Authors: Jackie Lee Miles
The day of the wedding rehearsal is here. Both families and all of the attendants are instructed by Beth to meet at St. Lucy’s at seven o’clock. We’re here early and Beth is greeting everyone as they arrive like she’s already in the reception line. She has Parker standing next to her and he’s busy shaking hands. Kind of silly, but I get in line and shake along with the rest of them.
They’re having a solemn high Mass at noon tomorrow. There will be a priest and a deacon and a sub-deacon—they’re actually priests, too, but they take on a different role for this type of Mass. There will be a lot more chanting and singing going on than a regular Mass. And they’ll use incense. To begin with, in the sacristy, all the priests wash their hands. There will be two acolytes to assist them with their vesting, which is a big deal. Thankfully, I won’t be one of the acolytes. I’m excused because I’m in the wedding, which is a relief because I think it was my turn to serve again. Anyway when the deacon and the sub-deacon put their stuff on they must follow all these rituals and recite certain prayers each time they put on another piece of clothing. First, comes the amice, which is a rectangular cloth of linen with long strings for tying and it’s kissed, because it’s embroidered with a cross, and then it’s placed on top of the head while reciting one of the other prayers. Then it’s tied around the shoulders on top of the cassock. Next this long linen tunic with sleeves, which is called the alb, is put on and then the cincture, this long cloth cord is tied around the waist. The sub-deacon completes his vesting by putting the maniple on his left arm. The maniple is an embroidered piece of fabric folded in half with a cross in the middle. He already has his tunic on, which has short sleeves. The deacon places his stole, a long narrow embroidered piece of cloth—which is similar to the maniple, except it’s longer—over his left shoulder and binds it in place at his right hip with a girdle, an elastic cloth. He then puts on his maniple and his dalmatic, which is similar to the tunicle. Talk about complicated. Now you know what I was doing every Saturday at altar class. Very boring and confusing. The priest celebrant does the same except that he crosses his stole in front of him at the waist. And after the maniple he puts on a cope, a long, heavy embroidered cape. The Catholics are heavy into embroidery. After the Gospel and homily, the priest, assisted by the acolytes, removes the cope and puts on a chasuble, similar to the tunicle, but without sleeves and usually with an embroidered cross on the back. After the dismissal and before processing out, he’ll take off the chasuble and put the cope back on. It’s like they play musical chasuble with celestial music.
There’s no telling why they go through this ritual, but they take it seriously and you will not see one smile the whole time they’re doing it. They also wear a biretta while they’re sitting. This is a four-cornered hat with a pom-pom on top in the center and three fins on top around the edges. They’re plain black for the priests and deacons, but if anyone special shows up for a Mass, say a monsignor or a bishop, they’re purple with red trim, or sometimes black with red trim. Archbishops are purple and cardinals are scarlet. There are so many different types of masses and so many orders for these priests to follow that it’s no wonder they’re not allowed to get married and have a family. When would they see them?
Father O’Malley explains the procession to Beth and Parker. He’ll be the main priest tomorrow at the wedding. I don’t know the other priests’ names. They’re from a different parish. Father O’Malley makes it clear that only after the other priests have all filed in will the wedding march begin and the bridesmaids may proceed to the altar. Beth insists we are to proceed slowly making sure to stop and bring our feet together after each step and take a slight pause before proceeding with another step. When we attempt this it looks like we all have sprained ankles.
“Andi,” Beth explains, “It’s right foot first, left foot up to meet your right foot, then left foot next, and bring your right foot up to meet your left foot and then right foot again. Can you do that, please?”
If I tell her no, maybe she’ll kick me out of the wedding, which would make me perfectly happy. But it would destroy my mother. I smile and say, “Sure. Watch this.”
I do it perfectly. It still looks all jerky. I think we should just take our time and walk down the aisle and forget the feet meeting feet part.
