“We’ll be there, Pops. Don’t worry. Just relax.”
Mr. Banks gave up and went to his room to dress. Somehow he felt alone and out of the picture. Mrs. Banks was dressing in the guest room which adjoined Kay’s. He made his preparations moodily.
He was not nervous, as he had feared he might be, only confused and ill at ease. While he regarded himself gloomily in the mirror Tommy burst into the room.
“Hey, Pops, I haven’t anything but soft shirts. These stiff collars won’t fit on soft shirts. What am I going to do?”
“Why, I can be dressed in ten minutes,” Tommy assured him.
If Mr. Banks had had a blunt instrument in his hands he would undoubtedly have used it. As it was he merely stared at Tommy without affection.
“What size do you wear?”
“Fourteen and a half.”
“Well, I wear fifteen and a half, so that’s that. Hasn’t Ben got a shirt without a collar?”
“Yeah, but he’s got it on.”
“Didn’t you have an evening shirt?”
“Yeah. Mom put it in the wash. Can’t I wear a soft shirt, Pops?”
“No,” shouted Mr. Banks.
“Well, what’ll I do?”
“Take the car and get one,” yelled Mr. Banks.
“Good God, it’s quarter after three. You and Ben are due at the church in forty-five minutes. Have I got to think for—”
But Tommy was gone. Mr. Banks resumed dressing, musing on the sordid eugenic tricks that Nature plays on men. When he had finished he surveyed himself in the long mirror and found the sight rather pleasing. Not many of his friends could wear their old cutaways at their daughters’ weddings. If he didn’t move impulsively it was perfect.
He started downstairs. As he passed Kay’s door he heard voices. He was about to stop. Then the feeling of strangeness came over him once more and he continued on his way.
Without premeditation he found himself in the pantry. There he poured himself a highball which he regarded contemplatively for some time before drinking. When he had finished it he could think of nothing else to do so he started back upstairs.
Tommy almost knocked him down as he came leaping up the steps three at a time, a package under his arm. “I got it,” he panted from the door of his bedroom. “I had to move some. A cop stopped me, but I talked him out of it. Gee, what a ride.” His door slammed. Mr. Banks shuddered. He stood uncertainly at the head of the stairs, not knowing just where to go. A low murmur of voices came from behind Kay’s closed door.
“Hi, Pops, this kind of a shirt has to have studs. Got any?” He felt himself going rigid again.
“You must have some. Your mother gave you a set for your evening shirt.”
“I know, Pops. I can’t find ’em. Must have gone to the wash.”
In his bedroom Mr. Banks pawed vainly through the jewel case which had stood on his bureau for decades. It contained a miscellaneous collection of old fraternity pins, unidentified skeleton keys, a patent nail-clipper and his World War I identification tag. No collar buttons.
His voice sounded strained and unreal. “Listen, you’ve had two months to think of this. You take Ben to the church. Then go and get your damn collar buttons—and swallow them.”
Tommy opened his mouth to protest at this injustice, but he saw an expression on his father’s face that made him think better of it. He went out, closing the door quietly behind him.
A moment later Mrs. Banks entered the room and Mr. Banks forgot everything else. He knew that he would never be able to remember what she was wearing. He knew also that, to his dying day, he would never forget her as she stood, framed in the doorway, waiting for his approval—slim, graceful and lovely. All the beauty of her own wedding day lay upon her, tempered by a serenity and dignity that made Mr. Banks feel suddenly shy.
She saw the startled admiration in his face. “Don’t say any more, darling,” she said. “You like it. I saw that. You’ll spoil it if you try to tell me why. And for heaven’s sake don’t muss my hair.”
“Kay is ready,” announced Mrs. Pulitzski. They filed down the hall after her. She paused before Kay’s door and threw it open dramatically. Kay was standing in the middle of the room, her train and veil carefully arranged behind her, no longer a brown-haired girl of five feet four, but a princess from some medieval court. Her head was thrown back slightly and she watched the effect upon her courtiers with the calm assurance of one born to the cloth of gold.
