Slightly Married (30 page)

“Kids don’t take up much room and they eat like birds. It’ll be fine.”

Yeah, but each of those birds still requires a chair and, according to the caterer, a fifty-dollar plate of food.

What would Jesus do?

Suck it up and spring for the extra guests, I suppose.

Jesus probably wouldn’t get revenge by seating Cousin Joanie and her first love at a table with little Joey and the twins from hell, but what can I say? I’m a mere mortal.

I have to get Charles the banquet manager to add on a bunch of extra tables, which helps…a little.

I spend every night for a week moving three hundred Post-It notes around in a vast diagram on a poster board taped to our living-room wall, as Jack makes helpful comments like, “Don’t seat Fat Naso next to Kate—he might crush her,” and “Don’t seat Raphael and Donatello near the church ladies.”

It’s like working a giant puzzle that refuses to fit together, but in the end I almost get it.

I say almost because there’s one table strictly comprised of various strays—my parents’ neighbors the Gilberts, Rev Dev, Aldo and Bud, Aunt Aggie and Jimmy the doorman with his date (I gave him a legitimate
And Guest
because he’s coming so far and doesn’t know a soul).

Relieved to have that monumental task completed, I send the final head count and seating plan off to Charles—who calls a few days later to tell me that I made a mistake and each of the tables seat ten, not eight.

I’m sure Jesus wouldn’t hang up the phone, scream the F-word and sob into a bottle of cheap Pinot Noir.

But I’d like to see Jesus plan a wedding. I really would.

Jack and I are spending dawn to dusk on this gorgeous October Saturday in a dank basement of a Catholic church on the Lower East Side. Joining us are twenty or so other engaged couples and two middle-aged pairs of husbands and wives who are leading this marriage boot camp: aka Pre Cana class.

What a bummer. I’d rather be anywhere other than here this morning. Couch would be great. Bed would be better.

I got two hours of sleep last night—I was in Des Moines on Client business and my flight home was ridiculously late because of thunderstorms. To make matters worse, so is my period. Ridiculously late, that is. Not because of thunderstorms.

No, I don’t think I’m pregnant. Jack and I are too busy and tired for much of a sex life lately, so that’s not very likely. It’s probably just stress.

Needless to say, I’m feeling a little short-tempered today. And these Pre Cana people are making it worse.

The leaders, of course, are oh-so-happily married. Like, freakishly happily married. Their job is to enlighten us all to the joys and responsibilities of a Catholic marriage. But frankly, I’m finding it hard to relate to these Stepford spouses on any level.

It would help if they were even the slightest bit hip, but they’re buttoned up and preternaturally upbeat. It’s hard to imagine any of them ever having had a good healthy argument with their spouse, let alone sex. I mean, sexual relations. Which we discussed earlier in the day, during a seminar called—ick—The Marital Bed. Considering that the class doctrine was handed down by a group of men who are forbidden to ever
have
sexual relations, I guess it shouldn’t be surprising that I learned nothing whatsoever, other than that artificial means of contraception are sinful.

Both of the head Stepford husbands here are named Bob, and one of the women—the one who never talks—is Kelly. Jack and I have no idea what the other one’s name is; she does nothing but talk, so she’s getting on our nerves.

So are most of the other engaged couples, for that matter.

The most entertaining part of the day, so far, has been the half hour Jack and I were supposed to be spending reflecting on what makes a marriage successful based on couples we know in real life. Instead, we spent the time figuring out where we’re going to go for brunch tomorrow, and discussing which couples among the soon-to-be-marrieds here are obviously doomed, and why.

At the moment, the class has been broken up into smaller groups to share our answers to a series of questions about our partners.

It’s actually surprisingly kind of fun—like a quiz you’d take in
Cosmopolitan
magazine, only it’s fill in the blank, not multiple choice. The questions pertain to your relationship with your spouse, and presumably, your answers are meant to tell you whether you’re ready to take this big important step together.

One of the Bobs is our group’s moderator. His wife is the one who never shuts up. I can’t help but notice he’s relieved to have a little space from her, because he seems even more verbal and upbeat here in our little circle of folding chairs in the far corner of the room.

