Wedding Season (31 page)

“Huh,” I say. “Wow. Well. Imagine that.”

“And anyway,” Anabel says, “not that
you
would know,
Henry, since you don’t have much experience in this department. But it’s hardly a surprise that Hector’s on the prowl. He’s a man, after all. No sane woman gets married expecting fidelity.” She laughs. I flag Luke down for another drink.

“Ouch!” Henry slaps the bar. “Bel, since you’re going to be surrounded by newlyweds tonight, I suggest you keep that opinion to yourself. And I think these husbands may be the exceptions to your rule.” She gives my hand a secret squeeze.

“Of course,” Anabel says, smoothing back a strand of hair. “Of course they are. There always are exceptions to the rule, of course.”

T
HE GIRLS ARRIVE
at Pantheon one by one, crowding up to the bar, exchanging kisses, stories, gossip, photographs of weddings and honeymoons. Miel hands out copies of the picture she took of us in April, our last night together as single girls, the last time all six of us were here together. As I study mine, she puts a slender little hand on top of my head and gives me a gentle smile.

“Bet you had no idea how much things would change,” she whispers. “What a summer it’s been for us.”

I nod and look into her little pixie face.

“Oh, Jo.” Miel sighs and touches the tip of my nose, then turns to Henry, who has joined us. “Can I ask you guys something? Are you, do you… have you noticed anything about Joan?”

“Like she’s drunk all the goddamn time?” Henry says. “That kind of thing?”

“But I think that’s because she’s sad. Doesn’t she seem sad to you? She’s always so worried about Bix. And she’s mad at him all the time.”

“Think maybe it’s just a posthoneymoon thing?” I ask. “A phase? Marriage shock?”

“Maybe. But I mean, she was kind of like this before the wedding, too. I thought maybe it was just because she was nervous about it.” Miel glances toward the door. “Do you think maybe we should say something to her about it? Maybe talk to her a little bit when she gets here?”

“I don’t think she needs an intervention, honey.” Henry laughs. “Joanie’s always been a wild one. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “She has seemed a little out of hand lately.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Henry says. “Just adjusting to marriage or something. She’ll get pregnant soon and that’ll settle her right down. Hey, speak of the she-devil—there she is. And they’ve got our table ready. Let’s go.”

O
VER DINNER
, my friends embark on a long, wide-ranging discussion about how marriage changes things. I suppose that, as a prospective bride, I should be all ears—and perhaps these observations might hold more weight with me if any of the participants had more than three months’ wedded bliss on which to base their findings. As it is, I find myself distracted and slightly miserable for no reason I can identify. Without noticing I’m doing so, I slouch low on the banquette until Henry kicks me under the table and I sit back up. I slide down again, she kicks me again, I sit up. And so it goes. Maud describes how much more at ease she feels when Tyler is out of town now that they’re married. Erica, who is cohabitating for the first time, chronicles the anguish of uncapped toothpaste tubes, dishwashing negotiations, dirty socks on the living room floor. Miel, who says her relationship seems to be exactly the same as it always has been, tells us about going with Max to get their names legally changed and how she laughed right
through the proceedings until she got hiccups. Joan started the meal with a couple of Xanax and is on her fourth Manhattan by the time dinner arrives; she listens to the girls talk, lets out little ironic snorts, and is uncharacteristically quiet for an hour or so. Then, apparently unprovoked, she bursts into tears and collapses into Miel’s lap, weeping and babbling incoherently. It’s nearly impossible to make out what she’s trying to say, but we’re finally made to understand that, at Bix’s insistence, she had an abortion a couple of days ago.

“He’s been so gone.” Joan sobs. “He’s been gone since before the wedding. This spring he’d go out without me and stay out until three, four, five in the morning, and wouldn’t call, wouldn’t say where he’d been, just out. People kept telling me they’d seen him out at clubs and after-hours bars with his little film coterie, with actresses. I thought it was just jitters, that he’d change when the goddamn wedding was over and done with, so I didn’t say anything.”

“I thought you had such a good time on the honeymoon,” Miel says. “You told me you did.”

