"I'd like to invite Aunt Polly," Bonny said, "but that means Uncle Darwin, too, and he's so deaf and difficult." She was peering through black-framed, no-nonsense glasses, which she'd just started wearing for reading. Morgan said, "So did you die,' when you think of it."
"Me?"
"Where's that girl I used to take out walking? I used to hold on to your arm, high up, and you would look off elsewhere and get pink, but you wouldn't pull away." Bonny added a name to her list. She said, "Walking I don't remember that. I thought we always drove." He slid his fingers down the inside of her upper arm, where the skin was silkiest. The back of Ms hand brushed the weight of one breast. She didn't seem to notice. She said, "Luckily, Jim doesn't have many relatives."
"She must be marrying him out of desperation." Then she did look up. She said, "Couldn't you still love the girls anyhow? You don't stop loving people just because they change size."
"Of course I love them."
"Not the same way," she said. "It seems you get fixed on this one appearance of a person; I mean, this single idea you have," She clicked her ballpoint pen. "And anyway, why leap ahead so? They haven't all grown up. Molly and Kate are still in high school."
"No, no, they're gone, for all intents and purposes," Morgan said. "Out every evening, off somewhere, up to something… they're gone, all right." He brightened. "Aha!" he said. "Alone at last, my dollink!" But it called for too much effort. He drifted over to the stove, depressed, and lit a cigarette on a burner. "House feels so damn big, we needed a ride-'em vacuum cleaner."
"You always did want more closet space," Bonny told him.
"They've dumped their hamsters on us and gone away."
"Morgan. There were nine of us at dinner tonight, counting your mother and Brindle. When I was a little girl, any time there were nine at table we had to send downtown for Mattie Ida to come help serve."
"What we ought to do is move," Morgan said. "We could get a house in the country, maybe live off the land." He pictured himself in sabots and a rough blue peasant smock. The house would be a one-room cabin with a huge stone fireplace, a braided rug, and a daybed covered in some hand-woven fabric. Unbidden, Amy in her Dutch-cap curls bounced in the center of the day-bed. He winced. "I'll take an early retirement," he said. "Forty-five feels older than I'd thought it would. I'll retire and well have some time to ourselves. Won't that be nice?"
"Now, don't go off on one of your crazy schemes," Bonny told him, "You'd die of boredom, retiring. You'd feel useless."
"Useless?" Morgan said. He frowned.
But Bonny was on the track of something new, thoughtfully tapping her pen against her teeth. She said, "Morgan, in this day and age, do you believe the bride's mother would still give the bride a little talk?"
"Hmm?"
"What I want to know is, am I expected to give Amy a talk about sex or am I not?"
"Bonny, do you have to call it sex?"
"What else would I call it?"
"Well…"
"I mean, sex is what it is, isn't it?"
"Yes, but, I don't know…"
"I mean, what would you say? Is it sex, or isn't it?"
"Bonny, will you just stop hammering at me?"
"Anyhow," she said, returning to her list, "in this day and age, I bet she'd laugh in my face." Morgan rubbed his forehead with two fingers. Really, it occurred to him, if Bonny had been more serious, more responsible, none of this upheaval would be happening. Or at least it wouldn't be happening quite so soon. It seemed to him that she had let the children slip through her fingers in some sort of sloppy, casual, cheerful style that was uniquely hers. He recalled that once, while chaperoning Kate's sixth-grade class on a field trip to Washington, she'd lost all eight of her charges in the Smithsonian Institution. They'd been found among showcases full of savages, copying down the recipe for shrunken heads. At the school's annual mother-daughter picnic, where everyone else brought potato salad and lemonade, Bonny brought a sack of Big Macs and a thermos of chablis. Yes, and she had such a disastrous effect upon machinery; she had only to settle behind the steering wheel and instantly the car fell apart. Warning lights would blink, steam would issue from the radiator, the muffler would drop off, and hubcaps would roll in every direction and clang along the gutters and slither down storm drains. She'd make one simple right turn and the turn signal would never work again. No wonder he spent half his weekends on his back in the garage! And she'd passed all this on to the girls too. The first driving lesson he gave Amy, the left front window had slid down inside the door and could not be retrieved. For that he'd had to go to the dealer.
And then there was his sister, who hadn't been out of that bathrobe of hers since Christmas. It hung on her like old orchid petals, wilted, striated, heavy-smelling. And his mother's memory was failing more than ever now, though she flew into a fury if anyone hinted as much. At supper, proving her sharpness, she'd recite whole portions of "Hiawatha" or the Rubaiyat. "Come, fill the Cup…!" she'd start up out of nowhere, slamming a fork against her glass, and Brindle would say, "Oh, Jesus, not again," and all the others would groan and fall into their separate, disorderly factions around the table.
Useless? Living this life of his was such hard work that even if he retired tomorrow, he had no hope of feeling useless.
Amy stood at the top of the stairs, wearing white and carrying roses. The hall window behind her lit her long, filmy skirt. At the bottom of the stairs Morgan waited with his hand on the newel post. He wore his new top hat and a pure-black suit from Second Chance. (There'd been a little fuss about the hat, "but he'd held his ground.) He had trimmed his beard. Gold-rimmed spectacles (window glass) perched on his nose. He felt like Abraham Lincoln.
One of Morgan's failings was that formal, official proceedings-weddings, funerals-never truly affected him. They just didn't seem to penetrate. He'd lain awake half of last night mourning his daughter, but the fact was that now, with the ceremony about to begin, all that was on his mind was Amy's roses. He had distinctly heard the wedding-dress lady tell her to carry them low, at arm's length-too low, even, she said, because if Amy were nervous at all she'd tend to lift them higher. And now, before the music had even started, Amy had her bouquet at breast level. This didn't trouble Morgan (he couldn't see that it made the slightest difference), but he wondered why nervousness should cause people to raise their arms. Was it something to do with protecting the heart? Morgan experimented. He clasped his hands first low, then high. He didn't find the one any more comforting than the other. With his hands folded just beneath his beard, he tried a dipping rhythmic processional, humming to himself as he sashayed across the hall. Daddy" Amy hissed. Morgan dropped Ms hands and hurried back to the newel post, Kate set the needle on the record. The wedding march began in mid-note. In the living room the guests grew suddenly still; all Morgan heard was the creaking of their rented chairs. He smiled steadily up at Amy, his spectacles catching the light and flashing two white circles across her face. With her hand trailing down the banister, weightless as a leaf, Amy set a pointed satin slipper in the center of each step. Her skirt caused a clinking sound among the brass rods that anchored the Persian carpet. Yesterday morning Bonny had taken a red Magic Marker and colored in the bare spots in the carpet. Then she'd used a brown Magic Marker for the rips in the leather armchair. (Sometimes Morgan felt he was living in one of those crayoned paper houses that the twins used to make.) Amy reached the hallway and took his arm. She was trembling slightly. He guided her into the living room and down the makeshift aisle.