Is it all that surprising that their conversation has stalled? Really, what is there to say to someone after thirty-five years together?
My own parents have been married about thirty-eight now, and their dinner conversation is pretty much limited to “Hey, how come you shut the window? It’s a thousand degrees in here,” and “Are you sure this is really imported Asiago? Because it tastes like domestic Romano.” That sort of thing.
Is that how it’s going to turn out for me and Jack?
Does it happen to everyone?
If you’re lucky enough to make it to thirty-five years and beyond, does the spark die a natural death? Are you reduced to just coexisting?
I look at Jack. He’s thoughtfully eating a piece of tomato and doesn’t see me. Or maybe he’s just pretending he doesn’t.
I turn my attention back to the morning-noon-and-night-I-love-you anniversary couple next to us.
The husband is leaning over to taste the wife’s food.
Aw, how sweet. See?
Wait, the wife’s swatting the husband’s fork away, hoarding her crab cake.
Oh.
Well, at least they’re still together, and so are my parents, which is more than you can say for Jack’s.
I wonder if his being the product of a broken home has any bearing on our chances for making it to our own thirty-fifth anniversary and beyond.
Well, it’s not as if Jack actually grew up in a broken home. I mean, the home wasn’t broken until long after he moved out.
Not officially, anyway.
But Jack has mentioned that his parents always fought a lot. They were, reportedly, just waiting until their nest was empty before they made the official split.
As soon as Emily graduated from college, his father was gone.
I try to imagine how I would feel if my parents got divorced at this late date.
Devastated. Sorrowful. Shocked.
But of course, there’s no chance of that happening. Not only is divorce out of the question when you’re a Vatican-obeying novena queen, but my parents really do love each other. I’d say equally so, although my mother confided to me, back in the days when I was trying to get over Will, that my father was the one who fell first, and much harder. She said he didn’t make her heart crazy, and that she had to learn to love him.
What, exactly, were Connie Spadolini’s words of wisdom? “Marry someone who loves you more than you love him, because he’ll always treat you like gold.”
Something like that.
Hmm.
Does Jack love me more than I love him?
Somehow, I would find that hard to believe. Then again, he does treat me…
Well, not like gold. I mean, it’s not like he bows to my every whim…and seriously, would I want him to? That would be pretty scary.
Jack treats me with love and respect, though. And he wants to spend the rest of his life with me.
What more do I want or need from him?
Well, sometimes, words.
“I’ll call Reverend Devern about performing your ceremony as soon as I get home.” Wilma has ominously popped back into the conversation like crazy Glenn Close rising from Michael Douglas’s bathtub.
I look at Jack, screaming a silent Help!!
He pokes obliviously through his salad, on a determined hunt for another tomato.
You know, it’s a really good thing my life isn’t in danger, the way he’s been ignoring my telepathic messages.
Or maybe he just plain doesn’t get it. Which is hard to believe, since he’s read my mind plenty of times in the past. Usually when I’m thinking something I don’t want him to know.
“He’s going to be so happy to hear you’re getting married, Jack,” Wilma goes on.
Reverend Devern—who is affectionately referred to as Rev Dev on the rare occasions Jack has reason to mention him—is the clergyman at the Candells’ Presbytarian church in Bedford. It’s a beautiful two-hundred year-old white-clap-board building with a steeple and stained-glass windows…
And somebody really should mention to Wilma that Jack and I are not getting married there before she books the place and sends out invitations.
“You know, Mom, Tracey’s Catholic, so she probably wants to have a priest do their wedding.”
No, that’s not my noble groom coming to my rescue. It’s his sister Rachel, God love her.
“Oh! I didn’t even think…” Wilma turns to me. “Tracey, I didn’t mean to jump the gun. Did you want a priest instead?”
“I…” Might as well set things straight right from the start, I decide. “Yes,” I say firmly. “I want a priest. No offense to Reverend Devern. I’m sure he’s great.”
“Oh, he is great. He baptized Kathleen’s twins.”
“That’s nice,” I murmur, thinking that a priest probably would have better served their needs, since Rev Dev probably isn’t trained to perform exorcisms.
Oh my God, did I really just think that?
Talk about inappropriate. I mean, Ashley and Beatrice are going to become my nieces. I shouldn’t think such negative thoughts about them…even if they are evil little devil children.
“You know, I’m sure that if your priest wanted to fly down and perform the ceremony with Reverend Devern, he wouldn’t have a problem with that,” Wilma tells me unexpectedly. “Fortunately, the rules of our church are pretty flexible.”
“Unfortunately, the rules of ours aren’t,” I say, as if that’s news to anyone. “I don’t think Father Stefan will go for our not getting married in the Catholic church. And my parents definitely wouldn’t, either.”
Silence.
Then Wilma smiles and says brightly, “You know, I really can’t wait to meet them, Tracey. I hope they’ll be able to come down for the engagement party.”
“Engagement party?”
“We’ll wait until the weather warms up so we can have it outside,” Wilma decides. “That’s what we did for the girls.”
“Uh…Mom? My engagement party was in January,” Jeannie contradicts.
