The Bride Wore Dead

by E M Kaplan

  She’d laughed because she thought he was joking.

  The very next day he began turning down her offers to get together. All of them. Casual, at first—no, he couldn’t get away from work just then. Then, after a week passed, she got the hint. It wasn’t any big deal. She’d only been dating him because she was trying to not think about Drew, who had been seeing a woman named Tessa at the time. All the same, there was nothing as sucky as a good, old-fashioned dumping. Another thing she had in common with Leann's ex Bill Campbell, she realized. Not only had they both been dumped by a person at the wedding, they were both in terrible clothes.

  “No, not many people would want to hang around with their ex-boyfriends,” Susan said, eyeing their tablemates.

  They were interrupted by food pouring out of the kitchen on the trays of the tuxedoed servers. Mrs. Ash separated herself from her table to hover over Josie. She flitted around for the entire first course, stopping the server to look over Josie’s plate before it was placed in front of her. Mrs. Ash foiled all of Josie’s attempts to avoid eating, and her stomach protested inside of its satin prison. The appetizers turned to a chalky paste in her mouth. The dishes were too bland or too spicy, too flamboyant or too mundane. Too everything.

  “Dear, you’re not eating anything,” Mrs. Ash said, wringing her hands. She leaned so only Josie could hear her.

  “That’s my style, you know,” Josie whispered back, swallowing hard. “Just a taste here, a taste there.” She gave Mrs. Ash a conspiratorial wink, knowing full well that if she were going to make it through the next hour without becoming violently ill, she had to appease this woman somehow.

  “Ah,” exclaimed Mrs. Ash. “That must be how you keep yourself so slender. You have the loveliest figure, you know. Leann almost didn’t fit into her dress this morning. She’s been missing her appointments with her personal trainer. I receive a text message whenever she misses one. It’s so hard to stay slim.”

  Try being sick for four months. Having a G.I. tract like a sieve would make a girl shed pounds like no other diet known to womankind. With a grimace, Josie pushed food into her mouth. Michael’s presence, however, seemed to have the same effect on Mrs. Ash that his mother’s did. With one glare from him, Mrs. Ash was soon back at her own table. For that, Josie was grateful.

  “What’s with you? What’s your story?” Doug bellowed at Josie across the table. He asked everyone, “Why does she get the white glove treatment?”

  “She has a special diet—she’s vegan,” said Susan. For some reason, she made a clawing gesture around her neck like she was growing an invisible goiter.

  “That looks like the same crap that we’re all eating,” he said, peering across the table. “I mean, for God’s sake, what’s wrong with a good noodle bake or a chicken dinner? Why do we have to eat this stuff? Am I right? Hers is the same as ours.”

  “It’s tofu,” Susan lied, pressing on, smooth as butter. “Isn’t it amazing what they can do with it now? People are so much more aware of their food and their health these days. Do you exercise, Mr. Campbell?”

  “Just his elbow lifting a beer can,” said his wife Larue, which was followed by an awkward silence.

  “Who would like some more wine?” Michael asked.

  There were immediate and simultaneous affirmatives around the table. Doug Campbell leaned toward his wife and said, “The fag’s all right.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “The brother Michael? No, he’s not gay. He is, however, socially stunted,” Susan said, quite tipsy, in answer to Josie’s question. They had camped out in the ladies’ room with their teal pumps kicked off. The creamy plush decor and full-force air conditioning was heaven. They sat on tufted benches in front of the mirrors.

  “I didn’t notice anything terrible about him.” Josie peeled off her hose with great relish. The nylon split when she got them down to her knees, so she ripped them off the rest of the way and stuffed them in the wicker wastebasket. Blessed relief. She wriggled her tortured toes in the thick carpet.

  Susan was saying, “Apparently, Janet LeBlanc—that’s bridesmaid number two—dated him for a while. She says he’s a bit of a control freak, but a great lover. She says he’s the length of a toilet plunger.”

  Josie blinked. “Nice imagery.” She leaned over the sink to splash some cool water on her neck and forehead.