With the rehearsal out of the way we head over to the Ritz-Carlton for dinner. It is a major feast. This is the best part so far. The entire banquet room is lit up like Camelot. All of the tables have candles and white roses in the center. There are twenty-four people in their wedding party, not to mention Parker’s parents and brother and sister and then me and my parents, so it’s quite a crowd. Dinner is four courses. The first course is an avocado and shrimp appetizer, after which they serve us lobster bisque, followed by Cornish game hens that are the cutest things, accompanied by garlic mashed potatoes and string beans almondine. For dessert there is a raspberry torte with fresh whipped cream. It looks like a work of art. Naturally there’s champagne, but I notice my mother is back to drinking apple juice, so maybe she’s gotten over the letters. Better yet, maybe she’s forgotten all about them. All in all, it’s a very nice evening. Beth looks quite beautiful, like always, but happier than I’ve ever seen her. Tomorrow’s the wedding, supposedly the best day of her life, but if she knew what was going to happen she’d excuse herself and go to the bathroom and kill herself, or at least puke. That’s another reason it’s best we never know what’s in our future. No sense upchucking a perfectly wonderful dinner.
Picture the worst thing happening at a wedding. That’s Beth’s wedding. Everyone’s in their place, exactly where they’re supposed to be. The flowers are like a garden from heaven. They’re everywhere. The priests are doing all their chanting and rituals right on schedule. Father O’Malley steps to the front of the altar and bows, and then turns to Parker. He places Parker’s right hand in Beth’s left hand, then turns to Beth and says, “Repeat after me.”
“I, Elizabeth Amelia St. James, take you, Parker Chandler Barrett, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do us part.”
Personally, I think they should have come up with something more original for their wedding vows, but Beth insisted on keeping it completely traditional, right down to “Here Comes the Bride.” But that’s not the point. I’m getting to that.
So Beth repeats every word without skipping a beat and places the ring on Parker’s left hand.
Father O’Malley turns to Parker and tells him to repeat after him. Parker looks like he’s about to fall on the floor. His face is whiter than milk. Parker, says, “I, Parker Chandler Barrett, take you, Elizabeth Amelia St. James, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do us part.”
Father O’Malley is about to tell him to place the ring on Beth’s finger and Parker jumps in and says, “Wait!”
No one in the church moves or makes a sound. If someone dropped a feather you would be able to hear it. Everyone has their eyes riveted on Parker who has a peculiar look on his face that says he would rather be at an inquisition than standing at the altar.
“I can’t, I mean I don’t. That is, I’m not ready,” Parker blurts out and turns to Beth. He mouths what looks to be an “I’m sorry” and darts behind the altar and out the door that leads to the priests’ dressing area. My mother starts sobbing. My father stands up and turns to all of our guests with his mouth open. Beth drops to the floor like she’s been hit with a stun gun. I lean over and gather her in my arms as best I can.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say. Even though I don’t think for one minute it will be. Everything’s a mess. Plus, they have a gazillion wedding gifts stacked up at home. I’m wondering what’s she going to do with them. And then, out of the blue, Beth opens her eyes at me and smiles and says, “Oh, Andi, I’m so relieved.”
You figure that one out.
***
It’s been six weeks since Beth’s wedding fiasco, but you would never know it even bothers her. It’s like she doesn’t even care that she never got married. But it’s bothering my mother. She’s nipping at the bottle again. I can smell it on her breath. And she has stopped going to meetings. My father doesn’t notice, yet. He’s too busy adding up all the wedding bills and trying to figure out if he can write it off his taxes. My mother had Rosa move all the wedding gifts to the front parlor. It looks like a department store gift registry. There’s china and crystal and every electronic gadget you can think of—actually, some really neat stuff.
I invite Beth to come down to Table Grace and help pack the food boxes. Then I get a great idea.
“Why don’t you donate some of your clothes to the boutique? Wouldn’t that be cool?”
Beth gets this look on her face like she’s been smacked in the head and has finally come to her senses.
“Perfect,” she says. “I’m getting rid of anything I’ve ever worn for the last four years. Why not? I don’t need those clothes.”
