Hope Street: Hope StreetThe Marriage Bed

by Judith Arnold

  Eddie had been blubbering openly by then. Bobby had nodded, because he’d figured agreeing with Father Paul was the fastest route to escaping from the stuffy office.

  “Very well.” Father Paul had stood, which had given Bobby and Eddie the freedom to stand, as well. “Be good boys, now. Don’t make your father’s life harder than it is. Do as he says. I don’t want to hear about you giving him a hard time.”

  “Okay,” Eddie had mumbled, and Bobby had echoed him.

  Out in the hall, Eddie had collapsed against Bobby. “Do we have to do whatever Daddy says?” he’d asked plaintively.

  “Nah. That was a crock. You steer clear of Dad as much as you can. I’ll take care of things.”

  He wasn’t sure he’d done a particularly good job taking care of things, but somehow, thirty-plus years later, he was standing at the back of a church, sunlight streaming in colored shafts through the much cheerier stained-glass windows of the Catholic church in Gray Hill. The pale oak pews were filled with people, among them Eddie and his partner, Stuart, and Louie, the man Father Paul had ordered Eddie and Bobby to obey. Joelle had arranged the seating so that Louie was positioned at the end of a pew, Joelle’s mother next to him and Eddie and Stuart on Wanda’s other side. After all these years, Louie DiFranco hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact that his younger son was gay.

  Coming to terms with things wasn’t one of Louie DiFranco’s strengths. He was much more adept at mouthing off like a fool and drinking like a fish.

  He was sober this morning, at least. Eddie had assured Bobby of it. Eddie and Stuart and Louie were all staying at a hotel in Arlington, and Eddie, who had rented a car, had volunteered to chauffeur Louie wherever he had to be. “You’re the father of the bride,” Eddie explained. “You’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll babysit Dad.”

  Father of the bride. God, how had that happened? Bobby shook his head and grinned.

  Mike and Danny looked spiffy in navy-blue blazers, khaki trousers, white shirts and burgundy ties, each with a red rose boutonniere pinned to his lapel. Claudia had decided they didn’t need to wear tuxedos just to be ushers. Lucky boys, Bobby thought. Wearing a tux made him feel as if he ought to be trick-or-treating. He, Gary, Gary’s father and the best man had all gone to a tuxedo-rental place in Arlington, where they’d agreed on the least frilly, fancy style available—plain black with black satin lapels, straight black trousers, pleated white shirts and black bow ties. Bobby had struggled a bit with the shirt’s studs, but Joelle had gotten them all fastened and tied his bow tie so it lay smooth under the weird stand-up collar and didn’t resemble a fat butterfly too much.

  She was beautiful, almost as beautiful as the bride. She’d sewn her own dress, a simple thing of flowing blue silk that fell to midcalf, with a blousy jacket over it. It was the same color as her eyes, the same color as the prom dress she’d sewn for herself so many years ago. Bobby still remembered that day. He remembered the pang he’d felt when Drew Foster had shown up—looking ridiculous in a matching blue tux, as Bobby recalled—and Joelle had looped her hand through the bend in his elbow and gazed at him with adoration.

  Bad memory. Bobby shook his head again, then stepped aside as Claudia’s bridesmaids began their procession down the church’s center aisle, leaving clouds of perfume in their wake. Claudia inched closer to him, her dress rustling. Joelle had sewn Claudia’s dress, too. It had taken her two months, and it was a work of art, panels of ivory silk with a gently curving neckline and a sweeping skirt that trailed behind Claudia. Rather than a traditional veil, she’d pinned a scarf of lace into her hair. In her hands was a bouquet of red, pink and white roses.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he teased as they watched her bridesmaids march down the aisle. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “Gee, I don’t know,” Claudia whispered back. “If I marry him, will you still be my dad?”

  “Forever and ever.” He wasn’t joking anymore.

  Her smile was so real he knew she wasn’t joking, either. “Good,” she said, then tucked her hand around his arm and led him through the doors, into the church.

  THE RECEPTION WAS HELD at a country club in northern Fairfield County. Gary’s parents were members, and they’d made the arrangements, even though Bobby had insisted on paying. The venue was damn expensive, although Gary’s father had informed Bobby that because he was a member of long standing, the place had offered them a generous discount.

