Such a Pretty Face (40 page)

“They’re your friends, Herbie, not mine. You took all my friends away from me.”

“I took the friends away from you who were inappropriate for you and would lead you astray, into a life unbecoming of my wife, inappropriate for a woman in the public eye—”

“Yes, she could have hung around with Ellen the Emasculator,” Polly drawled. “Now that would be enough to make me want to swim in a pool full of vodka rocks.”

“She’s so splendid,” I added. “Her bosom shakes with indignation.”

“Bosoms can do that,” Polly noted.

“I miss Virginia. She won’t be back for six weeks!” Aunt Janet said this almost to herself, then the fire was back in her eyes. “Six weeks! She’s leaving for an African safari tomorrow! She invited me and you said I couldn’t go!”

“That’s right. I won’t have you gallivanting around the world with Virginia. Plus, there’s no reason to go to Africa. Heathens, unsafe, unhealthy, diseased, superstitions, poverty stricken.”

“Why do I let you tell me what to do?” she asked, almost to herself. “Why have I let you bully me my whole life? When do I get to become myself and do what I want? Do I have to wait for you to die to do it?”

Herbert hardly knew what to do. To say he was stunned down to his shiny black shoes and tuxedo would be an under-statement, but he was a wily man, and he realized ruling by force and threat weren’t working here. Polly started singing a song about a husband who was shot by his unhappy wife, Janet was having a meltdown, and I had somehow scared the crap out of him with my announcement about Ashville.

“You can do as you wish, within reason, and within what I feel is right for you as my wife.”

Aunt Janet threw a perfume bottle at Herbert, who ducked in the nick of time, then said, “You even pick out my clothes! You hired a personal shopper for me, and when I wanted two new skirts in a different style, you had her pretend they didn’t have my size! Don’t pretend you’re shocked, Herbert, I knew! I knew! I hate my clothes. I hate them. I hate that stupid dress, too!”

The “renewal of vows” dress hanging on the hanger was stiff, proper, a heavy flounce of off-white yuck.

“You’re going to resemble an aged Little Bo Peep,” Polly said. “And there’s your wolf.” She pointed at Herbert. “He’s gobbled you up already.”

“I will not allow you to have one of your mental meltdowns at my party!” Herbert seethed.

“Your party, Herbert? I thought it was
ours.
”

I put my slinky red dress on about fifteen minutes later, and it was a clothing miracle. I felt liberated. Free. Sexy! Except for the fact that my aunt was renewing her vows to a weasel fart, I was a new Stevie.

When I came out of the bathroom adjoining Aunt Janet’s bedroom, Polly said, “You are flat-out gorgeous.”

Lance wobbled out, “I think I’m going to cry.”

Aunt Janet sighed. “You are beautiful, Stevie. You remind me of your mother. It’s your lovely face, Stevie….” She touched my dimple.

I thought I’d choke on that comment. For decades I had fought against that image in the mirror. I didn’t want to be her and had spent years running from the resemblance, denying her, burying her under food. As I had lost weight my momma’s face had emerged from my own, and she had killed my Sunshine. I had struggled and struggled. How could that be beautiful?

“Never forget that your mother loved you, sweetie,” Aunt Janet said. “She was so sick, but she did love you.”

“No, she didn’t,” I croaked out, but part of me, way deep inside, said real quiet, “Yes, she did, she loved you as much as she could.”

“Yes, sugar, she loved you,” Aunt Janet said, tears pouring out. “It was in her eyes when she looked at you, when she held you when you were a baby, when she sang to you, when she painted with you.” Aunt Janet kissed, then hugged me. “That’s from your mother. She was too sick to do it herself, but I know, dear, I know that she would have kissed you with all she had if her disease had not taken her away from us.”

I put my hand on my cheek, covering the kiss.

Then me, Polly, Lance, and Aunt Janet turned and stared into the mirrors on the closet doors together.

I saw my momma’s face in mine, but Polly leaned in and kissed me, and I smiled and saw my dimple, and Aunt Janet linked an arm around my shoulder, and in the blue eyes I shared with my momma I saw my own expression, the pain I figured I’d always carry with me, but also a new strength and determination there, and maybe, finally, a dose of courage.

And then Lance said, blubbering a bit, “Stevie, you’re way prettier than any of my blow-ups,” and I laughed, and in the laugh lines around my eyes, and in my black curls, the strength of my chin, I saw myself.

