I stopped on purpose, expecting him to come in and say what he had to say. But I waited and no answer came. I asked, “Mr. Lang, are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” he said.
“Well? What do you say?”
“What is there to say, Mr. Kirby?”
That didn’t quite seem to cover it, and I pressed him, as to whether he’d sign the consent, and whether Mrs. Lang would. But no answer came, and then I could hear her voice, but couldn’t hear what she said. Then came that blank you get when somebody cups the phone. Then the blank went off and her voice came through: “Mr. Kirby, my husband just told me what you and Sonya are fixing to do, and I can only say: God bless! Mr. Kirby, I’ve always admired you so, and want you to know how grateful I am, how grateful we both are, that you’d step into the breach this way, and—”
“But I want to step into the breach!”
“And it’s so decent of you, Mr. Kirby—”
“Mrs. Lang, about the parental consent—”
“And Mr. Kirby, one other thing—“
But on that, Sonya grabbed the receiver. She’d been cuddled into my arms, so she could hear, and she let her mother have it: “Mother! This is me! Now will you knock it off with the goo, all this ladylike talk? It’s getting late, and we have to apply for our license — we want to do it today, so we can be married Monday and get it over with! But we must have your consent, and—” But there was more talk from the other end, and suddenly Sonya screamed, “Yah! Yah! Yah” — or something that sounded like that, and began jawing stuff that seemed wild, but that apparently did the trick. Then she snapped: “Okay, we’ll be by in ten minutes! See that you don’t keep us waiting! We have to be there before that bureau, the Marriage License Bureau, closes down for the day! Ten minutes!”
She put the receiver back, stood up, smoothed her dress, and kissed me. “Okay, let’s go,” she said. “We’re set.”
So started an afternoon and evening that melted into a blur, that was something like a dream, and yet at the same time was real. They were waiting out front, Mrs. Lang in a black silk dress with red flowers on it, he in a suit, with no hat. I hopped out, kissed her, and shook hands with him. I handed her in, let him climb in beside her, closed them up, got in myself, and started out. He said, “Mr. Kirby, I don’t try to read your mind, but if it was me, I’d want it done kind of quiet, so how about Rockville instead of Marlboro? I imagine you’re not so well-known in Montgomery County, as you are here in Prince Georges, and—”
“Good!” I answered. “Sonya?”
“Well of course,” she chirped. “It’s how we should do, of course. It’s amazing, dumb as he is, the things my father thinks up.”
“He’s due to get brighter. Did you know?”
“He is? So he won’t be so dumb inny more?”
“It’s a well-known fact — when smart-alecky kids get older, their parents get un-dumbed.”
“Well what do you know. But, take the dumbness out—”
“Sonya,” I said. “Shut up.”
“Okay.”
She said it meek, opened her legs, and began fanning herself with her skirt. “Mother,” she asked, “if you had told me that, what then?”
“You’d have screamed for an hour, at least.”
“He tells me shut up and I shut.”
“And a great improvement, I’d say.”
That was Mr. Lang, and it hit us all funny, so we laughed and eased off a bit. For the rest of the trip to Rockville we acted natural and chatted along, mainly about what a fine day it was. When we got there, I parked in front of the courthouse and we all went in, marching up to the Marriage License Bureau, where the lady was quite friendly, and it turned out they had printed forms for the parental consent. So while the Langs were filling that out, Sonya and I filled out our application and signed it. Then the lady looked everything over and said: “This seems to be in order — you can pick up your license Monday.” I asked if “the judge” could marry us, that being a brevet I’d heard of, that seemed suitable to a courthouse bigwig. But from the smile she gave it I knew I’d pulled a blooper. “Actually,” she said, “it’s against the law in Maryland for a judge to perform a marriage, but the deputy clerk would be glad to. Do you wish to make an appointment?”
“Well I certainly hope so!” said Sonya, in such a hard-boiled way that the lady laughed and we all laughed.
But Mrs. Lang started to cry. “There now!” said the lady. “There now! There!”
We set it for two o’clock, which would give us time in the morning for things that might have to be done.
Going back it was still very friendly, but with long pauses between, and no laughing, or at least, not much. I expected opposition, perhaps quite a fight, over my taking Sonya for the weekend, and was rehearsing argument for it, for some little time in my mind, before bringing the subject up. But when I did, there was no opposition. “I may as well own up,” said Mr. Lang, “I used bad judgment about it, about this idea I had, that though blood is what wipes out that stain, money can take its place. It was for her benefit, Sonya’s I mean, that I must say for myself, so at least my intentions were good. What I hadn’t realized was, I was creating a situation where one person on earth could wish Sonya dead, could benefit from having her dead, on account of a situation I’d created myself. And not to go into details, I can’t honestly say that person would stop at killing her. So, until Monday, when this marriage takes place and this person no longer has reason to take her life we’re up against something quite serious. That’s why, Mr. Kirby, I’ll let Sonya go with you — otherwise, I’d blister her backside for doing it.”
“No blistering’s called for, I promise you.”
“Your intentions do you credit.”
“Mr. Kirby, we trust you completely,” said Mrs. Lang, and a silence settled down. Then presently he asked me: “You taking her to New York?”
“...That idea had occurred to us.”
“To me!” yelped Sonya. “I thought it up.”
“It occurred to me, Mr. Kirby.”
“Well listen to him! Maybe he’s not so dumb!”
She twisted around to stare at her father, and I said: “I told you, didn’t I? That he was due to get brighter?”
“It’s amazing, simply amazing.”
“But I was too set in my mind,” he went on, paying no attention to her, “thinking about that money, that I wouldn’t let myself face it, that this simple solution was there.”
“It was Sonya’s idea, that’s true.”
“So let’s all bow down and give thanks.”
She was quite airy about it, but her father gave it a brush. “I give thanks to Mr. Kirby,” he announced, in an extra-solemn way, “for relieving a situation in all kinds of different ways, especially for me. At least, I’m off the hook.”
I didn’t say anything, but it seemed to me he accented I’m just a little. And Sonya caught it too. “You’re off the hook?” she snapped. “What’s that supposed to mean? That somebody else in on?”
“It means what I said. I’m off.”
“It sounded to mean more.”
“Don’t hear sounds that weren’t made.”
They may have wrangled a little more, but I didn’t pay too much attention, as we were nearing the Lang home, and I had to take up the question of where I would go with her, these next three days and three nights, as taking her home was out of the question. I mean, if she were coming in as my wife next week, then to have her lay up for the weekend as an unexplained what-is-it? would be giving her unnecessary problems. And so the subject of who was on the hook got dropped — but it didn’t stay dropped, I assure you. It kept coming up and coming up and coming up.