Happy All the Time

by Laurie Colwin

  From this closet he removed a large steamer trunk and began to unpack it. Inside there was a Santa Claus costume; a soccer trophy; crumpled diplomas from the Petrie Country Day School and its kindergarten; a Boy Scout banner and a good citizen award on a scroll; a needlepoint tennis racket cover that bore a portrait of Alex, the Cardworthy terrier who had died when Vincent was fifteen; a copy of a book entitled Your Tropical Fish by someone called Eugene Cardworthy, who was not a relative; and an unopened pack of Hawaiian cigarettes. Vincent looked at the cigarettes with puzzlement.

  “I’ve never been to Hawaii,” he said. “I didn’t know they made their own cigarettes. I wonder where I got them from. Don’t smirk at that Santa Claus outfit. I was a Santa Claus for charity at college.” He rummaged happily in the trunk. “Look at this!” He held up a blue T-shirt on whose front the words GARBAGE HERO had been stenciled.

  “I hired myself out on a sanitation crew for two weeks when I was doing a time-motion study,” he said. “The fellows made this up for me. One of them said: ‘You think of us as garbage collectors, but we think of you as garbage producers.’”

  “This is like living in a museum devoted to adolescence,” said Misty.

  Misty had almost no souvenirs. It took her three days to pack. The only thing she carried over by hand was her glass photograph and a bronze lamp she had bought in Paris that had two tulip-shaped glass shades. The people in the photograph were her ancestors—the Jewish homesteaders of Medicine Stone, Wisconsin.

  Within a month, Vincent’s apartment began to look less like a waiting room and more like a home. His furniture was out of storage and there was now an oak dining table with four chairs, a settee, a desk for the study, and a large painting of a sandhill crane to hang over the fireplace.

  Vincent hung the glass photograph in the bedroom.

  “Medicine Stone,” said Vincent musingly. “What a wonderful name.”

  “It was immortalized in song by my Uncle Bernie,” said Misty. “He wrote the song about Prout’s Hen that Stanley told you about.”

  “Sing it,” said Vincent.

  “Okay,” said Misty. “It’s the Berkowitz family anthem, which as you know is called ‘Dancing Chicken’:

  I’ve been to London, England

  And I’ve been to Paris, France

  Now I wanna go home

  Back to Medicine Stone

  And watch Prout’s chicken dance.

  I wanna watch them chickens dance

  It’s more like a strut but it means romance

  Back to back, feather to feather

  When Prout’s chickens get together.

  “Sing it again,” said Vincent. “I have to memorize it. Is that Uncle Bernie’s only song?”

  “He wanted to write a follow-up about Attwater’s Prairie Chicken, but he never got around to it.”

  A few days later, Vincent and Misty had blood tests and, much faster than Misty had anticipated, obtained a marriage license. They decided they wanted witnesses after all. Vincent would have Guido and Holly, and Misty would have Maria Teresa Warner and Stanley. Sybel was not allowed to come. The night before their excursion to City Hall, they were stricken with insomnia.

  “My hands are cold and my feet are burning,” said Vincent, throwing off the covers.

  “I’m starving,” said Misty.

  “I don’t understand that. We had a huge dinner.”

  “We didn’t have dinner,” said Misty.

  “We didn’t? I don’t remember not having dinner.”

  “I don’t feel very well,” said Misty.

  “I’ve lost my memory,” said Vincent. “Let’s get up and be nervous.”

  They stood in front of the refrigerator.

  “You can have yogurt, bananas, or yogurt and bananas,” said Misty. “Or you can have peanut butter and jelly or you can have a bunch of wilted watercress.”

  “I want spaghetti,” said Vincent.

  “It’s half past two. You can’t have spaghetti,” said Misty.

  “Oh, yes, I can,” said Vincent. “It’s my wedding night. I’m going to have spaghetti with butter and garlic. It’s good luck to get married with indigestion.”

  “If you’re going to make spaghetti,” said Misty, “make enough for two. And you might have the decency to put on a robe. It’s bad luck to face a pot of boiling water on your wedding night with no clothes on.”