Finally, in the mirror, after so long, I saw me. Not Stevie and Helen, but Stevie.

Aunt Janet kissed me again.

I headed back outside to direct people, answer questions, say hello to early guests, make sure all was right, and then I saw him.

He was standing near the tables under the white tents, staring quizzically down at Lance’s dolls. For a second I admired that he-man the size of a redwood, with shoulders like a tractor, blondish hair, a tough face and a tough jaw, with eyes that turned me to mush. I admired the man who danced with me outside, and made me pasta, and held me on his lap, and said he wanted to start with me from right here, right now.

He turned, then, because you can always tell when someone is staring at you, and he smiled. I smiled back, in my red dress, with the ruffle at the bottom.

“Thank you again for coming!” Herbert boomed to the guests, all properly seated in rows, in white chairs, on either side of a strip of white satiny material, on the perfectly manicured grass, awaiting the bride, currently having a fantastic meltdown. Herbert stretched out his arms, loving the attention, the man of the house, leader of the pack. “This is a celebration of what marriage should be.”

I heard three camera snaps and saw two quick camera flashes. The photographers and reporters were all from local newspapers.

Aunt Janet was going to be unhappy.

“This is a celebration of what a solid, old-fashioned American family is, and should always be.” He turned to me and Polly, holding our bridesmaids’ flowers on his right, and Lance, on his left, the best man. “A long, happy marriage, between a man and a woman. One man. One woman. Children.” He smiled piously when certain members of the audience cheered, then grew somber. “I have no idea what’s happening in this state. This liberal, free-love, anything-goes state. I have no idea what’s going on in this country, where there are no moral standards, no values, no boundaries of what is right and wrong, and a general disregard of the biblical structures that built this country!” His voice rose and fell.

I watched Jake’s face as it hardened. I had warned him about Herbert and his upcoming political statement against gay marriage. It hadn’t gone over well with Jake. His brother was gay. That was the brother who owned the boat we borrowed on the Willamette.

Beside me, Polly said, without bothering to lower her voice, “Dad sure knows how to roll out the romance, doesn’t he? Set the mood. Praise his wife, talk about their decades-long love affair, their life together….”

Herbert glared at her, pious smile frozen tight.

We smiled back angelically.

Aunt Janet was going to be extremely unhappy.

“But we’re better than that!” Herbert boomed. “We know what America is about!”

Lance was starting to boil. He was sweet and kind, but once that temper switched to high, watch out. Please.

“We’re not here to celebrate only my and Janet’s long-lasting, happy, fulfilling marriage, we’re here to celebrate what marriage is, what it should be, what all men and women should commit to. A loyal union. Faithful to one another. Blessed. Fruitful!” he pontificated, then held out his hands to us.

Perhaps we were supposed to wave our fruitiness to the clapping crowd, but none of us felt the urge.

“Yes, fruitful,” Polly drawled. “As in, we’re all fruitcakes.”

“Nuts. We’re all nuts,” I said, glancing at Lance, whose face was tight and reddening. Would he hit his father in front of all these people?

We got the glare from Herbert.

We smiled back, angelically.

“And now, let’s begin this ceremony and let’s hope and pray that others will join us in our battle against gay marriage! An abomination! A curse! Against the Bible! Anti-American.”

There was weak, scattered applause, the photographers took a few pictures, the reporters scribbled their notes.

Oh, Aunt Janet would be steamingly unhappy.

I peeked at Jake. He was staring pretty hard at Herbert, that jaw rock hard.

Herbert nodded at Mrs. Bunce, the multimillionaire piano player, who glowered at Herbert, then started playing. I had told her to play the song Aunt Janet requested, not “Here Comes the Bride,” which Aunt Janet thought was a ridiculous song to be played for a woman of her years.

Unfortunately, that was the song that was played. Later Mrs. Bunce told me, with an enormous amount of huffing and puffing, that Herbert had told her to play “Here Comes the Bride,” and told her how “romantic” it would be for his wife, that Janet wanted to reenact her wedding day. Mrs. Bunce was so mad that Herbert lied to her that she let the air out of all of his tires the next day with her steak knife.

I froze, absolutely froze, when I heard those notes, and said, “The bride’s gonna be pissed.”

