by Maggie Bloom
My look is from Goodwill. Hers is a rental. Orv is decked out in his best—and only—suit, the one he bought for Gramp’s funeral. (Not that we’ve seen Orv; he spent last night on my futon in Hollyhock.)
Denise bites her lip. “My gosh, Bobbi. You’re stunning.”
I hope this is true, since Tom should be here any minute to walk me down the…dirt path by the fence. (We lined the ground with a paper runner, but I doubt it’ll hold up against my kitten heels.) “I’m so happy for you guys,” I tell Denise, an unexpected wave of emotion pushing me to the edge of tears.
“Oh, shush,” she says, wrapping me in a hug. “You’re going to make me cry.”
I’ve been too selfish to bring this up before, but now seems like the right time. “Have you and Orv…well, uh…? Do you still want me to live here, after the baby? Because I might be able to go with Duncan and Marie.” This offer is my wedding present to them, I figure. A chance to kick off their new family without me getting in the way.
Denise freezes, blinks. “What on earth are you talking about?” she asks, sounding dumbfounded. “Of course we want you here.”
She could be lying to spare my feelings. “Are you sure?” I persist. “What about Orv?”
With a little huff, she says, “Orv loves you to pieces. You know that.”
“He never says so.”
“That’s not his way.”
Orv is like Gramp, minus the warm and fuzzy. “I know.”
“So it’s settled?”
“It’s not like I want to leave,” I say. “I just thought...”
“Well, stop it. There’s nothing to think about.”
Her seriousness convinces me. “Okay,” I say. “Case closed, I guess.”
“Good.” She gives her bangs one last spritz of hairspray, slides the final bobby pin into place and says, “Ready?”
Why does she sound less nervous than I am? “Is it time?” I ask. I crack the bedroom door open and peer down the hall into the kitchen, which is empty. “Looks like it,” I report.
We float out together, stopping at the counter to collect our bouquets. Mine is pastel-colored carnations, an explosion of after-dinner mints. Denise’s is lavender roses and baby’s breath. I give her a careful peck on the cheek. “See you out there.”
I practice my fancy wedding-march stride as I slip through the enclosed porch and into the yard, where Tom loiters anxiously on his mark by Denise’s scraggly ficus. When our eyes meet, we both smile (and Marie starts the boom box churning out Here Comes the Bride).
I hook my arm around Tom’s (is this what it’ll feel like if we take the plunge someday?) and, in rhythm with him and the music, parade toward the glittery twig of a form that is Aunt Paulina.
Beside Aunt Paulina, his hands folded politely over his crotch, is Orv, his gaze level, spine stiff, a telltale line of perspiration zipped over his upper lip.
“Thanks for doing this,” I whisper to Tom as we go.
He only grins wider.
I’m not really into weddings, so it doesn’t matter to me, but Orv and Denise have got a pretty minimal scene going here. As I glance around, I count a total of maybe nineteen people.
Tom takes his place next to Orv and, opposite them, I become Aunt Paulina’s shadow. When I look back at the house, I’m flabbergasted by what I see (and so is everyone else, apparently, since they’ve all gone church-mouse quiet, including Roy).
Along the path Tom and I have just blazed floats Denise, looking like an angel, the afternoon sun lending an other-worldly aura to her already established pregnancy glow. If I stare hard enough, I almost think I can spot a halo struggling to form in the dewy air above her head.
It’s a short walk, so Denise is soon at my side. And that’s when it hits me that the two people I love most on earth (Tom, Harvey, and Roy are in a dead heat for second place) are about to unite. Become one. Bond forever.
“Welcome, all,” says Aunt Paulina in a sure voice that penetrates the modest crowd.
As my gaze skims the collection of faces turned our way, I feel a tug of sadness for Denise. Because even though her mother and twin brothers are here, her father is not. By choice. A choice he made a decade ago, when he went chasing after a lucrative business deal in Vietnam or Cambodia (he has ties to both) and, also, a little Asian chippy. I advised Denise to replace him in the wedding out of spite, but she opted to leave the job vacant.
