Things I can’t Explain (26 page)

We locked up the helmets and jackets and walked toward the massive main building. There's only one word to describe the place.

immensitude
(n.) the impression of being bigger than big, 2013; comb. form of
immense
(adj.) (mid-14c.) from Latin
immensus
, meaning boundless, immeasurable, and
attitude
(n.), 1660s, via French
attitude
(17c.), from Italian
attitudine
“disposition, posture.”
immensi
+
tude
, as in “too big to fail,” 1984, first used to describe bank size by Stewart Brett McKinney, or “enough already” based on the original Yiddish “genug shoyn.” Citations include: surfer term of astonishment ref: Maverick Waves, 1974; portions of pastrami at Katz's Deli, cited in Yelp, 2007. Also see related citation from adult entertainment industry, “Frankenstein Zone,” in reference to penis size.

Beyond the main entrance we encounter a sweeping view of the Hudson and the expansive velvety green lawns that slope to the river. Little boys from the age of three and up flock around us with upturned collars like miniature Tucker Carlsons in their tiny sweaters draped over their shoulders dressed in red, green, and yellow Ralph Lauren pants. Little girls scream and play tag in floral sundresses, some pearls, and even a few mini tiaras. Most of the male attendees are dressed in khaki pants and navy jackets and not a few bow ties. The groomsmen, who seem to move everywhere together en masse like a swarm of colorful auklets, are wearing coral pants, navy blazers, and matching coral ties with what look like little whales on them. I assume they don't realize that they're wearing an endangered species.

The women wear Carolina Herrera, Kate Spade, and a surplus of Lilly Pulitzer dresses. This reminds me of how shocked Hugh was when he found out that Pulitzer had come out with a line of brightly colored dresses. I had to stop him from throwing his prized framed gold Pulitzer medallions out the window of the
Post
building.

Everything at the country club is fratty, semi-nautical, and totally coordinated in a way that makes me twitch uncontrollably. Louise Vava Lucia Henriette le Bailly de la Falaise would have screamed. Nick and I stick out like downtown clubbers in a sea of purple and green Country Club Prep. Nick is speechless as he takes it all in. I assume in Bushwick, New York, he doesn't often see colors like teal, daffodil, mayonnaise, and ecru.

“Come on,” I say, “let's find an out-of-the-way, discreet place to sit.”

“Whatever you say,” Nick says. “I feel like we've just entered an alien universe.”

There are waves of white chairs spread across the lawn and it seems as though we've arrived just before the ceremony as everyone is settling down. I spy Jody waving at me enthusiastically, arm in arm with Rupert who, I notice, has a black eye. Despite the injury, they are obviously in love. As they slide through the rows of chairs to take their seats, I can practically see wedding bells ringing above their heads. I guess the wedding effect is working for them.

Nick nudges me. “Your parents are waving,” he says.

I glance around, find Mom and Dad near the front, and give them a tiny Queen Elizabeth wave of my hand. The wedding effect seems to be working on them, too. I wonder who will catch the bouquet. I hope Marshall does, for his sake.

And there up front, surrounded in the aforementioned swarm of coral and navy blue, is the dread Dartmoor—the lead groomsman distinguished by his coral bow tie. Next to him, I assume, is the lucky groom Wendell Fleckerstein, who appears pretty normal in a solid anchor blue suit, dark tie, and dark-framed glasses. G-Bomb's hubbie-to-be is a bit on the nerdy prep side, but that's cool. I steer Nick toward two empty chairs in the back—better to have easy access to egress, I always say.

Nick's regular shyness seems to have returned, but as he puts his arm around my chair I slide closer and his arm falls over my shoulder. Everything feels as it should and I'm quite comfy in the back row, experiencing my own mild version of the wedding effect. I still haven't quite gotten over the fact that I'm sitting at my archenemy's wedding with the guy I thought got away. It's not lost on me that this might never have happened if it weren't for Genelle.

In the far-off distance, the pinging of golf balls on the golf course and the rattle of dishes and wineglasses being placed on a table somewhere echo across the lawn.

