Father of the Bride (13 page)

The knob of the door came off in his hands.

“I’m planning to take a lot of these things up to the attic, you know,” explained Mrs. Banks. “All those straight chairs go up, and the small tables and standing lamps, and we’re thinking of taking up the rug.”

“Takin’ th’ rug up ain’t goin’ to give any more room,” said Joe. Mr. Massoula maintained a displeased silence.

“Have you any suggestions?” asked Mrs. Banks nervously.

“Yes, madam, I have,” said Mr. Massoula. “Even with a marquee you’re going to be cramped. By the way, Joe, go out in the back and measure for the marquee. Now you see, madam, circulation’s your big problem. The first thing you’ve got to do is clear this room of
all
furniture.”

There was a suggestion of tears in Mrs. Banks’ voice. “You don’t mean the big davenport and the armchairs and—”

“Of course.
And
the piano.
Everything
must come out of this room. Now in the dining room—”

“Does the dining-room table have to go too?” she wailed, but Mr. Massoula was not listening.

“That chandelier over the dining-room table—could that be looped up or something?”

In view of the fact that the chandelier was not made of rubber tubing Mrs. Banks did not see how it could.

“Then you better have the electrician take it out an’ cap it temporarily,” said Mr. Massoula. “It’s in the way. Now about these doors between the rooms. They’ve got to be taken off. You’d be surprised to see how much circulation you lose on account of doors. Especially doors like these.”

Mrs. Banks might have forgiven him if he had not added that last sentence. As it was she lost her temper as an alternative to tears. “What in the world do you think I’ve got upstairs—a cold-storage warehouse? And who do you think is going to lug all this stuff up there—if there was room? And who do you think is going to get it down again?”

But Mr. Massoula was a creative artist. Details were not in his line. “We’ll connect the marquee to this French door from the living room,” he said. He tried to open the door but it merely slammed violently back and forth at the top. The bottom was apparently glued to the sill.

“It’s stuck,” explained Mrs. Banks. “I’ve been meaning to have that door fixed.”

Mr. Massoula opened a window and leaned out. “Hi, Joe,” he bawled. “Figure on a connecting angle through the French door here. Measure from the outside. The thing’s stuck.”

“I’ll say,” came an angry voice from the lilacs. “Too many God-damn bushes out here. Ought to get rid of ’em.”

   12   

TOMORROW’S MY DAUGHTER’S WEDDING DAY

The day before the wedding came at last. When one concentrates fiercely and at length on an event in the distant future it eventually becomes fixed in the mind as something forever remote. As a result it is a shock to awake some morning and find that the distant future has suddenly become the immediate present. It is like a foolish rumor about a lion in the district, which no one takes seriously until the beast springs at you from behind a lilac bush.

The wedding rehearsal was scheduled for five-thirty. Mr. Banks set out for the office exhibiting a nonchalance that he did not feel. Yes, of course, he would take the three-ten from town. There was nothing to get so excited about. Beneath the surface, however, he was distinctly nervous. He felt like a man moving beneath powerful floodlights.

The floodlight operator must have been off duty during his trip to town, however. The same apathetic faces greeted him at the station with the same apathetic comments about the weather, their health, or their lack of it. As the train pulled out of Fairview Manor, Reggie Fry lurched into the seat beside him and spent three stations describing an intricate realestate deal in the course of which he had outwitted and discomfited the best brains in the business. Mr. Banks could stand it no longer.

“My daughter’s getting married tomorrow,” he said simply.

“Really?” said Mr. Fry. “Didn’t know you had a daughter. Time flies, eh? I hope she’s got a place to live after she’s married. It’s a bad situation. Getting worse. The Real-Estate Board put out some interesting figures about it in their last bulletin. I’ve got it here somewhere. Here it is. Now just let me read you these few paragraphs. This is on the volume of building of one-family homes in the mid-continent states during the first quarter.”

Mr. Banks shuddered and gave himself up to his thoughts.

He would have found it hard to describe just what he expected when he arrived at the office. Obviously he had not anticipated organized cheering as he came in the door, yet it depressed him to have Miss Rooney nod to him from the switchboard and say, “Morning-MrBanksnicemorning,” just as she did on the other three hundred working days of the year.

“Now just let me read you these few paragraphs.
”

Even his partners failed to grasp the significance of current events. As each one drifted into Mr. Banks’ office during the morning he offered some fatuous remark about not falling down in the aisle or trying to bend over in his cutaway. Then, having made their concessions to the trivia of life, they concentrated on the task of dumping on his desk every unanswerable and boring problem they could dig out of their pending files. They reminded Mr. Banks of executives cleaning out their desks before leaving for their summer vacations.

During the moments when his partners were not bedeviling him the outside world took up the torch. The cream of the dullest and most long-winded of Mr. Banks’ clients flocked into his office for no other apparent reason than to make sheep eyes at him and fill up an idle hour with the sound of their own voices.

The only positive note was the telephone. Whenever Mr. Banks thought about that morning during later years it was his telephone buzzer which sounded the motif of the nightmare cacophony.

“Darling, the worst thing. Old Mr. McQuade is down at the station.—McQuade, dear.
I
don’t know. He’s some relative of
yours.
—Well, it’s no use arguing about that
now
. He’s down at the station and he wants to know where he’s supposed to
go.
Where in the world am I going to put him?”

Only the presence of a customer mooning beside his desk restrained Mr. Banks from detailed instructions.