  Discount? Bobby would hate to think what the undiscounted price was.

  But he could afford it. If this was what Claudia wanted, she would have it.

  The club was pretty, at least. The room they were in was bright, afternoon sunlight flooding through the French doors that lined one wall and opened out onto a fieldstone patio. The tables were draped in linen, the bartender was filling orders nonstop in one corner of the room and a three-piece combo played mellow music. Claudia and Gary had considered hiring a deejay, but they’d gone with a band instead, for which Bobby was thankful. Not that they showed any flair for playing Doors and Jimi Hendrix songs, but at least they weren’t playing hip-hop, or that deafening heavy-metal junk the boys were listening to these days.

  Claudia was in her element, circulating among the guests, dancing with Gary, laughing, hugging, kissing and showing off her ring set. The wedding band had diamonds in it, and the engagement ring contained a rock so big Bobby needed sunglasses to stare directly at it.

  Joelle glided over to him, holding a glass of white wine for herself and a club soda for him. The sense of dislocation he felt in this ritzy room, hosting this ritzy reception, was replaced by an even greater amazement that a woman so elegant and confident could be his wife.

  “How are you holding up?” she asked as she handed him his drink.

  “Fine. You?”

  “I don’t know.” Her smile was bittersweet. “I’m not old enough to be someone’s mother-in-law.”

  He chuckled and glanced toward his own mother-in-law. Wanda was seated at a table with some of Gary’s relatives, blathering about something. As mothers-in-law went, he supposed there were worse. Over the past few years, she’d started acting as if she liked him, or at least respected him. He supposed she had to be nice to him, as long as he and Joelle were helping her out financially. And since she lived in Ohio, he didn’t have to see her too often.

  “You’ll be a great mother-in-law,” Bobby assured Joelle.

  “And you’re a wonderful liar.” She reached up to adjust his collar. He’d untied the bow and unfastened the shirt’s top stud a while ago, which had undoubtedly destroyed the odd shape of the collar.

  He eased her hand away from his neck and gave it a gentle squeeze. Then he studied her ring. So plain, so thin. It had been all he could afford twenty-seven years ago. At least it was fourteen-carat gold.

  “I should buy you a diamond,” he said.

  She was in the middle of a sip of wine, and she coughed a couple of times. “A diamond? Why?”

  “Your daughter’s walking around with the Rock of Gibraltar on her hand. That stone could cover the boys’ tuition costs when they go to college.”

  She stretched out her arm and inspected her wedding band. “I like this ring just fine.”

  “It’s cheap.”

  “It’s priceless,” she said, then rose on tiptoe and kissed his lips.

  He closed his eyes and sank into the kiss, astonished that he—Bobby D—could be lucky enough to have this woman as his wife. When someone seated at a table near them whistled softly, he chuckled and pulled back. And immediately frowned when he spotted his father at the bar again.

  How many drinks had the guy consumed? At least four, and the formal dinner hadn’t begun yet. There weren’t enough appetizers in the entire country club to absorb all the booze he’d been swilling.

  If his father got drunk…Hell, he was already drunk. At this point, the only question was whether he’d get drunk enough to start breaking things.
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  Bobby cursed softly and handed his club soda to Joelle. “I’ve got to head Dad off at the pass,” he said, squaring his shoulders and working his way across the room. It wasn’t easy. Too many people had to stop and congratulate him. Who were all these folks, anyway? He and Joelle had very small families, but they’d invited neighbors, friends, a few of Joelle’s fellow teachers, a few of Bobby’s colleagues and associates from work. Bobby’s first boss in Connecticut, the cousin of his physical therapist. Suzanne, the woman Joelle had lived with while Bobby was in ’Nam. A goodly portion of Claudia’s classmates from high school and college. It seemed as if every single one of them had to stop him and offer congratulations, or share some anecdote about Claudia, or reminisce about some silly thing Gary had done years ago.