“We did, my sweetheart. We did. It was lovely. I was so relieved. But then we came back, and it was the same. And the couple of times I said anything to him about it, he’d make these hideous arch remarks about the old ball and chain. Someone told me he’s been doing heroin again but it could be just idle gossip, I don’t know. Then my period was late. I took one of those awful home tests and I went to the doctor and she said I was six weeks pregnant. I was thrilled, and I ran home to Bix, and he didn’t miss a beat. He told me flat out he didn’t want it, I absolutely shouldn’t have it, this isn’t a good time for us to start a family because he wasn’t ready. What was I supposed to do?”

“Do? Leave the bastard,” Henry snarls. “Come live with me and Delia. Fucking hell. I’ll kill him, I really will.”

“But it’s my fault. I didn’t tell him I’d stopped taking the pill.” Joan begins to weep again. A long silence creeps over us. Anabel, who is seated on Joan’s right, puts an arm around her shoulders.

“I’ll take her home,” Miel whispers.

“I can give you a ride,” Anabel says. “My driver’s parked outside.”

We pay the check, collect our things, and rouse Joan. I am on one side of her, leading her through the front door and out to the sidewalk, with Maud on her other side, when Joan turns and gives me a wondering stare.

“Joy, how do you do it?” She shakes her head and sniffles.

“Do what?” I dig into my bag for a tissue, without success.

“You and Gabe. You make it look so easy.”

“Sleight of hand.” Maud laughs. “Joy’s the man behind the curtain.”

“I’ve never once seen you fight.” Joan has begun to cry again. “You come out with us and never worry what he’s doing. You let him spend time with Ora, and you probably don’t give it a second thought, do you? You’re so good.”

“I beg your pardon?” I look toward Maud, who raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean, spend time with Ora?”

“Oh, she told me they’ve been doing a lot of work together.” Joan sobs, as Henry holds the door open. “And I saw them at lunch the other day and—that’s so great—I could never—you’re so good, Joy. You’re so strong. I wish I were like you.” She hiccups wetly, plants a weepy, strongly bourbon-scented kiss on my cheek, and allows Miel to guide her into Anabel’s black town car. The door slams shut. Anabel waves as the car pulls away and the rest of us stand watching.

When they are out of sight, Erica lets out a long, low sigh.

“Pearly girlie.” Henry turns to her. “What is it?”

“I’m pregnant.” Erica looks around quizzically; it’s almost a question.

“Oh, wow.” Maud stares. “Oh, honey. That’s… great?” Henry crosses to Erica in one giant step, wipes the single tear from her china-doll cheek, bends, and kisses her belly.

I sit down on the curb and watch the traffic go by.

H
ENRY ESCORTS
me home. I think we’re both in shock, and we don’t talk much about the specifics of Joan’s dilemma. It is agreed that Henry will take Joan shoe shopping tomorrow, and I will coordinate with Maud and Miel to make sure a Girlfriend Watch is in effect. Then we walk on in stunned silence. The streets still have the empty quiet of late summer: one season over, the next not quite yet begun. At last, as we wait for a streetlight to change, Henry cuts her eyes at me.

“So, how
do
you do it, Joy? How do you keep your magnificent cool while a man-eating memoirist chases your boyfriend all over the city? Inquiring minds want to know. Joan wants to know.”

“Hank, be nice.”

“Your best friend, on the other hand, knows better,” Henry says. “I know you never had any cool to start with. I know you’re certifiably insane.”

“That’ll be our little secret.”

“So Gabe is spending a lot of time with Ora?”

“News to me if he is. I guess it’s possible. I don’t keep track of his schedule.” Thinking about this makes me want to shriek obscenities and kick things.

“Maybe you should.” Henry makes a ferocious face at me. “Because I’m only allowed to discipline one spoiled rich boy a week, and Bix got in line first. And, by the way, you
have a right to know who he spends time with. Anyone would be curious in this situation. It wouldn’t be even a little bit girlie-girlie for you to ask him about it, Jo. Hell, it wouldn’t be girlie for Charlton Heston to ask him. Or Warren Beatty. Or John Holmes, or—”

“Henry, I appreciate your concern, but can we please talk about something else? My head is going to explode.”

“Okay, okay.” She shrugs. “New subject. Did you ever find out what the story was between Ora and Topher?”

“No. He’s called a couple of times at the office, but I haven’t called back. I can’t deal with it right now. I can’t believe the engagement party is next week. I can’t believe any of this.” We stop in front of my building.