  “You know what I mean.” Susan measured out the distance like a fish story between her hands.

  “Thanks already. I got it,” Josie said.

  “So, have you made nicey-nicey with your ex yet?”

  Josie rolled her eyes. “First of all, Joe Armstrong is not my ex. He was just an anomaly, a blip on my radar. Second of all, as crazy as it may seem, I’m avoiding stress and discomfort, not seeking it out.”

  “What if he realized that he made a mistake? What if he wants you back? What if…he’s just waiting for you to make the first reconciliatory move?” Susan leaned back on the velour bench.

  “Oh please. You have some mixed up notions about how it is in my world.”

  Susan smiled. “What? No Prince Charming for you? What kind of stories did your mom read you when you were a kid?”

  “Obviously not the same ones that you got to hear, you silly woman.”

  Strains of dance music filtered in from the adjoining ballroom. The reception was in high swing. One of the young cousins from their table had caught the bouquet with an outfielder’s grab. She’d squealed with delight, mouthing the name of that missing young movie star to her other cousins. Rod O’Something. All those young heartthrobs had Irish sounding names. Ireland, according to the young girls, was The Place. Whatever that meant. Josie had some Irish blood in her on her father’s side. A few freckles dotted the bridge of her nose despite her olive skin tones. Freckles just like the ones those girls who dove for the bouquet had, she thought, now tipsy herself, and grinned.

  During the dinner, Leann and Peter had walked to each table, greeting and thanking everyone. Leann pressed Josie’s hand with a genuine gratitude that won Josie over again. The discomfort of her dress and the sticky weather were forgotten for the moment. Peter, too, was pleasant and warm. He seemed to have eyes only for his new bride. Josie brimmed with fermented good wishes.

  They stood in front of her as a couple, arms around each other, but then Peter spied someone else and turned away. Leann, however, had leaned close to Josie and had taken her hand. “Thank you so much,” she said with that delicate, pronounced “ess” that spoke of heightened femininity and that was so common among porn stars and drag queens. Josie was so close, she could see the cracks in Leann’s powdered makeup, covering up a tiny scratch by her eye—even the pencil of her eye liner and the delicate hairs of her eyebrows. A puff of warm perfume came from the cleavage overflowing the bodice of her dress. “You don’t know how much it means to me that you’ve been here today,” she told Josie, who demurred and squeezed Leann’s hand back. Then, the couple moved on to other guests. Josie watched them for a time, and then lost them in the crowd.

  “The brother—Michael—seemed socially all right to me,” Josie said later freshening up again in the ladies’ room. Yeah, right. She was about four hours past fresh and drunk as a skunk. But for the first time in months, her stomach felt great. Actually, she couldn’t feel her stomach. Most of her body was deliciously numb. Her feet gave off mere tingles now. She hadn’t been this drunk since Vegas.

  Susan was ripped, too. She always took on a pedantic tone when she was drunk—she knew everything there was to know, and by God, everyone else was going to know it, too. She shrugged. “Eh. Those academic types never appeal to me anyway. Whereas you always go for them.”

  Josie pushed her hair out of her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “What about that weekend class you took last spring? You chased that man.”

  “Gimme a break.” Josie gave Susan a small shove. “That was a ceramics class. Hardly academic. Besides, he really was gay, remember? Although I’m gl
ad he told me up front. It saved me a lot of embarrassment.” She had been just about to throw herself at him. It was yet another failed attempt to get her mind off Drew…with a gay ceramics teacher. No gaydar on this chick.

  Susan covered her mouth with exaggerated, tipsy embarrassment. “Oh geeze. Sorry.” Outside the restroom in the booming dance hall, a new song started up, and she tilted her head, any awareness of a faux pas dissipating like an alcohol fume. She gave Josie a shove back as she reached for her shoes. “The Macarena, she is calling me. I must dance.”