“All right,” Bob says, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “Question number one—What do you love most about your spouse-to-be?”

He points to the first guy, who reads a little woodenly from the paper in his hand, “Jill has great teeth. That is my favorite thing about her.”

“Peter! Thank you!” His fiancée is thrilled.

“Jill? Your turn.”

“I wrote that Peter has a nice smile! I love your smile, Peter.”

He flashes it and yeah, it’s nice.

Still, Jack and I exchange a glance, and I can tell we’re thinking the same thing: shallow.

“My turn!” announces the next bride. “The thing I love most about you, John, is your eyes.”

And John loves her eyes, too—what a coincidence! A match made in heaven! They are beaming at each other! Bob is beaming with approval!

Again, I catch Jack’s eye. Again, I marvel at how much more enlightened we are as a couple compared to these people, Bobs and wives included.

I can’t help but wonder what Jack wrote about me. I mean, it’s not like we openly discuss what we love about each other, much as I would like to. I’m used to Jack being a man of few words, but that’s not allowed here at Pre Cana. I can hardly wait until it’s our turn to share our answers, but there’s another couple before us. Ho hum.

She loves him because he’s always wanted children, yet he stayed by her even after a bout with cancer left her sterile.

Wow.

Visibly moved, Bob motions for her groom to go ahead.

“What I love most about you, Eva,” he begins, reading from the questionnaire that’s trembling in his hands, “is the way you stared your cancer in the face and fought it with everything you have, and you beat it, honey.” He’s sobbing, tears running down his face.

“We beat it together, Royce,” she replies, her voice choked with emotion.

“I love you because you’re the bravest, strongest woman I’ve ever known, and you’re my hero, the wind beneath my wings.”

Now the rest of us are teary-eyed, too—especially Eva. And Bob.

“I love your spirit, your heart, your soul, Eva,” Royce concludes, “and I promise to spend every day for the rest of my life making you happy.”

They fall into each other’s arms, violins play and little cupids fly around their heads.

Okay, I made that up about the violins.

And cupids.

But, despite being moved, I have to say it’s a little much. I mean, we’re not reciting vows here. We’re supposed to be telling each other one thing we love about each other. Just one.

“Next,” Bob prompts me.

Reluctantly, I read what I wrote to Jack, wishing I had broken the rules like Eva and Royce, or that we could have followed the eye, smile and teeth people instead.

“The thing I love most about you, Jack, is that you can make me laugh even when I want to cry. You have this way of putting a positive, funny spin on even the most depressing day, and I know that with you by my side, making me laugh even when I think that’s the last thing I can possibly do, I can get through anything life throws our way.”

Jack is obviously touched. “Thanks, Trace,” he says a little shyly.

“You’re welcome,” I return, not feeling so inadequate after all.

And now…

The moment of truth.

He unfolds his paper. Hesitates.

I feel sorry for him, knowing he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing heartfelt, romantic stuff like this in front of all these strangers.

“Go ahead, Jack,” Bob says. “What do you love most about your fiancée?”

Jack looks down at his paper.

I brace myself in anticipation.

He mumbles something.

“What?” I say, straining to hear him, not wanting to miss a word of it.

“Speak up, Jack,” Bob urges, “so that we can all hear you.”

Jack clears his throat. “I love her hair.”

My hair?

“That’s it.” Jack nods and sets his paper aside.

Wait—

“Next,” says Bob.

What?

That’s it?

That’s what Jack loves most about me? My hair?

Were we or were we not just minutes ago exchanging glances, thinking about how shallow these first few couples are with the eyes, the teeth, the smiles?

I guess
we
weren’t. Jack’s concordance must have been my imagination.

Even more troubling than that: he just wasted a perfect opportunity to tell me how he feels about me.

I’d say I have a right to be pissed.

Or maybe I don’t, but I can’t help it.

Blame it on PMS.

Blame it on lack of sleep.

Blame it on wedding nerves.

Whatever. I’ll drop it for now—but I’m not going to just let it go.

On, and on, and on we go, round the circle, sharing answers.

