Slightly Engaged

by Wendy Markham

  Chapter 18

  We’ve come full circle, me and Jack.

  Here we are at another wedding that isn’t our own, and once again, I’ve got my hair in an elaborate updo and I’m wearing a red dress. Just like at Mike and Dianne’s wedding back in September.

  But this time, it isn’t my choice. The dress, I mean. Which is a gown, really: low-cut crushed red velvet and black brocade. It looks like something a character in an Anne Rice novel—or a bordello whore—might wear. It looks pretty decent on me now that I’m back down to my usual weight, thanks to food poisoning, three weeks on Weight Watchers and walking the forty blocks home from the office every night.

  Still, it’s not a gown I would have chosen to wear, even to a masquerade ball, mostly because it borders on obscene. My bullet boobs have come close several times to popping out of the plunging bodice.

  Not that anybody other than Jack and a couple of Raphael’s lesbian friends seems to have noticed. The rest of the wedding guests are either gay men or married to Kate.

  And Billy would never be caught dead looking at another woman’s décolletage. Kate, clad in the same gown only with zero cleavage, would kill him.

  Dress complications aside, it’s Raphael’s wedding, and I’m happy.

  I still love weddings.

  Presumably, Jack still does not love weddings.

  Otherwise, we’d probably be planning one of our own by now.

  Alas, the only planning he’s been doing lately is the media kind.

  But I’ve been busy at work, too. I got the promotion, with a big raise and Mike’s window office. Funny how so little has changed, in terms of the actual work—but everything has changed, in terms of my self-esteem.

  Just a few days ago, I was presented with a box of business cards.

  Tracey Spadolini, Account Executive, Blair Barnett Advertising.

  I immediately sent one to Will, tucked into a valentine.

  No, I normally wouldn’t send Will a valentine. I just needed a convincing vehicle in which to deliver the physical evidence of my impressive new station in life to somebody who never thought I was good enough.

  I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t a particularly mushy or personal valentine—just a funny Shoebox one that made me laugh and probably won’t make Will laugh because we never did have the same sense of humor.

  Jack and I do have the same sense of humor, but I didn’t get him a funny card. I bought the mushiest, most personal one I could find; one that read on the front To the One I Love and made me cry, embarrassingly, while I was reading it in the Hallmark store.

  I also got him a nice boring sweater on winter clearance at Bloomingdale’s, partly because my raise hasn’t kicked in and partly because I’m sticking with safe gifts from now on.

  I haven’t given him the card and sweater yet. There was no opportunity to do it in our mad scramble to get to the wedding on time.

  Okay, that’s not entirely true.

  I was ready for the wedding with time to spare, but I wasn’t going to hand over a valentine without some reciprocation. I figure when Jack’s ready to give me mine, I’ll give him his.

  No, I don’t expect it to be the ring.

  Getting engaged on Valentine’s Day is such a cliché. If he didn’t do it on Christmas Eve, he isn’t going to do it now.

  At least, I don’t think he is.

  But maybe I’m wrong.

  Who knows? Who cares?

  Well, I care, but like I said, I’ve had other things on my mind. I’ve been so busy at the office, and helping to throw together Raphael’s shower, bachelorette party and rehearsal dinner that I haven’t had time to dwell on this the way I had been.

  If it happens, it happens.

  If it doesn’t…

  Oh, who am I trying to kid? I want it to happen.

  But today isn’t going to be about that. It’s about Raphael and Donatello.

  The loft space they rented for their grand affair is filled with white twinkle-lights, red roses and champagne-sipping guests who are being herded to the rows of chairs set up in front of an ivy-covered chuppah.

  No, Raphael and Donatello haven’t converted to Judaism. They saw the chuppah in the caterer’s catalog and thought it was “fun.” They said the same thing about the baton twirler they hired to entertain when the band takes a break, and about having Donatello’s toy poodle Pipsqueak as the best man.

  Basically, this has been an Anything Goes wedding from its inception.

