One day in April—a week or so after Will signed his divorce papers—Beth finally cracked. “Are you ever going to let me meet Sam?” she asked as they sat at his small table, sipping the dregs of an after-dinner coffee (Nescafé, Will’s secret shame). “No,” he responded. “I’m not.” Beth was so shocked she didn’t know what to say. “Not until I know you’re going to be in his life permanently,” he went on. “So you need to think about whether you want that.” She’d nodded numbly. Permanently, she thought, egads. The ongoing fact of his marriage had neatly allowed her to avoid questions of permanence. But now it was over. Nothing in her life felt even close to permanent, not her apartment, nor her work, which involved, of course, her dissertation, which was seeming more and more distant and irrelevant in the face of the job she’d finally managed to wrangle for the spring semester, teaching two 200-level English classes at Baruch—for so little money, she’d been using her credit card to buy food, which made her burn with shame—with no real indication that they’d give her a real contract, though she seemed to be making inroads with both Gail Bronfman and NYU, where she’d start teaching summer session in a week. It was just one class, but in her field, at least, and for a thousand dollars more than at Baruch, where the students had barely spoken English. Will kept telling her to pitch stories to magazines, now that her piece had come out on Salon (to little fanfare, though it had thrilled her to see her name on the site, her words below it).
A month later, on a Saturday evening in May, as they once again sipped their after-dinner coffee—he could cook, she’d discovered—he called from the little kitchen, “So, tomorrow, I thought you might want to come along with Sam and me. We’re going to the Central Park Zoo.”
“Um, okay,” said Beth, heart pounding.
“Here’s something to wear,” he added offhandedly, coming out of the kitchen and handing her a small black box, the sort of small box people were always being handed in movies and television shows, the sort of small box that could only contain one thing. Beth had never wanted such a box or the thing in it; nor had she ever dreamed of being presented with one of these objects, not in any sort of romantic, traditional way. She’d been annoyed—deeply annoyed—by the way Lil behaved in the months before her wedding, and surprised that Lil wore that enormous, suburban ring. She’d said it was out of duty to Tuck’s mom, but Beth knew better. Lil liked it.
But then Lil also liked (loved) being the center of attention, while Beth hated it. Her bat mitzvah had been, incontrovertibly, the most painful day of her life. But all that aside, when she got right down to it, she’d simply never imagined one of those little boxes in her future. Nor had she envisioned a ring, engraved invitations, a big dress. But now here she was, racing toward Saks, a “rock” (as Emily put it) sending shards of light through the car’s interior, to buy a white dress for her wedding, her real, big, catered wedding, to a man she’d known less than a year, a man who had—there was no getting around it—started their relationship very strangely and then, even when it achieved a level of normalcy, kept her at arm’s length. It was, she thought, the way things were done in some hazy, nebulous past—the 1950s?—or in the books she’d read growing up: a girl ventured out into public places with a man—movies, dinner, plays—and eventually he proposed.
She glanced at her mother, who was humming softly, and, adopting a cheerful tone, asked, “So, who was arrested?” She forced a laugh, which quickly mutated into a cough, for she knew the answer to this question—Dave, of course, always Dave—and dreaded hearing her mother’s commentary on the person in question. Her mother had never liked Dave, though she’d tried her best to hide it.
Mrs. Bernstein smiled. “You’re sure you don’t want to guess?” Beth nodded. “Okay, then I’ll tell you.” She paused for drama, as she did in class when reading aloud from Poe or Lovecraft. “Tuck. Lil’s husband.”
Beth exhaled deeply. “What? You’re kidding. What was Tuck arrested for? He’s, like, a writer. What for?”
Mrs. Bernstein laughed. “Protesting. He was part of some big demonstration against Crown, you know, that big hotel company. Apparently, they also run prisons, and exploit the prisoners. Horrible stuff! It was very clever. The demonstrators dressed up like prisoners, sort of. Lil really didn’t mention it?”
“No, she didn’t,” said Beth, frowning. “I haven’t spoken to her in a few days, though.”
The mall loomed ahead of them and Mrs. Bernstein’s mind clouded, again, with font sizes, response cards (postcard or matching envelope?), thread count (or should they not bother to register for sheets? Nobody ever bought them anyway; it felt somehow too intimate), and shades of white (would Beth look best in pure white or a cream? Probably the former). In one practiced motion, she swung the Subaru into a spot—far from the entrance, but you couldn’t hope for better on a Sunday—grabbed her purse, and hopped out of the car. Slowly, Beth followed. Mrs. Bernstein squeezed her daughter’s shoulders and kissed her loudly on the cheek. “Oooooh, we’re going to have fun,” she said. Beth smiled. “Yes,” she said. “You’re feeling okay?” Beth nodded. “I’m fine, really, maybe a little tired.” Mrs. Bernstein studied her daughter’s face. She did look tired, puffy under the eyes. She was teaching summer session at NYU—“It’s a big deal,” she’d squealed, “they hardly ever use adjuncts at Tisch!”—and maybe it was all too much for her, all that prep time, plus her dissertation (which Mrs. Bernstein feared was getting a bit lost), and the wedding to plan, all these decisions to make. “Okay, we won’t tire you out too much today.” She pulled open the heavy glass door that led into the men’s department and gestured grandly for Beth to step inside.
The familiar aisles of Saks had a calming effect on her and she felt, suddenly, that she might ask the question that had been plaguing her. “Sweetie, have you thought about bridesmaids?” Without warning, Beth heaved a great, gulping sob and burst into tears, just as they arrived in the cosmetics department, with its hot, white lights. Mrs. Bernstein, shocked, reached up automatically and put her arms around Beth, who stood frozen in the middle of the aisle. A gray-haired Clinique salesperson approached them tentatively, tissues in hand. “She can come over here and sit down if she likes,” she said. “Thanks,” said Mrs. Bernstein. “I think we’ll go to the women’s room.” The saleswoman nodded and pursed her lips. “Second floor,” she whispered. “Through lingerie.” Mrs. Bernstein gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Okay, Bethie, let’s take a little walk.” Beth nodded and clung to her mother. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I feel so stupid.”
“Shhhhhhhh. It’s okay,” Mrs. Bernstein murmured, guiding her toward the escalator.
By the time they reached the lounge, Beth’s sobs had subsided into hiccups. Mrs. Bernstein deposited her on a beige couch, walked over to the cooler, and siphoned off a little paper cone of water, then sat down beside her daughter and placed it in her hands. Beth drank it, meekly, glancing at her mother over the rim of the cup. “Honey, what’s going on?” This set off a new avalanche of tears. “I… don’t… know,” Beth choked out. Mrs. Bernstein was beginning to grow frightened. Beth’s problems had always been easily resolved by a trip to the doctor or a week of rest. Her tears were frequent, yes, but generally passed quickly. She was sensitive, Mrs. Bernstein thought, but not particularly complicated. “Okay, okay,” Mrs. Bernstein said, pushing Beth’s damp bangs off her forehead. “You don’t have to tell your old mother. We can just go home. Is that what you want?” Again, the tears. Mrs. Bernstein wondered, disloyally, if this was a passive-aggressive attempt to wiggle out of planning the wedding. Perhaps she should tell Beth that it needn’t be some big affair? A pang of disappointment shot through her. No. Everyone wanted a real wedding. It was already decided. It would be a grand, old-fashioned thing, at the Vinalhaven house, with a lobster dinner, and fresh oysters and champagne. So much fun.