It turns out Jack and I are perfectly compatible—at least, according to our responses to the rest of the questions. How we’ll spend our money and our time, how many children we’ll have, where we’ll go for holidays—blah, blah, blah.

Meanwhile, all I can think is, he loves my hair? That’s all he has to say? He couldn’t come up with anything better, more original, more romantic? Something like…

You’re clever and big-hearted and gentle and crazy and magnetic…

No.

I can’t go there. I don’t dare go there.

This is about me and Jack. It has nothing to do with Buckley.

It has to do with Jack not stepping up when I wanted him to.

Naturally, I don’t bring it up again until Pre Cana is safely over and we’re on our way home, certificate in hand.

“That was actually almost fun,” Jack comments, sitting beside me as the number six train rumbles uptown.

“Mmm, hmm.”

“I learned a lot, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

He squirms a little.

“I learned that the only thing you love about me is my hair, Jack.” My voice wavers and suddenly there’s a monstrous lump in my throat.

“What? I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did. You said ‘I love her hair.’ That’s a direct quote. See?” I wave his questionnaire—which I kept as evidence—in the air.

“I do love your hair. But that’s not the only thing.”

“That’s all you wrote.”

“Because we were supposed to say what we love most. One thing. I thought you’d be happy because you’re always complaining about your hair.”

“No,
Eva
was happy. She got to hear all this great stuff.”

“Who?”

“Eva! With the cancer.”

“
Pfft
,” is Jack’s response. “That guy Roy was so sappy.”

“Sappy? What he wrote was beautiful. And his name was Royce.”

“What? Beautiful? He pretty much ripped off some old Bette Midler song. Anyone could do that.”

“Yeah, well, I wish you had,” I mutter.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I fold my arms and turn to look sullenly out the window behind me at the dark tunnel flying past.

“You wanted me to quote some old song?” Jack asks incredulously.

“No, Jack. That’s not what I wanted.”

But quoting an old movie—like
Jerry Maguire
—would have been nice. I’d love to hear that I complete him. So it’s not the most original sentiment in the world. At least it’s deeper and more meaningful than
I love your hair.

“Well, what did you want, then?” Jack asks.

I want you to tell me that
I’m
clever and big-hearted and gentle and crazy and magnetic. That sometimes when we’re together, just hanging out talking and joking around, you’re thinking about grabbing me and kissing me.

“Nothing,” I say glumly—and a little guilty. “Never mind.”

14

“H
e just doesn’t get it,” I tell Raphael the next day as we ride the elevator up to the neonatal floor at the hospital, where Kate delivered a seven-pound baby girl at around 3:00 a.m.

I was the first one she called, which means I got about two hours’ sleep for the second night in a row. I couldn’t fall asleep again after we hung up. In part because I was excited about the baby, and in part because I was still upset about Jack liking my hair. Period.

“What do you want from him, Tracey? He’s a man,” Raphael says with a shrug, barely visible behind the enormous teddy bear we picked out at Toys “R” Us in Times Square.

“You’re a man,” I point out. “If you had to tell Donatello what your favorite thing about him is, I bet you wouldn’t say his hair.”

“I bet I wouldn’t,” he agrees with a lascivious bob of his brow.

“That’s not what I meant.” I toy with the ribbon on the bouquet of pink roses in my hand. “I just can’t believe I’m about to spend the rest of my life with someone who doesn’t get it.”

Come to think of it, I can’t believe that I’m actually poised on the rest of my life. It seems so final. Like an ending instead of a beginning.

Yes, it’s a happy one.

But like I said, I’m not good at endings.

“What doesn’t Jack get, exactly?” Raphael wants to know.

“That sometimes I don’t want to be taken for granted. I need to
hear
things.”

The elevator stops and the doors open.

“Do you want to back out of the wedding, Tracey?” Raphael asks, a little breathless from lugging the bear around as we emerge on Kate’s floor.

“No! Of course I don’t want to back out. I just…I wish he was a little more…”

“Verbal.”

“Yes, that, but also…”

“Poetic?”

I nod.

“Romantic?”