by Darcy Cosper
“So,” I ask Gabe without looking at him, “what’s this party of Ora’s you’re going to?”
“A launch for the paperback of her novel, I guess. She hired me to be party photographer.”
I sneak a glance at Henry, who raises an eyebrow.
“May I come with you?” I ask. “To the party?”
“Joy, you wouldn’t have any fun. I’ll be working.” Gabe shades his eyes with his hand and looks up toward the house. “I see some commotion up there. Ceremony should be starting soon. I’m just going to run down to the water and rinse my hands, okay?” He pats my shoulder and walks away.
“So.” Henry squints up at me. “Did you ever get the scoop on that situation?”
“No. I thought it had become a nonissue.”
“What situation?” Delia says.
“Nothing.” I drop down onto the blanket beside them.
“The wildebeest you were slobbering over five seconds ago, beloved?” Henry glares at Delia. “She’s the one Joy tried to beat up last month. With the hots for Gabe.”
“Hank, you’re not a best friend, you’re a human satellite dish. Who else did you tell?”
“Ora?” Delia says at the same time. “She does boys?”
“She’ll do any biped in range. If she’s that discriminating, even. You never even asked him about it?” Henry shakes her head at me.
“No, I did not. Please shut up now—he’s coming back.”
“You’re a real piece of work, Silverman.”
“Thank you so much, Henrietta. You’re too kind.” I take scrupulously careful note of the instructions on the back of the sunscreen bottle as Gabe sits down beside me. A crowd of children in yellow and orange starts down the aisle, blowing on kazoos and banging tambourines.
THE CEREMONY is interminable. Step-relatives and friends, yoga instructors and voice coaches and Method acting teachers rise to read epic free-verse poems composed exclusively for the occasion, to sing songs accompanied by ukulele, recite ancient Sanskrit blessings, lead the guests in a creative visualization to ensure the couple’s happy future. At one point Henry nods off and begins snoring. By the time the bride and groom finally take their vows and are pronounced husband and wife, the sun has begun to set.
“And now,” Melody shouts to the guests, raising her arms. “Take up your rubber duckies! We’re going to send them out to have an adventure at sea, where they’ll always be together!”
We struggle to our feet along with the rest of the crowd, and take our ducks down to the water’s edge. Henry and Delia bet on whose duck will go farthest, and hurl them into the bay. Gabe and I follow suit.
“Bon voyage, ducks!” Henry yells. “Good luck and Godspeed!”
Beside us, the little boy we frightened earlier is clutching his duck and crying hysterically as his mother attempts to convince him he should set it free and send it seaward.
“No, no, no!” he shrieks, as she tries to pry it from his fingers. “Mine, mine, mine!”
I know how he feels. I turn and follow Gabe up the beach.
Sunday, August 5, 200—
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, Henry comes by the apartment to fetch me for a second fitting session with her scary Russian dressmaker. She announces herself by leaning on the buzzer several times in rapid succession and shouting up from the street. When I put my head out the kitchen window to pacify her, she stomps out onto the sidewalk and waves.
“Hurry the fuck up,” she yells. “We’re running late.”
“Nice to see you, too, Hank. Down in a sec.” I close the window and skulk through the living room. Laid out on the couch with the dog asleep on his feet, Gabe looks at me over the edge of the New York Times.
“We just got back,” he says.
“And now I’m going out again.”
“Yikes. All right, then.” He cowers behind the paper. I ignore him. “When’ll you be back?”
“Don’t know. Late, maybe. Girls’ Night.” I pluck sunglasses and keys from the coffee table, and bang the door closed behind me.
“Don’t slam!” Gabe yells after me. I skip down the steps two at a time and gallop out to meet Henry, who grabs my hand and drags me toward Seventh Avenue, waving frantically for a taxi. Not until she has flagged one down, installed us in the back seat, and arranged it so that we are heading to the East Side at a highly illegal speed, does she turn to me and smile. She’s wearing a battered gray tank top emblazoned with the words Beer: It’s What’s for Breakfast.