“She’s right, it was, because I wore those Ralph Lauren boots Daddy got me for Christmas,” Emily points out helpfully.
“Was it January?” Wilma muses. “Huh. I must be thinking of Kathleen’s.”
“Hers was in June. I remember because I had on that black Armani strapless dress,” says Emily. In case you haven’t noticed, she tends to recall special occasions strictly by her choice of personal attire.
“Well, we can have your party in June, too,” Wilma tells me and Jack. “What do you think?”
“Sure,” Jack says with a shrug. “Whatever. That sounds good.”
“You really don’t have to throw us an engagement party, Wilma.” I can’t help but shudder a bit at the thought of my family traipsing down to Westchester to meet the Candells.
For one thing, my parents are hardly world travelers. Their last actual trip was to Schenectady on a church bus trip to some shrine around there somewhere. I remember it because they got me a T-shirt that reads Schenectady: The City That Lights and Hauls the World, which is some ambitious motto, don’t you think?
Needless to say, Mom and Pop haven’t visited me in New York since I moved here after college. Did I mention that they were absolutely crushed when I left Brookside? No one else in my family ever has. I’m sure they’re still thinking I’ll get over it and go back home where I belong.
Of course, now that I’m marrying Jack, they’ll probably suspect that I might actually be here to stay…but that doesn’t mean they’ll approve. Or visit.
What if Wilma goes to all the trouble of throwing an engagement party and my parents refuse to come?
“Really,” I tell her, “it’s not necessary.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Tracey. Of course I’m going to throw you an engagement party,” she says as if it’s all settled. “I just wish we still had the house so we could have it there.”
The sprawling family home in Bedford was sold after the divorce. Now Wil
ma lives in a condo community.
“You really can’t host a big party at your place, Mom,” Jeannie points out.
“I know, no worries, we’ll just have it at a restaurant,” she says briskly. “I’ve got it all under control.”
Well, better that than the wedding itself, I tell myself.
I’ll just have to try and convince my parents to get on a plane to New York in June—then make excuses to my future in-laws when they refuse.
Meanwhile, Jack and I have to have a conversation about our actual wedding plans before his mother takes over.
It’s ironic for me to even consider that possibility, because Wilma never struck me as the overbearing mother-in-law type.
Not that she’s overstepped her bounds…yet. I mean, she’s probably just excited, wanting to help, like she said.
But the sooner Jack lets her know that we’ll be getting married at Most Precious Mother in Brookside with a reception at Shorewood afterward, the better.
Mental note: Let Jack know ASAP that we’ll be getting married at Most Precious Mother in Brookside with a reception at Shorewood afterward.
“You know,” Wilma is saying fondly, “I still remember what fun I had planning my wedding all those years ago. This is such a wonderful time in your lives. Enjoy every minute of it.”
“We will,” I assure her, and Jack leans over and kisses her on the cheek.
“Thanks, Mom.”
She’s a little shiny-eyed all of a sudden, I notice. Well, he’s her son. And being single, she depends on him for things a husband might otherwise do—like helping her move heavy furniture and keeping track of investments.
It can’t be easy for her to realize that another woman is going to come first in his heart from now on. Maybe she feels as if she’s losing him. It’s kind of amazing that she’s been so supportive of me right from the start, never showing the slightest bit of jealousy or resentment.
Then I think about how my own mother still adores and babies my brothers, and how she frequently criticizes their wives for what she considers inadequate laundry, parenting and, especially, cooking skills.
She only complains to me and my sister, Mary Beth, of course. And only behind my sister-in-laws’ backs. To their faces, she treats them…
Well, as lovingly as Wilma treats me.
Hmm.
Thinking back to when my brothers got married, I remember that my mother definitely put her two cents’ into every decision. She even reduced my most laid-back sister-in-law, my brother Joey’s wife, Sara, to tears at her own rehearsal dinner. Somehow, my mother had it in her head that Sara’s mother would be wearing navy blue to the wedding the next day, so she had bought a powder-blue dress for herself. It turned out Sara’s mother would also be wearing powder blue—and had been planning to all along—and my mother flipped out.
She wound up wearing the royal-blue dress she’d worn for my sister Mary Beth’s wedding, which had taken place so long ago that we convinced her nobody would remember it. Then we rushed around telling each arriving guest to compliment her on the dress as if they had never seen it before.
A year later, when Mary Beth caught her husband, Vinnie, cheating and her marriage hit the skids, my mother decided the dress was cursed. She’s been worried about Joey and Sara ever since.
And, of course, she complains every chance she gets that Joey’s too thin, and we all know she thinks it’s because he can’t eat Sara’s cooking.
Mothers-in-law.
Watching my future one affectionately ruffle her only son’s hair, I uneasily tell myself that at least I’m not marrying my brother.
Then, remembering that my mother has three sons, and Wilma only one, I reach for my wine and chug the rest.
6
One would think there would be plenty of opportunities over the course of a stormy February weekend to have a serious conversation with your live-in fiancé.
But it’s Sunday night already, and I still haven’t had a chance to pin down Jack to talk Wedding.