Mr. Banks would not have been surprised if she had extended her hand for him to kiss. His eyes became suddenly blurred. Good God, this would be a hell of a time for him to start crying. What was the matter with everybody today?
“You’re wonderful, Kitten. Wonderful.”
She squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Pops.” For an instant her eyes met his—not as a daughter but as a woman. “Now, on to the slaughter,” she said.
He looked at his watch. “Good God, it’s five after four.”
“The cars must be here,” said Mrs. Banks. “I ordered both of them to be here at four sharp.” She looked out Kay’s window into the empty street.
“I’ll call the garage,” said Mr. Banks. “I’ll give them a piece of my mind.” Before he was halfway downstairs the telephone rang.
“Hello.—Yes. Speaking.—WHAT? WHO? Wait a minute.” He covered the receiver with his hand. “It’s those two cousins of yours from Baltimore. They came as a surprise. They’re down at the station and there aren’t any taxis. They want to know how they’re going to get to the church.”
Mrs. Banks stared blankly down at him over the stair rail.
“Well, what’ll I tell them?” asked her husband. “They’re your relatives.”
“Tell them—Tell them—Oh, tell them I don’t give a damn how they get there. Tell them to jump in the lake and swim.”
If Mrs. Banks had done a hand stand on the banisters she could not have startled her husband more. “Ellie can’t be disturbed at the moment,” he said apologetically to the telephone. “I’m sure there’ll be a taxi along in a minute, though. There always is.—Yes indeed. It was good of you to come.—I certainly hope so.”
• • •
The two black limousines drove up at quarter after four, their drivers immaculate in whipcord uniforms and visored caps.
“Where the hell—” began Mr. Banks.
The driver of the rear car got out and stood before Mr. Banks, cap in hand. He had white, wavy hair and a pontifical face that radiated gentle loving-kindness.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. His voice sounded like a benediction. “They gave us the wrong address. I’m truly sorry, sir. I know the importance of punctuality at a time like this. I hope it hasn’t upset the young lady.”
Mr. Banks deflated visibly. “Not at all,” he said. “Not at all.” He helped Mrs. Banks and her mother into the front car, which dashed off immediately. Mrs. Pulitzski already had Kay carefully folded into the rear one. He climbed in beside his daughter, knocking his high hat over his nose. The white-haired chauffeur closed the door tenderly.
He had a pontifical face that radiated gentle loving-kindness.
It was immediately opened again by a small man in a brown suit. “I’m Weisgold,” he said. “Weisgold of Weisgold and Weisgold. The candid men.” Mr. Banks’ eyes shut as a blinding flash went off in his face. “Thanks,” said Mr. Weisgold. “See you in church.”
“Drive,” said Mr. Banks to the saintly wheelsman, “as if the seven hounds of hell were on your tail.”
14
WHO GIVETH THIS WOMAN?
Mr. Banks sat uneasily in the rear of the black limousine. Beside this lovely, calm stranger he felt small and a bit ridiculous. Their ages had somehow been mysteriously reversed. Instead of being the father of the bride he was a small boy being taken to dancing school in an asinine costume.
A neatly framed card on the back of the chauffeur’s partition caught his eye. “The driver of this car is Mr. Pomus. He is Careful—Courteous—
Cooperative.” He read it over several times.
The shiny high hat cut his forehead. It had fitted him once. Why should it be too small for him now? He wondered if the forehead grew fat with the rest of the body. There was no reason why it should not, when you came to think of it. Or one’s ears either, for that matter. That was a quaint thought. “How stout your ears have grown, Mr. Banks.”
Ruminating along these philosophical lines, he half observed their progress through the elm-shaded and self-consciously meandering streets of Fairview Manor. It should have created at least a ripple of disturbance. Someone should have stopped trimming a hedge long enough to step to the curb and wave them on their way. Someone should have cried, “There goes the bride and her father.”
But no one did.
Solid citizens continued their ceaseless, neurotic fight to civilize nature with a pair of clippers and a lawn mower. Little boys continued their suicidal ball games under the very fenders of the car. In the front seat Mr. Pomus gazed benignly over his wheel. If he had raised two fingers in blessing to the urchins that he so nearly ran over, it would have been in character.
