Wedding Season

by Darcy Cosper

  The justice of the peace, a small woman in her late forties with a shock of dark, silver-streaked hair and a wry expression, appears at the front of the crowd, and Ben and Topher come to stand on one side of her, Marilyn’s sister on the other. We rustle expectantly, and after a long minute, without cue or music, Marilyn comes out of the house. She’s wearing a simple white summer dress made of a light fabric that flutters at her ankles, and a small bouquet dangles from one hand. She takes the porch steps two at a time to meet her mother and father, who wait for her on the lawn. At the bottom of the stairs she takes their hands, and together they cross toward us. When they reach the head of the aisle, she kisses both of them and practically skips toward the altar. Ben apparently can’t keep still; he takes several steps up the aisle toward her, reaching out his hand for hers, and the justice laughs.

  “I’ve known Ben since he was a kid,” she tells the guests. “He’s always been eager to get things done. So I won’t keep him waiting. Dearly beloved,” she says, over a ripple of laughter, “we are gathered here today to witness the marriage of these two wonderful young people. We’ll begin with the readings. Lila?”

  Marilyn’s sister steps forward.

  “This is a selection from the seventeenth-century Book of Common Prayer,” Lila announces. “The marriage vows. ’Matrimony is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church; and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained. First, It was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord, and to the praise of His holy Name. Secondly, It was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ’s body. Thirdly, It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. O God, who by thy mighty power hast made all things of nothing; who also didst appoint, that out of man, created after thine own image and similitude, woman should take her beginning; and, knitting them together, didst teach that it should never be lawful to put asunder those whom thou by Matrimony hadst made one, look mercifully upon these thy servants.’”

  Lila gives the largely secular and very stunned assembly a crooked smile and retreats. The wedding proceeds.

  As the vows are made, the rings offered and accepted, I am surprised to feel tears stinging to my eyes. I’m not generally given to emotional outbursts of any kind. I don’t like to make a scene, and growing up with two brothers, a father who teased us constantly, and a mother whose weeping fits confused and embarrassed me, I learned not to cry. I never cry. Ever. But I’m crying now, and I can’t seem to stop. The bride and groom turn to face us, beaming, and the guests rise, smiling back. Sobs beat against my rib cage. Ben and Marilyn pass down the aisle and the guests leave their places to greet, press, murmur, wish, and I push past bodies in the row beside me and walk swiftly toward the apple trees on the far side of the house. Out of sight of the striped awning and the smiling faces, I slip off my shoes, leave them in the grass, and break into a run for the little orchard. The grass underneath the trees is lush and warm from the afternoon sun, and light filters in shifting green shadows through the bright leaves. I stop and lean against the low branch of one old tree, my breath coming in ragged sighs, then hitch up the skirt of my dress and climb the tree to a cleft where two branches meet and the leaves are thick around me. I sit with my legs dangling, my shins scraped, one knee bleeding a little, my arms wrapped around the tree’s trunk, and weep the way girls do in movies when their hearts are breaking.

  I’m not sure how much time has passed when I hear Gabriel call my name. I consider climbing higher into the branches and out of sight, but before I can move, he appears at the base of the tree, carrying my shoes in one hand.

  “Joy, what the hell?” He peers up through the branches at me, scowling. “Why are you causing such a scene? You’re acting like—You’re crying?” Gabe has never seen me cry before. “Are you okay?”

  I press my face against the tree as if it could save me and whisper no, no, no into the rough dusty bark.

  “Red, what’s wrong?” Gabe puts my shoes down and moves closer.

  “I don’t know.” It comes out in a sob. I really don’t know.

  “Can I come up?” Gabe puts his hands on the low branches.

  “No.” My voice trembles. “No, I’m coming down. I’m sorry.” I shift off my branch and lower myself toward him. When I’m close enough, he reaches for my waist and lifts me down, sets me on the ground. “I’m sorry,” I tell him again.

  “Hey, you’re the apple of my eye.” He brushes twigs from my hair. “We’ll get to the root of the problem. You just can’t see the forest for the trees. Maybe we just need to branch out a little, turn over a new leaf.”

  I laugh, and open my mouth, hoping some rational explanation will emerge. Instead, I begin to cry again. He puts his arms around me, and I sob into his shoulder.

  “Don’t leave me,” I hear myself plead, over and over again, hardly aware that I am the one saying it. “Don’t ever leave me. Promise you won’t ever leave me.”

  Friday, July 13, 200—

  ON THE NIGHT BEFORE my thirtieth birthday my family holds a dinner in my honor at my mother’s apartment uptown. Mom and Bachelor Number Three, Charlotte and Burke, James and Charles, Josh and Ruth—we haven’t been here all together for a long time, and the collective presence of my family has an alchemical effect on the familiar rooms. The atmosphere seems dense with memory—though maybe it’s just the inadequacy of the ancient air-conditioning. We gather in the dining room, which smells faintly of dust and disuse. The walls are still covered with the ill-advised wallpaper that my mother applied during her post-second-divorce decorating frenzy. We sit in the same chairs in which I’ve been seated for meals since my legs were too short to reach the ground, around the same long dining table at which I did my homework, ate two dozen Thanksgiving dinners, listened as my parents informed me and my brothers of their plans to divorce.

