Father of the Bride (16 page)

But no one did.

Solid citizens continued their ceaseless, neurotic fight to civilize nature with a pair of clippers and a lawn mower. Little boys continued their suicidal ball games under the very fenders of the car. In the front seat Mr. Pomus gazed benignly over his wheel. If he had raised two fingers in blessing to the urchins that he so nearly ran over, it would have been in character.

They rounded a corner into Red Brook Road. Far down its leafy vista Mr. Banks caught a glimpse of the striped awning in front of St. George’s. Considerably nearer, however, was the father of all moving vans. A veritable freight car of a vehicle. It was backed against the curb and completely blocked the street. As they came to a stop the driver of this behemoth looked down on them from his cab with lackluster eyes.

Mr. Pomus thrust his white locks through the window. “We want to get by,” he said gently.

He joined Mr. Pomus, adding a number of words that the latter seemed to have forgotten.

The driver eyed him impersonally as one observes passers-by in a station waiting room. “Hold yer glasses on, gran’pa. Don’t let yerself get sweated up.”

Mr. Pomus’ face took on the ethereal look of a saint about to be martyred. “I’m telling you to pull that God-damn crate out of the way an’ lemme get the hell by,” he said with unexpected firmness.

The truck driver spat through the cab window as if to rid himself of an unpleasant taste. “Yeah? You an’ who?”

Mr. Pomus opened the door quietly and half stood on the running board. From his lips there poured, without warning, a torrent of electric invective. It contained many words which Mr. Banks had not heard since World War I with adaptations of old ideas. For a few moments he stared at Mr. Pomus in dismay. Then something long dormant within him was touched into life.

Lowering the rear window and carefully removing his high hat, he stuck his head out and joined Mr. Pomus, adding a number of words that the latter seemed to have forgotten. For the first time that day he felt like himself. He also felt Kay tugging at his coattails.

The driver descended from his cab and approached them, his shoulders swaying like those of a boxer moving into the ring. When he reached the car he noticed Kay and stopped.” Whyn’t you tell me you was on yer way to a weddin’? Jesus, what’s bitin’ people these days?”

He climbed back into his cab and stepped on the starter. Mr. Banks looked at his watch. It was twenty-three minutes past four. As they drew up to the curb in front of St. George’s he noted the usual crowd grouped around the sidewalk openings of the striped awning. He alighted and, his hat once more knocked over his left eye, helped his daughter from the car.

She smiled up at him and took his arm. “You were wonderful, Pops.” Mr. Weisgold of Weisgold and Weisgold danced before them like a leprechaun, his ever-candid camera at his eye. Preceded by flashing bulbs, they walked together toward the dim entrance of the church.

•  •  •

Mr. Tringle, radiating efficiency, was waiting for them at the top of the stone steps. “This way,” he said, and dove into a small passage. Through an open door Mr. Banks had a momentary glimpse of the interior of the church. He was conscious of heads and color and lights. It looked more like a stage backdrop than a real scene. The organ was booming complacently.

They were in some sort of vestibule that opened into the church through double doors that were now closed. The bridesmaids were there and a few of the ushers. Mr. Banks noted with surprise that everyone seemed dressed according to instructions.

Tommy appeared from somewhere, looking as if he were in the habit of wearing a cutaway and a wing collar every afternoon. “Sorry I messed things up, Pops,” he said. “But I made it. Ben’s going to take Mom down now.”

Everyone seemed to know just what was going on except Mr. Banks. It was incredible that such complex details should be falling into place without his supervision. He almost resented it. With a dramatic flourish Mr. Tringle threw open the double doors that led into the church.

He saw Ben swing into the center aisle with his mother on his arm. A feeling of elation spread through Mr. Banks as he watched his wife’s straight, slender back. For years she had been the focus of attention at all social events. Now she was being led humbly to her place in a front pew. For once he had stolen the show.

The remaining ushers fell into line. Mr. Tringle stood beside the leaders. “Ready?” he asked. No one gave the slightest indication as to whether he was or not. Mr. Tringle pushed a small button on the wall.

The organ made a few ad lib sounds intended to convey the idea that the organist had come to the end of whatever it was he was playing. A hush fell over St. George’s, broken only by the rustle of several hundred people trying to face in two directions at once.

This was the supreme moment—the moment Mr. Banks had dreaded and anticipated for so many weeks. It had all come with such a rush at the end that he scarcely had time to grasp its significance. Now that it was here, he was serenely calm. It was not an ordinary, workday calm, however, but rather one of detached unreality.

Although he had been in St. George’s many times before it was as strange to him at this instant as a Byzantine mosque. The sea of faces that shot suddenly upward from the pews as the organ paused were unreal. They reminded him of a high-speed movie he had once seen of a growing poppy field. Even the girl beside him was a stranger. She was no longer his little daughter, but a beautiful, serene woman into whom all wisdom had suddenly and mysteriously flowed. She stood, poised on the threshold of her greatest adventure, her face lit with understanding and confidence.

It was difficult to conceive how an earthy chap like Buckley could have produced this miracle. Having produced it, his responsibility to maintain it was great. It would be a terrible thing to betray that expression in Kay’s eyes. They were fixed far beyond Buckley, on an ideal which perhaps no mortal could hope to achieve, but which was all the more precious because of its unattainability. A thousand generations of women were standing behind Kay now. For a mystic instant she was a generic part of that selfless, intuitive race which since the days of the mastodons has been quietly guiding awkward, bumbling Man to an unknown destiny of greatness.

