Getting Married

by Theresa Alan

  Will and I catch the subway to the Mont Royal side of town where Maggie lives (she works out of her home).

  I leave Will at a café where he can hang out until my meeting is over and walk down the street to Maggie’s place on my own.

  I knock on her door. A full minute passes, but then the door creaks open and Maggie greets me with a trembling voice like she’s talking directly in front of a whirling fan.

  “Come in, come in,” she says.

  I follow her inside. Maggie is very slender. Her hair is thin and sparse.

  As soon as we enter the living room, it becomes obvious that Maggie has lived through far too many Christmases. Her coffee table, two end tables, entertainment center, and dozens of shelves are burdened with ornate knickknacks. There are garish china dolls in leering reds and oranges and plates with pictures of Scarlett O’Hara, playful puppies, and angels praying. It’s a kitsch nightmare in here.

  Maggie exits the room saying something about getting tea.

  As she makes the tea, I study her house. I count eleven candy dishes and four ashtrays between her two end tables. Eleven candy dishes! All of them empty. There isn’t even room to set a drink down.

  I have to say I’m a little surprised that an artist has a home that’s decorated with such clashing decorations. I stand and walk over to one of the shelves on the wall and study the bric-a-brac. There is no apparent theme. The only commonality is that the objects are cheap and ugly.

  Maybe she’s purposely trying to be kitschy? Maybe it’s one of those modern art things like all-blue paintings that I’m just not cool enough to get?

  “Tea?” she asks.

  “Please. That would be nice, thank you. So Maggie, all these decorations, were they gifts from grandkids? Were they things you found when you were looking for material for your art?”

  She nods. “A little of both, garage sales, things like that.”

  I nod.

  “It’s an eclectic mix, I know. I grew up during the Great Depression in upstate New York.” Maggie speaks slowly and with a quavering voice, but her words are articulate and clear. “Even when it was over, we were poor for many, many years. It makes me feel safe, somehow, having these things around me. Some of them may not be considered very pretty by some people, I know, but somehow I like them anyway. There’s something about them…”

  As soon as she says it, I feel guilty. She lived through the Depression. She feels safe being surrounded by things. There is nothing wrong with that, and I hate myself for being judgmental.

  “Have you always collected things?” I ask.

  “Always.”

  “When did you start making jewelry out of things you found?”

  “About a year and a half ago, I found a tiny chess piece when I was at a café. My granddaughter, Emilyn, loves chess. Christmas was coming and I always have a hard time deciding what to get her. She’s a college student and it’s hard for me to keep up with what kids her age like. I brought the chess piece home and set it on my sewing table, which is really just a junk table. Well, I suppose you could say every table I have is a junk table.” Maggie laughs. She has a wonderful laugh. “On that same table I had a penny that had been flattened on a train track. I liked the way the black chess piece contrasted with the copper penny. On a whim I glued them together along with a tiny sepia-toned picture of my mother, making it into a pin. I was happy with the results, and when I gave it to Emilyn as a present, she went on and on about how much she loved it. She told me I should start making more jewelry, so I did. I had nearly all day to work on making things, so soon I had made more pieces than my grandchildren could wear. Emilyn suggested that we put up a website and try to sell some of the things I made. She said we could get a site up at almost no cost because she would work on it with friends. It would be something for their portfolio. All I had to pay for was the domain name, which hardly cost a dime, so I thought, why not?”

  I love, love, love that this frail woman with a trembly voice knows what the hell a domain name is. I know that if you’re open to change you can learn and grow all your life, but I know so many people over the age of fifty who get so set in their ways, resisting change of any kind that it’s refreshing to hear this little old lady throwing Internet terms out there with ease.

  “Not long after that, Emilyn was in New York, and that’s where the editor from Vogue saw her wearing some of my designs and asked her where she got her jewelry. She told the woman and gave her the web address. A small article about the jewelry appeared a couple months later, and since then, I haven’t been able to make stuff fast enough to keep up with the orders we’re getting.”

  “Wow. That’s a great story. Is running a business new for you or did you ever run another business before?”