  Everyone is in high, manic spirits. It’s not the usual forced gaiety of family gatherings, but the near-hysteria of overstimulated children. Josh and Ruth have just returned from their honeymoon, a safari at some luxury eco-resort in South Africa. They’re tan, chipper, and alight with the self-satisfied nuclear-fusion glow of well-matched codependents. Burke and Charlotte hold hands under the table. Charles and James, now apparently inseparable, have attended commitment ceremonies for ex-boyfriends two weekends in a row, and make use of the first-person plural as often as possible. After dinner, my mother and the fiancé, who are getting married next weekend, burst from the kitchen wearing party hats and giggling, and sing me the birthday song performed with Motown choreography. Ruth brings out a birthday cake with what looks like the full thirty candles, and everyone claps.

  After we are all settled with coffee and cake, Josh pulls out several fat envelopes of pictures from their wedding. There seem to be hundreds of photos, and I have stopped paying attention when one stops me cold: a black-and-white photograph of Ora and Gabe dancing together. He seems to be holding her very close. She looks so small, her head tilting back to look up at him with a come-hither smile (though he’s already as hither as one can come).

  “When was this one taken?” I pass Gabe the offending article.

  “Oh,” he says, after an unacceptably long pause. “It must have been when you were saying good-bye to Abby and Richard and the kids.” He hands it to James, who gives me a look behind Gabe’s shoulder, shakes his head at me, and tucks the photo under the cushion of his chair.

  “These are just lovely,” my mother sa
ys. “There are some adorable shots of you kids.”

  “There are,” Ruth tells her. “Gabe, did you see that one of you dancing with…”

  “I am inspired!” James shouts, all joviality. “Charles and I may just have to elope.”

  Charles blushes and grins. My mother beams.

  “Don’t you two dare elope.” She shakes her finger at them. “I will not be deprived of the pleasure of seeing my firstborn son tie the knot. It’s a mother’s privilege. A reward for all that I suffered bringing you up, you rotten boy.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what she’s talking about,” James declares. “I was a perfect angel. I never caused her a moment of trouble.”

  Josh chokes theatrically on his dessert. Charles raises an eyebrow.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” James says. “You can pick out my wedding dress. And you can give me away.”

  “Isn’t he a good boy?” my mother says to Bachelor Number Three. “Now, if only Joy would let Gabriel make an honest woman of her, I could die happy.”

  “Mom, please.” I hide my face in my coffee cup. “It’s my birthday. Please.”

  “She may already be too honest for her own good, Claire,” Gabe tells my mother.

  “Gabriel, you are a darling,” my mother answers. “You’d better marry him, Joy, or some other girl will snap him right up. You’ll lose him.”

  “I could lose him just as easily, married or not.” I’m trying to keep my voice light. I can’t look at Gabe.

  “Don’t be naive, Joy.” My mother laughs. “Marriage changes things. That commitment matters.”

  “Right.” I set my cup down hard. “It mattered so much for all your clients. And for you and Dad. And for you and Chet. I’m sure it’s really going to work out well for you this time, too. Good thinking, Mom.”

  A silence slams around the table.

  “Joy,” Josh says. I turn to James for help. He looks away. Bachelor Number Three puts his hand on my mother’s shoulder. I wait for Gabe’s touch, but it doesn’t come.

  “It did work out, Joy,” my mother says at last. Her voice is trembling, but her gaze is level. “Not forever, but for a while it did work out. And I truly believe the marriage mattered—it matters to me. It does make a difference. It changes things. Why would I get married again if I didn’t believe—” She breaks off and gets to her feet. Her napkin clings for a moment to the place that had been her lap, then slides to the floor. “You are a nasty, judgmental, narrow-minded child, and I am ashamed of you.” She turns and half-runs toward the master bedroom at the rear of the apartment, where, as I know from long experience, she will fling herself down on the bed and weep. I hear the sharp tap of her footsteps fading away down the hall.

  “Joy. I think you should go,” Josh says. His voice is soft with fury.

  No one looks at me. Before I can think to protest, Gabe has pushed his chair back and risen.

  “Come on, Joy. Josh is right. Please give our apologies to Claire for leaving without saying good-bye.” Gabe offers Bachelor Number Three his hand, then walks away without looking back.

  “It’s okay, Joy,” James tells me. “I’ll call you.”

  I raise my hands helplessly to my family—a surrender, I give up, I am disarmed—and follow Gabe’s swiftly retreating back to the door.

  IN THE TAXI DOWNTOWN, Gabe sits as far away from me as he possibly can, looking out the window. After twenty blocks of silence, I put my hand on his shoulder, and he shakes it off.

  “You’re angry?”

  “I am very angry. You were unspeakably, unconscionably rude to your whole family.” Gabe is still looking out the window. “And I’m beginning to think your mother is right.”