  As the pianist begins to play the wedding march, and the smiling female minister of God only knows what church takes her place beside the chuppah, I adjust the bow tie on Raphael’s white tux.

  “Tracey, how do I look?”

  “Beautiful,” I say sincerely.

  “Where’s Kate?” he asks, looking around in concern. “I could swear she was here just a minute ago, Tracey.”

  “She was, but she went to throw up. She’ll be right back.”

  “That morning sickness is a bitch,” Raphael says, shaking his head. “I wonder how long it’ll last?”

  “Probably the whole nine months, knowing Kate.”

  Yes, our little sugar magnolia is pregnant. This time, for real. The doctor said she’s due in late September, which means she’s barely into her first trimester. But she’s already experiencing the aforementioned morning sickness, fierce cravings—mostly for white carbs and colorful candy—and she’s been wearing maternity clothes for two weeks. Not because she’s gained an ounce, but because they’re darling.

  “Tracey, do I have Gummi Bears stuck between my teeth?” Raphael asks, having eaten most of the bag Kate had stashed in her purse. He bares his choppers for my inspection.

  “Actually, yes.” I flick a hunk of red from between his front teeth.

  “Thanks, Tracey. I promise I’ll do the same for you on your big day.”

  I smile. “I know you will, Raphael, but I’ll try and remember not to eat red Gummi Bears beforehand.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I was nervous. Tracey, I’m nervous. This is such a big step.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready to take it?” I ask, grabbing his hand and squeezing it.

  “Yes. I love Donatello,” he says, gazing adoringly at his black-tuxedoed groom, who, with Pipsqueak trotting at his side, has taken his place at the opposite end of the white runner. “We’re meant to be together forever,” Raphael says dreamily. “Married.”

  And so they are, with the power vested in the Reverend Sally Hingleman by, not the State of New York, but presumably by—well, whoever it is who makes these things semiofficial.

  I stand beside Kate—who is a Christmassy vision in her red dress, green face—listening to the exchange of age-old vows that never fail to send chills down my spine.

  Do you take this man…

  I Do.

  Do you take this man…

  I Do.

  As Raphael and Donatello promise to love each other in Good Times and in Bad, For Richer, For Poorer, in Sickness and in Health, I can’t help but turn my head slightly to catch Jack’s eye, wondering if he’s thinking what I’m thinking.

  Yes, we’ve already loved each other in Good Times and in Bad, For Richer, For Poorer, in Sickness and in Health.

  We Do.

  He smiles and lifts his chin a little, then lowers it just as slightly.

  He knows.

  With tears in my eyes, I turn back to the ceremony, watching Raphael and Donatello place gold wedding bands on each other’s trembling left hands.

  Then they kiss, and Raphael crushes a glass with his foot—another “fun” custom they lifted from the Jewish wedding ceremony—and we all shout Mazel Tov. Well, everyone but Kate, who has fled for the ladies’ room once again.

  I work my way over to Jack, who’s sitting with Kate’s husband, Billy, with whom he has nothing whatsoever in common. They’re having a stilted conversation about something—could be the stock market, could be Billy’s looming fatherhood.


  All I overhear is him telling Jack, “Yeah, I just have to give it a few months and it’ll pay off big-time.”

  “Wasn’t that a beautiful ceremony?” I ask, joining them.

  “Really nice,” Jack agrees. I slip my fingers into his and he squeezes them reassuringly.

  Billy, never the gay-rights crusader, merely shrugs and asks where Kate is.

  “One guess,” I say, and he sighs.

  “Again? She’s been puking her brains out all day.” He looks at Jack. “You know, this husband-and-father thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  Way to go, Billy.

  Why don’t you just buy him a one-way ticket out of town?

  “I don’t know,” I say pointedly, “my brothers are all married with kids and they’re all thrilled. Right, Jack?”

  “Well, I don’t know if thrilled is the right word,” Jack begins, undoubtedly about to launch into an account of Danny’s now-legendary Christmas-morning meltdown on the heels of a four-hour marathon assembly of tiny plastic parts that never did materialize into what I think was supposed to be a Sun-tacular Seaside Villa for Barbie and her pals.