  The bride wore a white wool suit and a green silk blouse. The suit was a relic of Paris, bought in a fit of longing to look like a chic Parisian. It had never been worn—Misty had been too frightened of spilling something on it.

  The groom wore what he called his banker’s suit with a sprig of freesia in his buttonhole. A twin sprig was pinned to the bride’s lapel.

  Out of pure sentimentality, Vincent had trooped to the Greek florist to get Misty a bouquet.

  “Something for a horse?” said the florist.

  “How did you remember all this time?” asked Vincent.

  “I remember all the nuts in love,” said the florist, wearily.

  “Well, I’m getting married today,” said Vincent. “In City Hall. I need a nice little bouquet of something.”

  “Same girl you got the horse blanket for?”

  “Yes,” said Vincent.

  “Sure. Sure,” said the florist, shrugging. “I give you a little bunch of lilies of the valley and throw in the freesia for nothing. Next time you’ll be back after a fight. That’s the way these things go.”

  The wedding party sat on hard chairs in City Hall, waiting to be called: Stanley, Guido, Vincent, Misty, and Maria Teresa Warner. Holly sat on the end, eavesdropping on the conversations of the other couples.

  A clerk appeared. “The Morosco party,” he called. At this a group of ten stood up and filed into the magistrate’s chambers. A few minutes later, the clerk reappeared.

  “Gerkus and Bethnelson,” he called. At this a man in cowboy boots, a red bandanna, and a checkered shirt stood up, holding the hand of a blond girl wearing orange trousers. Both carried large red carnations.

  “Hold my hand,” whispered Misty to Maria Teresa.

  “Vincent’s supposed to hold your hand, you dummy,” said Maria Teresa.

  “He’s holding my other hand. I have to be anchored,” said Misty. “Otherwise, I’m going to bolt. This is worse than waiting for an execution.”

  Maria Teresa held her hand. “You’re supposed to be agitated,” she said. “You’re getting married.”

  Stanley stared straight ahead. He whispered to Guido that the shabby anteroom in which they sat looked rather like the detention hall in a high school. Even so, the solemnity of the occasion overwhelmed him. Holly sat impeccably in her chair.

  “It’s taking Gerkus and Bethnelson longer than it took the Morosco party,” said Vincent nervously to Guido.

  Holly leaned over. “Gerkus and Bethnelson wrote their own ceremony,” she said. “I heard them arguing about who was going to say what. Bethnelson is the girl. Her name is Alice. His name is Fred. He was married once before. She wanted to get married on May Day. They’re going to read from John Stuart Mill and a letter of Rosa Luxemburg’s. They aren’t going to obey, either.”

  “They don’t have to,” said Vincent. “This is a civil ceremony. It takes about five seconds.”

  The clerk appeared.

  “The magistrate is having a cup of coffee,” he said. “All that talking makes his throat dry. He’ll be right with you folks. Cardworthy, right?”

  “Right,” said Vincent. Misty’s hand was shaking in his, but Vincent believed himself to be steady. He was thinking about Holly and Guido’s wedding on the lawn of Holly’s grandmother’s house in Moss Hill. A little girl had scattered rose petals. A little boy had brought the ring down the aisle on a blue satin pillow. Vincent felt in his pocket for his own ring. This was meant to be a surprise—Misty hadn’t said anything about a ring. On the advice of Holly, Vincent had measured her finger while she was sleeping and with this information
had bought what the jeweler said was a Victorian friendship ring—a gold circle whose thick gold strands formed a love knot.

  Guido and Holly’s was the only wedding he could remember. As he sat on the uncomfortable chair, he was glad he and Misty did not have to put up with any scattered petals or blue satin pillows. The shabby room, the shabby clerk, the nervous-looking wedding parties wearing street clothes seemed right to him. According to the plans he and Misty had made with their respective parents, they were to fly to Chicago for a party, and then travel to Petrie for another. That would be quite enough festivity, Vincent felt. He felt their love was quite rich enough to do without any ornamentation. He had mentioned this to Misty over coffee at breakfast. At this declaration, he noticed that there were tears in her eyes.