I should be watching Denise or Orv or even Aunt Paulina (or, at the very least, listening with rapt attention as lifelong vows of commitment are exchanged), but all I can do is stare helplessly at Tom as he draws a black velvet box from his trousers and cups it in his jittery palm, thumbing it open to reveal a matching pair of thin gold bands.
I love you, I tell him telepathically, wishing he could read my mind.
From what I absorb of the ceremony, it is sweet and sentimental, in a quiet, old-fashioned sort of way. Before I know it, Tom is holding the rings up, and Orv and Denise are slipping them over each other’s fingers.
Then comes the kiss, wholesome yet intimate and lengthy enough that I end up shifting around in my shoes, my heels poking divots in the newly mown lawn.
“I now present you Mr. and Mrs. Orville Hayes,” Aunt Paulina announces, beaming at the crowd.
Orv thrusts Denise’s arm (and the bouquet she’s clutching) into the air in triumph, the rest of us breaking out in buoyant applause. Denise’s brothers hoot and holler for a few extra seconds, and then the newlyweds begin their rounds, a ripple of sincere smiles and warm hugs greeting them.
I move in on Tom, stealthily take his hand and give it a squeeze. “Hey, there,” I murmur. “How you doing?”
“Good,” says Tom, just as someone (not Marie this time; she’s busy shoving Roy into Denise’s arms and snapping a cell phone picture) switches the boom box to a wedding reception appropriate dance mix. In the shade of the house, the brother-sister team of Jerrod and Mindy Brown (neighborhood kids Denise has cajoled into helping out at the wedding for twenty bucks apiece) buzz about a ten-foot buffet table, arranging casserole dishes and dumping supersized bags of potato chips into lavender and yellow plastic bowls (Dollar Tree finds in Denise’s wedding colors).
I peck Tom on the cheek and tell him, “I’ll be right back.” Then I snatch a cup from the edge of the buffet table and dash into the house, where I load the cup with water and sink the stem of my bouquet into it, creating a pretty floral display.
Back in the yard, I locate the rainbow-colored index cards with my and Tom’s names on them (also from the Dollar Tree; Denise is using them as place cards), which are stuck to our shifty picnic table with golden thumbtacks. I rearrange a couple of disposable champagne glasses to make space for my bouquet, which, as I set it down, strikes me as a lovely centerpiece.
Tom’s gaze finds mine, and he twists through a clot of older folks to reach my side. “I’m starving,” I tell him, my stomach rumbling to back me up.
He squints at the buffet. “Should we get something?”
The food has yet to be touched, but if it sits out much longer, it’s sure to wilt in this late-day heat. “Why not?” I say with a shrug that threatens to expose a bit too much cleavage, my dress being strapless and all. I grab the bodice by its armpits and hike it back up. “I don’t think anyone cares.” If there’s a protocol for this shindig, no one has bothered to put me in the loop.
Apparently there isn’t a protocol, though, because before Tom and I can mosey over and raid the chips and dip or the macaroni salad, Marie leads a conga line of people doing the same thing, ahead of us.
We queue up behind them, me shaking my head and telling Tom (about Marie’s preemptive strike on the food), “It figures.”
He chuckles lightly, rests his hands on my hips from the rear, leans over my shoulder and brazenly—right there for everyone to see—begins kissing on my neck, my ear, my…
I may have been screwed by a lengthy list of boys, but this public display of affection is too much. Blushin
g profusely, I twist around and say, “Not here, okay?”
Tom’s eyebrow notches in surprise. “Oh, okay,” he agrees. Then he straightens up and removes his left hand from my waist, which I immediately miss. When his right hand lifts off me, I grab it and force it back into place, giving it a little pat. “That can stay,” I say with a smile he can’t see, since we’re both facing forward.
Eventually the line clears out, and we inhale Denise and Orv’s barbecue-themed reception dinner, down an apple-cider toast, and even indulge in a bit of post-meal calorie burning in the form of seriously bad disco/hip-hop/country line-dancing (not all at once, of course).