  I cut Jack off with a strategic “Oh, look, here comes a tray of bacon-wrapped scallops!” and frantically flag down the waiter.

  The reception proceeds rather nicely from there. We witness the spotlight newlywed dance to the Waitresses’ “I Know What Boys Like,” followed by four hours of dance music, culminating in a rousing rendition of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” in homage to Raphael and Donatello’s safari honeymoon.

  I’m uh-wee-mo-wop’ing all over the dance floor when Jack, whom I suddenly realize I haven’t seen in a good hour and a half, appears to tug my arm.

  “Ready to go?” he shouts, because clearly, he is.

  “Not really,” I say without missing a beat in the song. “This is the last dance. I want to see Raphael throw his bouquet.”

  “Okay,” he says reluctantly. As I start to dance away, he calls over the music, “Do you want me to go down and flag a cab? It might take a few minutes to get one.”

  I just look at him.

  “Never mind,” he says glumly. “I’ll wait. Go ahead.”

  Thanks to him, the wee has been sucked right out of my mo-wop.

  I finish the dance anyway, and line up dutifully with the horde of other single gals—none of whom are actual gals—at the base of the winding iron staircase from which Raphael will throw his bouquet.

  “I really want to catch it,” Raphael’s hairstylist friend, Cristoforo, tells me as we jockey for position. “I’m so ready to walk down that aisle with Jason.”

  I don’t want to point out to him that Jason is nowhere to be seen among the would-be bouquet-catchers, and that he spent most of the wedding cozying up to Jones of Curious George: The Musical fame.

  “No way,” an elfin man informs Cristoforo, who’s a good eighteen inches taller. “I’m catching it this time. My boyfriend and I are getting married in April.”

  “Unless you can fly, I’d say it’s beyond your reach, little fellow,” a bystander says cattily, and the insults are flying fast and furious.

  Meanwhile, I’m thinking it’s refreshing not to be one of a smattering of reluctant bouquet candidates for a change. I mean, who wants to parade her single status in front of a roomful of couples, and then vie to be the next bride in what is an embarrassingly archaic tradition? Okay I’ll admit it. I do. I’m a sucker for old-fashioned wedding traditions.

  At Mike and Dianne’s wedding, it was me, Dianne’s thrice-divorced grandmother and Mike’s twelve-year-old niece.

  The niece caught it halfheartedly, but not before Grandma attempted to elbow her aside at the last minute.

  “Ready, ladies?” Raphael asks slyly from his stairway perch overhead.

  “Ready!” we call.

  I position myself, then look around for Jack. He’s parked at the edge of the dance floor where I left him earlier. But I can’t catch his eye. He’s too busy looking at his watch.

  He really does hate weddings.

  But that’s too bad. I’m staying at this one until the bitter end.

  The bouquet goes sailing through the air.

  Our elfin friend must have sprouted fairy wings, because the next thing I know he’s waving the bouquet around shouting, “I got it! I got it!”

  “Sorry, Tracey,” Raphael says, descending the stairs and giving me a hug. “I swear I was aiming for you.”

  “That’s okay, sweetie. Have a wonderful time on your honeymoon.”

  “We will. Tracey, promise me you won’t forget to water my plants and make sure my TiVo is taping One Life To Live every day.”

  “I promise. You’re such a beautiful bride.” I touch the fierce growth of five o’clock shadow on his cheek, then send him on his way with a kiss for luck.

  The bitter end has arrived.

  I make my way over to Jack, who pretty much sprints us to the door.

  Outside, he surveys the empty expanse of Moore Street, where sleet is beginning to fall in the gloomy February dusk. “No cabs. I knew I should have come down early.”

  “Do you really think the street was teeming with taxis then?” I ask, stepping over a puddle of slush in my dyed red satin pointy pumps.

  I realize that my feet are killing me. How the heck did I manage to dance in these shoes? I can barely walk in them.

