How to Read an Unwritten Language (30 page)

The door ajar, we knocked once, twice, then entered. With a single portrait of Jesus on the wall, a cross here and there, a small electric organ in the corner and folding chairs lined up into makeshift pews, the very self-denial of this interior promised a wedding as simple as our first ones had been ornate.

“Hello?” Sylvia called out.

A side door opened and a beefy man peered out of a dimly lit room, his eyes blinking. “Mr. Kirby, Miss Mathews?”

“Yes, that's us,” Sylvia replied.

“I'm Reverend Coslow,” he said, grinning as he stepped out to greet us, and at once I remembered the beatific lilt of his chant at a charity auction I'd once attended.

I shook his thick hand. “I saw your work a year or so ago. You had great style—”

“Yes, your fiancée explained to me how you first met at an auction.”

I turned to Sylvia, and her smile disguised any hint of this little lie she'd told. It was, after all, true enough.

“Actually,” the minister continued, “I'm happy to be able to bring together my godly and my worldly …” His voice trailed off when a woman stepped from that same side room, her crown of dyed black hair accentuating hardened eyes in a soft face.

“This is Mrs. Renée Thomas. Our organist,” Reverend Coslow announced. “She'll be your witness. She's our marriage counselor too, and after the ceremony she'll give you some good conjugal advice—included in the wedding fee, of course. I don't know what we'd do without her.”

Renée smiled modestly at the minister's praise, but when he turned to us and explained the details of the paperwork, I caught her glance at him, a mixture of longing and resentment that she swiftly extinguished.

We paid the fee. Then Renée sat at the organ and poked out suitably solemn music while Sylvia and I walked down the aisle together. We'd just arrived at the altar when the minister leaned into the microphone: “Whatdowehavehere, dearlybeloved, whatdowehavehere? ABRIDEabride, amostbeautiful beautifulbrideandaGROOM, agroomheretoo, notabadgroom, betterthanmostbetterthanmost, betterthanmostI'veseen, anexcellent groom.”

I gaped at Sylvia, who smiled at this surprise she'd planned. Here was a ceremony that just might erase the memories of those disastrous weddings we'd each endured. But the music had stopped with an electronic squeal, and Renée's hand reached for the cross at her neck. The minister, however, was already off again: “Asyoucansee, asyoucansee, asyoucansee, theymakeanexcellent COUPLE, anexcellentan excellentcouple, atruly stunningatrulystunningpair, andtheyare HERE, theyareheretheyareherehere, dearlybeloved, theyareheretotakepart, totakeparttogether, totakeparttogether intheHOLYriteoftheHOLYrite oftheHOLYriteof matrimonymatrimony MATRIMONY, theHOLYriteofmatrimony.”

Renée hacked out a mild coughing protest, but this wasn't enough to stop the proceedings—in rapid tones, Reverend Coslow announced that Sylvia and I, both previously married, were used goods, bidding for each other. “ButintheEYESoftheLord theLordthe HOLY LORD OUR FATHER, youareNEW, mychildren, youare newtoeachotherandnewtotheworld. AnyoneELSEwantstomakeabid makeabidabidaBID, forthisbride orthisgroom, brideorgroom, afineafinematchedset, averyfinematchedset, makeitnowmakeitnow makeitnow … orforeverholdyourpeace.”

In the silence I imagined those empty rows behind us filled with our particular ghosts: Sylvia's parents and mine, Laurie, Dan, Kate and Richard, and all the other characters of our lives. How would
they
calculate our worth? And would Richard, recognizing me, rise from his chair and raise his voice in protest?

Sylvia nudged me with her shoulder when the minister continued. “NowwehaveaRING, aringaring, awedding band, agoldGOLD fourteencarat GOLDweddingband, agoldwedding band. HasaninterestingSTORY, asignificantSTORY, thebridewantsto tellyouitsstory.”

Sylvia held out the thick gold band. “Michael, this ring belonged to my father. Its story goes back to the summer when I was nine. My parents were buggy from the heat and having one of their melodramas on the porch, and in one of Dad's usual B-movie gestures he pulled the ring off and threw it at Mom.

