Marriage of Inconvenience

by Penny Reid

  “I did call you—”

  “Don’t shit on a plate and tell me it’s fudge, Daniel. You called after midnight.”

  I hadn’t come up with a plausible lie for why I hadn’t called on her birthday, because I wasn’t a liar. I hated lying. Premeditated lying, coming up with a story ahead of time, crafting it, was Seamus’s game. If I absolutely had to lie, I subscribed to spur-of-the-moment lying; it made me less of a soulless maggot.

  “That’s true, Ma. But I swear I—”

  “Don’t you fucking swear, Daniel. Don’t you fucking do that. I raised you kids better.”

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  “What was so important, huh?” She heaved a watery sigh. “I thought you were in a ditch, dying somewhere. I had Father Matthew on standby to give you your last rights. Was your phone broken?”

  “No.”

  “Did you forget?” Her voice broke on the last word and it was like being stabbed. The worst.

  “No, I sw—ah, I mean, I didn’t forget.” Lie. Lying lie. Lying liar.

  “Then what?”

  I grimaced, shutting my eyes, taking a deep breath and said, “I’m married.”

  Silence.

  Complete fucking silence.

  I thought maybe she wasn’t even breathing.

  Meanwhile, in my brain:

  Oh.

  Shit.

  What.

  The.

  Fuck.

  Have.

  I.

  Done.

  . . . However.

  However, on the other hand, I was married. I am married. Not a lie.

  Yeah, we hadn’t had the ceremony yet, but the paperwork was filed, and legally speaking, Kat and I were married.

  I listened as my mom took a breath, said nothing, and then took another. “Are you pulling my leg with this?” On the plus side, she didn’t sound sad anymore.

  “No, no. I promise. I’m married. I—uh—was getting married.”

  “Wait a minute, you got married on my birthday?”

  Uh . . .

  “Uh . . .”

  “Daniel?”

  “No. We didn’t get married on your birthday.” Shit. Fuck. “We’ve been married for a month, and Kat had an emergency on Wednesday.” Technically, not lies.

  “That’s her name? Cat?”

  “Kathleen. Her name is Kathleen.”

  “Like your great aunt Kathleen?”

  Kat wasn’t a thing like my great aunt. “Yeah, the name is spelled the same.”

  “Last month? You got married last month?” She sounded bewildered, like she was having trouble keeping up. “Is she—is she Irish?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. That’s okay. Catholic?”

  Oh jeez, I really hadn’t thought this through. Maybe it was time for me to reconsider my spur-of-the-moment approach to lying and just surrender to being a soulless maggot.

  “No. She’s not Catholic.”

  “Oh.” My mom didn’t sound disappointed, just a little surprised and maybe a little worried. “Daniel, I—you were married last month and I’m only hearing about it now? How long have you known this woman?”

  I winced. “Two and a half years.”

  “Two and a half years?” she screeched. “What else are you hiding, huh? You two have a couple of kids? You playing left wing for the Bruins next season? You and Tom Brady shoot the shit on the weekends?”

  “Ma—”

  “That’s a long time, bub. You’ve been together over two years and you never wanted to introduce her to your mother?” The hurt edge in my mom’s voice sliced me open. I needed to get this conversation back on track before I was dealing with full-out tears of acid.

  “Listen, Ma. It was sudden. Really sudden. I’ve known her for over two years, yes. But we were friends. Then one thing led to another and we were married in a rush at the Cook County Clerk's office. It was nothing fancy.”

  “Is she pregnant?” She sounded hopeful.

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Frustration. “Let me get this straight. You were married in a County Clerk's office? What were you thinking? Were her parents there?” She sounded like she didn’t know if she was hurt or irritated.

  “No. Her parents are not—her dad has Alzheimer’s. He doesn’t know who she is.”

  “Oh no. That’s terrible.” She made a sad tutting sound. “And her mother? Was her mom there? Please tell me she had her mother there on her wedding day to my son.”