She dashes up the staircase to her bedroom and starts tossing most of the contents of her closet onto the bed. The boutique will have enough cool stuff to outfit an entire school if she keeps this up. But I’m not complaining. Our stock was getting kind of low. Of course, not everyone is Beth’s size, but we’ll worry about larger sizes later and take everything we can get.
I ask Henry to drive us down to Table Grace. The trunk is loaded. Beth eagerly climbs into the front seat. She’s getting back her old spunk. I’m happy for her. Being jilted at the altar after planning the wedding of the year has to rank right up there with all time worst moments.
“Hey, let’s stop next door,” I say. “I’ll ask Bridget to come. She can help us tag all the clothes.”
Henry does a U-turn and pulls into their driveway. Donna is out in the front yard wearing a skimpy halter top and short-shorts. She has a figure like Demi Moore, I’ll give her that. She looks up when I get out of the car. There’s a smudge of dirt on her face and she brushes her hair out of her eyes and smiles. She looks like something out of a magazine ad for Pike’s Nursery.
“Hi, Andi,” she calls brightly.
Why does she have to be so nice? It’s hard to hate her. I nod and wave. “Is Bridget home?”
She points to the house and nods her head. I ring the bell and hear Bridget bounding down the stairs. Her golden retriever Rudy barks like the house is being invaded, but actually he’s a very friendly dog and will lick you like an ice cream cone if you let him.
Bridget tells Donna she’s going down to Table Grace and will be back in time for dinner.
“Can you walk Rudy?” she asks, not waiting for an answer, and climbs into the car.
Beth is amazed that there are so many people standing in line waiting for their box of groceries. “Where do they all come from?” she asks, finding it hard to believe that there are lots of people whose circumstances reduce them to accepting charity. She’s been living on another planet where money grows on trees. But she joins right in and is happily sorting and handing out boxes along with the rest of us. I watch as she smiles and pats the wrist of a small woman with three straggly children clustered around her, two girls and a boy.
“Lemme see,” the little boy says. He stands on tiptoes and peeks into the box.
“I put extra macaroni and cheese in for you,” Beth says. “Do you like macaroni?” This boy’s face lights up like a lamp. It pinches at my heart to see Beth so loving and happy to be helping. Maybe I’ve judged her wrong all these years. Maybe there’s a streak of goodness in all of us and it just has to have an opportunity to come out and say,
Hey, I’ve been here all along! Look at me!
When we get home Beth takes my arm and pulls me into the parlor.
“You know what I’m going to do?” she says. Her eyes are positively dancing in her head. “I’m going to auction all of the wedding gifts!” Mother has been after her to get busy and send them back. “And I’m giving all the money to Table Grace. Isn’t this just the greatest idea?”
I have to admit it is.
“It’s worth almost getting married over,” Beth says and she’s grinning from ear to ear.
The lady in charge of Table Grace calls the newspaper when she finds out that Beth is auctioning her wedding gifts and giving them the money. The following day a reporter shows up at our door and gives my mother a nervous breakdown.
“Why in the world would you want everyone in Atlanta to know what’s happened?” she says to Beth.
Beth stares at my mother and says, “Absolutely everyone we know in the states of Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee, and South Carolina knows what happened. They witnessed it first-hand. Why does it matter how many strangers will know?”
Which is a very good question.
Beth lets the reporter in and shows her to the parlor where all the gifts are stacked from floor to ceiling. This photographer the reporter brought with her starts snapping away with his camera. He’s like seven feet tall. It’s a good thing our ceilings are extra-high.
“I’m Natalie Carson,” the reporter says, “
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
.” She hands her a business card and holds out her hand for Beth to shake. Beth takes the card and shakes her hand, before extending one arm to the sofa.
“So what can I tell you?” Beth asks as they sit down. The sofa rests in an alcove surrounded by windows two stories high. The parlor is large and round. It’s located on the right side of our house, with a turret roof that my mother fell in love with the moment she laid eyes on it.
“Tell me everything!” Ms. Carson says.