“It flew past her into the empty lot next door, and we ran down the steps after it, Mom already crying and Dad apologizing like mad. That lot seemed huge to me in those days, an entire country of grass and dirt and weeds, and we looked until it was dark. At least Dad and I did—Mom cried in the bedroom as loud as she could to inspire us.

“Somehow I thought that my parents wouldn't be married any more without that ring, and I told myself I'd rather starve before giving up. Dad left to get flashlights, and when he turned on the porch light on his way inside I saw a glint of something a few feet ahead of me.

“It was the ring, halfway down the dried stem of a stalky weed—God knows what the odds were for it to land like that—and it looked like some demon had stuck the ring on its finger, trying to steal my parents' marriage. I pulled the ring from the weed, but I didn't say anything right away. All alone in that lot, I thought how powerful I was. I held my family's happiness in my hand.”

Slipping the ring on my finger, Sylvia added, “But who's alone now?”

I didn't deserve the story held within the ring's smooth circle, but instead of confessing to Sylvia, I took out a simple gold band I'd chosen for her and said lamely, “No story yet, love. We'll make our own, okay?”

The ring fit her finger, we said our
I do's
to rapid-fire vows and then the minister paused to say, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Behind us Renée punched out a march on the organ and we kissed, long and sweet, to the words “SOLDsoldsoldtoeachother, soldtoeachother in the EYES of the LORD, soldforakissakissakiss, onekiss, SOLDforakiss.”

The organ sputtered to a stop, but we held our embrace until the minister said, “Congratulations. This certainly has been a one-of-a-kind service.” Then, with a glance at Renée, he added, “Never to be repeated.”

He motioned us to the side office. We followed, signing the necessary documents, and when Renée entered the room Reverend Coslow said, “I'll leave you now in our counselor's able care.”

He walked off and Sylvia whispered, “Aw, can't we skip this?”

“Shhh, how can it hurt?” I returned. “If he can break the rules for us, we can follow his.”

Waiting behind her desk, Renée held a printed list in her hands, and we sat down, prepared for a well-meaning lecture. Barely nodding, she began reading in an odd, affectless voice. “‘Number One. Now you are one person, not two, and your time is each other's.'

“‘Number Two. Always tell the truth as gently as you can, and always accept with grace the truth you're told.'

“‘Number Three. Having children is a blessing, and keep your heart open for each new arrival.'

“‘Number Four.
Never
go to sleep angry.'”

“I'll say,” Sylvia murmured, and she leaned in to nuzzle my neck.

Renée put down her list. “Excuse me. I'm not finished.”

“Sorry,” Sylvia replied, straightening.

“I know you're happy and want to go off. Well, you should be happy. Lots of folks never marry the one they'd like, or they marry the one they shouldn't. You both know that. And the hard part's not over, it's just the beginning. I've seen many happy couples pass through here, and I've given them all advice. I wish most of them listened better. There's hardly a soul in this town who doesn't wish for a better marriage.”

She paused, her mouth a thin line. “I was very interested in that story you told your new husband. There's stories I might tell you both.”

“Please, tell us one,” Sylvia said, trying to placate her.

“All right. I will. Instead of reading this tiresome list.” She swept the sheet away and it twisted to the floor.

“A boy and a girl here, they worked at the luncheonette in town—he tended the grill, she waited tables. After hours they got to talking about the highs and lows of the day and they fell in love. They were nice kids, but they weren't ready for what makes living together so hard.”

In a steady voice, Renée seemed to talk past the open door behind us, where Reverend Coslow lingered by the altar. “They argued over nothing, little types of arguments that quick get bigger, and soon enough they closed their hearts without even knowing what they were doing. I've seen it happen so often. One night they were cooking and it wasn't enough to disagree, snip snip snip, they had to get mean. He hollered something terrible to her, she ran to another room and he followed.”

Renée paused, now staring straight at us. “They shouted for a while longer and forgot about that frying pan on the stove. When they remembered, the fire was already spreading.”

“Michael, let's get out of here,” Sylvia murmured, standing. “We don't have to listen to this.”

Renée wouldn't let us get away so easily. We'd desecrated the chapel, and she was going to get her revenge. “Ever try to put out a grease fire?” she asked, her voice rising sharply.