They rounded a corner into Red Brook Road. Far down its leafy vista Mr. Banks caught a glimpse of the striped awning in front of St. George’s. Considerably nearer, however, was the father of all moving vans. A veritable freight car of a vehicle. It was backed against the curb and completely blocked the street. As they came to a stop the driver of this behemoth looked down on them from his cab with lackluster eyes.
Mr. Pomus thrust his white locks through the window. “We want to get by,” he said gently.
He joined Mr. Pomus, adding a number of words that the latter seemed to have forgotten.
The driver eyed him impersonally as one observes passers-by in a station waiting room. “Hold yer glasses on, gran’pa. Don’t let yerself get sweated up.”
Mr. Pomus’ face took on the ethereal look of a saint about to be martyred. “I’m telling you to pull that God-damn crate out of the way an’ lemme get the hell by,” he said with unexpected firmness.
The truck driver spat through the cab window as if to rid himself of an unpleasant taste. “Yeah? You an’ who?”
Mr. Pomus opened the door quietly and half stood on the running board. From his lips there poured, without warning, a torrent of electric invective. It contained many words which Mr. Banks had not heard since World War I with adaptations of old ideas. For a few moments he stared at Mr. Pomus in dismay. Then something long dormant within him was touched into life.
Lowering the rear window and carefully removing his high hat, he stuck his head out and joined Mr. Pomus, adding a number of words that the latter seemed to have forgotten. For the first time that day he felt like himself. He also felt Kay tugging at his coattails.
The driver descended from his cab and approached them, his shoulders swaying like those of a boxer moving into the ring. When he reached the car he noticed Kay and stopped.” Whyn’t you tell me you was on yer way to a weddin’? Jesus, what’s bitin’ people these days?”
He climbed back into his cab and stepped on the starter. Mr. Banks looked at his watch. It was twenty-three minutes past four. As they drew up to the curb in front of St. George’s he noted the usual crowd grouped around the sidewalk openings of the striped awning. He alighted and, his hat once more knocked over his left eye, helped his daughter from the car.
She smiled up at him and took his arm. “You were wonderful, Pops.” Mr. Weisgold of Weisgold and Weisgold danced before them like a leprechaun, his ever-candid camera at his eye. Preceded by flashing bulbs, they walked together toward the dim entrance of the church.
• • •
Mr. Tringle, radiating efficiency, was waiting for them at the top of the stone steps. “This way,” he said, and dove into a small passage. Through an open door Mr. Banks had a momentary glimpse of the interior of the church. He was conscious of heads and color and lights. It looked more like a stage backdrop than a real scene. The organ was booming complacently.
They were in some sort of vestibule that opened into the church through double doors that were now closed. The bridesmaids were there and a few of the ushers. Mr. Banks noted with surprise that everyone seemed dressed according to instructions.
Tommy appeared from somewhere, looking as if he were in the habit of wearing a cutaway and a wing collar every afternoon. “Sorry I messed things up, Pops,” he said. “But I made it. Ben’s going to take Mom down now.”
Everyone seemed to know just what was going on except Mr. Banks. It was incredible that such complex details should be falling into place without his supervision. He almost resented it. With a dramatic flourish Mr. Tringle threw open the double doors that led into the church.
He saw Ben swing into the center aisle with his mother on his arm. A feeling of elation spread through Mr. Banks as he watched his wife’s straight, slender back. For years she had been the focus of attention at all social events. Now she was being led humbly to her place in a front pew. For once he had stolen the show.
The remaining ushers fell into line. Mr. Tringle stood beside the leaders. “Ready?” he asked. No one gave the slightest indication as to whether he was or not. Mr. Tringle pushed a small button on the wall.
The organ made a few ad lib sounds intended to convey the idea that the organist had come to the end of whatever it was he was playing. A hush fell over St. George’s, broken only by the rustle of several hundred people trying to face in two directions at once.
