“Well, you’ll never have to worry,” I said. “Ever since you and I met, I haven’t come across anyone else who interests me in the least. I’ve only wanted you.”
We kissed, love-filled 4th-of-July-fireworks kisses all over again.
CHAPTER 19
“Being frustrated is disagreeable, but the real disasters of life begin when you get what you want.”
—Irving Kristol
“Hello. Scheduling.” I answered my phone, finding Glenn on the other end. Ever since the Deidre incident, he began calling me at work just to check in or say hello, making me feel wanted and cared for.
“Dinner tonight?” he asked.
“You’re taking me out?”
“Sure thing.”
“I’ll be home about five-thirty. I have to pick Tim up from the bar on the way home.”
“The bar?”
“Thanksgiving Eve. The hourlies knock off at lunchtime and go to the bar. Tim gave me his car and told me to pick him up when I get off work.”
“Oh.” Glenn laughed. “Must be nice.”
“So, pick me up at my place, say, quarter to six?”
“Will do. Love you.”
“I love you too.”
* * *
“Thothse guys wanted to know who the priddy gurl who is picking me up wuz.” Tim slurred while he spoke.
“I’ll drive home tonight, Tim.”
“Sure. You can be my chauffer.” Tim slunk into the front passenger seat. “Home Janes,” he said, rolling with drunken laughter.
“Buckle up,” I said.
“You thinks I needs restrainment?”
“Yes. And leave that glass here too,” I said, grabbing his drink.
“Aww shucks. No juice for the ride home?”
“I think you’re juiced enough.”
“You know, thothse guys are right. You’re not too bad to be looking at. When’s that fiancé of yours going to ask you to marry ‘em?”
“He’s not my fiancé,” I said, wondering when he might be since we had browsed engagement rings—just looking, just in case, of course.
“He’s not?” Tim said, shocked. “Well if you wasn’t already engaged, I’d engage ya.”
“I think your wife might have a problem with that.”
“Naw, she wouldn’t mine,” Tim said, then passed out against the glass.
* * *
Glenn took me for all-you-can-eat crab at a fancy restaurant with cloth napkins and fourteen forks, stuffing ourselves to the gills.
“I need to ask you something,” Glenn said, fumbling with his inner jacket pocket.
“What’s that?” I cracked a claw, pulled out the meat.
“I was wondering if you’d marry me,” he said, holding open a velvet box. He’d already pulled the ring out, poised to slip it onto my finger.
“That’s the ring we looked at two weeks ago!” My heart beat seventy-two miles an hour. “Yes,” I said, unable to say anything else, as the enormity of what had just happened seeped in. Perseverance paid off. I hadn’t spun my wheels for four years and eleven months for naught.
He had trouble easing the ring onto my finger.
“Here, I’ll do it,” I said, sliding the sparkling diamonds over my knuckle, admiring the brilliant, multifaceted stones. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Glenn said as the waiter arrived bearing champagne. “A toast.” Glenn raised his glass. “To us.” We chimed glasses, then drank.
“When did you decide to marry me?” I asked, after my second, large sip.
“When I was on spring break.”
“Way back then? What took you so long?”
“No rush,” Glenn said, happy with himself that he’d finally proposed.
“But I spent all that time wondering why you didn’t want to marry me if you loved me. It’s been hard.” I took another swallow of bubbly, half emptying my glass.
“I know, but sometimes you just have to get through point A to get to point B, and you helped me get there.” Happiness danced all over Glenn’s words, like he’d been freed. “I love you so much,” he said. I felt important.
We toasted us again, emptying our glasses, gazing into each other’s eyes.
“You know what?” I said, giggling. “I don’t feel too good.”
“Why not?”
“I think it’s the champagne. I felt fine before we had champagne.”
“I planned a romantic stroll under the crisp starry sky. Will that make you feel better?” Glenn asked, attempting charm.
“No.” My cheeks flushed hot. I clutched my stomach.