  “No, Ma. Her mother has—” I didn’t want to finish that sentence. The word “schizophrenia” was loaded, conjured all sorts of scary assumptions. My ma was an ICU nurse, but still. As far as I knew, the closest my family had ever come to a diagnosed mental illness was Uncle Zip’s short-term memory loss. A construction crane falling on him during the Big Dig had caused that. He also got a metal plate in his head and would stick magnets to his face during parties, but that wasn’t mental illness. That was just Uncle Zip.

  “Her mother is unwell and is institutionalized,” I finally finished.

  She was quiet for a moment and, knowing my mom, I could almost see her expression as she stared into space, trying to sort through all I’d told her. “Who am I even talking to right now? I don’t understand this. It’s so unlike you. Didn’t you want me there? Your sisters?”

  “Yes. Of course I wanted—”

  “What about your aunts and uncles? And cousins? I know you’re not speaking to Seamus, but a wedding should be a celebration where you’re surrounded by people who love you. Not an afterthought at the fucking courthouse during your lunch break. That’s no way to welcome Kathleen into our family. What must she think of us?” Now she sounded disappointed. Really fucking disappointed. And angry.

  So there was only one thing to do. Own it. “You’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right.” She sniffed. “And now it’s time for you to make this right.”

  “What if we throw a big party in Boston? Invite the whole family. It’ll be like a wedding reception, with cake, a bouquet toss, the whole thing.”

  “Really?” She perked up, but then she huffed. “No. That’s no good. I don’t want the future mother of my grandchildren throwing a party for my family and me. I should be throwing a party for her. Did she get a bridal shower? Anything to celebrate the occasion? And what do I tell people who want to send gifts?” My mom made a strangled sound of frustration. “And what do I tell Father Matthew? Goddamn Father Matthew. He’s gonna be pissed.”

  “Ma . . .”

  “Don’t ma me. This isn’t right, and you know it. Do you love this girl?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t hesitate. Easiest lie I’d ever told.

  “You love your family?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then bring her home. I’ve been waiting to meet her my whole life.”

  “You just found out about her ten minutes ago!”

  “Don’t be a smartass. You know what I meant. Introduce her to your mother, your family. Show her you respect her, that you’re proud of her. Don’t be a fucking sneak. Loving a person isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

  “It’s not like that—”

  “Good. You’ll bring her home. You’ll stay here in your old room.”

  When I hesitated, she said, “Daniel, you forget my birthday and now you’re keeping my daughter-in-law from me?”

  “I’m not keeping her from you.”

  “So help me God, if you don’t bring that girl home, I’ll take out an ad on Craigslist for season tickets to the Sox and list your cell phone number. There’s no problem, is there? I expect you both over Labor Day. I’ll call Katherine, she’ll tell Quinn to give you the day off.”

  Katherine was Quinn’s mother, and one of my mother’s best friends.

  “Don’t call Mrs. Sullivan. If I want to take the day off, then I’ll take the day off.”

  “Great. Love you. See you both soon.”

  “Ma, wait—shit.”

  She hung up.
r />   Fuck.

  Fuck that fucking duck.

  Chapter Nine

  Fashion Police: Authorities that will arrest you for wearing the wrong thing.

  —Urban Dictionary.com

  **Kat**

  While pulling on my Friday sweater—which coordinated with the rest of my Friday outfit—I remembered that I needed a wedding dress.

  I knew it didn’t really need to be a wedding dress. It just needed to be something different than my Thursday outfit.

  It could be what you’re wearing now, for example.

  Biting my thumbnail, I stared at the sparse contents of my closet. I didn’t want to wear my Friday outfit to get married. And my Wednesday outfit was dirty. My eyes slid to my Monday outfit—gray pants and a white shirt—and I frowned. There was nothing wrong with Monday’s outfit, but I couldn’t bring myself to wear it.

  The truth was, I didn’t want to wear any of my weekday attire for the ceremony. Perhaps I was being ridiculous, but the thought of getting married in khaki pants and an Oxford shirt made me feel an indefinable kind of unhappy.

