Father of the Bride (8 page)

She had interminable and costly telephone conversations with Mrs. Dunstan.

Buckley never lost confidence during these trying times. He appeared each evening like a faithful sheep dog, to spend it staring at Mr. Banks. Neither of them could think of much to say to one another so they usually listened moodily to the radio and to the undertone of women’s voices from the floor above—a never-ending dialogue occasionally punctuated by screams of pleasure. At each scream Mr. Banks winced, for he knew from experience that such female ecstasy is purchased at a high price.

As time went on, however, Buckley began to show signs of alarm. He would revert occasionally to his old theme of simple weddings in little country churches. Mr. Banks said that given his choice he would pick a desert island. Once Buckley asked how much a girl—say a girl like Kay for instance—spent on clothes in the course of a year. Mr. Banks muttered something about millions. The bond of sympathy between them grew stronger daily.

•  •  •

Ignoring the fact that Kay and Buckley were going to live in a tiny house where Kay, at least, would spend a large part of her time with her head in the oven, she was finally outfitted for every social and sporting event that could conceivably take place between Sun Valley and Hobe Sound.

Mysterious boxes began to arrive. They appeared to be from women who did not have any last names—“Annette,” “Estelle,” “Helene,” “Babette.”

“They sound like a bunch of madams,” said Mr. Banks to no one in particular.

The force of example, however, is like a mighty glacier. Mr. Banks suddenly became clothes-conscious himself. Fortunately, and unlike so many of his friends, he did not have to depend on his wedding cutaway. During those fine, flush days of the twenties he had bought a new one in order to act as best man for some backsliding old bachelor. The twenties were a long way off, however, and although Mr. Banks was proud of his figure, even he was conscious that subtle changes had taken place.

When he had last seen the suit it had been a splendid thing—a badge of old-world aristocracy. Now it lay in an attic trunk under a hailstorm of moth balls. When Mrs. Banks finally dug it out it reminded him of something out of a sailor’s slop chest.

For a long time it lay dejectedly across the chair beside Mr. Banks’ bed. Each day he could think of good reasons for postponing the try-on. In the morning he was too rushed. At night he was too tired. Finally, choosing a moment when no one was around, he slipped out of his business suit and stuck a foot gingerly into a trouser leg like a bather testing the water.

Well, his legs were through at least. A bit snug, perhaps, but it might not be noticeable if he sat on the edge of things. Inhaling deeply, he sucked in his stomach as far as possible and buttoned the trousers. The effect was like squeezing the lower half of a sausage balloon.

Mysterious boxes began to arrive.

“If any of these buttons give way they’ll put somebody’s eye out,” he muttered, walking stiffly to the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Not bad for fifty, though. It was going to be a strain, of course, to keep his chest blown out like a pouter pigeon and his stomach wrapped around his back bone, but the general effect was good—like a well-preserved old oarsman.

He put on the vest carefully. The cloth around the buttons had the strained look of a sail in a heavy blow, but if it held there was nothing to worry about.

Now for the coat. This was the crucial garment—the one which must withstand the hostile eye of the general public. Nobody looked at a man’s pants. He wished the sleeves didn’t fit like a freshly laundered union suit and that the back didn’t make him feel as if he had been taped up by a surgeon. But these were minor inconveniences. The coat was on and holding at every seam.

Lifting his diaphragm as high as possible, he buttoned it quickly under his ribs. Mrs. Banks came in and surveyed him admiringly. “It’s really wonderful, Stan. I’m proud of you.”

Mr. Banks made a deprecating grimace and undid the single button of the coat. The edges parted as if they were on springs. “I think I like these coats better unbuttoned,” he said thoughtfully. “You really think it fits, then?”

“Perfectly,” said Mrs. Banks. “It might be a trifle snug, but that’s all.”

Mr. Banks continued to study himself appraisingly. “Perhaps I might manage to lose a pound or two before the wedding.” He turned on her sternly. “Remember, now. From here in no more butter or potatoes or dessert.”

He buttoned it quickly under his ribs.

He would switch on the light and write “confetti” or “bride’s bouquet—who pays?
”

“All right, dear. All right. But you don’t need to be so cross about it.”

“Well, people insist on offering them to me,” said Mr. Banks.

•  •  •

For some time Mr. Banks had been keeping a notebook handy for ideas about the wedding. During the day he would stop in unlikely places and jot down new items. When he went to bed he placed it on the table beside him. In the middle of the night he would suddenly switch on the light and write “confetti” or “bride’s bouquet—who pays?”