  Susan stumbled out of the room. After a second or two, Josie followed her. That was unfair, she thought, even though she knew Susan didn’t mean to come across as harsh as she had. Josie’s string of half-hearted boyfriends was long and repetitive. The same mistakes. The same realization that none of them was Drew. If only she could be more timid in some of the other areas of her life, like her big mouth, which often got her into trouble. It wasn’t very nice of Susan to point that out. And Josie was going to tell her so.

  “Hey Susan—” And she plowed right into someone’s wide chest. She followed the buttons of the double-breasted navy jacket upward and found Joe Armstrong’s face. “Oh. Hey….”

  “Whoa. Steady there,” he said, making a big show of holding her arms although she was standing firmly. He smiled widely. “A bit too much of the bubbly?”

  She rubbed her forehead, not hiding her exasperation well. “No, I’m fine, thanks.” If she were a dog, she would have snarled at him. But she was not, so she composed herself. She took a deep breath and mustered a smile that was close to pleasant. “And how are you doing?”

  He ignored—or was unaware—of any discomfort that she was experiencing. “I’m fine. Doing well. I’m at The Globe now.”

  She raised her eyebrows in feigned interest. As far as she was concerned, the bastard could suck it.

  “Yeah, well,” he said modestly, “I’ve done my time. People are just starting to recognize it now.” He brought out his blustering swagger like a practiced trick. She could actually imagine him rehearsing it in front of a mirror.

  “Well, good for you,” she managed to say.

  “But look at you,” he said with enthusiasm. “You’re doing great. And you look fantastic. No work done, but you’ve lost a lot of weight, haven’t you? You look like a model.” He ventured to touch her under her chin, running his finger along her jaw line.

  She stared at him, not smiling, not blinking—her most repellent look. And it worked. He quickly took his hand back.

  “What do you want, Joe?

  He had the grace to look confused. “Want? What do you mean?” He held his hands out. “It’s been a long time since we got together, the two of us. I mean, what really happened? You stopped calling me—”

  “Give me a break,” she said.

  “I mean, here you are, all of a sudden. We haven’t seen each other in years—”

  “A couple months,” she said.

  “I get invited to this wedding. All these wonderful people and the food—you must be going nuts with the food. It’s your thing, right?”

  “How observant,” she said. “And so well put.”

  “And here you are. I stumbled into you. A beautiful bridesmaid.” He had his head tilted to the side as he looked at her. “Just amazing. I mean, what was I thinking to let you get away. Just the memory of your skin—so perfect—it lingers with me. We have a past, baby, a beautiful past. Remember Vegas? Would it hurt to relive just a little of that?”

  She stared at him. Was he angling for a quickie out in the parking lot? She wondered how she’d ever felt attracted to him, never mind spent time in his apartment, cuddling with him on his black leather bachelor couch with the contrasting zebra striped pillows. She had rushed home on more than one occasion to check her answering machine for a call from him. She shuddered. “Cut the crap, Joe. You’re killing my buzz.”

  “What?” he said with pseudo innocence. “What?”

  She held up her hand to stop him from saying anything more. “Look, I’m not introducing you to anyone here, so drop it.”

  He persisted. “Can I help it if I’m feeling a little romantic, a little nostalgic?”

  She cut him off, showing him her palm with a talk-to-the-hand gesture. “Joe. Give it up.”

  He was silent. She could see him struggling to maintain his thin ruse. In the end he shrugged. With a wide, oily grin, he said, “Can you blame a guy for trying?” He was so repellent she was starting to hate even his suit, even his hair, even…his ears.

  She held up her hand again and just walked away from him. In truth, she didn’t feel half the disgust that she was probably entitled to. Mostly, she just didn’t give a shit about him anymore and wanted to spend the least amount of time in his proximity as possible.

  Benjy, finally, all curly-haired and carefree, his face flushed from dancing, came up to her. She turned on him with more than usual venom. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Hey, lovely,” he said, working his shoulders to the frenetic dance beat. The Macarena had ended and now the BeeGees were thrusting their ebullient falsettos into her brain. The evening, the heat, and the absence of a certain knightly, unattainable doctor culminated in a pounding headache. Her physical pain swirled with her disgust for Joe Armstrong, the uncomfortable heat of the day, the insult of the bridesmaid’s dress, the oppressive mother of the bride and her unrelenting food and fame fixation.