  My eyes moved to the far left side of my closet without me explicitly telling them to do so, likely because the left side of my closet was where I stored all the clothes I bought but rarely had a chance to wear: high-heeled shoes, funky shirts and sweaters, and pretty dresses that I’d found on sale.

  I ignored a new kind of indefinably unhappy and thumbed through the hangers. Seven items deep, I stopped, my heart jumping to my throat with longing as I rubbed the thin satin material between my thumb and forefinger of a pale pink halter maxi dress. The waist was shirred and pleated leading to an ankle-length trumpet hem. The back was open and would expose my skin from neck to waist, which was why I’d never worn it outside of the store. I didn’t have a halter bra.

  But it was just so darn pretty, and I felt so darn pretty wearing it, and—darn it—I wanted to feel pretty on my wedding day.

  Fake wedding day.

  Fake.

  But still.

  I didn’t know how long I stood there, staring at it, debating. But when I glanced at the alarm clock next to my bed, I yanked the dress out of the closet on a rush. My dawdling was in danger of making me late. Since I was leaving work early—hopefully my last modified schedule for the foreseeable future—I needed to get to work by 5:30 AM.

  Hurriedly, I tucked it into my simple canvas garment bag, the one I used to carry dry-cleaning home, stuffed my pair of nude heels into my backpack, and was out the door. I didn’t allow myself to think about the dress. Short of skipping work and buying something else, I was stuck with my choice and that was that.

  Luckily, despite my closet contemplations, I arrived at my desk with a few minutes to spare. Unlike the last two times I knew I’d be spending time in Dan’s company, I was able to concentrate just fine.

  I suspected this was because his request at the end of lunch yesterday had left me annoyed.

  Annoyance flavored with righteous indignation.

  It was as though he thought I was incapable of controlling myself, or having respect for another person’s feelings. This was especially aggravating because my problem was the exact opposite. I couldn’t not control myself. Control was what I lived and breathed and consumed. The only treatment I’d identified for my crippling control was drugs and/or alcohol, and I refused to self-medicate anymore.

  Coming from him, someone I liked and admired as much as I liked and admired Dan, it stung. More than a paper cut , more than a bee sting, the hurt lingered after lunch and for the rest of the day—during my Thursday night class, walking home from the university, while I tossed and turned in bed—until I’d fallen asleep and dreamt of Dan being revealed as a Dalek in disguise. And then I had to exterminate him.

  Which was why, when Steven called after lunch on Friday, pulling me out of the work-zone, I was surprised it was already 4:14 PM.

  “How is it already past three?” I scratched my jaw, clicking over to my emails to ensure there weren’t any emergencies that needed to be addressed. Seeing none, I enabled my out-of-office responder.

  “What time are we meeting your man, Dan, at the Clerk’s office? Five? BTW, aren’t you impressed I haven’t been calling you all day?”

  I was impressed. It was very un-Steven-like.

  “He’s not my man. He’s helping me because he is a nice person.” Though, maybe a tad uncharitable. And judgmental. “Dan and I are leaving here at four thirty. You’re supposed to meet us at the County Clerk's office between five and five fifteen. We’ll be the last ceremony of the day.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I remember now. I can’t wait. I will be the best witness. The best. I will put all other witnesses to shame. I will give witness harder than—”

  “Yes. I know.” I laughed at my friend. “Just be there before five fifteen, earlier if you can manage it. Do you have any plans after?”

  “No. Not really. Why? Do you want me to come out with you and Dan?”

  “Uh, no. I won’t be going out with Dan afterward. I’m sure he has other things to do. But maybe you and I could go see a movie?”

  Steven was quiet for a second. He found this surprising? We often saw a movie on a Friday night.

  “Let me see if I have this right.” Steven paused again, and then said, “You and Dan are getting married this afternoon, and then you propose that you and I head out to catch a movie afterward? Is that right?”

  “Only if you have time.”

  “What would you do if I didn’t have time?”

  I shrugged. “I guess go home and study.”