“Hi, honey. How was your weekend? How was the wedding?”
“Just great.” I shove my sunglasses on and hunch as far down in the seat as I can. “Joan picked another fight with Bix, and then got so drunk she couldn’t stand up and I had to baby-sit her. Before dinner I overheard the best man telling the groom that if it didn’t work out they could always get divorced. And a world music band played the reception. It was just really marvelous. Thanks for asking.”
“Nice.” Henry smirks. “Who got hitched?”
“Friend from college. Maybe you remember him—Tom Beggs? He was a junior when we were freshmen. Playwright. Drama department.”
“The whole fucking school was a drama department.” Henry makes a face.
“He and the bride met at a writers’ colony and left their respective spouses for each other. The ex-wife and the new wife will be going into labor just weeks apart.”
“Really nice. Very romantic.” The cab takes a sharp turn and Henry ends up lying in my lap. “When’d you get back?” She looks up at me.
“Couple of hours ago. Please get off before I scream.”
“Oopsie. Here we are.” Henry shoves a wad of crumpled bills into the driver’s hands, and crawls over me and out the door. “Want to tell me why you’re such a big bundle of sweetness and light today?” She offers me her hand and helps me out of the cab onto the dirty street.
“I think I’ve provided ample justification.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t answered the question. I can always tell when you’re holding out on me, Jo.” She rings the dressmaker’s buzzer. I sigh and kick at a fire hydrant.
“Ora. Again. She was at the wedding.” The door opens, and the dressmaker’s assistant waves us in.
“Small white world,” Henry says, as we stumble through the dark lobby and into the main shop area.
“She’s stalking Gabe. She has spies. She’s getting information from the dark forces.”
“You are late.” Veruka stalks toward us, slashing at the air with her cigarette. “Please to take off your clothing immediately.”
“Hi, Veruka. Sorry we’re late. How’s your summer going?” Henry takes off her shirt and begins to unbutton her jeans.
“You have gained weight,” Veruka tells Henry. “Your bosoms are bigger. And you have lost.” She stabs her cigarette in my direction. “Go, go. Go to dressing room.” She jabs her cigarette out in a coffee cup. Henry and I move to the curtained cubicles at the other end of the room.
“So what happened with Little Miss Mitelman?” Henry says through the partition.
“Nothing. The usual. She kept slinking around. Sharpened her claws on me, flirted with Gabe until I thought I was going to be sick.”
“You still haven’t talked about it with him, then.”
“No.”
“And you’re not going to?”
“Not a chance.”
“You’re insane.” Henry sticks her head through the curtains of my cubicle. “Hey. You have lost weight. I’m taking you out for milkshakes when we’re done. I’m up to four a day.” Henry looks down admiringly at herself. “My ass is huge, but my tits are fantastic. What? Don’t look at me like that. When I get depressed, I eat.”
I step out of the dressing room. The assistant, Magdalena, hands us each a dress made of pale muslin, loosely stitched and pinned together.
“Huh.” Henry holds hers at arms’ length. “This looks like something by that freako German designer Joan’s all into.”
“They’re d
ress patterns,” Magdalena tells her. “So we don’t waste expensive fabric. We’ll adjust for size and cut the final dresses off these.” She swishes away.
“So, since when are you depressed?” I step back into my cubicle and struggle into my dress.
“Oh, you know,” Henry says airily. “Since Delia decided she wasn’t sure if she wanted to go through with this wedding.”
“What?” I lurch around to her cubicle and part the curtains. “What are you talking about?”
Half in and half out of her dress, Henry looks down at me, grins maniacally, and bursts into tears.
“Out, out, out,” Veruka barks. “We have very little time before next client arrives.”
I open my mouth to retort, but Henry pushes past me and goes to stand before Veruka, sniffling. I follow her.
“Hank, when did this happen? What’s going on?” I raise my arms as Magdalena tugs at my dress’s bodice. Veruka shakes her head and clicks her tongue as she inspects the strained fabric over Henry’s hindquarters.