  “I’ve never had a job outside being a mother. I raised four kids, four great kids. In my day, women with kids didn’t work outside the home.”

  “Sure, sure. It must have been a big adjustment for you.”

  “It was a little scary at first. My husband bought me a few books on running a small business. He was a professor before he retired, so he didn’t know the first thing about running a business, but he’s been real supportive.”

  “That’s wonderful, Maggie.” Maggie and I sit down on the couch and she pours us each a cup of tea. Her fine bone china teacups don’t match. Mine has a periwinkle blue pattern with gold trim. Hers has delicate pink flowers with pale green leaves.

  I move on to collecting information on the financial health of her business and where she’d like to see it go, that sort of thing. I leave our meeting that afternoon feeling the kind of physical exhaustion I often get after several hours of intense work. I don’t plan on starting on my report with my recommendations to Maggie until Will and I get back to Denver, which leaves Will and me free to enjoy the city.

  Will and I go for a leisurely lunch, then we take an unhurried stroll through Parc Mont-Royal, a large park designed by the same architect of New York’s Central Park. We walk for about an hour when we come upon musicians banging away on bongos in the middle of the park. We sit down in the grass to rest our feet and enjoy the music.

  I smile, enjoying myself thoroughly. It’s a chilly but beautifully sunny day out. As much as I’m having fun, I realize that I’m starving. I go to report this to Will. Instead of saying, “I’m ravenous,” which is what I meant to say, I loudly pronounce, “I’m ravishing!”

  “You are ravishing. And quite full of yourself.”

  It takes a minute for the synapses going from my brain to my tongue to figure out where I went wrong. “I meant to say ravenous, not ravishing, ravenous. I’m hungry, that’s all I was trying to say.”

  “Oh, sure. You’re gloriously beautiful and you know it.”

  “Shut up!” I give him a light slap on the arm and laugh. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  “My ravishing girlfriend!”

  “Stop it! Shut up!” I tickle him and he tickles me back. We lie back on the grass tickling and giggling with each other. I squeal with laughter. I try to stop his tickling hands, but he’s about a million times stronger than I am and he’s got my wrists held tight. I can’t tickle him back. I struggle to free myself from his grip, and we wrestle around on the ground. I realize how much fun I’m having. I realize that I’m actually allowing myself to be silly and have fun.

  It is a simple but wonderful feeling.

  E ventually we get up and continue exploring the park. We walk and walk and walk and barely manage to see a tenth of what the map tells us there is to see, but we’re too tired to continue on. The park offers a tremendous view of the city. You can see McGill University and the Biosphere and everything. It’s a gorgeous view, with the sun reflecting off the cars parked on the street, twinkling like stars.

  That night we have a wonderful dinner at one of the zillion or so restaurants there are to choose from. It’s a romantic meal and I think about how much I love traveling. I almost ask Will what he would like our next t
rip together to be, and then I realize our next trip is going to be our non-honeymoon. Our vacation to Hawaii that was supposed to celebrate our marriage to each other, but will now be nine days of rubbing in the fact that we didn’t get married.

  I opt to keep my mouth shut.

  The next day we go for a walk through Parc-des-Iles, which is where the Grand Prix is held every year. There are several lush parks, an amusement park, a casino, and the famous Biosphere from the 1967 World Expo. The Biosphere is a steel skeleton of a sphere. Inside the 3-D dome is an architecturally intriguing building that serves as a museum dedicated to educating people about environmental issues.

  We walk for hours and get a delicious lunch at a Thai restaurant, then Will and I go back to the bed-and-breakfast we’re staying at to take a nap. The B&B is a charming place with one brick wall, wood floors, and high ceilings. It’s quaint and homey and old-fashioned. The bed is so high off the ground it’s like climbing up onto a cloud.

  We’re both wiped out from all the walking, but as soon as we lie down to nap, instead of sleeping we begin kissing and groping. We make slow, passionate love.

  Afterward, we lie in each other’s arms. I smile as I bury my face into Will’s chest. Things are starting to feel normal again. I feel like we’re starting to heal the rift between us.