“Right
foot, I said,” hissed Mr. Tringle.

At this particular instant he was horrified to note that two of the bridesmaids had begun to sniffle. In the unscrupulous way of all women in little things they had snatched carefully folded handkerchiefs from ushers’ pockets and were dabbing their eyes and blowing their noses.

“Good God,” said Mr. Banks, but he had no time to develop the idea. The organ sounded off with its warning thumps. Kay patted his arm. “Well, Pops, we’re off.”

“O.K. with the right foot,” hissed Mr. Tringle.
“Right
foot, I said.” Mr. Banks shifted quickly. Everyone else changed step at the same moment and he had to shift back again. Good God, was this a wedding march or a minuet? The procession passed through the oak doorway into the church.

Mr. Banks and Kay reached the rear pews. He would have continued, but she held him back. “Hold it, Pops,” she murmured. With the calmness of a general watching his forces deploy into battle, she stood poised, awaiting the proper moment.

The maid of honor was twenty feet ahead when he felt the gentle pressure of her arm. The stage was set as she wished it. She was ready for her entrance.

Out of the corners of his eyes Mr. Banks caught glimpses of familiar faces. Their expression paid tribute to the girl at his side. Pride dispelled all other emotions.

He saw Buckley and the best man waiting for them at the end of the aisle. Mr. Galsworthy stood on the chancel steps smiling ever so slightly. Mr. Banks was struck by his resemblance to Mr. Pomus.

Now they were lined up before the steps and the minister was reading from a white satin book with a purple marker hanging from it. As he stood on the top step he towered above them in his robes like a genie emerging from a bottle.

It gave Mr. Banks an entirely new view of Mr. Galsworthy’s face—a kind of worm’s-eye view. He became vividly aware of the minister’s nostrils, which were unusually long and worked in and out like bellows as he spoke. He wrenched his eyes away with an effort, conscious that this was not the memory he wished to treasure in later years. At a moment like this it did seem as if he might be doing something more worth while than studying Mr. Galsworthy’s nostrils.

Besides which he had a cue coming. When Mr. Galsworthy reached the place where he asked, “Who giveth this woman—?” Mr. Banks was to say, “I do.” It was his only line in the show. He wanted to acquit himself creditably and began to consider his delivery.

Should he say, “
I
do” or “I
do
”? “
I
do” sounded silly. It implied that any number of people might do it and that he was pushing himself forward for the job.

On the other hand “I
do
” didn’t make much sense either. It certainly wasn’t the proper way to answer a general question. The whole passage struck him as fatuous. It put the minister in a ridiculous position, forcing him to overlook the fact that the father of the bride was standing right under his nose—no!—not that!—not his nose again!—keep off that. But he was obliged to put the question in such a way that it carried the implication that perhaps
no one
would wish to undertake the job.

It all struck Mr. Banks as lacking in forthrightness. Obviously, however, this was an inappropriate time to suggest revision of the marriage service, so he decided on “
I
do.” His next problem was the tone of voice to be used.

He didn’t want to mumble it in a shamefaced kind of way. On the other hand if he boomed it out it would have an eager-beaver quality suggesting that he was delighted to get Kay off his hands. He compromised on a well-modulated, dignified delivery; about the tone a man would use if someone asked who would volunteer for a dangerous mission.

He was mindful of the fact that, when his one line had been spoken, his final part played, he was supposed to drop back a step, turn on his heel, and join his wife in the front pew. He wished that he had noticed just what lay in his immediate rear. He had an unpleasant vision of stepping back and tripping over something unexpected like an upturned corner of carpet or the end of the pew. He began to reach behind him stealthily with his right foot, using it like the antenna of an insect. He hoped that no one would notice it. People were always so quick to attribute such fumblings to alcohol.

“Who giveth this woman—?” intoned the rich baritone of the Reverend Mr. Galsworthy from far above him.

It caught him off guard in spite of all precautions. Kay nudged him and placed her hand in his. “
I
do,” he murmured almost inaudibly, and passed her hand to Buckley. As he performed the simple act he was conscious that something deep within him ripped slightly.

He did not see the rest. Turning slowly, he stared defiantly at the rows of faces, then entered the first pew and stood beside Mrs. Banks. He tried in vain to listen to the words of the service—and then suddenly it was all over.

It seemed impossible, but it was definitely over. Kay and Buckley were kissing. The organ had broken into the joyous notes of the Mendelssohn Wedding March, like a little boy released from Sunday school into spring sunshine. The maid of honor was struggling with Kay’s train. The wedding guests were searching under the pews for lost gear and poking out hats that wives had sat on.

Kay beamed at them happily as she went by, her arm through Buckley’s, and again Mr. Banks felt that queer little rending in the center of his being. The flashing of bulbs indicated that Weisgold and Weisgold were still their old candid selves. Tommy appeared, to take his mother out.

It was over. The wedding dress, the bridesmaids’ dresses, the struggles with cutaways, the invitations, the flowers, the lists, the rehearsal, the arguments, apprehensions, doubts and bewilderments had all suddenly become memories.