Wedding Season (22 page)

Everyone is in high, manic spirits. It’s not the usual forced gaiety of family gatherings, but the near-hysteria of overstimulated children. Josh and Ruth have just returned from their honeymoon, a safari at some luxury eco-resort in South Africa. They’re tan, chipper, and alight with the self-satisfied nuclear-fusion glow of well-matched codependents. Burke and Charlotte hold hands under the table.
Charles and James, now apparently inseparable, have attended commitment ceremonies for ex-boyfriends two weekends in a row, and make use of the first-person plural as often as possible. After dinner, my mother and the fiancé, who are getting married next weekend, burst from the kitchen wearing party hats and giggling, and sing me the birthday song performed with Motown choreography. Ruth brings out a birthday cake with what looks like the full thirty candles, and everyone claps.

After we are all settled with coffee and cake, Josh pulls out several fat envelopes of pictures from their wedding. There seem to be hundreds of photos, and I have stopped paying attention when one stops me cold: a black-and-white photograph of Ora and Gabe dancing together. He seems to be holding her very close. She looks so small, her head tilting back to look up at him with a come-hither smile (though he’s already as hither as one can come).

“When was this one taken?” I pass Gabe the offending article.

“Oh,” he says, after an unacceptably long pause. “It must have been when you were saying good-bye to Abby and Richard and the kids.” He hands it to James, who gives me a look behind Gabe’s shoulder, shakes his head at me, and tucks the photo under the cushion of his chair.

“These are just
lovely,”
my mother says. “There are some
adorable
shots of you kids.”

“There are,” Ruth tells her. “Gabe, did you see that one of you dancing with…”

“I
am inspired!”
James shouts, all joviality. “Charles and I may just have to elope.”

Charles blushes and grins. My mother beams.

“Don’t you two
dare
elope.” She shakes her finger at them. “I will not be deprived of the pleasure of seeing my
firstborn son tie the knot. It’s a mother’s privilege. A reward for all that I
suffered
bringing you up, you
rotten
boy.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what she’s talking about,” James declares. “I was a perfect angel. I never caused her a moment of trouble.”

Josh chokes theatrically on his dessert. Charles raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” James says. “You can pick out my wedding dress. And you can give me away.”

“Isn’t he a good boy?” my mother says to Bachelor Number Three. “Now, if only
Joy
would let Gabriel make an honest woman of her, I could die happy.”

“Mom, please.” I hide my face in my coffee cup. “It’s my birthday. Please.”

“She may already be too honest for her own good, Claire,” Gabe tells my mother.

“Gabriel, you are a darling,” my mother answers. “You’d
better
marry him, Joy, or some other girl will
snap
him right up. You’ll lose him.”

“I could lose him just as easily, married or not.” I’m trying to keep my voice light. I can’t look at Gabe.

“Don’t be
naive
, Joy.” My mother laughs. “Marriage changes things. That commitment
matters.”

“Right.” I set my cup down hard. “It mattered so much for all your clients. And for you and Dad. And for you and Chet. I’m sure it’s really going to work out well for you this time, too. Good thinking, Mom.”

A silence slams around the table.

“Joy,” Josh says. I turn to James for help. He looks away. Bachelor Number Three puts his hand on my mother’s shoulder. I wait for Gabe’s touch, but it doesn’t come.

“It
did
work out, Joy,” my mother says at last. Her voice is trembling, but her gaze is level. “Not forever, but for a
while it
did
work out. And I
truly
believe the marriage mattered—it matters to me. It
does
make a difference. It
changes
things.
Why
would I get married again if I
didn’t
believe—” She breaks off and gets to her feet. Her napkin clings for a moment to the place that had been her lap, then slides to the floor. “You are a
nasty
, judgmental, narrow-minded child, and I am
ashamed
of you.” She turns and half-runs toward the master bedroom at the rear of the apartment, where, as I know from long experience, she will fling herself down on the bed and weep. I hear the sharp tap of her footsteps fading away down the hall.

“Joy. I think you should go,” Josh says. His voice is soft with fury.

No one looks at me. Before I can think to protest, Gabe has pushed his chair back and risen.