  On our last day in Montreal, Will and I go to the modern art museum (the Musée d’Art Contemporain). As we stroll through the museum, there is a group of schoolchildren with their teacher. The teacher asks them a question in French, and the children answer “yes,” which in French is “oui.” It sounds like they are on a museum ride saying “wheeee!” in unison. It is utterly heartwarming. I squeeze Will’s hand and he smiles at me. I look into Will’s beautiful hazel eyes and I wonder for a moment about what a child of ours would look like. Adorable is my guess.

  Chapter 46

  W hen we return from Montreal, I begin working on my report on my recommendations on how Maggie can expand her business. Working on this project reminds me what I love about my job. It makes me feel wonderful to feel passionate about my work again. This project could take me as little as a week, but I decide that I am going to give myself two weeks to write it up. I’m going to develop a new pattern. I will work out for half an hour on the treadmill at the gym, then I will spend an hour generating new business leads, then I’ll spend seven hours working on whatever project I’m currently working on.

  I won’t let myself work longer than that. I will curb my workaholic tendencies, whatever it takes.

  Going to the gym turns out to be more relaxing than I would have thought. It feels good to sweat and work hard. This is going to sound strange, but it’s actually something of a relief to see the naked women in the locker room because they remind me what real women look like. The last time I saw a porno film I was in college and I dated a guy who lived in a dorm. Going into a male dorm is like walking into a sex shop—it’s all porn all the time. Even though it has been a decade since I’ve seen porn, the fact is that the only women I ever see naked are the women dancing nude in the background of movies and HBO series for no good reason except for the fact that directors like to have naked woman dancing in the background whenever possible. Those women, of course, have all been surgically altered so their breasts are essentially connected to their collarbone. When I go into the locker room and see what real women’s bodies look like, even women who are fit and in great shape, it is so unbelievably different from the plastic women I see on the movie screens. It’s a relief to remember that my body looks fine, as long as I don’t compare it to women who bought their figures from plastic surgeons.

  Oh and about the porno in college, here’s how it went down: I was sitting with my boyfriend on his bed and we were talking. In the dorms in college, everyone kept their doors propped open all the time so people could come in and out. Aaron’s roommate was the only guy on the hall to have a VCR, and so while Aaron and I were talking, some random guy came in and popped a porno in. One moan from the woman on the screen was all it took. It was like a cattle call beckoning the herd home. Suddenly you could hear the stomping footsteps of guys coming running from every direction. In about ten seconds flat, Aaron’s floor was covered with guys sitting Indian-style, staring zombielike at the screen, mouths agape and drooling. I was the only woman in the room, and considering what was going on on the screen, I felt supremely uncomfortable. I had to tiptoe through the pack of men, because there wasn’t enough room on the floor for me to walk any other way to get out of there. It was then that I came to this epiphany: Men are simple, simple creatures.

  Chapter 47

  I t’s a snowy, cold, gray February day when Rachel calls me crying and frantic.

  “Rachel, what is it?”

  “It’s Julia. Car accident. She’s been in a car accident.” It’s hard to make out what she’s saying between her sobs, but I understand the gist of it. Rachel says something about Julia being with Sandy, and something about Ed, Sandy’s ex, but that’s all I can make out. I tell her I’ll get to the hospital as soon as I can.

  I race to the hospital, ask at the front desk where I can find Rachel and Julia, and then I run in the direction that the receptionist tells me to go. Outside the room is Rachel, tears streaming down her red and blotchy face, her hand covering her mouth as she peers in through the window into the room where doctors and nurses are working on Julia. Julia looks so small, just a tiny wisp of a thing.

  I hug Rachel. “How is she?”

  “She’s not good. There’s internal bleeding. She may have punctured her spleen. The doctors are going to have to operate.”

  “Oh. Oh.” I start crying, too, and then sniff away the tears. I need to be strong for my friend right now. “I am so sorry. What happened?”

  “Ed was high,” Rachel says, crying and sniffling. “He came after Sandy screaming that he was going to kill her.”

  “I thought Ed was in jail.”

  “His lawyer got him out. Sandy was babysitting Julia, and Sandy ran to the car with Julia to get away, and he went after them, crashing into Sandy’s car with his.”