Friday: I came home from work stressed after eleven straight hours of avoiding all my friends there, who may very well have been avoiding me in return. I still have no idea why I wasn’t invited to Julie’s goodbye party. All I know is that by the time Friday night rolled around, my window office felt like solitary confinement.
I crave carbs when I’m upset about something, so I whipped up a great pasta with everything we had on hand in the cupboard: olive oil, canned tomatoes, capers, black olives, mushrooms.
It was surprisingly good but I wound up eating it alone because Jack worked until after midnight.
Saturday: Jack slept till noon while I killed the better part of the morning reading Modern Bride from cover to cover, an incredibly enlightening experience.
Who knew that bustles would be all the rage in wedding gowns by next fall? Who knew that aromatherapists were now creating bridal bouquets meant to evoke a specific mood in the nuptial couple and their guests? Who knew that one could rent a Tahitian honeymoon hut—not waterfront, but right in the water, perched in the sea on stilts?
Still waiting for Jack to awaken so that I could regale him with the marvels of modern matrimony, I began pricing honeymoon packages online.
Still no Jack, so I conveniently laid out all our possible honeymoon destinations on a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet that would appeal to Jack’s media-planner sensibility. I used smaller type for the cost column, but the amounts were still daunting. I could only hope that Jack would be as enchanted as I was by the prospect of Tahiti, Paris, Nevis…
Pricey? You bet your white silk bustle. But it would be a once-in-a-lifetime event, so why not go all out?
By the time Jack woke up, though, there was no time for honeymoon talk. I was leaving to meet Kate at Ruby Foo’s for our engagement-celebration lunch.
She gave me a gorgeous white silk peignoir from Saks as an engagement gift. When I asked her to be a bridesmaid, she told me she’d love to—if she survives childbirth. There seems to be some doubt in her mind about that. She then spent the entire hour and a half either complaining that she felt like she was going to throw up, or in the bathroom actually throwing up, while I gorged myself on maki and saki. Cheers.
She was supposed to come with me to the wedding boutique afterward but said she was sure I didn’t want her to get puke all over the pristine white gowns. She was absolutely right about that.
So I spent the remainder of the afternoon solo, trying on one silk confection after another even though I had always known the dress I wanted from the start. I had coveted it for months in every bridal magazine. In the end, that’s the one I ordered—the simple white gown with a square neckline, elbow-length sleeves, minimal lace and no bustle. Elegant, sophisticated, figure flattering.
Seeing myself in it at last, I got a little misty—and homesick. I have rarely regretted moving away from Brookside, but this was one of those times that I wished my mother were readily available. I remember when we both went with my sister to get her wedding gown, years ago. There was a lot of crying, laughing and hugging. I was just a teenager and of course I kept envisioning the day my own turn would come.
Now here I was, in an ethereal white gown, and there was no one to see me but me. Oh, and a saleswoman named Milagros who spoke broken English but said Bee-you-tee-ful several dozen times. I bet she says it to all the brides, but it made me feel good.
When I got home afterward, Jack’s friend, Mitch, was parked on the couch watching a college basketball game with him. He stuck around for takeout Italian and more, more, more college basketball, during which I dozed in a chair before finally going off to bed alone.
Sunday: we woke up to a flood in the kitchen. Everything nonmetal or plastic that we keep under the sink—a box of garbage bags, another of SOS soap pads, the newspaper-recycling bin—was thoroughly sodden.
Jack had to track down the super, who in turn had to track down a plumber—not easy on a snowy Sunday. By the time the pipes were fixed, we realized w
e were starved and the cupboards and fridge were empty, so we went down the block to our favorite diner.
I thought we might be able to discuss the wedding over lunch, but we ran into a couple of guys who live in our building. They sat with us and talked sports with Jack while I toyed with my moussaka and daydreamed idly about aromatherapy-inspired bouquets and five-star-resort honeymoons.
Now here we are, home again.
It’s sleeting outside but cozy in here. I just changed into sweats and put the teakettle on high. Things are looking up already. I’m in the mood to curl up on the couch and watch 60 Minutes with a mug of hot tea. I heard that they’re doing some kind of feature on weddings in America.
In the kitchen, I glance at the jumble of waterlogged stuff I pulled out from under the sink earlier, and wonder if I dare put it back yet. The plumber claimed the leak was fixed, but the pipe joint looks suspiciously wet to me.
After deciding to keep the space under the sink empty for now, I open a cupboard door to take out the box of tea—and the knob comes off in my hand. Again.
Frustrated, I break off the tip of a wooden toothpick, shove it into the screw hole and turn the knob on again. It holds…but I know from experience that it won’t be for long.
Have I mentioned that it seems like every time I turn around, something needs fixing around here?
I go into the living room, where Jack’s settling onto the couch, TV Guide in hand.
Uh-oh. Should I remind him that 60 Minutes is starting in about ten minutes? Somehow, I don’t think that’s on his viewing schedule. He’s probably planning to watch Caddy-shack for the hundredth time and laugh as hard as he did the first: one of his favorite ways to spend a lazy Sunday evening. He calls it Couch Time.
“Sweetie?” I call him that whenever I’m about to break something to him, and he knows it.
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