Father of the Bride (15 page)

As he entered the room a barge of a woman, wearing pince-nez, bore down on him like a tugboat, backed him neatly between some bookcases and the piano and began a detailed account of Buckley’s early childhood. She was up to his fifth year with nineteen years to go, and no sign of faltering, when someone spilled a plate of lobster salad on one of her ample hips. In the confusion Mr. Banks managed to escape, only to be recaptured by a man with a walrus mustache.

This character appeared to regard the gathering as a kind of public forum. He drew Mr. Banks to a window seat. This was the first opportunity he had had for a quiet chat, owing to the unaccountable confusion which seemed to pervade this whole affair. His primary interest was in world politics and his mind would not be at rest until he had Mr. Banks’ opinion of the international situation. When Mr. Banks disclosed the fact that he had no opinions on the international or any other situation, the floor passed to the stranger, who obviously had a direct wire to God.

Athletic young men kept coming up with plates heaped to the gunwales with lobster and chicken salad, to which buttered rolls clung precariously. Mr. Banks felt slightly bilious and compromised on a cup of soup and a highball.

Kay approached them. “Mother’s looking for you. She thinks we’d better be getting home.” He gazed at her with awe. An hour ago she had been sobbing on her bed. Now she looked radiant—like a goddess of spring—serene and beautiful.

Mrs. Pulitzski, who had made over Mrs. Banks’ wedding dress for Kay, had insisted on coming to the house that afternoon to be sure that all was in order.

His primary interest was in world politics.

“Good God,” said Mr. Banks to the world at large, “this is a swell time to find out if it fits her. What’s the woman going to do? Start making alterations now? Do you people realize it’s a quarter to three and that there’s a wedding in an hour and forty-five minutes?”

Any allusion to the passage of time always called forth a protest from Ben and Tommy.

“Gee, Pops, you might think it took us an hour to dress.”

“Why, I can be dressed in ten minutes.” Tommy stretched out languidly on his bed. “It won’t take me ten minutes to get into that old fool suit.”

Mr. Banks pushed down his temper with an effort. This was no time for a test of strength. “You two boys have a big responsibility this afternoon,” he said with feigned calm. “You’re the only two ushers who know our family. You’re taking our car and you’re to get there by four o’clock.”

“We’ll be there, Pops. Don’t worry. Just relax.”

Mr. Banks gave up and went to his room to dress. Somehow he felt alone and out of the picture. Mrs. Banks was dressing in the guest room which adjoined Kay’s. He made his preparations moodily.

He was not nervous, as he had feared he might be, only confused and ill at ease. While he regarded himself gloomily in the mirror Tommy burst into the room.

“Hey, Pops, I haven’t anything but soft shirts. These stiff collars won’t fit on soft shirts. What am I going to do?”

“Why, I can be dressed in ten minutes,” Tommy assured him.

If Mr. Banks had had a blunt instrument in his hands he would undoubtedly have used it. As it was he merely stared at Tommy without affection.

“What size do you wear?”

“Fourteen and a half.”

“Well, I wear fifteen and a half, so that’s that. Hasn’t Ben got a shirt without a collar?”

“Yeah, but he’s got it on.”

“Didn’t you have an evening shirt?”

“Yeah. Mom put it in the wash.
Can’t
I wear a soft shirt, Pops?”

“No,” shouted Mr. Banks.

“Well, what’ll I
do
?”

“Take the car and
get
one,” yelled Mr. Banks.

“Good God, it’s quarter after three. You and Ben are due at the church in forty-five minutes. Have I got to think for—”

But Tommy was gone. Mr. Banks resumed dressing, musing on the sordid eugenic tricks that Nature plays on men. When he had finished he surveyed himself in the long mirror and found the sight rather pleasing. Not many of his friends could wear their old cutaways at their daughters’ weddings. If he didn’t move impulsively it was perfect.

He started downstairs. As he passed Kay’s door he heard voices. He was about to stop. Then the feeling of strangeness came over him once more and he continued on his way.

Without premeditation he found himself in the pantry. There he poured himself a highball which he regarded contemplatively for some time before drinking. When he had finished it he could think of nothing else to do so he started back upstairs.

Tommy almost knocked him down as he came leaping up the steps three at a time, a package under his arm. “I got it,” he panted from the door of his bedroom. “I had to move some. A cop stopped me, but I talked him out of it. Gee, what a ride.” His door slammed. Mr. Banks shuddered. He stood uncertainly at the head of the stairs, not knowing just where to go. A low murmur of voices came from behind Kay’s closed door.

“Hi, Pops, this kind of a shirt has to have studs. Got any?” He felt himself going rigid again.

“You
must
have some. Your mother gave you a set for your evening shirt.”

“I know, Pops. I can’t find ’em. Must have gone to the wash.”

In his bedroom Mr. Banks pawed vainly through the jewel case which had stood on his bureau for decades. It contained a miscellaneous collection of old fraternity pins, unidentified skeleton keys, a patent nail-clipper and his World War I identification tag. No collar buttons.