The book was getting filled up now. Many of the notations were illegible. There were also numerous unexplained names and addresses which had been pressed on him by experienced friends. They were the names of people who were indispensable to weddings in one way or another, but who they were or what they were supposed to do Mr. Banks did not know.

One of the first notations in the book was the word “Champagne.” It seemed a long time ago since he had written it. Life had seemed so simple and straightforward in those days. During the ensuing weeks he had received so much conflicting advice on this subject alone that he had become thoroughly confused and done nothing at all about it.

He finally stopped on his way up from the station to discuss the matter with that
bon vivant
and connoisseur of good living, Sam Locuzos, owner of the Fairview Manor Wines and Liquor Company, whom he had been patronizing, illegally and legally, for many years.

Champagne, to Mr. Banks, was a commodity which was kept on the top shelf of the hall closet in two-bottle lots and used only on very special occasions. Sam, however, didn’t have the same reverence for the stuff.

“Sure,” he said. “Got plenty champagne. What kind you want? All the same. No good. Here’s some. Good enough. Make it forty-five dollars a case.”

Mr. Banks turned pale. “How many cases do I need?”

“How many come?”

“Oh, let’s say a hundred and fifty.”

“Six cases, eh?”

“Sure,” said Sam. “Got plenty champagne. All the same. No good.
”

“Six cases! Good God, Sam, that’s almost three hundred dollars.”

“Sure. Got something cheaper. Forty-two dollars. No good,” said Sam impassively. He was used to scenes like this. There had been other weddings in Fairview Manor.

“Tell you what,” he said, and his voice was full of sympathy. “You been a good customer. I give you three bottles. Three different kinds, see. Present. You take home an’ try. Then you tell me which one.”

Mr. Banks watched Sam’s skillful fingers as they wrapped the bottles. “There,” he said. “Don’t drop. An’ don’t forget to freeze cold. Then nobody don’t taste.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Banks.

•  •  •

On Sunday afternoon he invited two carefully selected couples to help him make the test. None of them knew anything about champagne, but Mr. Banks did not know anyone who did. He had chosen them on the theory that people who drank as enthusiastically as this group must have judgment on anything alcoholic.

They consumed the three bottles with the casual dispatch of people at a public drinking fountain. Each couple had a favorite brand of their own which they considered necessary to the success of any wedding—and it was not one of the three Mr. Locuzos had selected. They became so heated about it that everyone forgot the three empty bottles and Mr. Banks went out and made old-fashioneds. When they had gone Mr. and Mrs. Banks selected the bottle with the most impressive-looking label and let it go at that.

•  •  •

“Got the champagne this afternoon,” remarked Mr. Banks casually to his wife that evening.

“How much did you get?”

He immediately went on the defensive. “Well, I wanted to be sure there was enough. Nothing’s worse than running out the way George Evans did. Then if there’s a little left over we can always—”

“But how much did you get?”

“Ten cases. But when you think—”

“Ten
cases!
How much did you have to pay?”

“Sam made me a special price. Forty-five dollars. Very reasonable.”

“Forty-five dollars? For what?”

“For a case, of course. Now—”

“Stanley Banks, do you mean to tell me that you laid out four hundred and fifty dollars on champagne when you’ve been complaining about every cent I spend on poor little Kay for things the child absolutely
has
to have? I think it’s just wicked. Don’t ever speak to me again about expenses. That’s all I say.”

   8   

BIG BUSINESS

The telephone, which had never been an inarticulate instrument in the Banks home, now started ringing the moment the receiver was replaced in its cradle.

“Who was it, Ellie?”

“Oh, just a woman who wants to take Kay’s bridal pictures.”

“Some orchestra that wants to play at the reception.”

“A candid camera man, dear.”

“It was the little man that puts up the awning.”

“Just another caterer.”

“A man who wants to do the flowers.”

“Only the dressmaker, darling.”

What an innocent he had been! His original wedding budget had included a case or two of champagne, a couple of hundred watercress sandwiches, a wedding dress (if he was unfortunate enough to have reared a daughter who couldn’t slip into her mother’s), a handsome present to the bride, some miscellaneous tips and that was about all (although bad enough). The church was free. What else was there?

Now he suddenly appeared to be the sole customer of an immense and highly organized industry. He reminded himself of the Government during the war. “Keep those production lines moving for Banks. Get the finished goods to him. He’s committed now. He’s in this mess up to his ears. There’s no drawing back. We’re all behind you, Banks; behind you with caterers, photographers, policemen, dressmakers, tent pitchers—behind you with champagne and salads and clothes and candid cameras and potted palms and orchestras and everything it takes to win a wedding.”