  “Is Sandy all right?”

  Rachel nods. “She’s fine. A couple bruises. Ed hit her car on the right side, the side Julia was on, not Sandy’s.”

  “Rachel!” I turn and see Jon barreling toward us. Jon takes Rachel in his arms. “How is she? How is she?”

  Rachel tells him the same thing she told me. They hug and cry. After several minutes Rachel pulls away from Jon’s embrace and asks him where their son, Isaac, is.

  “I left him with Beth. I wasn’t sure if he should be here.”

  The three of us stand in mute shock until Julia is taken into surgery. We spend the next several hours tense with fear. I think what scares me more than anything is watching Rachel. She looks so awful it terrifies me. Her face is blotchy from her crying. Her makeup is blurred around her puffy eyes. Rachel and Jon never sit down. They just stand and hold each other.

  I watch how Rachel never takes her hand from where it’s nestled in Jon’s hand. They never let go of one another. Sometimes he wraps her in his arms. She leans into him, letting him support her.

  At some point, Rachel begins sobbing so hard she can no longer stand upright. She begins to sway and Jon eases her down into one of the chairs. He holds her as she cries.

  I feel so powerless to do anything about my friend’s pain. And I think about how an adorable little girl’s life is in jeopardy because of Sandy’s loser ex-boyfriend.

  I find myself tearing at the skin around my fingernails. I don’t even notice I’m doing it until I’ve peeled so deep I start bleeding and need a Band-Aid.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say to Rachel and Jon. Rachel’s too out of it to notice me, but Jon nods. I go to a nurse at the front desk who gives me a Band-Aid, then I go to the bathroom, ostensibly to wash up, but as soon as I’m in there I lock myself in a stall and weep in great heaving sobs. I’m scared. I’m terrified for Julia and Rachel and Jo
n. I hate the fact that this little human being’s life is in the balance, and there’s not a damn thing any of us can do about it but wait and hope and pray. Love is such a precious, fragile thing. It can be lost quickly after an accident or slowly over one too many fights over garage shelves. But it’s too damn important to give up without a fight.

  I return to the waiting room with Rachel and Jon. We sit tensely as the minutes pass with agonizing slowness until at last a doctor comes to speak with Rachel and Jon. My heart stops in anticipation of his words. When he tells us she came through the surgery with flying colors and all signs indicate that she will be just fine, the tears come again, but this time they are tears of relief. Through eyes blurred with tears I watch Rachel and Jon take each other in their arms.

  As I watch Rachel and Jon, I understand for the first time what marriage really is. It’s bungee-jumping off a cliff without a rope—you have no idea what you’re getting into. It’s scary and terrifying flying off into the great unknown, but as you do it, you’re doing it with the person you love most in the world, hand-in-hand.

  I realize, suddenly, that I want to be with Will forever, weathering the tough times with him at my side. I want to marry him. I was afraid to be wrapped up in something that would be hard to get away from—because my entire life I’ve run away when the going got tough. But I want to learn how to get through challenges, not by running away but by facing them dead on. I want to be entangled enough that when difficulties come up, I don’t just flee as I’ve done with so many things in my life. I want to face the hard times with Will at my side.

  I call Will on my cell phone and ask him if he can meet me at The Falling Rock. It’s a casual bar with good food and a wide selection of beers—and it happens to be the place where we met for our first date.

  I get to the place before Will does and slide into one of the long booths. I order a beer and as I wait for Will, I watch a little blond-haired boy. I’d guess he was around eighteen months old. He squirms out of his father’s lap, wanting to be put down. There is music playing overhead, and the little boy dances to it. He has two main dance steps. With the first, he keeps his feet glued to the floor and rocks his upper body back and forth from side to side like a dashboard hula dancer. His other dance step is marching in place. He is the cutest, most precious little thing, and I smile and stare shamelessly at him. The boy smiles, too. He is filled with complete and utter joy, the absolute happiness of hearing music and letting his body express his delight with it. I want to run up to him, take him in my arms, and hug him and snuggle my nose into his soft baby skin. I don’t think his parents would appreciate that, however.