  He sighed. Loudly. “This is so wrong. This just feels so wrong. Kat, you’re getting married to Dan the Security Man, the guy of your dreams, and you sound like we’re discussing having a mole removed.”

  “He’s not the man of my dreams.” I checked the time, ignoring the burst of aggravation in my chest.

  “Since when?”

  “Since Vegas,” I snapped, but then pressed my lips together, shaking my head at myself.

  “Kat?”

  “I’m sorry, but you were right, I should have stopped obsessing about him when he left me in that hotel room. I’m so tired of this.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of . . . hiding. Of letting other people drive the conversation. Of letting what other people think about me matter. Of being quiet and well-behaved. You know what? I should’ve believed him when he showed me who he was.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Someone who might be enlightened and open-minded about some things, but who jumps to condemnatory conclusions.” The words arrived harsher than I’d intended, and I winced at how acrimonious I sounded. “No, that’s not true. He’s . . . he’s a good guy. Obviously, he’s an amazing guy. And he’s helping me, and I’m so grateful. I owe him so much, and I’m not being fair. He’s a great guy. So great.”

  He seemed to be waiting for me to continue; when I didn’t, he prompted, “But . . . ?”

  “But the man of my dreams wouldn’t hold my past against me, not if I’ve learned from it. I guess I’m grateful that I put him on a pedestal, because doing so taught me not to put people on pedestals. And it taught me that no one will ever be happy with me—no matter how polite I am, or quiet, no matter how accommodating—so maybe I just need to be happy with myself. Dan will make someone else very happy, and that someone else will be very lucky.” Someone with less baggage.

  “Okay.” Steven didn’t sound convinced. “Whatever you say.”

  “Listen, I have to go.” I rubbed my forehead, feeling suddenly tired. “Are you at Dan’s place? Because the Clerk’s office is super close to his apartment.”

  “No. I’m in the building.”

  “Did you want to ride over with us? I’m changing there.”

  “No. I can’t. I have a few things to finish up before the weekend. Don’t worry, I’ll be on time.”

  “For once,” I teased.

  “Ha-ha. And yes to the movie as l
ong as I get to pick. And you let me smuggle contraband York Peppermint Patties in your purse.”

  “Deal. Oh, hey, you could bring the guy you’ve been seeing. What was his name?”

  “I haven’t told you his name,” he deadpanned, shutting me down. “See you soon.”

  “See you.”

  Ending the call, I reflected on Steven’s unwillingness to disclose his love interest’s identity. Who could it be?

  I mulled over the potential suspects on my way to the lobby and came up empty. Steven had always been more than willing to discuss his disastrous love life. Sometimes he had Janie and me in stitches recounting his hilarious, but unfortunate, escapades. But he’d never mentioned anyone in particular who’d caught his eye.

  When the elevator doors opened, I found Dan standing in the same spot he’d been in yesterday. Like yesterday, he wore all black—pants, shirt, jacket, no tie. Unlike yesterday, I didn’t feel the need to hesitate, to mentally prepare.

  Stepping off the lift, I walked to him, contented in my numbness.

  “Hi,” I said, giving him a little wave as I approached. I pushed one hand in my pocket, and the other held my garment bag. Careful to stop a good five feet away, I didn’t want a cheek kiss or embrace repeat from the day before. “Should we go?”

  His gaze flickered over me, his expression inscrutable. “Sure.”

  “Please. Lead the way.” I gave him a tight smile.

  Dan didn’t move. Instead, he lifted his chin toward my garment bag. “Are you planning to change?”

  Looking him over, the dark suit that was basically his uniform, I felt a renewed burst of embarrassment and silliness about my desire to look my best. But then I chloroformed that burst of embarrassment.

  I wanted to look nice for me, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that. I desired it. End of story.

  Dan could wear a Speedo for all I cared—gah! Dangerous imagery! Alert! Divert thoughts! Fury, determination, indignation . . . much better—but I would wear this pretty dress and I refused to feel silly about it.

  Lifting my chin and feeling defiant, I responded, “Yes. I was planning on it. But I can change at the Clerk’s office.”