“Started about a month ago, I guess.” Henry heaves a sigh and wipes her nose on her bare arm. “Delia got a crush on this extreme dyke we met at a dinner party, who started filling her head with all kinds of crap about how marriage is an oppressive patriarchal fascist fuck tradition and she’s betraying lesbians worldwide by participating in it. It’s all so circa 1970 I can’t believe it. Ow! Watch the fucking pins.” She glares at Veruka.
“Stop this crazy waving around and you will not be hurt.” Veruka yanks at the fabric of Henry’s dress.
“Then Dee started getting really weird,” Henry continues, “got really moody, developed a total wandering eye. You saw her at Melody’s wedding, practically hemorrhaging hormones on Ora. And it was right after that when she told me she was having second thoughts about our wedding.”
“She wants to break up?” I feel ill.
“Nah, not break up.” Henry shrugs. “She just isn’t sure if she wants to do the wedding thing. I don’t know what’s going on with her. Can we actually not talk about this right now this exact second?” Her eyes fill with tears.
“Okay, girls, we are done.” Veruka stands back and examines us, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Please to not add any more weight, my dear. Easier to take in than to let out.”
“There’s a deeper lesson in that, I’m sure,” Henry says, stomping toward the dressing room, “but I’m too goddamn fat to know what it is.” She disappears behind the curtain. Veruka puts a hand on my shoulder, and her smoke wafts into my eyes.
“Do not worry too much about your pretty friend,” she says. “It will all work out. I know. Ah, and only look. I see you have become engaged, also. Very nice ring. Perhaps when you return for dress, we discuss your plan for wedding gown.”
“Sure. Thanks.” I walk back to my cubicle. As I take off the flimsy cotton dress, wary of the pins, I hear Henry rummaging around in her bag. Something comes flying over the partition and lands on my head.
“Present for you.” Henry’s voice is rough with tears. “I got it last time I went home, and I keep forgetting about it.” It’s a dark red T-shirt printed with black letters that read My Best Friend Went to Hell and All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt. I put it on, collect my things, and stand in front of her cubicle.
“Hank. Thank you. I’ll treasure it forever.”
“Just don’t let Gabe borrow it,” Henry tells me as we wave to Veruka and make our way out. “Because you know he’ll never give it back.”
“Milkshake.” I hold the door to the street open.
“Tequila shots.” She puts an arm around me. “I’m buying.”
PANTHEON IS EMPTY when we arrive. The maître d’ waves at us from across the room.
“Luke’s not on yet,” she calls, “but he’ll be here soon.”
“Thank god for that,” the bartender says as we sit down.
“Hi, there.” Henry leans her elbows on the bar. “Give me a shot of your highest-octane tequila. With a tequila back. And the same for the lady, please.”
“One shot for the lady.” I wave at the bartender. “Water back.”
Henry punches my arm. The bartender pours the shots, and places them in front of us. Henry raises a glass to me, tosses it back, and slams it down on the bar.
“Okay then,” she winces. “Where was I?”
“Your girlfriend was skirt-chasing and having second thoughts about the wedding.” I sip my tequila. “And you haven’t talked to me about this until now because…?”
“I don’t know.” Henry sighs. “Don’t be mad. For a while I thought I was just jealous and I was embarrassed, I guess, about getting a taste of my own medicine.”
“I know how you feel.” I have an unworthy moment of feeling pleased that Henry’s been humbled, and that I’m not the only one suffering stupid fits of demon possessiveness. It doesn’t last.
“That’s not it, though.” Henry toys with her second shot, dips her fingers into it, and licks them. “Delia can flirt her ass off with all the super-dykes and straight girls in the world, and I don’t give a shit, because I know she’s coming home to me. But, see, I thought I didn’t really care that much about the wedding. It was just an excuse to have a big party and wear a pretty dress and get a lot of presents and have all my friends together in one place. But when Dee said maybe she didn’t want to do it I freaked out, and it took me a while to figure out why.”
“So. Why?” I wait as Henry kicks back the second shot of tequila.
