A few days before the wedding Taki gave notice. “But I thought you would stay on… I’m sure my wife would like it too. Maybe we can give you a raise.” Taki grinned and bowed. “It is regrettable,” he said, “that I experience only bachelor establishments… but I wish you hereafter every contentment.”
What hurt Charley most was that when he wrote Joe Askew asking him to be his bestman, he wired back only one word: “No.”
The wedding was at the Emmanuel Baptist Church. Charley wore a cutaway and new black shoes that pinched his toes. He kept trying to remember not to put his hand up to his tie. Nat Benton came on from New York to be bestman and was a great help. While they were waiting in the vestry Nat pulled a flask out of his pants pocket and tried to get Charley to take a drink. “You look kinda green around the gills, Charley.” Charley shook his head and made a gesture with his thumb in the direction from which the organ music was coming. “Are you sure you got the ring?” Nat grinned and took a drink himself. He cleared his throat. “Well, Charley, you ought to congratulate me for picking a winner… If I could spot the market like I can spot a likely youngster I’d be in the money right now.”
Charley was so nervous he stammered. “Did… don’t worry, Nat, I’ll take care of you.” They both laughed and felt better. An usher was already beckoning wildly at them from the vestry door.
Gladys in so many satinwhite frills and the lace veil and the orangeblossoms, with a little boy in white satin holding up her train, looked like somebody Charley had never seen before. They both said “I will” rather loud without looking at each other. At the reception afterwards there was no liquor in the punch on account of the Wheatleys. Charley felt half-choked with the smell of the flowers and of women’s furs and with trying to say something to all the overdressed old ladies he was introduced to, who all said the same thing about what a beautiful wedding. He’d just broken away to go upstairs to change his clothes when he saw Ollie Taylor, very tight, trip on a Persian rug in the hall and measure his length at the feet of Mrs. Wheatley who’d just come out of the receptionroom looking very pale and weepy in lavender and orchids. Charley kept right on upstairs.
In spite of the wedding’s being dry, Nat and Farrell had certainly had something, because their eyes were shining and there was a moist look round their mouths when they came into the room where Charley was changing into a brown suit for traveling. “Lucky bastards,” he said. “Where did you get it?… Gosh, you might have kept Ollie Taylor out.”
“He’s gone,” said Nat. They added in chorus, “We attend to everything.”
“Gosh,” said Charley, “I was just thinkin’ it’s a good thing I sent my brother in Minneapolis and his gang invitations too late for ’em to get here. I can just see my old Uncle Vogel runnin’ around pinchin’ the dowagers in the seat and cryin’ hochheit.”
“It’s too bad about Ollie,” said Nat. “He’s one of the besthearted fellers in the world.”
“Poor old Ollie,” echoed Charley. “He’s lost his grip.”
There was a knock on the door. It was Gladys, her little face pale and goldenhaired and wonderfullooking in the middle of an enormous chinchilla collar. “Charley, we’ve got to go. You naughty boy, I don’t believe you’ve looked at the presents yet.”
She led them into an upstairs sittingroom stacked with glassware and silver table articles and flowers and smokingsets and toiletsets and cocktailshakers until it looked like a departmentstore. “Aren’t they sweet?” she said. “Never saw anythin’ like it in my life,” said Charley. They saw some guests coming in at the other end and ran out into the back hall again. “How many detectives have they got?” asked Charley. “Four,” said Gladys.
“Well, now,” said Charley. “We vamoose.”
“Well, it’s time for us to retire,” chorused Farrell and Nat suddenly doubled up laughing. “Or may we kiss the bride?”
“Check,” said Charley. “Thank all the ushers for me.”
Gladys fluttered her hand. “You are dears… go away now.”
Charley tried to hug her to him but she pushed him away. “Daddy’s got all the bags out the kitchen door… Oh, let’s hurry… Oh, I’m almost crazy.”
They ran down the back stairs and got into a taxi with their baggage. His was pigskin; hers was shiny black. The bags had a new expensive smell. Charley saw Farrell and Nat come out from under the columns of the big colonial porch but before they could throw the confetti the taxidriver had stepped on the gas and they were off.
At the depot there was nobody but the Wheatleys, Mrs. Wheatley crying in her baggy mink coat, Mr. Wheatley orating about the American home whether anybody listened or not. By the time the train pulled out Gladys was crying too and Charley was sitting opposite her feeling miserable and not knowing how the hell to begin.
“I wish we’d flown.”
“You know it wouldn’t have been possible in this weather,” said Gladys and then burst out crying again.
To have something to do Charley ordered some dinner from the diningcar and sent the colored porter to get a pail of ice for the champagne.
“Oh, my nerves,” moaned Gladys, pressing her gloved hands over her eyes.
“After all, kid, it isn’t as if it was somebody else… It’s just you and me,” said Charley gently.
She began to titter. “Well, I guess I’m a little silly.”
When the porter grinning and respectfully sympathetic opened the champagne she just wet her lips with it. Charley drank off his glass and filled it up again. “Here’s how, Glad, this is the life.” When the porter had gone Charley asked her why she wouldn’t drink. “You used to be quite a rummy out at the countryclub, Glad.”
“I don’t want you to drink either.”
“Why?”
She turned very red. “Mother says that if the parents get drunk they have idiot children.”
“Oh, you poor baby,” said Charley, his eyes filling with tears. They sat for a long time looking at each other while the fizz went out of the champagne in the glasses and the champagne slopped out onto the table with the jolting of the train. When the broiled chicken came Gladys couldn’t eat a bite of it. Charley ate both portions and drank up the champagne and felt he was acting like a hog.
The train clanked and roared in their ears through the snowy night. After the porter had taken away the supperdishes Charley took off his coat and sat beside her and tried to make love to her. She’d only let him kiss her and hug her like they’d done before they were married. When he tried to undo her dress she pushed him away. “Wait, wait.”
She went into the lavatory to get into her nightdress. He thought he’d go crazy she took so long. He sat in his pyjamas in the icy gritty flow of wind that came in through the crack of the window until his teeth were chattering. At last he started to bang on the door of the toilet. “Anything wrong, Glad? What’s the matter, darlin’?”
She came out in a fluffy lace negligee. She’d put on too much makeup. Her lips were trembling under the greasy lipstick. “Oh, Charley, don’t let’s tonight on the train, it’s so awful like this.”
Charley felt suddenly uncontrollably angry. “But you’re my wife. I’m your husband, God damn it.” He switched off the light. Her hands were icy in his. As he grabbed her to him he felt the muscles of his arms swelling strong behind her slender back. It felt good the way the lace and silk tore under his hands.
Afterwards she made him get out of bed and lie on the couch wrapped in a blanket. She bled a great deal. Neither of them slept. Next day she looked so pale and the bleeding hadn’t stopped and they were afraid they’d have to stop somewhere to get a doctor. By evening she felt better, but still she couldn’t eat anything. All afternoon she lay halfasleep on the couch while Charley sat beside her holding her hand with a pile of unread magazines on his knees.