  “Give me back my hand,” said Maria Teresa. “I have something for you. I was going to give it to you afterward, but I’ll give it to you now. Besides, your hand’s all steamy.” She took from her handbag a flat package wrapped in pink paper and tied with a white ribbon. Misty opened it. Inside was a can of sardines with a card that read: “Anyone who gave me so much as a sardine could obtain anything from me.”

  “At midnight, you and Vincent have a sardine sandwich,” said Maria Teresa.

  “Cardworthy party,” called the clerk. They all stood up and filed in. Guido was wearing a sober suit with a sprig of lily of the valley in his lapel. He was meditating on the generosity of friendship and on the feeling that one steps outside oneself in happiness for one’s friends. As they stood in front of the magistrate, Guido saw the diamonds twinkling on Holly’s ears. Vincent looked shy and serious. Misty was almost expressionless except for her eyes, which looked either stricken or full of tears. Guido felt someone grip his hand. It was Stanley, who had cut his hair short for the occasion and was wearing his three-piece suit. Everyone seemed to be connected to someone else. Maria Teresa stood clutching Holly’s elbow. Misty and Vincent exchanged vows holding hands.

  It had been raining when they started out. Through the high windows, Guido could see big, gray, early spring clouds. A shaft of weak light illuminated them all. When Vincent slipped the ring on Misty’s finger, Guido felt that he might weep. He was very, very happy.

  Vincent and Misty stood on the steps of City Hall. The state had pronounced them husband and wife, after which they had fled down the hall ahead of the others.

  “How did you know what size ring to get?” said Misty.

  “Holly told me to measure while you were asleep,” said Vincent.

  The April wind blew up around them. They heard the others clattering down the steps.

  “Okay,” yelled Stanley. “Look alive!” They turned and Stanley pelted them with a handful of rice.

  “There’s an ordinance against rice throwing,” said Vincent. “Didn’t you see the sign? Someone is going to slip down the steps and sue the city for millions of dollars.”

  “Aw, you gotta have rice at a wedding,” said Stanley. “It’s white rice too. Jesus, Sybel would kill me. This stuff has no nutritional value, she says. She says it’s like eating straight poison. I had to slink into the store to get it.”

  “Let’s go out to lunch,” said Vincent. “After all, it’s our wedding day.”

  “That’s all been taken care of,” said Holly. “Come with us.”

  Holly did not believe that marriage was valid without cake and she did not believe that vows were final without breakfast. For Vincent and Misty, she had pulled out all the stops. The wedding party sat around the dining room table while Guido poured the champagne. In the center of the table was a dish of orchids and white roses. The cloth was damask with big damask napkins. As they drank their champagne, Holly fed them scrambled eggs, kippers, sausages, and bacon.

  “Now it’s time for dessert,” said Holly. “I thought Misty would hate one of those white cakes with those awful brides and grooms on the top.”

  “Gee,” said Vincent. “I would have loved one of those white cakes with a bride and groom on the top. One of those grooms with painted shoes. I won’t feel married until I get one of those grooms.” Vincent was a little tipsy.

  Holly brought out a platter on which towered a pyramid of cream puffs stuck together with glazed sugar and dotted with Jordan almonds.

  “A croquembouche,” said Misty. “I never thought I’d have one of those for my very own.”

  “It’s a French wedding cake,” said Holly.

  “It doesn’t have little black feet,” said Vincent. “You cut it, Misty; I’m too far gone.”

  “I wonder if anyone bothered to call the office,” said Maria Teresa Warner. “I said I was home sick.”

  “I said I was getting married,” said Vincent. “But no one except Shelly on the switchboard seemed to care.”

  “I forgot,” said Misty.

  “So did I,” said Stanley. “Hey, Guido, I won’t be in today.”

  The last crumbs had been swept away. The last glass of champagne and cup of coffee had been emptied. The wedding party sprawled in the living room, recuperating.

  “It’ll take me a week to detoxify,” said Stanley. “Jesus, what a sugar rush. Sybel says that when you eat a lot of sugar, it shows up in your eyes.”