  By the time he reached the bar, his father had already been served a highball glass full of Scotch. Glenlivet, expensive stuff—wasted on Louie. At this point he’d probably think motor oil tasted great, as long as it had a high enough alcohol content.

  Louie turned from the bar and wove toward a table. Bobby swooped down on him, slung his arm around the old man’s shoulders and said, “Let’s take a walk.” Before Louie could muster any resistance, Bobby had him through the room’s door and out into a chilly, air-conditioned hallway.

  “What’s going on?” Louie asked.

  “You and I could use some fresh air,” Bobby said, steering him down the hall, past the pro shop and the restrooms, through the airy lobby and out the front door. The patio that bordered their reception room ran the length of the building, but in front of the main entry it extended outward into a broad stone stairway that descended to a plush lawn and a circular driveway. Meticulously pruned arborvitae lined the driveway. Blossoming rhododendron flanked the patio. Not bad, Bobby thought. DiFranco Landscaping could do better, but the view was attractive and the lawn was extremely green.

  “I don’t need fresh air,” Louie groused, wrinkling his nose as the summery evening wrapped around him. Like Bobby, he’d loosened his tie. His shirt and the jacket of his suit were wrinkled. Bobby wondered when he’d bought the suit, and where. It looked old, but his father never gained weight. He might have bought it when Bobby was a kid. Lapel widths came and went, and Bobby had no idea which width was considered fashionable when.

  “I think you do need fresh air,” Bobby said quietly. A bluebird alighted on the stone ledge bordering the patio and then flew off. A couple of pink-faced men in casual apparel, with golf bags slung over their shoulders, emerged from the building, nodded a greeting at Bobby and Louie and then headed down the steps to the driveway.

  “A flipping golf club,” Louie muttered. “Since when did you get so fancy?”

  Bobby chose to laugh off his father’s implicit criticism. “It was what Claudia wanted,” he said, his gaze settling on the glass in his father’s hand. Was there a tactful way to get it out of Louie’s grip? A way that wouldn’t cause Louie to snap?

  “You spoil that girl rotten, Bobby.”

  Anger bubbled up inside Bobby, but he swallowed it back down. He wasn’t going to let his father goad him, not today. “It’s her wedding. The only wedding she’s ever going to have.”

  “People get divorced all the time,” Louie pointed out.

  “There’s a happy thought.” Keeping his voice mild required greater and greater effort. “If she gets a divorce, she’s still doing this—” he gestured toward the building “—only once. One big wedding, and after that she’s on her own. But I don’t see a divorce happening here. Gary’s a good guy, and Claudia’s crazy about him.”

  “Lucky to marry a woman who’s crazy about you, huh,” Louie said, his tone tinged with sarcasm.

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he implying that Joelle wasn’t crazy about Bobby? She’d said her simple little wedding band was priceless. That sounded pretty crazy to Bobby.

  His father slugged down some Scotch. His eyes had a milky appearance, but he wasn’t staggering or reeling. “So, how much did this shindig set you back? You got that much money to spare?”

  “We budgeted for it,” Bobby said cryptically. He wasn’t sure what direction the conversation was taking, but he didn’t like it. “How about a cup of coffee, Dad?”

  “I don’t want coffee. I’ve got a drink.” He took another sip from his glass. Damn the bartender for having filled it so full. “I hear you send money to Wanda.”

  “We don’t send her money.” They only helped her out when she needed it. They’d paid her airfare to visit Connecticut—and they’d paid Louie’s airfare for this wedding, too, and his hotel room. But he’d been union at the rivet factory, and he received a decent pension in retirement. That he spent most of it on booze wasn’t a justification for Bobby to give him financial support. “Dad, you’re getting in a mood. I think you should have some coffee.”

  “What mood? I’m not in a mood.” Louie shot him a defiant glare. “I’m here, okay? I came to the flipping wedding. Put on a suit, got on a plane, saw the girl get married. This part’s called the reception, right? This is when we get our reward for sitting through the boring parts.”

  “Reward yourself with a cup of coffee. There’s going to be a nice dinner soon, and—”

  “Oh, a nice dinner. Everything’s very nice here. Who are you trying to kid, Bobby?”