  “That marriage is a necessary evil?” I try to laugh.

  “That you are judgmental and narrow-minded.”

  “What?” I feel as though the wind has been knocked out of me. “Because I don’t want to get married?”

  “No, Joy. Because you are unwilling to understand why anyone else would want to get married.”

  “That’s not fair. I do understand. I understand very well, and I think they’re wrong.”

  “That’s not really your call, is it?” Gabe turns from the window and looks at me. “You have your own reasons for not wanting to get married. I thought you were reconsidering, but apparently I was wrong.” He sighs. “Look. Obviously you’re at liberty to be guided by your own beliefs. But it’s not your place to impose them on the rest of the world.”

  “Now wait. Wait.” I take a slow breath and try to steady my voice. “What do you mean, my beliefs? I thought we were in this together. I thought we were in agreement about marriage being pointless and problematic and just a bad idea all around.”

  “I don’t think I ever said that, Joy. I’d never personally seen the point of it—for me. That’s all. I wouldn’t presume to make decisions about it for anyone else. And I certainly wouldn’t throw temper tantrums and abuse people just because they disagreed with me. That’s not what ideals are for.” He opens the door of the taxi, which has stopped in front of our building, climbs out, pushes money through the front window to the driver, and heads for our front door. I stare after him, and consider directing the car to Henry’s place, so I can throw myself on her doorstep, or to Pantheon so I can throw myself on Luke’s mercy, or to the West Side piers, so I can throw myself into the river. Instead, I climb out, close the door, watch the taxi drive away, and from the curb look up at our windows, where the lights have just gone on. Whither thou goest, I think to myself. I’m losing you, I think to myself. I don’t have my keys, I think to myself, and I ring our buzzer.

  “Who is it?” Gabe’s voice, metallic and thin, comes through the intercom.

  “It’s me. I don’t have my keys.”

  “Is that Joy?”

  “Please buzz me up.”

  “Joy Silverman?”

  “Gabe, come on.”

  “The Joy Silverman I used to know and love, or the new take-no-prisoners Joy Silverman?”

  “Let me in.”

  “I can’t open the door to just any stranger on the street. Is this the Joy who is funny and smart and principled but open-minded? Or the one who misplaced her sense of humor somewhere between here and the Bloomingdale’s bridal registry counter?”

  “This is the Joy who is getting cold and impatient on the doorstep. Buzz me in.”

  “Sorry. Wrong apartment.” The intercom crackles and goes dead. I stare at it blankly. I lean my head against the front door for what seems like a long time and think about crying. I am suddenly very, very tired.

  I press the buzzer.

  “Who is it?”

  “This is the Joy who wants to apologize for having been a pain in the ass.”

  “Who?”

  “The Joy who will be on her very best behavior for the rest of the decade.”

  Silence.

  “For the rest of the century.”

  More silence. He drives a hard bargain, this man.

  “The one who promises to attend every wedding for the rest of the summer with an open mind.”

  Still more silence.

  “The one who believes in you more than anything else she believes in.” There is no answer. “Gabe? Are you there?”

  “Hey, Red?”

  “Yes?”

  The intercom crackles.

  “Will you marry me?”

  I burst into tears. The door buzzes open.

  Saturday, July 14, 200—

  AFTER BREAKFAST IN BED and stern encouragement from Gabe, I lock myself in the study with the phone and, feeling equal parts irritation and terror, dial my mother’s phone number. She answers with the famous telephone voice—light, fruity, fluting—that resembles her natural speaking voice not even remotely.

  “Hi, Mom. It’s me.”

  “Oh. Joy.”

  I can picture her flipping through the pages of the Neurotic’s Manual of Retribution and Guilt.

  “I really can’t talk righ
t now. I’m quite busy. I must run.”

  “Mom, Mom, please don’t hang up. I’m calling to apologize.”

  “Oh, Joy. Never mind.” She lets out a slow, weary sigh. “It’s done. Let’s just forget about it.”

  I mentally take my hat off to her: a bold selection of the brave martyr role.

  “Mom, no. I owe you an apology. I was very rude to you, and I was wrong to say what I did. I’m so sorry.”

  “All right, Joy.” Her voice, though warmer now, still thrums with that wounded-but-resigned tone. “Your apology is accepted.”

  “Thank you, Mom. I appreciate that.” I wait. I know I’m not getting off this easily.

  “Yes, well. Don’t worry about me.” She shifts to a brisk, businesslike tone. “But you positively shocked Ruth. And you made Howie feel just terrible. He’s the one you should really apologize to.” Howie is Bachelor Number Three.

  “I know, Mom. I’m sorry. I will.” Ah, the proxy guilt trip. Always effective, but for my mother it’s too mild to be anything but a feint. I brace myself for the real attack.

  “You were awfully touchy last night, you know. I know birthdays can be stressful, especially at your age. But honestly, Joy, I don’t understand how such a logical girl as you can still be so unreasonable about marriage. It’s not like joining a religious cult. It’s just marriage. You and Gabe are practically married already.”