His voice sounded strained and unreal. “Listen, you’ve had two months to think of this. You take Ben to the church. Then go and get your damn collar buttons—and swallow them.”

Tommy opened his mouth to protest at this injustice, but he saw an expression on his father’s face that made him think better of it. He went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

A moment later Mrs. Banks entered the room and Mr. Banks forgot everything else. He knew that he would never be able to remember what she was wearing. He knew also that, to his dying day, he would never forget her as she stood, framed in the doorway, waiting for his approval—slim, graceful and lovely. All the beauty of her own wedding day lay upon her, tempered by a serenity and dignity that made Mr. Banks feel suddenly shy.

She saw the startled admiration in his face. “Don’t say any more, darling,” she said. “You like it. I saw that. You’ll spoil it if you try to tell me why. And for heaven’s sake don’t muss my hair.”

“Kay is ready,” announced Mrs. Pulitzski. They filed down the hall after her. She paused before Kay’s door and threw it open dramatically. Kay was standing in the middle of the room, her train and veil carefully arranged behind her, no longer a brown-haired girl of five feet four, but a princess from some medieval court. Her head was thrown back slightly and she watched the effect upon her courtiers with the calm assurance of one born to the cloth of gold.

Mr. Banks would not have been surprised if she had extended her hand for him to kiss. His eyes became suddenly blurred. Good God, this would be a hell of a time for him to start crying. What was the matter with everybody today?

“You’re wonderful, Kitten. Wonderful.”

She squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Pops.” For an instant her eyes met his—not as a daughter but as a woman. “Now, on to the slaughter,” she said.

He looked at his watch. “Good God, it’s five after four.”

“The cars
must
be here,” said Mrs. Banks. “I ordered both of them to be here at four sharp.” She looked out Kay’s window into the empty street.

“I’ll call the garage,” said Mr. Banks. “I’ll give them a piece of my mind.” Before he was halfway downstairs the telephone rang.

“Hello.—Yes. Speaking.—WHAT? WHO? Wait a minute.” He covered the receiver with his hand. “It’s those two cousins of yours from Baltimore. They came as a surprise. They’re down at the station and there aren’t any taxis. They want to know how they’re going to get to the church.”

Mrs. Banks stared blankly down at him over the stair rail.

“Well, what’ll I tell them?” asked her husband. “They’re
your
relatives.”

“Tell them—Tell them—Oh, tell them I don’t give a damn how they get there. Tell them to jump in the lake and swim.”

If Mrs. Banks had done a hand stand on the banisters she could not have startled her husband more. “Ellie can’t be disturbed at the moment,” he said apologetically to the telephone. “I’m sure there’ll be a taxi along in a minute, though. There always is.—Yes indeed. It was good of you to come.—I certainly hope so.”

•  •  •

The two black limousines drove up at quarter after four, their drivers immaculate in whipcord uniforms and visored caps.

“Where the hell—” began Mr. Banks.

The driver of the rear car got out and stood before Mr. Banks, cap in hand. He had white, wavy hair and a pontifical face that radiated gentle loving-kindness.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. His voice sounded like a benediction. “They gave us the wrong address. I’m truly sorry, sir. I know the importance of punctuality at a time like this. I hope it hasn’t upset the young lady.”

Mr. Banks deflated visibly. “Not at all,” he said. “Not at all.” He helped Mrs. Banks and her mother into the front car, which dashed off immediately. Mrs. Pulitzski already had Kay carefully folded into the rear one. He climbed in beside his daughter, knocking his high hat over his nose. The white-haired chauffeur closed the door tenderly.

He had a pontifical face that radiated gentle loving-kindness.

It was immediately opened again by a small man in a brown suit. “I’m Weisgold,” he said. “Weisgold of Weisgold and Weisgold. The candid men.” Mr. Banks’ eyes shut as a blinding flash went off in his face. “Thanks,” said Mr. Weisgold. “See you in church.”

“Drive,” said Mr. Banks to the saintly wheelsman, “as if the seven hounds of hell were on your tail.”

   14   

WHO GIVETH THIS WOMAN?

Mr. Banks sat uneasily in the rear of the black limousine. Beside this lovely, calm stranger he felt small and a bit ridiculous. Their ages had somehow been mysteriously reversed. Instead of being the father of the bride he was a small boy being taken to dancing school in an asinine costume.

A neatly framed card on the back of the chauffeur’s partition caught his eye. “The driver of this car is Mr. Pomus. He is Careful—Courteous—Cooperative.” He read it over several times.

The shiny high hat cut his forehead. It had fitted him once. Why should it be too small for him now? He wondered if the forehead grew fat with the rest of the body. There was no reason why it should not, when you came to think of it. Or one’s ears either, for that matter. That was a quaint thought. “How stout your ears have grown, Mr. Banks.”

Ruminating along these philosophical lines, he half observed their progress through the elm-shaded and self-consciously meandering streets of Fairview Manor. It should have created at least a ripple of disturbance. Someone should have stopped trimming a hedge long enough to step to the curb and wave them on their way. Someone should have cried, “There goes the bride and her father.”