  Bobby sighed. His gaze was still on his father’s glass. He felt his eyes swiveling in their sockets, following the movement of Louie’s hand as he moved it, the glass shifting right and then left.

  “You’re a piece of crap like me, Bobby. You can dress up in a fancy tuxedo, but it doesn’t change what you are. A kid from Tubtown. Cannon fodder, all shot up in Vietnam. Now you lug stones and plant shrubs. You wear boots to work and breathe dirt. You married that snotty blond girl—I don’t know why. Why didn’t you marry the dark-haired one? She was like us. This one—” he gestured toward the doors “—this Joelle, she always put on airs. Thought she was better than us. I never liked her.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her,” Bobby said dryly. “Give me the glass, Dad.”

  “Like hell.” He took another sip. “I never liked her. She had a superior way about her. I don’t know why the hell you married her—” “Dad.”

  “But I can guess. I can guess, Bobby. You think I’m an idiot? She was pregnant. You got her in trouble. You were stupid, sleeping around with too many girls. Thought you were the stud of Holmdell, but Mr. Stud got caught.”

  “Give me the glass,” Bobby said, extending his hand.

  His father stepped back, out of reach. “At least you had the balls to get a girl pregnant, which is more than I can say for your pansy brother. But I’ll tell you this, Bobby, since you’re too stupid to figure it out yourself. Joelle tricked you. She conned you. That pretty little girl you walked down the aisle today? You claim she’s my granddaughter, but she sure as hell doesn’t look like a DiFranco.”

  Rage exploded, flaring red in Bobby’s brain. He made a dive for the glass and wound up catching his father’s wrist. The glass tipped, splashing Scotch onto the fieldstone beneath their feet. With his free hand, he wrenched the glass from his father’s grip and hurled it over the ledge, onto the grass below.

  “You little punk,” his father snarled.

  “You’ve had too much to drink, Dad. You’re saying things you don’t mean to say—”

  “I mean every word of it.” He yanked his arm away from Bobby and started toward the door. “I’m getting another drink.”

  “No. You’re done drinking for today.”

  “You think I’m a drunk?”

  “I know you’re a drunk.”

  The punch came so quickly, so unexpectedly, Bobby didn’t have a chance to duck. He felt the sting in the corner of his mouth, the grinding ache in his cheek as his feet danced under him, struggling to hold him upright. Behind him he heard someone shout, and then a pair of hands pressed against his shoulders, steadying him. “Christ,” Eddie muttered. He pressed a frosty glass and a
cocktail napkin into Bobby’s hands. “Put some ice on your lip. I’ll take care of Dad.”

  Bobby’s vision slowly cleared. He watched his brother storm across the patio to Louie, who was trying to climb over the ledge to retrieve his glass from the lawn below. Sucking air into his lungs, he lowered his gaze to the glass in his hand. Some sort of liquid in there, a stirrer and ice. He pulled out a cube and pressed it to the corner of his mouth. The cold felt good, but the alcohol made his lip sting even more.

  The ice melted fast, dripping between his fingers. He used the cocktail napkin to dry his hand and then his mouth. When he drew the napkin away, he saw blood on it.

  Eddie seemed to have calmed his father down. He held him tightly and led him back toward Bobby. “How ’bout that?” Louie said, studying Bobby’s face and smiling with dazed pride. “Didn’t know your old man had it in him, huh.”

  “I always knew you had it in you,” Bobby retorted, wondering if the hatred burning in his gut was visible in his eyes.

  “It’s not that bad, Bobby,” Eddie assured him. “Use more ice.”

  “You can just tell folks you walked into a door,” Louie said, then laughed. Maybe he wasn’t so drunk after all. Or maybe being drunk didn’t dull his memory. This punch, Bobby understood, was payback. It was settling a very old score. It was letting Bobby know that the hatred was mutual.

  “I’m going to drive him back to the hotel,” Eddie said.

  “I can call a cab for him.”

  “Here? In the middle of golf country?” Eddie snorted.

  “I don’t want you to leave. They’ll be serving dinner soon.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll get him into his room and come back. You can tell Stuart where I’ve gone. Anyone else, just tell them Dad wasn’t feeling well.”