“Oh, excuse me,” the first woman said. Tittering, they went out of the house. Hawes climbed upstairs. The bedroom was cluttered with near and distant relatives of the Carellas and Giordanos. A tall, blue-eyed blond man lounging against the doorjamb said, “Full house, Mac.”
“Mmm,” Hawes said. “I’ll wait.”
“We got a choice?” the blond said.
“The Thunderbird ain’t a sports car,” a man near them said to his friend. “And neither is the Corvette. I got news for you, Charlie. There ain’t no such animal as an American sports car.”
“No?” Charlie said. “Then how come they call them sports cars?”
“What do you want they should call them: armored tanks? You know something?”
“What?” Charlie said.
“When a real sports-car owner passes an American sports car on the road, he don’t even wave.”
“So what?”
“So that’s the sign of courtesy, like tipping your hat to a broad. And they don’t do it. Because American sports cars ain’t sports cars. They’re considered like cockroaches on the road. That’s a fact.”
“Then what’s a sports car?” Charlie asked.
“An MG, or a Jaguar, or a Talbot, or an Alfa Romeo, or a Ferrari, or Ghia, or... ”
“All right, all right,” Charlie said.
“...or a Mercedes-Benz, or a...”
“All right,” Charlie said, “I come up here to go to the John, not to hear a lecture about foreign cars.”
The door to the bathroom opened. A slender man wearing eyeglasses stepped out, zipping his fly.
“Anybody else in there?” Hawes asked him.
“What?”
“In the bathroom.”
“No,” the bespectacled man said. “Of course not. Who else would be in there with me?” He paused. Indignantly, he said, “Who are you?”
“Water Commissioner,” Hawes said. “Just checking.”
“Oh.” The man paused. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, fine, thank you.” He took a last look around the bedroom. No. No Darcy or Jones. He was starting downstairs again when a cheer went up from the back yard. For a moment, Hawes thought the caterers had struck oil. And then he realized what it was.
“They’re here!” someone shouted. “They’re here!”
And at that instant, Sal Martino’s orchestra began playing “Here Comes the Bride.” Hawes joined the general exodus down the steps. Women were pouring out of the downstairs bedroom. Children were screaming and giggling, rushing onto the back porch, anxious for a glimpse of the newly arrived bride and groom. Sighing, Hawes vowed never to get married.
When he got out to the porch at last, he found Christine talking to Sam Jones.
“Well, well,” he said, “this is a surprise. Where’ve you been, Jonesy?”
“Why? Someone looking for me?”
“No, I was just curious.”
“Oh, I’ve been roaming around,” Jonesy said.
Hawes looked at him curiously and skeptically. Sal Martino’s boys were pounding out their third chorus of “Here Comes the Bride.” The music trailed off lamely as the piano player attempted a modulation into another key. Failing, he blinked helplessly at Martino who gave the band a one-two-three count and, waving his trombone frantically, led them into “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”
The master of ceremonies, supplied by the caterers, rushed onto the floor, directing Tommy to dance with Angela. He needed no prompting.
“Best man!” the caterer shouted. “Maid of honor!”
“Excuse me,” Jonesy said, and he rushed over to the long wooden rectangle that had been put down as a dance floor, ringed in by the long white tables. He took the maid of honor into his arms, and the MC beamed happily and then began pairing off ushers and bridesmaids, Tony and Louisa Carella, Steve and Teddy, and anyone else he saw in a tuxedo or a gown. The band segued into “Always,” and the MC beamed some more, and then pulled Angela from Tommy’s grasp and shoved her into Jonesy’s arms, filling the void with the maid of honor whom Tommy accepted with a slightly dismayed smile. Ushers and bridesmaids began changing partners. Paunch to paunch, Tony Carella and his daughter-in-law whirled about the floor. Louisa Carella found herself in her son’s arms.
“So?” Carella said. “Are you happy, Mom?”
“Yes. It was a beautiful wedding, Stevie. You should have got married in church.”
“Now, stop it.”
“All right, you big atheist.”
“I’m not.”
“You don’t go to church.”
“I work on Sundays.”
“Only sometimes.”
The band had somehow successfully modulated into “The Anniversary Waltz.” The MC waved his arms at the people lining the dance floor, and they began filtering onto it, two by two, joining the wedding party. Tommy politely but firmly deposited the maid of honor into Jonesy’s grip and pulled his bride to him. A tall redheaded girl in a green silk dress that had surely been applied with a spray gun, suddenly broke away from her partner and shouted, “Steve! Steve Carella!”
Carella turned. The redhead’s voice was not exactly what he’d have called dulcet. It boomed across the dance floor with all the energy of a nuclear explosion. Teddy Carella, dancing with her father-in-law, happened to turn just as the redhead threw her arms around Carella’s neck and planted a kiss on his mouth.
Carella blinked.
“Steve,” the redhead said, “don’t you remember me? Don’t you remember Faye?”
Carella seemed to be having a little difficulty with the memory. He seemed also to be having a little difficulty with Faye herself whose arms were still firmly entwined about his neck. The green silk dress, in addition to having been sprayed on, was cut low in the front, very low. Glancing over the girl’s shoulder, Carella saw Teddy whirl by in his father’s arms, and he saw a frown beginning on her face.
“I... I...” he stammered, “don’t seem to...”
“New Jersey?” the girl prompted. “Flemington? The wedding? Don’t you remember? Oh, how we danced!”
Dimly, Carella remembered a wedding years and years ago. God, he must have been eighteen and yes, there was a redhead, a slender, bosomy girl of seventeen, and yes, he’d danced with her all night, and yes, her name was Faye, and oh my God!
“Hello, Faye,” he said weakly.
“Come!” Faye commanded. “Dance with me! You don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Carella?”
“No,” Louisa said, “but...” and she shot an apprehensive glance across the floor to Teddy, who was craning her neck over her shoulder to observe any new developments.
Faye pulled Carella to her. She threw her left arm up around his neck and Carella was overpowered by the scent of a heady perfume that drifted into his nostrils. Faye put her cheek against his.
“How have you been, Steve?” she asked.
And Carella answered, “Married.”
Across the floor, Ben Darcy cut in on Tommy Giordano. Tommy, surprised, did not relinquish his bride for a moment.
“Come on,” Ben said, smiling. “You’ve got to share the wealth.”
Graciously, Tommy bowed and handed Angela to Ben. They danced in silence for several moments. Then Ben said, “Happy?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love him?”
“Oh, yes,” Angela said. “Yes, yes!”
“I used to hope... well, you know.”
“What, Ben?”
“We saw an awful lot of each other when we were kids, Angela.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You told me you loved me.”
“I know I did. We were kids, Ben.”
“I loved you, Angela.”
“Ben...”
“I’ve never met another girl like you, do you know that?”
“I think they’ll be serving soon. Maybe we’d better—”