“Hello. Is this you, Stanley?—This is Ella.
Ella.—
Is this Stanley Banks?—This is
Ella.
Yes. How
are
you? We came down the last minute as a surprise. Now we don’t want you to bother your
head
about us. Just tell us how the trains run to Fairview Manor and how to get from the station to your house. If you haven’t room to put us up we can go
anywhere
at all. The last thing we want to do is put you to any trouble. I guess you’ve got troubles enough just now.” (Hysterical laughter.)

The sheep-eyed gentleman beside Mr. Banks’ desk looked at him anxiously. “I hope that wasn’t bad news,” he said.

“No, no,” said Mr. Banks. “I’ve got a daughter getting married tomorrow.”

“Oh, of course. Quite,” said the sheep-eyed gentleman and resumed his narrative.

“Darling, I’m so sorry to bother you again but I’m almost crazy. You can’t imagine what’s happened. The Bennett boy has come down with measles and they can’t take in Cousin Laura and Bob. What in the
world
are we—I know, dear, but I thought you might have some
ideas.
”

By twelve-thirty he could stand it no longer. Shoving a pile of papers into a desk drawer, he rang for Miss Bellamy. “I’m getting the hell out of here,” he said defiantly. The phone rang. “I’m gone.”

“So sorry,” murmured Miss Bellamy into the mouthpiece. “He was called away very hurriedly. He just this moment left the office. No, I don’t think I could catch him. I know how sorry he’ll be. He wanted to talk to you. Yes, I’ll certainly tell him.” She hung up the receiver. “It’s that Mr. Wadley you’ve been trying to get for three days.”

“That fellow has no judgment,” said Mr. Banks.

“Yes indeed,” said Miss Bellamy soothingly. “Now I have everything ready in this envelope. Here’s a list of all the ushers and bridesmaids and where they’re staying and their telephone numbers. And then here’s a full set of church seating lists. There’s one for each usher with his name typed on it and special instructions for those who have special jobs. I’ve put in some extra copies just in case. Oh, yes, and I’ve phoned all the papers just to make sure they remember and—well—I guess that’s all till I see you in church.”

Miss Bellamy looked suddenly deflated and wistful. Mr. Banks had never seen her like that before. For one terrible moment he thought she was going to cry.

“You’ve been wonderful,” he said awkwardly. “Wonderful. I’ll never forget it.” He left quickly as the phone started to ring.

•  •  •

Several days earlier Miss Bellamy had sent crisp little notes to all the ushers and bridesmaids, attempting to impress upon their scattered minds that the rehearsal would be at five-thirty at St. George’s Church and the importance of being prompt.

Mr. Banks had insisted on being there fifteen minutes ahead of time. He wanted this wedding well rehearsed—no sloppy business—and he felt somehow that if he and Mrs. Banks were early it would expedite things. To his dismay he found the church in complete darkness. The Reverend Mr. Galsworthy and the organist were nowhere about. The smoothly functioning machinery of St. George’s was at dead center and the self-starter was missing.

He finally located Mr. Tringle in the cellar.

Mr. Banks had pictured the organist busily warming up his instrument with a burst of arpeggios and Mr. Galsworthy nervously pacing the aisle, measuring distances, putting markers in his book and making a few final notes. Not even Mr. Tringle, the sexton, was puttering around.

He finally located Mr. Tringle in the cellar of the rectory gluing the back of a broken chair. “Good gracious,” he exclaimed. “That late a’ready? Maybe we best go up an’ put on the lights.”

The first bridesmaid turned up at a quarter to six. She was a wispy little number who seemed to have been left out of everything to date and was obviously terrified at the thought of what lay ahead. The organist strolled in several minutes later.

“Are you sure,” asked Mrs. Banks anxiously, “that you know what you are going to play at the wedding?”

“Oh, yes,” said the organist. He was an earnest-looking young man with heavy horn spectacles. “Oh, quite. This is the Broadhurst wedding, isn’t it?”

The knuckles of Mr. Banks’ hand grew white as he clutched the end of the pew. “No,” he said gently. “This is the
Banks
wedding—and it’s
tomorrow
,” he added with subtle sarcasm.

“Surely,” agreed the organist and disappeared through the gloom of the side aisle.

By six-thirty Kay and all but four of the bridal party had appeared. The minister was still absent. The groom was still absent. The ushers and bridesmaids who had made the great sacrifice stood in small groups glaring at Mr. Banks with unconcealed hostility. It was evident that each and all had torn them selves away from agreeable situations for what they clearly considered to be an old-fashioned whim of Mr. Banks’. By their attitude they said, “You got us here. You ruined our fun. Now what are you going to do about it?”

It made Mr. Banks nervous. He distributed the seating lists to the ushers and made a little talk about overall strategy. Somehow it didn’t go very well. They listened to him with the detached boredom of tourists harangued by a Grand Canyon guide. Their aspirations were obviously elsewhere.

“I wonder where Mr. Galsworthy is?” asked Mr. Banks for the tenth time.

“Oh, he’s somewhere. He’s always late,” said Mr. Tringle amiably. “I run the rehearsal.”

“But some of the bridal party aren’t here yet,” protested Mr. Banks. “The groom isn’t here. Nobody’s here.”

“Some of the bridal party is never here,” said Mr. Tringle. “The groom don’t do nothing in weddings. Everything goes all right. You see. Don’t worry. Now if you young ladies will line up in pairs outside that there door—”