“Come on, Joy. Josh is right. Please give our apologies to Claire for leaving without saying good-bye.” Gabe offers Bachelor Number Three his hand, then walks away without looking back.

“It’s okay, Joy,” James tells me. “I’ll call you.”

I raise my hands helplessly to my family—a surrender, I give up, I am disarmed—and follow Gabe’s swiftly retreating back to the door.

I
N THE TAXI DOWNTOWN
, Gabe sits as far away from me as he possibly can, looking out the window. After twenty blocks of silence, I put my hand on his shoulder, and he shakes it off.

“You’re angry?”

“I am very angry. You were unspeakably, unconscionably rude to your whole family.” Gabe is still looking out the window. “And I’m beginning to think your mother is right.”

“That marriage is a necessary evil?” I try to laugh.

“That you are judgmental and narrow-minded.”

“What?” I feel as though the wind has been knocked out of me. “Because I don’t want to get married?”

“No, Joy. Because you are unwilling to understand why anyone else would want to get married.”

“That’s not fair. I do understand. I understand very well, and I think they’re wrong.”

“That’s not really your call, is it?” Gabe turns from the window and looks at me. “You have your own reasons for not wanting to get married. I thought you were reconsidering, but apparently I was wrong.” He sighs. “Look. Obviously you’re at liberty to be guided by your own beliefs. But it’s not your place to impose them on the rest of the world.”

“Now wait. Wait.” I take a slow breath and try to steady my voice. “What do you mean,
my
beliefs? I thought we were in this together. I thought we were in agreement about marriage being pointless and problematic and just a bad idea all around.”

“I don’t think I ever said that, Joy. I’d never personally seen the point of it—for me. That’s all. I wouldn’t presume to make decisions about it for anyone else. And I certainly wouldn’t throw temper tantrums and abuse people just because they disagreed with me. That’s not what ideals are for.” He opens the door of the taxi, which has stopped in front of our building, climbs out, pushes money through the front window to the driver, and heads for our front door. I stare after him, and consider directing the car to Henry’s place, so I can throw myself on her doorstep, or to Pantheon so I can throw myself on Luke’s mercy, or to the West Side piers, so I can throw myself into the river. Instead, I climb out, close the door, watch the taxi drive away, and from the curb look up at our windows, where the lights have just gone
on. Whither thou goest, I think to myself. I’m losing you, I think to myself. I don’t have my keys, I think to myself, and I ring our buzzer.

“Who is it?” Gabe’s voice, metallic and thin, comes through the intercom.

“It’s me. I don’t have my keys.”

“Is that Joy?”

“Please buzz me up.”

“Joy Silverman?”

“Gabe, come on.”

“The Joy Silverman I used to know and love, or the new take-no-prisoners Joy Silverman?”

“Let me in.”

“I can’t open the door to just any stranger on the street. Is this the Joy who is funny and smart and principled but open-minded? Or the one who misplaced her sense of humor somewhere between here and the Bloomingdale’s bridal registry counter?”

“This is the Joy who is getting cold and impatient on the doorstep. Buzz me in.”

“Sorry. Wrong apartment.” The intercom crackles and goes dead. I stare at it blankly. I lean my head against the front door for what seems like a long time and think about crying. I am suddenly very, very tired.

I press the buzzer.

“Who is it?”

“This is the Joy who wants to apologize for having been a pain in the ass.”

“Who?”

“The Joy who will be on her very best behavior for the rest of the decade.”

Silence.

“For the rest of the century.”

More silence. He drives a hard bargain, this man.

“The one who promises to attend every wedding for the rest of the summer with an open mind.”

Still more silence.

“The one who believes in you more than anything else she believes in.” There is no answer. “Gabe? Are you there?”

“Hey, Red?”

“Yes?”

The intercom crackles.

“Will you marry me?”

I burst into tears. The door buzzes open.

A
FTER BREAKFAST IN BED
and stern encouragement from Gabe, I lock myself in the study with the phone and, feeling equal parts irritation and terror, dial my mother’s phone number. She answers with the famous telephone voice—light, fruity, fluting—that resembles her natural speaking voice not even remotely.