  “We should head over toward Sixth Avenue,” Jack decides. “We’ll have a better chance there.”

  I try not to groan, because he’s right. It’s just that every step is excruciating and it’s going to take hundreds of them to get to Sixth Avenue.

  We walk in silence. Rather, Jack walks, lost in thought, and I hobble, lost in a haze of pain.

  You know those guys who sell umbrellas on every street corner when the weather is bad?

  I think they take Valentine’s Day off.

  However, Tribeca and SoHo are teeming with every living soul but those guys, despite the nasty weather. There are plenty of pedestrians to crowd the sidewalk; plenty of cabs whizzing along the avenue when we finally reach it, though every one that passes is either off duty or full.

  As Jack and I stand on the curb getting drenched and cold waiting for a new wave of cars to approach, I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

  Jack looks at me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m soaked.”

  “So am I.”

  “These shoes kill.” There. One-upped him.

  “Yeah, they look it. All that dancing couldn’t have helped the situation.”

  “It was a wedding. People dance at weddings.”

  “I danced,” he protests.

  “Once. And it was a slow song.”

  “Did you really expect me to get out there and do the YMCA with you and a horde of guys wearing Village People costumes?”

  “They only wore them for that one song. And you always do the YMCA at Yankee Stadium.”

  “That’s different.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “It’s a ballpark, not a wedding.”

  My throbbing feet are making me crankier by the second; thus I feel compelled to say, “Look, I know you hate weddings, Jack. But it’s over, so can’t you just cheer up?”

  “I’m cheerful,” he says mildly. “You’re the one who’s not cheerful.”

  He has a point there.

  But who can be cheerful when half a can of Aussie Spritz is plastered to her head in sopping strands?

  “And anyway,” he goes on, still watching the approaching traffic for a cab, “who said I hate weddings?”

  “You did.”

  “When? I never—”

  “Remember Labor Day weekend? Our Lady of Everlasting Misery?”

  “Oh, that.” He lowers his hand to wave it dismissively at me. “I hated everything about that wedding. Mostly the bride.”

  “Hey, there’s a cab!” I say as one races past us.

  Jack raises his arm again to hail it. Too late, it
’s gone.

  “I can’t believe it,” I wail.

  “I’m sure another one will be along any second.”

  Yeah, right. But I need to steer him back on topic, so I say, “Anyway, you were saying…?”

  He just looks at me.

  “About how you don’t hate weddings?” I prod.

  “Oh. Right. I really don’t hate them. Not all of them. I like some of them.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “You do not. You complain every single time we get an invitation to one.”

  He laughs. “Okay, I’ll admit that I can think of better ways to spend a Saturday afternoon.”

  I find myself blurting, “Maybe you’d feel differently if it were your own wedding.”

  There’s no excuse for that comment. I didn’t drink more than a few sips of champagne at the wedding, and tight shoes don’t force words out one’s unwilling mouth.

  But it’s too late to take it back, so I wait for Jack to tell me not to bug him about getting married.

  He doesn’t say that, though.

  He shrugs and says, “Who knows?”

  Well, he sure as hell doesn’t.

  I sure as hell don’t, either.

  That does it. I’m so sick and tired of this tiptoeing around the issue when I know damned well he has a ring that he hasn’t given me for whatever reason.

  Maybe it’s not because I ate tainted oysters.

  Maybe it’s not because he didn’t want it to be on a cliché occasion like Christmas or Valentine’s Day.

  Maybe it is because he changed his mind, or because…

  Because, I don’t know, he’s waiting for hell to freeze over?

  Truly, I have no idea why he’s waiting, and I don’t care.

  All I know is that I’m sick of feeling helpless.

  So I’m marching over to his court and snatching the ball back, as it were.

  I look him in the eye through the curtain of sleet falling between us. “I don’t believe you, Jack.”

  “You don’t believe what?” he asks, startled.

  “I don’t believe you have any intention of ever getting married. To me.”

  There. It’s out there, dangling in front of him like a bully’s dare.

  What’s he going to do with it?