Half an hour into this revelry, after the twenty-one-plus crowd (excluding Orv, who is abstaining from alcohol in support of Denise and the pregnancy) has swilled through most of the BYO-Booze, Duncan starts raving about some topic or another, leaving me to assume that an unsuspecting wedding guest has dropped a religious or political comment in his vicinity. “…bunch of mindless, know-nothing…” his slushy, alcohol-soaked voice spouts. From my post by the boom box, I catch bits and snatches of his rant, which shows no signs of letting up. “…rules, rules, rules…genius, I tell you…never see it coming…” He belches loudly, then sighs. “…utter brilliance…damn halfwits…” He cackles to himself and repeats, “…never see it coming…”
I look to Marie for guidance, but once again, she’s distracted with Roy. “I think I should, uh, check on my dad,” I tell Tom with a flash of embarrassment. Then I remember how his drunkard of a stepmother treated me last time I saw her. “Maybe you can hang with Denise’s brothers?” I suggest, noticing that Max and Matt seem to be brooding at the edge of the yard, nobody their age to chill with. At least they’ve got each other, I think. Built-in best friends.
Tom tilts his head in an adorable way that melts my heart. “All right,” he says softly. “But then maybe we can get some time to ourselves?” He pulls me in for a gentle kiss I don’t resist, even though it’s on the lips (appropriateness be damned!).
“Maybe,” I whisper.
His fingers make an “accidental” sweep over my ass as he goes, leaving me, as usual, longing for more.
But now is not the time, because when I get within Duncan’s orbit, I realize that he’s intoxicated to the point of incoherence. “Dad,” I say, shaking his shoulder as he mumbles a string of sounds that aren’t adding up to words. I try tugging his arm, but he feels like a marble statue. “Come on,” I tell him, yanking with both hands (and getting him to budge, however slightly). “We’ve gotta go inside.” Well, not so much we, but he. (If he doesn’t quit drinking and catch some z’s—his eyes are baggy and painfully bloodshot—I fear we’ll be phoning an ambulance.)
He mutters another round of unintelligible nonsense, and I sling him over my shoulder (not like I’m carrying him; like I’m wearing him as a coat). As we stumble up the back steps, Orv shoots me a concerned look that I’m in no position to return.
“Excuse me,” I say to Aunt Paulina, my father and I almost running her down as she exits the bathroom. “He’s not feeling well.” I give her a disappointed frown and keep us shuffling along, the alcohol on my father’s breath (and seeping out his nose? ears? eyeballs?) smelling both sweet and sickly.
Finally we reach my bedroom (where else am I going to stash a middle-aged lush?), where I practically hurl him onto the bed. “Geez, Dad,” I say to the side of his face, which is coated in a splash of drool. “I think you’ve got a problem.” I mean, if he behaves this way at a simple backyard wedding, who knows what he’s been up to in those lawless (or so I imagine) third world villages.
I almost can’t believe my eyes when Duncan’s lips start vibrating with the influx and outflow of sleep (he’s snoring?!). I shake my head, peel my threadbare quilt from the edge of the bed and tuck it around him, turning him into a burrito. Why do people look so harmless when they’re passed out? I hate myself a little for doing it, but I lean in and give him a soft peck on the forehead.
That’s when I hear a blood-curdling scream, followed by a chorus of raised voices.
I can’t get outside fast enough, literally, due to the way my shoes are skidding across the kitchen floor as I run. But when I do make it out, the first thing I notice is Denise’s mother crumpled on the ground, her plum-colored taffeta dress shoved up almost to her waist (thank God, she wore a slip!) as she buries her face in her hands and bawls uncontrollably.
What the…?
The next thing out of place, which I’m surprised I can see at all given the ongoing commotion, is Denise’s brother, Max, flat on his back on the lawn, a stunned look wrinkled into his brow, his lip bloodied, split and swollen.
I head for Denise, who is bent over at her mother’s side, speaking in hushed tones. But before I reach her, a familiar voice shouts, “Bobbi!”
It’s Tom, and he sounds desperate. Pained. I swivel back toward the house—and the sound of his voice—and that’s when I register something irrational. Sickening. A sight that makes my stomach clench.
Behind Denise’s raggedy old ficus, Orv has Tom pinned to the side of Gramp’s house, Orv’s muscular forearm (he’s a lot burlier than a toothpick factory worker ought to be) clamped across Tom’s shoulder.