  Josie glared at Benjy. “Why can’t you be useful for once in your damn life?” And even as she said it, she regretted it. She had a second of shocked silence between them to take it back. To apologize. But, she didn’t. There was still a small part of her that resented him for all his blissful, precarious will o’ the wisp existence. He had no job. He had no roots. No family. Just a suitcase of decent clothes and a few friends.

  His face fell and he stopped dancing.

  “Oh, Jesus,” was all she could get out before he walked away leaving her rubbing her sweaty forehead, her dainty teal purse dangling from her wrist. She was such a bitch. To her friends. She let him go, hoping she could repair the damage her stupid mouth did, in the days to come.

  #

  She sighed and edged her way around the room. Michael Williams sat at an abandoned table, cloth napkins crumpled and tossed between the place settings. When he saw her, he gestured to the seat next to him.

  “Belly up to the bar, matey,” he said. “Always tell the bartender what you’re thinking. Problems? I’ve got your answers.” He poured her a glass of wine—in a glass that didn’t look clean. The whole table had a disheveled look, like how she felt. Bits of the dry, styrofoam-like wedding cake littered the tablecloth. A few drops of red wine stained the place in front of her, the red liquid spreading through the cloth so that she could see the criss-cross pattern of the fibers. She took the dirty glass from him anyway.

  “Be careful when you ask me what’s on my mind,” she said. “I’m liable to tell you.”

  He smiled. “I like a woman who speaks her mind.”

  “In moderation,” she corrected him.

  He shrugged. “All right. In moderation then.”

  She held up a finger. “No one likes to hear the truth about herself. I have yet to meet someone with thick enough skin to take undiluted criticism from anyone.”

  He took a sip of his drink. “You sound as if you were speaking from experience.”

  She laughed. “Oh yes. You could say I have some experience in the field.”

  “Then why—” he leaned forward. “Why didn’t you tell the bride’s mother to take her fat ass to hell and leave you alone.”

  Josie stared at him. Then, she burst out laughing. “It wasn’t that bad,” she said after a while.

  He snarled. “It was a pathetic, bourgeois fiasco. I’m embarrassed to say that my family is degraded by having been made a part of it.”

  She blinked in a stunned, momentary silence. “It wasn’t that bad,” she repeated.

>   He stirred his drink with his finger. Then, he laughed. “A joke,” he said. “Whatever makes my brother happy is good enough for me.”

  Change the subject, she told herself. She cast around and snagged the first thought that came into her mind. “Have you ever been to Arizona?” she asked him.

  “Have you ever been a vegetarian?” he asked back, lifting his glass to her in toast before he knocked back the entire glass. He still had a glass or two to go if he wanted to catch up with her.

  “Why do you answer a question with a question?” she returned.

  “Why not? I am remarkably talented at evading the issues,” he said. “I’ve learned to manipulate even the most talented of my students at the university.”

  “They are no match for you?” She took a small sip. “Here’s another party game question for you—what would you say your governing emotion is? That is, the emotion that rules most of your thoughts and actions?”

  “Answer my question first,” he demanded. “Have you ever given up meat?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I’m a lifelong carnivore. In fact, I can’t think of anything that I haven’t eaten, or at least tried to.”

  “Aha. She answers at last. And a meat-eater. Impressive,” he said. His teeth gleamed in the dim ballroom light. “In return, I’ll tell you that my governing emotion is probably the quest for intellectual stimulation, the thrill of the hunt when I find it. But I want to talk more about your gustatory prowess. That sounded like a bold-faced challenge to me. Have you ever eaten haggis?”

  “Yes.” She gave him what she hoped was a devilish grin, not too drunk.

  “Uni sushi?”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that. I've eaten fugu and lived to tell the tale.” She took a bold swig of her wine. On closer examination, she saw her glass had someone else’s hot pink lipstick on the rim. She had the fleeting urge to match her own lips to it, but at the last minute she turned the print outward.