Club members claim online that the Headless Horseman threw his jack-o'-lantern at Ichabod Crane—the naive, gangly Tappan Zee schoolmaster who dared desire a girl above his station—at the exact location where we're sitting. But then again everyone in the hamlet of Sleepy Hollow probably says that. I bet there are “The Headless Horseman Slept Here” signs at the bed-and-breakfast places in town.

The bride's and groom's families face off from either side of the aisle. I'm sure Bridezilla Genelle put them through a protracted, emotionally fraught, multilateral negotiation leading up to this day. They look exhausted. But I must admit, it's all excruciatingly well planned.

As we await the bride, I examine the bridesmaids. They are wearing truly ghastly purple dresses with foofy sleeves, way too much crinoline, and some kind of doily thing in the front that make them look fat and flabby. I detect Genelle's handiwork in their embarrassment, calculated to make her shine all the more. There's probably a “how-to” chapter in her book about it.

As the band—the Westchester Swingadelic Funksters, according to their alphabet-crowded bass drum—strikes up a jazzy medley of “Hava Nagila” and “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring,” it dawns on me for the first time that Genelle is marrying out of her Protestant tribe. I wonder who's converting. Apparently, the answer is no one.

A rabbi and a minister walk into a wedding … I know it sounds like the beginning of a joke, but that's
actually
what's happening. Two very round and jolly men, one wearing a tallith over his suit and tie and the other wearing a purple stole and white robe, have arrived to co-officiate the wedding in tandem, and they're walking down the aisle toward the flowered chuppah where Wendell, Dartmoor, and company are waiting.

As they settle in, the band strikes up the wedding march, and there is Councilman Waterman—wearing what looks like a very Ichabod Crane top hat—walking the lovely bride down the aisle.

A moment here to comment on G-Bomb's wedding dress: The dress is extravagant and exquisite. It starts at the bottom with its six-foot train and taffeta bodice that includes cascading floral appliqués, but when you get up top things get a little crazy. The busty bride has gone strapless and she's definitely intent on letting her unnatural assets shine with no form of restraint, except maybe body adhesive. Somehow the corset beneath is even more figure-boosting and you can tell that Genelle's struggling to keep her cleavage under control in the emotion of the moment. She really needs to cover those puppies before they start barking.

Then again, I'm not here to criticize. I'm here to make an appearance, say hello, and leave so that Nick and I can finally spend some uninterrupted quality time together.

As the ceremony begins in earnest, the rabbi-minister team begins to alternate opening remarks and blessings. It's apparent that the couple loves each other very much, and by that I mean the rabbi and minister. Oy vey, they're practically finishing each other's sentences. I'm expecting them to break into the ol' soft-shoe any moment or tag-team wrestling.

When the minister recites the Lord's Prayer, the bride's side of the aisle joins in, and when the rabbi says a blessing over the wine in Hebrew, the groom's side follows along, separate but equal. The rabbi-minister team makes a big deal of passing the rings around. I thought they might even juggle or do a few magic tricks like pulling the ring out from behind the bride's ear, but no such luck. Soon it's over and everybody puts their eight hands together—that's the bride, the groom, and the two religious leaders. I wonder if they'll all be going on the honeymoon.

Finally, Wendell kisses the bride. Her new boobs do not pop out, and all is well. Now it's time for the glass-breaking ceremony. The rabbi gives a long explanation about the meaning of this colorful ritual. He says something about how the glass's permanently broken state symbolizes the marriage bond. Supposedly it's a representation of the fragility of human relationships.

“And it's the last time Wendell will get to put his foot down!” some old bubby cracks nearby and I resist laughing. But come on, people, about this glass-breaking ritual, aren't we really talking about symbolically losing your V-card here? I'm far from a Talmudic scholar—I'm not even Jewish. In fact, I thought we were Buddhists when I was growing up, but that doesn't keep me from having my own deeply held opinions. I mean, what else is supposed to get broken on a wedding night?

Intent on definitely putting an end to whatever the glass underneath the towel symbolizes, Wendell stomps decisively but his feet fly up, sending him tumbling to the ground. Everyone gasps. Dartmoor picks him up and brushes him off immediately. I guess that's his duty as groomsman. Wendell recovers his composure and then to avoid utter humiliation hurriedly stomps again—but there's no distinctive, lightbulb-popping, shattering glass sound. We all cling to the edges of our white wooden folding chairs, watching in suspense as he stomps again and again until he slips a second time. The wedding crowd collectively inhales, astounded.

