Seventeen guests depart without saying good-bye, before the actual vows have been taken.
I remain standing there with my eyes open wide and my jaw locked shut for fear of what might escape. This is when Ben steps up to the plate.
Hey! he yells. Everyone stop! Hey! Everyone! Everyone shut up!
The remaining guests fall silent and look toward the altar. The groom is yelling.
Betsy and I are getting married right now. Who wants to stay and see that happen?
All who aren’t seated return to their seats.
You and Nina peek back out the window. I authorize you to cover her mouth if you have to! I yell up. The guests laugh loudly, a welcome break in the tension.
Ben and I say the vows we wrote for each other. Our friend the minister asks everyone who approves of this union to shout Yes! and a resounding and enthusiastic Yes! comes forth.
The reception is down the block in Pulaski Park; you walk there with your sister, who’s still crying. Marjorie was never a weepy one, but she’s beyond overwhelmed to have a chance to see you again. She asks if you’re back for good; you explain again about the wedding deal, that this is pretty much it. So, not even if there are grandkids? Marjorie asks; you say you hadn’t asked about that, but that you were told this was a one-time thing. And Betsy’s too old to have kids now. People have other options, Marjorie says dryly. What about if she gets divorced and remarried? Marjorie asks, and you say Jesus, Marjorie, I don’t want to think about that, if she waited until she was forty to get married, hopefully she’s learned a thing or two, and Marjorie says Okay, touchy, and the old pull to get into it with her comes up, but just as you’re about respond, you both crack up. I know you didn’t kill Whitey, you say, feeling an opening. I’m a lot of things, Lois, but I’m not a dog killer. I know, Marjorie. It was that nasty Mrs. Snatchface down the street. Mrs. Stackchase! I should have known, Marjorie says. She’s paying now, you say. But I always knew it wasn’t you anyway.
Marjorie asks if you’ve met Fern yet. Who’s Fern? you ask, and your sister points across the room to a blond woman who’s clinging tightly to Victor. You look over and reserve judgment for now. Well, it was to be expected, Marjorie. This is when your dear old friends Inge and Dan come over to greet you. Inge is fighting tears too, until she sees you looking at Fern. Oh well, she says in her sweet German accent, she’s all right. He’s been ill, a bit, she takes care of him. Ill? Ya, Inge says, a stroke, cancer. Not long after you. . he’s better now. You should go say hi. I’m sure he’s waiting.
Inge squeezes your hand; you take a deep breath, walk across the room. Victor has tears in his eyes, like everyone else, but that doesn’t make it any less awkward, and he almost has to peel Fern off his arm to give you a hug. He introduces her, she says I’ve heard a lot about you, in a thick Staten Island accent, sort of a monotone; you don’t know yet that this flat tone is her only tone, the point is that it seems potent. It’s an absence of tone functioning as tone. The truth is, Victor hasn’t talked that much about you; he’s told her he loved you and that you were a brilliant singer, but “complicated” is about the extent of the rest of it. It’s in the past, and he’s never been one to linger there. And you’re sharp, if somewhat paranoid, and you’re not altogether off in perceiving something in Fern’s toneless tone, though what that is has yet to reveal itself. Fern’s phone rings in her purse; she says it’s her mother calling her back. Ma. Yeah. Yeah listen, Ma, why do you think Pop didn’t come to the wedding? No I haven’t been drinking, Ma, it’s a goddamn booze-free wedding, but I’m going to run to a deli to get some right now, you hear as she walks away. You and Victor stare at each other for a bit; it’s hard to know how to open the conversation. Hey, how’s that new wife working out? isn’t quite right, though that’s what you want to know. She seems. . you say, having no idea how to finish the sentence. You were reaching for something along the lines of nice, but it’s not coming out of your mouth. She’s a good person, Victor says. What you don’t know is that he says this a lot. Betsy’s not— I hoped maybe they’d be friends, but. . I think Betsy just can’t get past her not being you. You can imagine that there might be a shred of truth to this, and also that it’s far from the full story. Maybe you should give Betsy more credit than that. What’s that supposed to mean? I’m saying maybe she has some reason to think this woman isn’t right for you. Betsy doesn’t know her. I’ve tried. We’ve had Betsy to the house. Wait, what house? The house, our house. You mean myhouse? Sweetheart, where did you imagine I would live? I imagined you’d live in a new house! Who would want to live in my house? It’s a nice house, why wouldn’t we want to live there? Because it’s creepy! You’re crazy. It’s where I live. Did she redecorate? No, sweetheart, we haven’t redecorated. Look, I’m about to retire and we’ll probably move to South Carolina, there doesn’t seem any point in moving now. Does she wear my jewelry? No! Of course not. Betsy has your jewelry, just like we agreed on. Good. She had the nerve to ask me for the old dining room table and chairs, though. My mother’s table and chairs? Yeah, we use it. No you don’t, we always kept that folded up. Yes, it’s folded, it has picture frames on it. It’s supposed to be Betsy’s — you can’t put picture frames somewhere else? That table is supposed to be hers after I die. But you’re not using it. I’m not having this conversation. It was wrong of her to ask. Give her the table! I see crazy is still an issue in the afterlife. Fuck off, Victor! That was my mother’s!
All of the wedding guests can hear what’s going on. Marjorie comes over to try to calm you down. Lois. I can’t begin to guess what this might be like for you. No, you can’t, you say. Lois, Marjorie says again, listen. We don’t really like her either. She isn’t you. You’re right. Don’t you suppose that might have been exactly why he chose her? I can’t begin to guess why he chose her. I know, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. He had his big love. He’s a guy. They don’t do well on their own. You muster a snuffle that represents a laugh. He was the one who took care of me, though. Yes, he did, but he was heartbroken to lose you, and Fern showed up on the right day when he was tired enough of crying. Yeah, what, a month later? you ask, and Marjorie laughs and says Roughly, yes, but he was heartbroken and lonely and she was there and she was the opposite of you and that was what he thought he needed. Your sister is slowly breaking through. But she’s using my stuff. Yeah, that stinks.