“You just want to go home?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t feel good.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t plan to ruin our engagement night.” Glenn half teased.
We discovered that four inches of snow had fallen during dinner, an unexpected surprise—like the night we came out of Dances with Wolves only to find everything covered with six inches of the fluffy white stuff. It had been one of our most romantic moments, strolling to the car under soft, cold flakes wafting down, hearing only snow-muffled footfalls. Glenn had twirled me around and kissed me that day, snow cooling our lips, one of the other times he’d said ‘I love you.’ He had opened my car door, leaving me to shiver myself warm inside while he cleared the windows.
On our engagement night, however, my heaving punctuated the snow-muffled footfalls and violated the pristine snow. Glenn didn’t kiss me that day, not on the lips anyway.
“You okay to come over?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
We picked up my car and he followed me to his place. We snuggled on the couch where I fell asleep, not according to his engagement-night-celebration plan. I barely heard him say, “Way to start our new life.” Then he turned out the light.
* * *
Monday morning, Tim’s car was parked in my driveway, waiting for me to come out of the house, when I pulled in at 5:35 a.m. He was on time, as always.
“Hang on a sec,” I said, stopping by his car window. I rushed into the house to change clothes. Two minutes later I ran out in bare feet and slammed his car door shut, knee-high nylons, shoes and brush in hand. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You always get home this late? Or . . . early?” he asked. Smoke puffed from his mouth. I pulled on the stockings. Embarrassment set in. “Your windows are always cleared and there’s tracks in your drive whenever it snows last night.” I wished he hadn’t been so observant.
“Yeah.” There was no denying the truth. I brushed out my hair. Tim drove.
“I got engaged last weekend.”
“I thought you was already engaged.”
“No.”
“Oh,” he said. We rode in silence a few more miles.
“I got sick to my stomach after he asked me to marry him. I think it was the champagne.”
“Well, get used to it; that’s what marriage is like. It’s not all rosy. You know, in sickness and in health . . .”
I blew Tim off, him not taking any stock in one glass of champagne making me ill. I’d only been sick to my stomach one other time since moving to St. Louis, the time Glenn made me choke down slippery Jell-o shots at a frat party, their slimy texture teasing my hurl reflex. But it was later, when the vodka caught up with me, that I saw them again.
* * *
My first official wedding preparation, aside from scouring the library’s every bridal magazine, was selecting a maid of honor. To my great disappointment, Megan turned me down.
“I’m so sorry. I just can’t. I’m broke,” she said. I understood. “But congratulations. It’s about time he proposed.” She became quiet for a few seconds. “You have the patience of a saint.”
Something possessed me, but I didn’t feel it was saintly patience.
Roberta, a friend from college, filled in. Together we went to a downtown bridal boutique, parking near the century-old building. Roberta conquered a mound of mushy snow, making her way to feed the parking meter.
City-traffic fumes along with beeping horns and impatient roaring and revving engines filled the freezing air. My toes turned numb after I submerged them in an oily slush-water-filled pothole while dodging cars on Locust Street.
“Smells old in here,” whispered Roberta, fanning her face. I pinched my nose in agreement.
Self-consciously bare foot, I browsed through the mid-range dresses. The lower-end gowns were too Spartan, the higher-end, too Victorian, full of overdone lace.
“Look at this one,” I said, pulling out a happy compromise.
“It’s you.” Roberta said. We both knew trying it on was just a formality. She and the saleswoman helped me into the white princess dress with flowing train. We admired the tasteful, decorative lace accents while I viewed it in mirrors on all sides. “It’s perfect,” I said. The gown shopping was done.
Happy to have made the sale, the sales clerk seemed equally happy to have us leave, as we had stayed ten minutes past closing time. We returned to where the car was supposed to be.
“Didn’t we park here?” I asked Roberta, trying to recall the spot in the near dark.