“Believe it.” Henry nods and I follow her gaze across the street to a pair of teenagers pressed against the church’s wrought-iron fence, making out like their lives depend on it. Behind them, the blue-plate-special board announces that this morning’s sermon was on the steadfast presence of God. The featured passage is from the Song of Solomon: “I will rise and go to the city to seek him whom my heart loves; I sought him, but I found him not.” I point it out to Henry.

“Unitarians.” She sniffs. “A cousin of mine got married at this Baptist church near Baton Rouge. None of that poetic Old Testament crap for the Baptists. The church had this billboard next to the highway that said Accept Christ as the only redeemer or be damned to the fiery blazing pits of hell for all eternity.’ Or something. Isn’t that charming? We should send Bix down there for a lesson in old-fashioned country manners, don’t you think? My cousins would beat the living crap out of him.”

“He’s actually turning out to be worse than I thought possible. Which really is a feat. But—Henry, what in the hell was Joan thinking going off the pill when he was acting like that? It seems so crazy.”

“Oh, no.” Henry turns to me, wide-eyed. “No, no, no. Don’t you dare make excuses for him.”

“Hey, calm down. I’m not. But for her to do it without telling him—that’s tantamount to a fairly major lie, don’t you think?”

“Little Miss Jojo.” Henry points a finger at me. “You of all people are so not allowed to talk about lies of omission.”

“That’s not fair. It’s so different. I’m not lying. I have decided, on principle, not to bring something up because I don’t think it’s right to do so.”

“You know what? I shouldn’t talk about this now. I love you and I’m a cranky bitch tonight and I am going home to pick a fight with Delia.” Henry makes a face, turns on one heel, and begins to walk away. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” she calls back, and waves without turning around.

“Right. Okay. Sweet dreams to you, too.” I stand and watch her go. I glance across the street; the teenagers are gone. I sit down on my front stoop and look up at the windows to my apartment. They, predictably, are dark.

I
F THERE ARE WORSE WAYS
to begin a day, I haven’t yet been acquainted with them. At around four this morning I was awakened by the monstrous clatter and roar of garbage trucks. Since then I have been kept from sleep by the unrelenting whir and chatter of my brain; I feel like a ham radio receiving several dozen simultaneous and overenthusiastic broadcasts on the very unpromising subject of my love life. It’s like a supernatural version of Chinese water torture.

As bad as things are, they will shortly reach an even more profound low, because at this very moment, I am preparing to commit a truly reprehensible act. Here, in our own home. When my beloved leaves, probably within the next ten minutes, I will toss integrity out the window and engage in a full-frontal violation of the relationship’s most sacred principles. Knowing this makes me blush like a nun at a peep show every time Gabe looks my way.

With the bedcovers pulled up to my eyes and the dachshund snoring on my feet, I watch Gabe get dressed, and I consider something Anabel said on Sunday night: If your significant other is having an affair, you can tell. I think, though, that she must use some rare internal radar that gets installed after marriage, because I can’t tell a damn thing one way or the other—though I suppose I could attribute
that to sheer stupidity. And if Gabe suspects anything of me, if Ora has told him god knows what about our little screening-room scene at Theo’s wedding, he’s certainly not letting on.

He sits down on the edge of the bed beside me and lays a hand against my cheek.

“You’re all flushed. Are you feeling okay?”

“Perfect,” I say, blushing furiously.

“Sure? You’re kind of warm. And you’ve seemed a little off the last couple of days. You could be coming down with something. Maybe you should stay home today.”

“Nope. I feel fine. Totally fine. Fine, fine.”

“Do you want anything before I go? I could make you some tea.”

“No, thanks though. I’ll get up in a minute.” I try a weak smile. Now I really do feel ill, but it’s probably just guilt. I met an aunt of Gabe’s at his sister’s wedding last month, who suffers from some malaise she called “nervous stomach,” and which she described in unsolicited and impressive detail; it sounded very familiar.

“Okay then.” Gabe kisses my forehead, stands up, and shoulders his bags.

“You going to be out long? Busy day?”

“All day. Couple of different shoots, couple of meetings. I’ll leave my cell phone on, though. Call if you need anything.” Gabe points a finger at the dog. “Francis, you keep an eye on the lady.” He gives me a little wave as he walks out. A moment later I hear the front door close behind him. I stare into space and hold my breath. For the last two days, since Joan’s drunken comments about Gabe and Ora ratcheted up my anxiety to an unprecedented level, I’ve been resisting this impulse. But it’s all over now.