“I still don’t know, exactly,” she says. “Our families, kind of. I mean, they’re supportive and all, but they don’t really get it. I wanted them to see we’re a couple the same way they’re couples. That we’re going to be together and live together and have kids and get old together just like them.”
“You wanted your families to see you’re just like everybody else.”
“Yeah, that’s it. But then I realized, I really wanted to prove to myself that we were just like everybody else. But we’re not.” Henry looks over at me. Tears are racing down her cheeks. “I want to be like everybody else. But I’m not. I could get married twenty times, and I still won’t be. The world is never going to get it, not in this century. I’m tired of them making us different.” She snorts wetly and lets out a choked sob.
“Oh, Henry.” I hand her a cocktail napkin.
“Married.” She sobs. “What a fucking farce. I can’t even get really truly married.”
“Hey, hey.” I lean and put my arms around her, and she buries her face in my neck. “Hen, you know, it’s just a ceremony. You and Dee will be together no matter what. You’re more married than lots of people are. The ceremony’s no big deal.”
“Oh, sure, easy for you to say.” Henry sniffs. “You’re straight. You can take marriage or leave it or get all la-dee-da philosophical about it. Doesn’t fucking matter.
People will still see you and Gabe as a real couple, and me and Delia as freaks of nature.”
“But you know you’re a real couple. Since when do you care about what anyone thinks of you? Why does it matter what anyone thinks about you or your marriage?”
“You tell me, friend.” Henry sits up and blows her nose loudly on a napkin. “If it’s just a ceremony and you don’t care what people think, why do you suppose you’ve made such a fuss about the evils of marriage for all these years?”
“Um.” I stare into my shot glass, sensing a trap. “Is that rhetorical?”
“Why haven’t you addressed this whole Ora thing with Gabriel?”
“Because. I, uh… what’s the connection?” I gape at her.
“Coin,” Henry says. “Two sides of same. Answer the question.”
“Because it’s not appropriate. I have no basis for suspecting him, really. And so what if he did flirt with her? Weren’t you holding forth recently about flirting as a harmless end in itself?”
“Fancy schmancy,” Henry says. “Now, what’s the real story?”
“That is the real story.” I g
lare at her. She glares back. I sigh. “I don’t know, Hank. Of course I want to ask. It’s driving me insane. But I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. And bringing it up with him seems like such a typical, stupid, jealous-woman thing to do. I don’t want to be such a girl about it. I don’t want to act like other people do.”
“My point. Exactly!” Henry slaps the bar.
“What?” I am now genuinely confused.
“Oh, Christ on a crutch.” Henry sighs, and pats my cheek. “I love you, but for such a smart girl, you can be really, deeply fucking dense. Forget it, okay? Never mind.”
“Hank. It’s going to be okay. Really. Delia’s just got pre-wedding jitters. I’ll talk to her if you want.”
“I know. Thanks. Thanks for the shoulder.”
“Yours to dampen any day.”
“Hello, ladies.” Luke ties on his long white apron and lopes to our end of the bar. “Good to see you. We missed you girls last month.”
“Everybody’s been honeymooning,” Henry tells him. “It’s just us tonight, and Joan and Erica. Maud went to visit Tyler’s family in Glasgow, and Miel and Max are still in France or some goddamn place.”
“Say,” Luke says, elaborately casual, “you hear anything from your friend Ora Mitelman?”
I sigh and put my head down on the bar.
“Luke?” Henry lifts her voice sweetly. “If you ever, ever use that name around us again, I will personally detach your testicles, plunge them down your throat, and basket-weave them through every last one of your ribs.”
“Sure,” Luke says. “You bet. I’ll take that as a no.”
Monday, August 13, 200—
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, I arrive at the office late for our Monday business meeting. The staff is already assembled around the conference table, faces interred in their morning cups of coffee.
“Ah, Vern.” Charles looks up from the job book as I push open the front door. “Thank you for joining us. Children, please scootch around and make room for our laggard leader. Yes. Now. Where were we?”