“I thought so,” she said, puzzled. After a moment of head scratching, Roberta said, “Look at this,” then proceeded to read the sign covered in parking-restriction particulars that neither one of us had noticed. My car had been towed. Wearing damp socks and cold, wet shoes, I trudged through more slush to a nearby McDonald’s with a pay phone.
“Honey? Sweetie of mine,” I said, buttering Glenn up. “I have good news and bad news.”
“Give me the good news,” he said.
“I found a dress.”
“What’s it look like?”
“I can’t tell you, but it’s pretty.” It was the only sole decision about the wedding I was able to make. Glenn, a staunch believer that the wedding was just as much his day as mine, saw to it that he had as much or more input as I did into every decision from the invitation font and color to the gifts I gave my bridesmaids.
A short silence followed, and then he asked, “And the bad news?”
“Would you mind coming to pick us up? They towed my car.”
“You parked in a no parking zone?”
“We didn’t know,” I whined, apologetically.
“Where are you?”
“At McDonald’s. Downtown,” I said, knowing it was the only one. We’d driven by it a hundred times.
“What’s the address?”
“I don’t know,” I said, getting annoyed, “It’s on . . . just a second.”
“Roberta,” I whispered loudly, getting her attention, “where are we?”
“Near Washington and 11th.”
I gave Glenn the best directions I could, then he said, “So, where’s your car?”
“I don’t know . . .” I said, frazzled. “At the impound. We’ll have to get it tomorrow. They’re closed.”
To Glenn’s great frustration, we drove around with no clear direction, looking for the impound lot the next morning. When we got there, I found that between getting my car out of hock and paying the parking ticket, my dress had cost me much more than I bargained for. I showed Glenn the impound charges.
“You wanna split this with me?” I asked Glenn, hoping for a wellspring of generosity.
“No. It’s your ticket,” he said.
* * *
“I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty,” I told Glenn’s mother, Nicole. “We should be able to get everything we need for the flowers at Michaels.” And we did. Glenn’s mother helped me pick out just the right artificial roses, carnations, daisies, lilies, greens, floral tape, and ribbons to create the entire bridal party’s floral ensemble.
“These would be cute in my bouquet,” I said, holding up a small fake bird and a bumble bee. Right after I spoke, I wondered if my cute idea appealed to Mrs. Conroy’s more traditional tastes.
“That would be unique,” she said, leaving me unsure if her answer was agreement.
“So, what’s it like being married forty years?” I asked while tossing the bird and bee into the cart.
“Not much different. One day at a time.”
Not the answer I had expected, but I didn’t know what I was expecting. Something more like, ‘Great, I’d say I do to Russell again if I had to do it over,’ words delivered with a reflective, contented smile that contained thousands of happy memories of their life together.
“Mmm,” I said, feigning understanding, hiding my surprise.
“You never know what life’s going to throw your way,” she said, explaining reality.
“Well, that’s what the for richer, poorer, better and worse stuff is for, isn’t it?”
“I guess so,” Mrs. Conroy said as she examined matching wax tapers. “Are you planning a unity candle?”
* * *
Glenn sat and watched his mother and me assemble the flowers the next weekend at her dining room table. “You need me to cut that?” he asked, watching me struggle with the wire cutters.
“Please.” I handed him a long-stemmed rose.
“You picked nice flowers,” he said just as the phone rang. His agreement delighted me; I didn’t have to return anything. I wondered what happened to the stereotypical groom who just showed up at the wedding, his bride making all the arrangements. Not that I wanted one of those, I just didn’t want an opinionated fiancé who cared about everything in excruciating detail.
Glenn set the flower down, hoisting the ringing phone to his ear. “Hello,” Glenn answered, then lipped to his mom, “It’s not for you.”
We listened in on his end of the conversation. “What burned? When? Will it be repaired in time for the wedding?” Mrs. Conroy and I looked at each other with knowing dread. My scalp tingled.