Beside me, Polly wailed, “Oh, you are a polluted moron.”

And Lance said, “You bastard. She said no to that song.”

He did not say it quietly. Herbert’s head swiveled toward Lance before he forced that lizardish smile to his mouth again.

It was all a control-freak game to him. He’d wanted that song, and he was going to get it. He’d wanted the reporters, and they were there. He’d wanted to renew his vows for political gain, and he would do it. To hell with Janet. I was disgusted. Absolutely disgusted.

The “Here Comes the Bride” song played out.

No Aunt Janet.

I heard Herbert clear his throat under his arc of virginal white roses.

He nodded at Mrs. Bunce a second time.

She glowered, then played the full “Here Comes the Bride” song again.

“The bride’s not doing what she was told,” I said. “Betcha she’s in trouble now.”

“You screwed up, whack job,” Polly said.

“She didn’t want that song, Dad,” Lance said again, louder. “You knew it. She told you. She had another song picked out.”

This time, as the song finished, I noticed a line of sweat across Herbert’s brow, the top of his cheekbones flushed.

Would Aunt Janet actually stand him up? Would she dare? Had she finally had enough? Had she heard “Here Comes the Bride” and that was that?

For a third time, “Here Comes the Bride” was pounded out again while Mrs. Bunce continued to perfect her glower.

“Bad choice, Herbert,” I drawled.

“Typical Dad behavior,” Polly said. “Tyrannical, titillating, tortuous, taboo.”

“You don’t even love her, do you, Dad?” Lance said. “You love you. It’s all about you.”

No Aunt Janet.

Jake leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms. I dare say his expression said, “You deserve this, asshole.”

Herbert was livid. Flushed, tight-lipped, about to blow. He knew the game was up. He had lost this tiny battle. Amidst the whispers and the turning heads, he stalked over to Mrs. Bunce and whispered something to her. She nodded, glowered at Herbert, and began another song. This one was cheerful and upbeat, from a Broadway show, the song that Aunt Janet had requested, one I remember my mother singing.

We waited halfway through that song.

Finally, Aunt Janet appeared at the end of the rows of white chairs.

She was roaringly unhappy.

Her off-white dress with its high collar, poofy sleeves, and thick flounce was hideous. She charged up the aisle, her face stormy, one hand holding her bouquet straight down. If I had thought she was mad in her makeup-throwing mood, that was nothing. Ten feet from Herbert, she threw her bouquet at his face. He was so shocked, he didn’t even put a hand up to protect himself.

“You asshole! I told you not to play ‘Here Comes the Bride’! We agreed on it!”

“Now, Janet, calm down. I thought it would bring you beautiful memories of our wedding day….” He did the pious lizard smile, but the smile wobbled.

“No, you didn’t. Our wedding day was a joke. I hated it. I told you I hated it. Your mother planned everything. I had no voice. I hated your mother, and I have hated being married to you.”

Herbert’s mouth opened and shut, opened and shut, a sea snake trying to catch a worm.

“You wanted this stupid ceremony. I didn’t. I told you that, and yet you still planned it. You wanted an event for the press, a launch against gay marriage, a PR hit for you and your stupid campaign. Hell, Herbert, even your own vow renewal ceremony has to be part of your political plan!”

“I’m sorry, friends,” Herbert intoned, trying to be magnanimous, the pitiful victim. “My wife has had too much to drink—”

I saw two more camera flashes. Flash, flash. Aunt Janet whirled around, furious, then turned back to Herbert.

“Nice try, Herbert. I haven’t had a thing to drink, not a thing.” She threw something else—it was blue, and it shattered against the steps. It was the blue drinking glass Herbert always made Aunt Janet drink from to remind her of her “weakness.”

Herbert jumped in shock, then sighed and said, “All marriages have challenges. This has been mine.”

“You idiot, Herbert!” she shrieked. “You and your anti-gay marriage initiative. As if our crappy marriage should be an example to others. Where the wife struggles against her own suffocation, is not even allowed to have an opinion, or to be a person in her own right. Where she’s supposed to be pretty and docile and smile nicely and all the while she has become no one, no one that she herself can respect or recognize. I don’t even know myself, because I allowed you to take me away from me.”

Finally, Herbert was stunned speechless under his virginal white roses.

“I like the new you,” I said.