This was the supreme moment—the moment Mr. Banks had dreaded and anticipated for so many weeks. It had all come with such a rush at the end that he scarcely had time to grasp its significance. Now that it was here, he was serenely calm. It was not an ordinary, workday calm, however, but rather one of detached unreality.
Although he had been in St. George’s many times before it was as strange to him at this instant as a Byzantine mosque. The sea of faces that shot suddenly upward from the pews as the organ paused were unreal. They reminded him of a high-speed movie he had once seen of a growing poppy field. Even the girl beside him was a stranger. She was no longer his little daughter, but a beautiful, serene woman into whom all wisdom had suddenly and mysteriously flowed. She stood, poised on the threshold of her greatest adventure, her face lit with understanding and confidence.
It was difficult to conceive how an earthy chap like Buckley could have produced this miracle. Having produced it, his responsibility to maintain it was great. It would be a terrible thing to betray that expression in Kay’s eyes. They were fixed far beyond Buckley, on an ideal which perhaps no mortal could hope to achieve, but which was all the more precious because of its unattainability. A thousand generations of women were standing behind Kay now. For a mystic instant she was a generic part of that selfless, intuitive race which since the days of the mastodons has been quietly guiding awkward, bumbling Man to an unknown destiny of greatness.
“Right foot, I said,” hissed Mr. Tringle.
At this particular instant he was horrified to note that two of the bridesmaids had begun to sniffle. In the unscrupulous way of all women in little things they had snatched carefully folded handkerchiefs from ushers’ pockets and were dabbing their eyes and blowing their noses.
“Good God,” said Mr. Banks, but he had no time to develop the idea. The organ sounded off with its warning thumps. Kay patted his arm. “Well, Pops, we’re off.”
“O.K. with the right foot,” hissed Mr. Tringle. “Right foot, I said.” Mr. Banks shifted quickly. Everyone else changed step at the same moment and he had to shift back again. Good God, was this a wedding march or a minuet? The procession passed through the oak doorway into the church.
Mr. Banks and Kay reached the rear pews. He would have continued, but she held him back. “Hold it, Pops,” she murmured. With the calmness of a general watching his forces deploy into battle, she stood poised, awaiting the proper moment.
The maid of honor was twenty feet ahead when he felt the gentle pressu
re of her arm. The stage was set as she wished it. She was ready for her entrance.
Out of the corners of his eyes Mr. Banks caught glimpses of familiar faces. Their expression paid tribute to the girl at his side. Pride dispelled all other emotions.
He saw Buckley and the best man waiting for them at the end of the aisle. Mr. Galsworthy stood on the chancel steps smiling ever so slightly. Mr. Banks was struck by his resemblance to Mr. Pomus.
Now they were lined up before the steps and the minister was reading from a white satin book with a purple marker hanging from it. As he stood on the top step he towered above them in his robes like a genie emerging from a bottle.
It gave Mr. Banks an entirely new view of Mr. Galsworthy’s face—a kind of worm’s-eye view. He became vividly aware of the minister’s nostrils, which were unusually long and worked in and out like bellows as he spoke. He wrenched his eyes away with an effort, conscious that this was not the memory he wished to treasure in later years. At a moment like this it did seem as if he might be doing something more worth while than studying Mr. Galsworthy’s nostrils.
Besides which he had a cue coming. When Mr. Galsworthy reached the place where he asked, “Who giveth this woman—?” Mr. Banks was to say, “I do.” It was his only line in the show. He wanted to acquit himself creditably and began to consider his delivery.
Should he say, “I do” or “I do”? “I do” sounded silly. It implied that any number of people might do it and that he was pushing himself forward for the job.
On the other hand “I do” didn’t make much sense either. It certainly wasn’t the proper way to answer a general question. The whole passage struck him as fatuous. It put the minister in a ridiculous position, forcing him to overlook the fact that the father of the bride was standing right under his nose—no!—not that!—not his nose again!—keep off that. But he was obliged to put the question in such a way that it carried the implication that perhaps no one would wish to undertake the job.
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