Beth looks at her like she’s been told she’s been crowned Miss Universe. She scoots up to the edge of the sofa.
“How are you doing?”
“Well,” Beth says, “actually, I’m doing great.” She gives a little half-laugh. It’s obvious she is enjoying herself. She tosses her head and her hair sweeps to one side. “Of course when it happened, I wanted to die of shame.”
“Are you still in love with the runaway groom?”
“Oh, let’s talk about something else, okay?” Beth clears her throat and waits for the next question.
Ms. Carson asks how it came about that she decided to auction off her wedding gifts and how she plans to go about it.
Beth explains all about Table Grace and her visit to help pack food boxes. She mentions all the little children hanging onto their mothers with their tiny faces so hopeful.
“I hired a company who specializes in auctions,” Beth explains. “They’re taking care of everything.”
Beth is very organized. Maybe it’s good she’s becoming a philanthropist. A person could do worse things with her life.
***
My mother is up and down with this drinking business, but for now, she has stopped. At least, I don’t see her going to the liquor cabinet and she is no longer stumbling around the house. She’s also taken an interest in gardening.
“Would you like to help me, Andi?” she says.
I think that I better, to be supportive. “Sure,” I say. “What are we planting?”
“Herbs,” she says and flashes a smile that could melt the sun. Rosa loves herbs and shops every other day for them so they’ll always be fresh for whatever she’s cooking. I think of her happily plucking from the garden everything she needs and get a little excited about my mother’s idea.
Of course, I have no understanding of herbs and how we are to go about planting them and unfortunately neither does my mother. We go find Henry.
Henry gives us a crash course on herb gardening. There’s more to it than I counted on. Henry says what we’re looking for is culinary herbs.
“Perfect in the kitchen,” he says. “Sage, thyme, marjoram, basil. You can do it.”
I’m not so sure.
He goes on to explain that there are a variety of herbs to consider, annuals, biennials, and perennials. “The annuals bloom one season and die—anise, basil, dill.” His voice trails off. “Biennials live two seasons but they only bloom the second season—caraway, parsley. Perennials bloom every season once you get ’em going. You can have chives, fennel, thyme.”
“All right,” my mother says. “How do we start?”
“Well, you need to decide the size of the garden. That’ll depend on the variety you want,” Henry says. He takes off his straw hat and wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm.
“And you need to consider drainage and soil fertility. Drainage is the most important. If it doesn’t drain properly you won’t have a crop.”
My mother is nodding her head, taking in every word. She’s wearing a straw hat, too, with a wide brim, along with cotton blue jeans turned up at the ankles and a crisp white man-style shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She has on rubber mules. I try to imagine her on her hands and knees weeding through her herbs, plucking the fragrant leaves from their stems and placing them in a basket looped over her arm. The sun would be shining brightly. I see her turn and wave to me as I leave to go to Bridget’s. There she is, my mother, sober and active and obsessed with her garden. It makes a little dent in my heart and rests there snug and warm. Even so, I’ve completely lost interest in this project. It sounds way too complicated. I was thinking that you just stick the seeds in the ground, put some water on them and let them grow.
“Well,” my mother says and brushes her hands together like she’s already been digging in the dirt. “It’s something to think about. What do you think, Andi?” She turns to me. In an instant I realize I’m supposed to rescue her.
“I—I—I—” I’m not sure what to say. “We could read some books on it and then decide if we’d like it. How about that?”
“That’s a splendid idea,” my mother says and turns and walks back into the house through the portico.
I’m pretty sure she’s lost interest in starting an herb garden, too. It’s strange, but there’s a bit of sadness that gathers in the pit of my stomach. I think of my mother and me producing a sumptuous crop of herbs for Rosa to use for all our meals. I see us together, digging in the dirt, laughing and harvesting our crop. The thought of it works its way into my chest and forces a big sigh out of my mouth. Then I realize it doesn’t even have anything to do with the herbs. It’s the thought of being together and her taking joy from being alive and being with me and being sober.