented Max and Stan.”

  Max and Stan had somehow appeared onstage behind us with their violins. They stood on either side of a music stand. Max looked bored. Stan looked determined, and also sweaty as hell, poor kid.

  They played “When You Say Nothing at All” by Alison Krauss. My first thought was, How cliché. My second thought was, Or maybe it’s perfect. “This is our song,” William whispered in my ear as we swayed together, watching the boys. It sounded like a pulsing heart. The pulsing started soft, and then rose and rose until I felt out of control and my body was moving without me. William guided me, our bodies pressed close.
His salty breath, its touch of mint. With his face hot on my face, he whispered, like it was the only word he knew, “Catherine.”

  •

  People danced. Dusk fell. The sky turned a brilliant tangerine-pink and then settled into a blue glow that was almost too stunning to be real. Susan and Henry did silly moves like the fish and bait, Maya moved like an interpretive dancer—I imagined her inner dialogue was something like, “I am a tree, I am a burning bush, I am a whale”—and Dan slow-danced with Vera, who was obviously very happy about that. Spencer, Max, and Stan played leapfrog. Tonia enjoyed a big slice of cake. Caroline took off her heels, and Bob danced in spurts, stopping to make conversation; he must have talked to every single person at the party.

  My mother, the white splotch, stayed on the bench. People went to talk to her there—Susan, then Caroline for a while. Eventually Evelyn came to tell me they had to leave in order to make it back in time for Mom’s shower.

  “Yes, that’s a great idea,” I said. “Good-bye. I’ll see you later.”

  This was not good enough for Evelyn. She put her hands on her hips and looked at me like I was an asshole. “You going to say good-bye to your mother now, aren’t you?”

  No, bitch, I wasn’t going to. After a pause—breathe, Catherine, breathe—the right words came out of my mouth. “Of course I was going to say good-bye. How can you ask me that?”

  “Well then.”

  “Well then, go get her,” I heard myself say.

  Evelyn rolled her eyes and trudged off.

  Meanwhile other people started to leave. I stood in the doorway, saying, Thank you for coming, thank you so much for coming, thank you for the card, thank you for the flowers. I was on autopilot, my attention concentrated on the approaching white splotch.

  My mother looked cold, stiff. She had been sitting for too long. I was very proud of myself for making this correlation.

  “Thanks for coming, Mom.” I kissed her cheek. And then, just to piss her off, I said, “I love you.”

  Without hesitation she said, “Good-bye, Catherine,” and then—what?—she bowed at me, one hand on her back, the other on her chest, like a ballerina, a male ballerina, at the end of a show.

  My mother was losing her mind. Nothing she did or said could be taken seriously.

  “Let’s go,” Evelyn said, looking behind her at the procession. “People are waiting here, Mrs. West. Let’s go down these stairs now.”

  •

  Caroline and Bob stuck around for a while. We drank wine in the living room and picked at the leftover canapés. Spencer was downstairs watching a movie with Max and Stan, whose mothers had left to have dinner together and would be back soon to pick them up.

  William and I sat on one couch, Caroline and Bob sat on the other. I took my heels off, finally conceding to the fact that they had been very uncomfortable, and leaned into William. “The music was wonderful,” he said, and kissed my forehead. “I forgot how much I love to dance.” I felt his rib cage expand and contract as he breathed. I felt his warmth. I might have been proud of how comfortable we appeared in this loving posture in front of Caroline and Bob.

  As I smiled at them, I thought they looked like such a funny couple. She was a bird and he was a ferret. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, talking to William. He looked like a coach strategizing a play. And Caroline sat back, her lanky bird body, all angles, with one lazy foot that was basically in Bob’s armpit.

  “So, Caroline, Catherine tells me you’re a painter,” William said. I remember thinking it was so sweet that he had remembered that. He was making a real effort to get to know my sister.

  “I was,” Caroline said, a little sadly. “I haven’t painted for a while.”

  “She’s great!” Bob said, squeezing Caroline’s knee. “So William, where did you sail in Europe?”

  “Well,” William began, and the conversation turned back to boats. Bob and William got excited talking about a specific yacht on the Mediterranean—it was the oldest one, or the one with the most gold on it—and then there was a pause, and the movement of the caterers in the kitchen, putting things away, and Caroline said, “I can’t believe you’re engaged.”

  “I know—isn’t it crazy?”

  “That ring is crazy,” Caroline said. She looked at her ring, jokingly hit Bob. “It’s way bigger than mine.”

  “Hey now,” Bob said.

  “I think I’ll go check on the boys,” William said. “Who knows what they’re up to down there.”

  “Good idea.” As he hoisted himself up to go do this kind thing no one had asked him to do, I knew that William was going to make a wonderful father.