The rabbi shakes his head and restrains Wendell before he tries another time. Wendell is visibly shaken as the rabbi whispers some secret advice in Wendell's ear and makes a minor adjustment to the towel. You can tell the rabbi is an old pro at this. After two more vigorous stomps, we have a breakthrough—the familiar popping sound resounds across the lawns of Sleepy Hollow. Everyone yells “Mazel tov” on our side and “Thank God” on the other. Although I wonder how this bodes for Genelle and Wendie's marriage, I'm standing and applauding as happily as anyone else. I'm crossing my fingers, wishing the best for the bride and groom and secretly praying that Nick and I survive the reception.

 

CHAPTER
28

We make our way through a tunnel of ivory roses, green hydrangeas, and calla lilies to the reception area. I'm thinking: Let's say hi to Mom and Dad, offer my little mea culpa, run the required reception gauntlet wishing Genelle, Wendell, and Dartmoor (if we have to) our best, and get the hell out of here.

“So, besides the boob job, the nose work, and her poor taste in wedding dresses, what do you hate about her?” Nick asks. That's what I like about Nick. He's quiet, even shy at times, but he sees everything.

“Decide for yourself,” I say, nodding to his left, because Genelle has spotted us and she's jiggling her way over. She manages to keep together what little there is of the upper part of her wedding dress and drag her train and Wendell across the lawn all at the same time.

“Clarissa! It's so great to see you!” she exclaims loud enough that the entire wedding party can hear and gives me what must go down as one of the most uncomfortable hugs I've ever experienced. I notice in the process that she's sweating profusely. “And this must be Rick! Are you guys okay?” She gives us her practiced, lower-lip-protruding expression of sadness, making me think she must have a degree in mime from Juilliard.

Nick looks nonplussed. Me, I'm gobsmacked. Yes, I use that word because it's the only one big enough and weird enough to describe how I feel. Wendell and Nick trade deer-caught-in-the-headlights glances and we endure what seems like the longest awkward silence in the history of wedding receptions. No one knows what to do, so I decide to break the gridlock.

“Genelle, we wouldn't have missed your wedding for the world. It was beautiful,” I say as artificially as it sounds. I can tell by the way Genelle squeezes the hydrangea-and-lily bouquet in her garland-withering death grip that she wishes Nick were shorter, uglier, and not so laid-back. The fact that I'm happy must make her want to scream.

I can see the gears turn in Genelle's head. She contemplates a response and opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She closes it before gnats fly down her throat, but I can see she's thinking hard, trying to come up with something to save face. We're all just letting her hang out there either out of unconcern (Nick), hostility (me), or lack of awareness (Wendell), but anticipation is building nonetheless.

I'm sure it's only a few seconds, but it seems like hours pass. I'm thinking:
This awkward standoff can't last much longer, right?
She's the bride, she has a receiving line, she has to see guests and relatives, hear toasts, dance the first dance. But Genelle seems unwilling to let go of her original goal to humiliate me. So she's calculating, scheming, trying to figure out how to wring just a tiny bit of the satisfaction she had hoped for from the situation. But what can she say? I mean, Nick didn't even seem to notice her name-mangle and Wendell has clearly already grown accustomed to standing around uselessly as Genelle works her wiles. I pity him and the pain of his future marriage, but maybe he likes it or is oblivious, who knows? I'm certainly not willing to alleviate her discomfort.

She opens her mouth again and I'm honestly mesmerized, wondering what on earth she might possibly say.

She takes such a deep breath that her superboobs expand and I worry she'll pop out of her dress. “Well … enjoy the glow of our bliss!” she says and smiles impossibly.

I am appropriately speechless.

“Come, Wendell!” Genelle grabs Wendell by the arm, pivots, and flounces off. “I could use a drink,” she grunts as they walk away.

I turn to Nick, anxiously awaiting his assessment.

“Wow. Okay. I get it,” he says and I squeeze his hand. I really want to fist bump and do the victory dance, but I restrain myself.