Sylvia tugged me from my chair. We hurried down those aisles of chairs still filled with our invisible guests and Renée followed, shouting, “They got burned so badly nobody around here can bear to look. Though we try to do our best by them!”

We tore down the steps outside, across a few feet of parking lot gravel to our car, and I grappled in my pocket for the keys. Renée stopped at the top step, and Reverend Coslow's pale face appeared at the screen door behind her as she spit out, “Their own anger was the kindling—and that's one of
my
stories!”

Sylvia and I lie together, and even in sleep she needs to touch me—a leg lined along with mine, an arm around my chest, her chin against my neck. Is she afraid that I'll slip away from her on our first night of marriage, that I've already begun the first steps and in the morning she'll awake to find her hand grasping at the empty half of our bed? I shift my body into her sleeping embrace, let my fingers stroke her hair in reassurance, but this caress can't sweep away what I've kept from her.

She shifts again, her instep brushing against my toes. Now we share our own wedding debacle, and perhaps that's enough for us. Outside, the relentless chorus of cicadas rises, like the first cracklings of a grease fire. How is my false face any different from the scarred mask that sorry husband will have to endure for the rest of his life? I can too easily imagine what he confronts in the mirror each day—two holes for a nose, his mouth a lipless slit, his eyes worlds away.

The cicadas continue their eerily synchronized surges that seem to grow louder and I simply can't stay here, I ease away from Sylvia and pad from the room as silently as I can. In the hall I head for the stairway, then walk down the dark to the living room. With the faint moonlight contained by the curtains, I have to ease around the edges of the furniture, my hand reaching before me, and as I take one step, then another, I suddenly imagine Richard trudging through the darkness of a tunnel with two—no, three men. A work crew, perhaps.

Surprised by the thought as I think it, I sit down in the nearest chair, unwilling and yet unable to prevent myself from imagining Richard's new life in a distant city. He spends much of his time underground now, traveling miles of passageways as he maps the repairs and renovations that work crews make for an intricate new subway system, checking that the electric cables, phone lines and emergency sprinkler systems are accurately marked. There are no trap streets possible here, no false roads.

There he is, wearing a hard hat with its own search light, turning a dark corner with a crew he's followed before—they're hard workers and give him tips on what to look for, though he hasn't yet been included in their easy joking.

They stop before a phone box that's gone out, they form a small cluster, their tools out and loosening screws. “Shit!” someone cries out, and the others stop and gather around.

The crew foreman, Pete, laughs and says, “Aah Joey, it's only a little nick. What're you whining about?”

Joey's the youngest of the bunch, and the most impressionable. Richard steps back. This could be the moment. He could slip the little black shell into Joey's open tool chest now, and on the way back to the station platform tell the kid a story about the dangers and promise of a simple, blackened scallop shell. Then I can quit this job and move away, Richard tells himself, thrilled at the possibility that he might finally be released from the grip of this damned thing.

The men are busy, they've forgotten him for the moment, and Richard lifts the shell from his shirt pocket. He hears the passing rumble of a subway on a distant line and remembers wandering through town in those days before the divorce, so distracted by remorse he was nearly hit by a bus one morning. It passed by inches from his face with a roar and rush of air, and he'd fallen to his knees, shaking his head as if to clear it, understanding that he had to move away, had to let go of the hope that Sylvia might ever return to him.

“I can't pass this on,” Richard whispers to himself, easing the shell back in his pocket. Yet now he has to rid himself of this shell, before he's tempted again.

He returns to the men, checks his charts with what they've done. When they finish he makes a few corrections in pen, satisfied. Then they return through those dark passageways, but after a few minutes Richard lingers behind, he bends down beside one of the tracks and takes out the scallop shell. It's as dark as the tunnel they've been traveling through. He places it on the cold track, where the wheel of a subway car will eventually crush it to powder. A dark mist will settle over the gravel bed and then the chain will be broken. No one else will ever have to be haunted by this awful thing's story.

With this thought, the shell—so tiny on the long track—loses its power, becomes just a silly knick-knack. Did it ever have any power? Richard wonders. Maybe it was just my … excuse to escape from the kind of person I might have turned into. Richard shakes his head, amazed.