  •

  A few minutes later we were talking about Evelyn—“I think she’s kind of mean to Mom,” Caroline said—when Stan’s mother called. She was on her way. “I’ll go down to let him know,” I said.

  “Yep,” Bob said, scarfing a shrimp.

  Tonia, whom I’d completely forgotten about, was sitting on the staircase, playing a game on her phone. “What’s up?” she said. I hoped they were paying her a lot. Unless you were still in high school, taking care of other people’s children was the most depressing job in the world.

  The door to the den was a swinging door with a circular window at the top. It reminded me of a window on a ship. When I looked in, it was very dark. I could see Stan and Spencer lying on the carpet in front of the TV, their little heads propped on their fists, their faces illuminated in flashes by the changing light of the screen. William and Max were on the couch. I could see their faces light up, too, only less brightly because they were farther away.

  When I pushed the door open, William said, “Hi, honey.”

  “Hi,” I said, walking closer. “You look comfortable. Are you hiding in here?”

  “I’m sorry. I suppose I might be hiding, yes. There’s been so much social interaction today, sweetheart. I feel overwhelmed.”

  “Tell me about it. But now it’s just Bob and Caroline. They don’t count. We don’t need to impress them.” As I said this, I wondered if it was true.

  “I know, my darling, but I do feel the need to impress them. Your sister is a big part of—”

  “Shhh,” Stan said.

  “I think this is the good part,” William whispered.

  The music in the movie sounded like an epic conclusion. Long-haired people with too-big ears in New Zealand, or somewhere very green, drew swords and slowly brought them together until the points touched. Then a gold zap, and the screen was bleached in light.

  11

  Planning the wedding took over my life. I barely worked, I couldn’t sleep, I kept canceling lunch with Mom. My hair was falling out, and it was clogging the shower. Lucia showed me a clump of it one day. A dark gnarl in her bare palm, it looked like a wet nest. “This is no good,” she said. I tried to meditate twice, but I couldn’t stop checking my phone. So I gave up. Meditating just made me more anxious. I finally had Bob write me a Xanax prescription.

  I don’t know why I thought I could do it myself. Pride, probably. And a need for change. I’d hired wedding planners with my first two fiancés, and I hadn’t liked either of those people. They were glorified salesmen, always trying to add on features you did not need. The problem was that once you had become aware of these features, you couldn’t possibly live without them.

  In the beginning we said, Let’s have something small. Small, easy, local—maybe the Hamptons in September. This, I knew from experience, was how all weddings started. First you wanted just your closest friends and family, windswept and barefoot on a beach. Then you opened a bridal magazine and it was over.

  This time I swore I would not get carried away. I had gotten very carried away planning the wedding with Fernando—Isle of Capri, a dress with a ten-foot-long train, hundreds of our closest friends and family and every person we had ever passed on the street—and then, well, Fernando had married his grandmother. Or somebody’s grandmother.

  It might have been their announ
cement in the Times that set me off. (Of course I would make this connection only later.) The grandmother, Anabel, heiress to a nail-polish fortune, had actually managed to look a few years younger than she was, thanks to makeup, Photoshop, and the grainy low-resolution black-and-white newspaper-grade picture. Fernando looked like an imp. And excruciatingly content. I couldn’t believe they had gotten married in the Hamptons. “No,” I said out loud. So the Hamptons were out. I started thinking that their announcement was puny anyway. Simple, small, Hamptons—how boring, how cliché. It was that same afternoon that I mistakenly purchased the current issue of Brides at a newsstand, along with a pack of Mentos to angrily chew on while I whipped through the pages.

  Talk about the tyranny of choice. There were so many choices. Hawaii, Aspen, the Keys? A ranch in Wyoming was an untapped resource for pastoral ceremonies? What about Mexico? Or fucking Alaska? Sleeveless, backless, endless. Everything was endless. An endless veil of lace, an endlessly flowing fondue fountain, a heart-shaped monogrammed key chain for the gift bag that would be endlessly meaningful to guests as they left the greatest celebration of their lives.

  And then there was the food, and the silverware, and the color palette. The accommodations, the reception, the flowers. The extras—oh my God, the extras. Did we want a poet to write poems about hearts and roses on her antique typewriter, under the shade of a fake baobab tree, like Jackie from Chicago in Brides? Horses—did we want those? How about a bunch of cheese and a cheese expert? Oh, and music, there was that. And the bridal shower. And the bachelorette party. And the Mentos were gone and I needed a lobotomy. Since I couldn’t get a lobotomy—did people have those anymore?—I made an appointment for a facial instead.

  •

  When William got home, I said, “I think we’re going to end up getting married at a horse ranch in the Gulf of Mexico with edible confetti at the end.”

  I expected him to laugh, but he barely smiled. He sat next to me on the couch, tired. A long day at work. Herman jumped onto him, licked his face. That dog licked everything; there was something wrong with it.