“What burned?” I poked Glenn in the arm. He shooed me away, intent on listening to more details, then hung up.
“Our church burned down,” he said. “Electrical fire. Total loss.”
It wasn’t exactly our church. It was his parents’ church that we had joined because of its stunning interior, an impeccable venue for our wedding plans, the backdrop, perfect for pictures. I was okay with joining the church only because it hadn’t yet taken the final steps to becoming an extreme right, ultraconservative establishment, but it was still at the outer limits of my comfort zone. Glenn didn’t care. The building looked good.
“What are we going to do?” I half thought we had jinxed the building, and felt guilty about picking it because of its looks.
“Let’s go up there.” Glenn had already put on his coat.
“We’re doing flowers,” I said, not wanting to stop mid-project.
“Flowers can wait. Come on.”
Glenn’s mother shrugged. I wondered what us running off to look at the ruins would accomplish, but I went.
When we arrived at the church, several firemen remained, mopping things up. I poked around on the fringe and found a charred hymnal, still intact on the inside.
“Keep it,” Glenn said. “Souvenir.”
I tucked the book under my arm then said, “We could rent a tent.”
“I’m not getting married in a tent. How ugly would that be?”
“It wouldn’t be so bad. We could get a few more flowers, decorate the sides, maybe get a banner,” I said, seeing the possibilities.
“No. I’d rather just have it outside. No tent.” He sounded definite. He killed the best idea I had, an idea I was fond of.
“It’ll be too hot, everyone will roast,” I said, knowing a St. Louis August was on par with an oversized vegetable steamer. “And if they don’t roast, it might rain.”
Eloping began to sound like a viable option, much less hassle, but I didn’t entertain the thought for long. I already had my dress, and I wanted my dad to walk me down the aisle, something he had not done for Karla. She just turned up one day, showing off her wedding ring, then made him a grandfather five months later.
“It won’t rain. I don’t care if they roast. It’s our wedding, and we want it to
look good.” His tone softened, then he said, “I want you to have some great pictures to look back on when we’re old, not pictures in a stupid tent.”
I wasn’t comfortable with it, but he sounded sincere. He wanted it to be a great day for us. I was torn between making it comfortable for our guests and giving him the satisfaction of ensuring great pictures for me.
Calming the situation, I said, “Why don’t we plan for the wedding outdoors, but have a tent ready in case it rains?” I also knew everyone could seek cover from the sun if it got too hot, but I didn’t mention it.
“Fine, but it’s an extra expense.” He dropped it at that, never acknowledging that rain could ruin the pictures.
* * *
My father contributed a fixed amount for the wedding. Mother would not agree to anything until she spoke to him first, finding out what he was willing to give. She was quick to point out that they hadn’t spent near that much for Karla’s wedding.
“I can’t give you anything, then,” she said when she found out that our reception plans included alcohol.
“It’s our wedding,” Glenn said to her, raising his voice.
“It’s my money, and I’m the mother,” she huffed back, agitated that she had been challenged.
Glenn sat back down on the couch, pissed off, and pouted. “You talk to her,” he said, as if his fundamental rights were being trampled.
I decided to side with Glenn, the person I’d have to spend my life with, rather than the one who would pay the bill, even though the issue was a non-issue to me.
“Mother, shouldn’t we be able to have the kind of reception that we want? We’re the ones getting married here, not you,” I argued. “Why does everyone have to do things your way?”
“I won’t support a drunken rock ‘n’ roll bash,” she said, digging her judgmental heels in.
“It’s a wedding reception, a place to celebrate and have fun, not a booze fest.” I crossed my arms, sure the lead balloon I had just floated would fall back on me.
“If you have alcohol at your wedding,” she said, tearing up, “then I can’t go.” Mother continued to dab her eyes and wipe her nose, blubbering over her self-imposed rules until there were just shreds of her tissue left. She used it three times as long as a normal person, then tucked it into her pocket for one more use.
Love, Carry My Bags Page 27