It was, of course, her familiar fear-that he and her mother would divorce-now mutated. Either that or, after yesterday, Harve and the various humiliations of old age were on her mind.
After much discussion her grandfather, battered but unbowed, had been allowed to attend the wedding. His doctors were understandably reluctant. Harve’s physical injuries were relatively minor, but the trauma he’d suffered in the hedge wasn’t insignificant, especially for someone his age. At the hospital he’d exhibited signs of confusion and agitation, though the former, according to his children, was normal and the latter occasioned by the possibility he wouldn’t get his way. The physicians finally gave in, on the condition that someone would attend him at all times.
That someone was the redoubtable Dot (damn it!), who’d finally been located down in Portland, where she’d checked into an airport motel with every intention of catching the first flight back to California in the morning. But the family, one sibling after another, had pleaded for her return, and then finally Harve himself got on the phone and told her that she was indispensable to the day’s proceedings, a fairly transparent lie, it seemed to Griffin, but apparently the very one she wanted to hear, and so the twins had been dispatched to Portland to fetch her back up the coast. At the ceremony she seemed to be in reasonably good spirits, and Griffin kept expecting her to come over and apologize for telling him to fuck off, especially since he was the only one in the family who’d showed her the slightest kindness or consideration during what he’d already come to think of as the Ordeal of the Hedge, but she rather pointedly kept her distance, as if to suggest that by correctly diagnosing and sympathizing with her plight he’d assumed responsibility for it.
The ceremony had been performed by a Unitarian minister, a friend of Andy’s family, and Joy needn’t have worried about there being too many religious overtones, because this fellow seemed utterly unencumbered by liturgical obligation. He clearly fancied himself a comedian, though, and used those parts of the service that might otherwise have been given over to prayer to relive the more memorable moments of the rehearsal dinner, which he himself had not attended but obviously had been briefed on. While the smattering of nervous laughter that his attempts at humor occasioned couldn’t have been terribly gratifying, he’d soldiered on, his faith in his own comic talent apparently as deep and unshakable as his belief in the Almighty. When he described for the edification of those who’d been present that the bride’s grandfather had had to be removed from a Venus-flytrap hedge by means of a chain saw, Harve, hearing himself alluded to, loudly asked, his voice still raspy from yesterday’s bellowing, “Who the hell is this guy?”
Griffin ’s fatherly duties kept him centered and focused during the ceremony itself, though the reception, which made fewer demands on his time, proved more of a challenge. Laura had chosen “Teach Your Children Well,” he hoped unironically, for their father-daughter dance. They were joined by Andy and his mother, who seemed not to have anticipated this tradition and were rigid with fear during its execution. Before long the floor was crowded with dancers, a statistically improbable percentage sporting gauzy bandages. As the wine began to flow and everyone began to relax and have a good time, Griffin felt increasingly adrift. He and Joy had agreed beforehand they wouldn’t dance together, fearing their daughter might break down at the sight of them. Joy, her middle finger made obscene by a large, gleaming metal splint, had already excused herself, saying the stitches in her side hurt, but Griffin suspected she felt it inappropriate to dance with Ringo at her daughter’s wedding. Perhaps there was more. Something about their body language was different today, and he wondered if they’d had words. That possibility would have cheered him had he not sensed there was a greater distance between Joy and him as well, as if their brief, unguarded intimacy at the emergency room had frightened her enough that she was determined not to risk it again.
That morning he’d suggested to Marguerite that they shouldn’t be too much of a couple, either. Knowing how much she loved to dance, he allowed that it would probably be okay if they boogied to a couple of fast numbers, but no slow, clingy stuff. If he worried about cramping her style, he needn’t have. Recognizing Sunny Kim from last year’s leftover table with a squeal of delight, she immediately dragged him out there and didn’t let him go until they’d hoofed it through three long tracks. After that she danced with Andy, with all of his groomsmen and even with Ringo, who sported an impressive hematoma on his forehead and moved, Griffin was pleased to see, like a man in a truss. When she’d exhausted all these partners, she set upon the Unitarian comic, whose expression suggested he’d become a man of the cloth as a hedge against precisely this sort of social necessity. On the dance floor he looked everywhere but at Marguerite’s chest, unintentionally providing the very comedy that had eluded him during the wedding ceremony. When she wasn’t dancing, Marguerite took refuge at the table presided over by Kelsey and her husband (“Aunt Rita? What’re you doing here?”), getting a recap of the couple’s first year of wedded bliss.
Her defection left Griffin -who had it coming, of course-too often alone at the long head table. Laura (he could tell) coerced her bridesmaids to dance with him, and out of a similar sense of duty he’d asked Andy’s mother, who said, no, no, she really couldn’t, as if the single dance ticket she’d been issued at the door had already been redeemed by her son. Joy’s sisters had their husbands to deal with and they didn’t like him besides, so he steered clear there. Joy herself was going from table to table, making sure people had what they needed and were enjoying themselves, a duty he begrudged her until it occurred to him that it was his as well, so he started at the other end of the room and did the same thing, as slowly as possible, lest he be forced to return to the nearly abandoned head table.
His sense that something wasn’t right intensified as the evening wore on, though he had no idea what the hell might be wrong. Everybody seemed to be having a good time, especially the young people, Laura and Andy’s college friends, which was as it should be. The only person more disconnected to the proceedings was poor Harve. After successfully lobbying to attend, he dozed through the exchange of vows and then much of the reception, though at one point he struggled to his feet and gyrated his hips with the prettiest of Laura’s bridesmaids, occasioning thunderous applause from everyone but Dot, who thrust him forcefully back into his chair. The boy who’d punched Andy (and his own mother) in the groin the night before-Griffin still had no idea who the little fucker was-recognized Jason and once again attempted his signature move, but the MP saw it coming and put the palm of his hand on the kid’s forehead and let him swing away, and this, too, everyone seemed to think was funny.
Gradually Griffin came to understand that he was waiting for another moment of grace, like the one at last year’s wedding when Laura pulled Sunny Kim onto the dance floor. The night before, in the emergency room with Joy, he’d sensed the proximity of just such a moment, but the twins had interrupted and it was lost, though at the time it hadn’t worried him. If he didn’t force it, he told himself, the moment would come of its own volition, probably at some point during the wedding. Maybe even heralded by that old Bon Jovi song. What was it called? “Livin’ on a Prayer”? He checked with the DJ, who said it was definitely on the playlist, but it didn’t play, and still didn’t, and when some of the guests with small children began to gather them up and bid farewell to the bride and groom, he realized it wasn’t going to.