  “It’s time to go home,” said Vincent. “If my legs will work. What time is it?”

  “It’s seven-thirty,” said Guido.

  “It is?” Vincent said, “How did it get so late? Come on, Misty. Let’s kiss everybody and get out of here.”

  They stood at the doorway, kissing everybody. The living room was dark. Everyone felt quite wiped out.

  “Just like a real wedding,” said Guido. “We’re all exhausted and about to be hung over.”

  More heartfelt kisses were exchanged. Misty and Holly embraced.

  Out on the street, Stanley and Maria Teresa walked together.

  “I think I’m falling in love with you,” said Stanley. “I think you’re wonderful.”

  “That’s nice,” said Maria Teresa. “I’m old enough to have been your high school teacher. Besides, I live on sugar and white rice.”

  “Can I come and visit you sometime?” said Stanley.

  “No,” said Maria Teresa. “Go home and sleep it off. It’ll help you detoxify.”

  “Aw, gee,” said Stanley. “It’s not a wedding unless you fall in love.”

  Finally, the bride and groom were left alone. They stood in the living room of their apartment.

  “This is worse than a first date,” said Vincent. “What is a newly wedded couple supposed to do after they’ve been living together for months?”

  “I don’t know,” said Misty. “I think the bride is supposed to cry and the groom is supposed to read the paper. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Why don’t we open these presents?”

  “What presents?”

  “The ones you carried home in the shopping bags,” said Misty.

  “I carried shopping bags home?” said Vincent. “Married a few hours and my memory’s gone all to hell.”

  From Holly and Guido were French coffee cups and a matching pot. From Maria Teresa, besides the can of sardines, was an Irish linen tablecloth. From Sybel, via Stanley, was a book entitled Good Nutrition in Marriage and from Stanley, a copy of Ovid in Latin.

  “That’ll come in handy,” said Vincent.

  “I’m starving,” said Misty. “Let’s have Maria Teresa’s sardines.”

  “I’m in love,” said Vincent. “If I give you one of these sardines, does that mean there is nothing I can’t obtain from you?”

  “Yes,” said Misty. “We’re supposed to feed them to each other.”

  They ate sardines on toast and drank coffee out of their new cups. Misty flipped through Sybel’s book.

  “It says here that most failure of communication in marriage is a result of protein overload,” she said.

  “I want to make a speech,” said Vincent. “Don’t flinch. I make lovely speeches, as you know. Here’s my speech. I am entirely happy. I am a prince.
I have just gotten married and I am in love. Life is a banquet. Do you have anything to say to that?”

  “Yes,” said Misty dreamily. “I have married a sap.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Vincent and Misty sat on the living room floor surrounded by boxes and wrapping paper. Their apartment was engulfed by wedding presents.

  “It’s like Christmas every day,” said Vincent. “And look how much good exercise we’re providing the postman.”

  They had been married for a month and a half. During this time, they had flown with Vincent’s parents to Chicago and then flown back to New York with Misty’s parents and Vincent’s parents, who then drove them all up to Petrie.

  The meeting of the families had been a great success.

  “Oh, you of little faith,” said Vincent. “Look at them, will you? Sitting around cooing to one another and not paying any attention to us unless it’s to pop flashbulbs in our faces.”

  “I don’t want to see another flashbulb, bottle of champagne, or relative for the next five years,” said Misty.

  In Chicago, Adalaide Berkowitz took Dorothy Cardworthy to the Art Institute. Walter Cardworthy was taken to Fritz Berkowitz’s club. In Petrie, Walter Cardworthy took Fritz Berkowitz to his weekly lunch at the Windhover Inn—this lunch included his law partner, the local doctor, and a retired state senator who now wrote mystery novels. Dorothy Cardworthy took Adalaide Berkowitz to the Horticultural Society lunch and to the Petrie Antique Fair. Through all this, Vincent and Misty fidgeted with boredom and longed to be at home alone.

  No one took it amiss when Aunt Bobo Berkowitz, wife of the former Trotskyist Uncle Sim, gave Misty and Vincent a crude wooden idol that she claimed was a fertility god. She had gotten it in Africa.