I blink a couple of times, confused but also fearful of letting my gaze meet Tom’s.
“Go back inside, Bobbi!” Orv barks when he sees me noticing him.
I can’t move.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Tom cries in a frustrated, pleading tone. “You should’ve heard… He called you…”
“Shut up,” Orv tells Tom, leaning even harder into him.
All I can do is cry.
chapter 16
I SPENT Orv and Denise’s wedding night holed up in my room (once I got Duncan out of there, of course, which was harder than you’d expect).
When Denise tried to talk to me through the door, I pretended to be sleeping, because, honestly, I didn’t know at whom I was maddest: Tom for punching out Denise’s brother and ruining the wedding? Me for inviting Tom in the first place? Orv for roughing Tom up, since Tom probably didn’t deserve it? Max for saying whatever he’d said to send Tom off the deep end? Or maybe Duncan for pulling me away from the party and starting this whole ugly ball rolling?
* * *
I’ve been awake for at least an hour, staring into space, unable to will myself out of bed. Right now, I’m not sure I like anybody. And I’m even less sure anybody likes me.
“Bobbi?” Denise’s voice says once again at the door.
I moan as if I’m trying to wake up. “Yeah?” I mumble after a few moments.
“You coming out?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
Denise says, “I made waffles. There’s four or five left.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t you want something to eat?”
I admit, my lack of appetite is alarming. “Eventually,” I say, because I know it’s true; I can’t (and won’t) hold out forever.
“Everything’s fine,” she tells me, her tone supple and coaxing. “Max is fine. I’m fine. Orv’s fine.” There’s a little clicking sound, as if she’s tapping her press-on nails against the wall outside. “Tom’s okay too,” she adds, sounding reluctant. “I talked to his father. It’s all sorted out.”
I slip out of bed, the mattress squeaking in my wake. “I’m sorry,” I say from my side of the door. Denise doesn’t respond, so I crack the door open and, with a recalcitrant frown repeat, “Sorry.”
Denise shoves the door wide open and scoops me into a tight hug, so tight I’m sure I can feel that baby of hers and Orv’s trying to befriend my bellybutton. “Let’s just forget about it,” she suggests softly at the side of my head, the “it” being my boyfriend’s irrational explosion. “Okay?”
I fight back a sniffle, scratch my itchy nose on the shoulder of her flannel nightgown. “I’ll try,” I say, and that’s about the most I can promise.
* * *
I wa
it until Orv and Denise clear the driveway (two days before the wedding, Orv broke down and bought a car—a compact, foreign thing that shall remain nameless—on credit) for their “honeymoon” (a day trip to a popular park and waterfall) before calling Tom.
No matter what Denise claims, yesterday’s goings-on are far from settled, in my mind anyway. “Is Tom there?” I ask boldly when Wilma picks up.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
Is she for real? “Uh, yeah…it’s Bobbi.” There’s no use lying, since I doubt a bunch of other girls are beating a path to my boyfriend’s door.
“Just a minute,” Wilma says curtly.
After some muffled sounds that have me picturing Wilma with the cordless handset tucked into her armpit, Tom finally gets on the line. “Hello?”
“Hi.”
“Oh, hi,” he says, sounding surprised and, at the same time, Zen-calm, as if someone’s slipped him a Xanax or an Ambien.
I don’t know how to broach the subject of his wedding-day meltdown or the melee that ensued. “How’s it going?”
“Eh, all right,” he says with the depth of a sheet of paper.
The line goes quiet for a while, and then I come up with, “Nobody’s mad at you, you know. If you’re worried about—”
“Mad at me?!” he says, his voice spiking.
“Well…’cause…Denise said she talked to your dad. They hashed everything out or whatever.”
“Yeah, right,” he says with blatant sarcasm.
“That’s what she said.”
“Sure she did.”
“But she did,” I insist. Does he want me to spell it out in blood?
He sighs. “Listen, Bobbi…”
“Yeah?”
“…I like you…”
“I like you too.”
“…but I don’t know…”
Well, ain’t this a punch in the kisser? “You don’t know what?”
“It’s not your fault,” he says, gentler now. “I know that, but I don’t know if I can keep…getting into trouble for you.”