“Hi, Mom. It’s me.”

“Oh. Joy.”

I can picture her flipping through the pages of the Neurotic’s Manual of Retribution and Guilt.

“I
really
can’t talk right now. I’m quite busy. I
must
run.”

“Mom, Mom, please don’t hang up. I’m calling to apologize.”

“Oh, Joy. Never
mind.”
She lets out a slow, weary sigh. “It’s
done.
Let’s just forget about it.”

I mentally take my hat off to her: a bold selection of the brave martyr role.

“Mom, no. I owe you an apology. I was very rude to you, and I was wrong to say what I did. I’m so sorry.”

“All right, Joy.” Her voice, though warmer now, still thrums with that wounded-but-resigned tone. “Your apology is accepted.”

“Thank you, Mom. I appreciate that.” I wait. I know I’m not getting off this easily.

“Yes, well. Don’t worry about
me.”
She shifts to a brisk, businesslike tone. “But you positively
shocked
Ruth. And you made Howie feel just
terrible. He’s
the one you should really apologize to.” Howie is Bachelor Number Three.

“I know, Mom. I’m sorry. I will.” Ah, the proxy guilt trip. Always effective, but for my mother it’s too mild to be anything but a feint. I brace myself for the real attack.

“You were
awfully
touchy last night, you know. I know birthdays can be stressful, especially at
your
age. But honestly, Joy, I don’t
understand
how such a logical girl as you can still be so
unreasonable
about marriage. It’s not like joining a religious cult. It’s just
marriage.
You and Gabe are practically married
already.”

I know it would probably be best to just wave the white flag and offer my mother the spoils of her victory—but I can’t do it.

“That’s true, Mom. We are practically married. So why bother with the formalities?”
“Because
, honey. Because it’s
different.
That’s what I was
trying
to tell you last night, Joy. It
is.”
I hear something shift in her tone, the fight slipping out of it, the tone more naked. It makes me feel reproached and culpable, strangely angry, helpless in the face of this ridiculous space between us.

“But how, Mom? How is it different?”

“If you don’t—” Her voice catches. “If you don’t think there’s any
difference
, if there’s no difference to you one way or the other, why don’t you just get married and make me happy, Joy?” She’s crying. I marvel at how much all of this means to her, how she’s propped up in the world by this belief, this faith, as much as I am by my own.

“Mom, please don’t cry, okay? Listen, I’ll think about it, okay? Mom?”

“Okay, honey. Okay.” She blows her nose. “You do whatever you need to do, though, Joy. Oh, I
know
you will anyway.
You’ve
always
been such a stubborn, strong-willed girl. Remember, honey, I just want you to be happy. I just want you to do what makes you
happy.”
She has recovered the brisk voice, now cut with a dash of torpid melancholy. It makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

“I know you do. I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too, Joy. You
know
I do. And
happy
birthday, honey.”

L
ATER, IN THE
fading heat of the dreamy midsummer twilight, Gabe and I leave the apartment and walk to Café Paradiso for a quiet birthday dinner.

When we arrive, Gabe holds the door to the restaurant open for me and smiles like the Cheshire cat.

“What, Gabe?”

“Nothing. Reservation for Silverman?”

The host beckons us toward the rear. We follow him through the nearly empty main dining room and up a flight of stairs. Gabe glances back and gives me the grin again.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“You look lovely.”

“Why are they putting us up here?”

“It’s quieter,” he says.

The host opens a door at the landing, stands aside to let us pass, and a tremendous cry goes up: “SURPRISE!”

I turn to walk out and slam into Gabe, who turns me back around and pushes me through the door and into a large room where a crowd of my friends is laughing and clapping and whistling. On a small stage at the front of the room, Miss Trixie, in a sequined gown and a blonde wig, leans on a piano complete with accompanist in black tie.

“Gabe,” I say, “what have you done?”

“I thought it would be a good idea for you to start getting over your phobia about ceremonies.” Gabe rests his hand on the small of my back. “Smile. Greet your public.”

Miss Trixie nods to the pianist and begins singing “I Wanna Be Loved by You.”