We normally send a nice Target gift card instead.
But this wedding invite could not be swept under the rug or stashed in a file because the bride was none other than the daughter of Mahatma Panchal, as in the Panchal Center for Cultural Diversity, as in my boss.
Besides, Griever or not, I had watched his American-born daughter Marcy sprout from a curious ten-year-old to the girl who gave the commencement speech as the valedictorian at her high school and again when she received her engineering degree from UT four years later. And now, how could I not be there to celebrate her next journey just because it involved love? I had attended nearly every type of cultural wedding over the years, and even though Marcy was marrying a white man, she had decided on a traditional Hindu ceremony, one of my favorites.
Before I lost Joel, weddings had become a sort of hobby for us. I rarely turned down a wedding invite and with so many students each semester I got my share of them. I'd seen them alclass="underline" Jewish and Greek and Christian and Catholic. But a Pakistani wedding was right up there with Vietnamese in my book: colorful and long and full of symbolism, something every great linguist admires.
Joel had made fun of our pastime, and like most guys, generally preferred skipping the wedding ceremony and going straight for the reception, preferably with a stocked bar and lots of food. When we were on a tight budget, sometimes weddings were our very own date nights, and each time, at the close of the reception when we were among the last dancers on the dance floor, Joel would rub his nose against mine and whisper, “I do.” And I would answer with a kiss, “I do, too.”
This small renewal of our vows had become my favorite part of our wedding nights, and we enjoyed our very own honeymoon each time after, our lovemaking revitalized by the romance of the affair.
Post-Joel, weddings altogether lost their sparkle for me, not just because Joel would not be my date, but because I did not believe I could celebrate in coupledom as a widow. I thought my very presence there would send a signal of half-support, of what “could happen” if the other perishes. I know this half-empty-cup mentality was just my excuse for avoiding any more undue suffering, but this day and this night, I felt like celebrating.
Anh, my date for the evening, remained a strong believer in eloping after three failed marriages, but with the promise of free booze and a buffet, she agreed to come. “I say, 'save your money for the honeymoon, because if you break up later, at least you got a decent vacation out of it.'”
“Please don't repeat that this evening.”
“What? As if half the guests wouldn't agree with me. You know I say half because that's the divorce rate, right? And what good is having a ceremony and a blessing when you can just change your mind, anyway? No one's going to hold their feet to that sacred fire they're going to walk around tonight, I'll tell you that.”
“We're seating you in the bitter section at the far corner of the church,” I told her. “Come on. Just suspend your ill will toward Cupid for one evening. Can you do that for me?”
Anh turned to face da Vinci in the back seat, where he sat in perfect view in my mirror. I had stolen glances at him the entire twenty minutes to the church, and it seemed he had never taken his eyes off of the rearview (hence, off of me). “What do you say, da Vinci, are you a hopeless romantic or a skeptic like your namesake?”
Da Vinci smiled broadly. “My namesake loved all beauty, and what can be more beautiful than two people in love?”
Anh stuck her finger in her mouth as if to gag. “I'm seriously going to be sick. This car is full of sappy romantics. So you're telling me that you actually like weddings? Because most American men despise them.”
Da Vinci had shrugged his massive shoulders. “As you say, hopeless romantic. Only Italians maybe ten times more than Americans.”
Anh shook her head. “And how you keep this one as far away as the backyard, I'll never understand.” She turned back and faced da Vinci again. “Have you met any girls you like at school yet?”
“Many pretty girls, but not mature enough.”
Anh raised her hand. “I need to book a one-way ticket to Italy, don't I? See American men love immature girls. And Leonardo, if you want mature, I'll give you mature.” She raised a brow to me as if to say, why not?
When we arrived, da Vinci went through the service entrance where he would work for Panchal's catering company, which was started primarily as a way for Panchal to help employ the new immigrant students. I entered with him to say hello to my former students when Barack, a Nigerian who managed the catering company, spotted me and wrapped me in a hug. “How is my favorite teacher?”
“Excited about the wedding. My purse is full of nothing but Kleenex.”
“You always were a sentimental one,” Barack said, reminding me of how hard I cried at his graduation. I couldn't help it. To see them come over, sometimes with fewer than a dozen words of English and transform themselves into often brilliant communicators amazed me. “Leonardo is my best employee,” Barack said as da Vinci grabbed his first silver platter and headed into the reception hall. “What is it the man cannot do?”
“I haven't figured that out yet,” I told him. “Cecelia said he can do everything he's asked to do, but the one complaint we get back is when he thinks he's done with a project, he's done. Just stops working and starts daydreaming. Or writing things in his notebook.”
“Well, here there is no time to daydream. Only smile and keep bringing the food.” Barack shrugged. “And what about you? You look great. Working out to your sister's show, eh?”
“No. I've actually started running in the mornings after the kids go to school. With da Vinci.”
Barack raised his brow. “So he is good personal trainer, too, correct?”
“You could say that,” I said, rubbing Barack's arm as a way to end the conversation. Personal trainer. Gardener. Football coach to Bradley. Chess buddy to William. And cook for us all. The only way not to gain weight from having da Vinci in my life was to watch what I ate when he wasn't around and not insult him by not eating when he was. And running three miles every morning, rain or shine, our steps in sync as we drew long stares from the neighbors. The pounds were finally coming off.
I said goodbye to the crew and slipped into the church and next to Anh, who was staring intently at a man three rows up. She elbowed me in the ribs. “You know the only good thing about weddings is that occasionally you can meet a nice man, or at least one who you think is nice at first.”
The lights were dimmed so I couldn't make out who she was staring at, but he did have a nice head with thick, blondish-brown hair. He seemed to be alone, probably why Anh assumed he was available. “Make sure he doesn't slip away,” Anh whispered as the music began to play. “I want that one.”
We drew our eyes to the back of the church where Marcy and Panchal began to walk down the aisle. Marcy wore a red dress, a sari, symbolizing happiness. Since she was the only one allowed to wear red at the wedding, she could be spotted like a cardinal among sparrows. Her hands and feet were decorated with henna, called mehandi, in highly exotic, intricate patterns. It was believed that the deeper the color, the stronger her love for her husband. Her silken black hair was in a bun covered with a crown and veil, and sandalwood had been artistically applied to her face in the same design as her crown.
One look at her made me weep. It wasn't just the red-she embodied happiness and I was at once envious and happy for her. For all the mixers and place settings and toasters she would get, there was no greater gift than that feeling. If only I could've wrapped that up and put it in a time capsule for her to open on a distant day in the future when she may forget what it feels like. Instead, I got her a clock, but not the clock I wanted to give her-the one that allows time to stand still or even go backwards-but had to settle for a regular stainless steel number that ticks on and on infinitely. But still.