How to Talk to a Widower (24 page)

36

DEBBIE'S WEDDING WILL BE A FULL-WEEKEND AFFAIR,
taking place at the Norwalk Inn and Country Club in Connecticut. Friday night there will be a rehearsal dinner for close friends and family, and Saturday evening there will be a waterfront ceremony at sunset, followed by a lavish reception for five hundred in the main ballroom. It's the wedding my mother has been planning her entire life. Claire got married on the sprawling grounds of Stephen's parents' massive Chappaqua estate—referred to out of earshot by our family as the Golden Horseshit Estate—and Hailey and I decided on a small, informal gathering of friends and family at Tattinger's, our favorite Manhattan restaurant. My mother suffered these indignities with the perfectly nuanced silence of someone silently suffering an indignity. But for Debbie, her baby, there have been no such complications, and she has pulled out all the stops.

Friday afternoon, I'm in my bedroom getting dressed for the rehearsal dinner when I feel something in the jacket pocket of my suit and pull out a lipstick cylinder and crumpled receipt. The receipt is from the Hudson Tavern, the restaurant where Hailey and I ate on the last night we ever spent together. And it's these little things that set you back, that shouldn't but do, these last, lingering bits of her life lying dormant, waiting to be excavated like artifacts: the smell of her on a shirt, a scribbled shopping list seven pages into the memo pad by the phone, her lipstick tube and a receipt in my suit pocket, the residue of a vanished life. Against my better judgment, I peel open the receipt and there it is in smudged blue ink, the soups we had, her steak salad and my boneless rib eye, the bottle of Chianti, the Granny Smith apple cobbler we shared for dessert. And now that night comes flooding back to me in razor slashes of lucidity, Hailey's tight red dress, her hair pinned back behind her slender neck, the way she threw her head back to laugh, and more than anything, the sense memory of what it felt like to be whole and to be hers, what it used to feel like to be me. And that familiar, quivering ache returns to my belly, the heavy emptiness in my chest, but I will not cry. I close my eyes and I'm there again, sitting across from her, drinking her in like wine as the scabs in me come undone and the wounds reopen, and the searing pain of losing her is brand-new again, a red-hot poker stirring my guts. But I don't cry.
I had a wife, her name was Hailey. Now she's gone. And so am I.

There's a red bra hanging on the bathroom doorknob, where Hailey left it a lifetime ago. I pull it off and throw it into a dresser drawer. Then I take everything off the top of her night table; books, catalogs, a perfume bottle, a ponytail holder, and drop them into the top drawer, along with the lipstick I found in my jacket. The strength goes out of my legs and I sit down on the corner of the bed—Hailey's side—and I can feel the tears forming, but I blink them away. Because even now I can hear the muted slide and bang of Russ's dresser drawers as he gets ready in his room, and Claire's high-heeled footsteps tap-dancing across the tiled kitchen floor, and they're like sounds from beyond the borders of your dream, luring you back to the waking life. So I allow myself just a few more quaking breaths, a few last moments of feeling lost without her, and then I pull myself up off the bed and head downstairs to get Claire to help me with my necktie.

         

The rehearsal dinner is taking place in one of the club's smaller banquet rooms, where the caterer has set up an elaborate buffet. There's a three-piece band up on the bandstand playing soft dinner music, the lights have been dimmed and large standing candelabra have been set up around the perimeter, bathing the room in a warm, gothic glow. In typical fashion, my mother has transformed an intimate dinner into a major event, and by the time we arrive, the room is already teeming with friends of my parents and relatives I'd prefer not to see. Claire points out the two manned bars set up on either side of the buffet, like a flight attendant indicating the emergency exits, and as she and Russ go to find our seats in the cluster of banquet tables set up in the center of the room, I make my way around the edges of the crowd, as inconspicuously as possible, until I'm standing at the bar. Two quick shots for courage, and when that doesn't work, another two for distance. Then I get a strong Jack and Coke to nurse, and wade reluctantly into the sea of guests.

This is the part I've been dreading, the unguarded scrutiny of people who have known me forever, the pointed looks, the wet-eyed hugs, the emotional arm squeezes, the suffocating pity of those who think they know, filling the air I breathe like anthrax. I am a celebrity of sorts, rendered larger than life by the dark things to which I've borne witness, and the trick is to keep moving, like a movie star leaving a nightclub, smiling for the cameras without breaking stride. I assume the look of someone on an urgent errand, moving quickly through the crowd, nodding hello without stopping to talk to anyone. All around me, relatives materialize like evil spirits: Uncle Freddy, my father's much younger brother, who we thought was so cool when we were kids because he wore motorcycle boots and did his hair like Jon Bon Jovi. Now he's bald and beer gutted, has three kids with two ex-wives, and bags under his eyes with the craggy texture of alligator skin. My cousin Nicole, the reformed lesbian, who came out after college and then came back in to marry Peter, her high school sweetheart. My cousin Nate, a few years older than me, who told me what a rim job was when I was eight, and gave me my first-ever puff of a cigarette at his brother Barry's bar mitzvah. Barry, who paid Claire twenty dollars to show him her boobs when we were fourteen. Aunt Abby, my mother's sister, who beat breast cancer and self-published a virtually unreadable memoir about it which she still gives as gifts on every possible occasion. Their gazes cut through the crowd like infrared security beams in a museum, and I am the wily art thief, spinning and dodging my way across the room without setting off any alarms. But of course, a handful of them do manage to stop me, hugging me and shaking their heads, aggressively sincere, telling me how wonderful I look, like I'm the fat guy who lost fifty pounds and suddenly has a neck again. They come at me from all sides, and I'm on the verge of panic, craning my neck to find safe passage, when I see my father pushing his way through the crowd toward me.

“Doug!” he says, coming over to hug me. He looks natty as ever in his midnight blue designer suit and lavender tie. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey, Dad,” I say as he pulls me close, and I'm a little kid breathing in the familiar scents of his dandruff shampoo and aftershave. I just want to bury my head in the crook of his neck and wrap my legs around his torso as he picks me up and carries me upstairs to my bedroom to put me to bed.

“Come on,” he says, leading me through the crowd. “Let's get you something to eat.”

         

Debbie is positioned near the buffet speaking animatedly with some of her bridesmaids. She's dressed to the nines in a slinky black gown, her dark hair up in an intricate French braid. “Hey, Pooh,” I say, leaning in to kiss her. “You look great.”

“Look at your face!” she says.

“You look at it.”

“What happened? Forget it, I don't want to know,” she says, pressing an exploratory thumb against my shiner.

“Ouch! Jesus, Debbie!”

“It's going to be in all the pictures.”

“They can Photoshop it out.”

“Can they really do that? Because it looks terrible.”

“That's funny, because everyone was just telling me how wonderful I look.”

She shrugs and raises a cynical eyebrow at me. “Everyone is drunk.”

Speaking of which, my own drink has mysteriously evaporated in the five minutes since it was poured, so I wander back toward the bar, where I bump into Russ walking off with a drink in hand. “Hey,” I say. “Are we having fun yet?”

“Oodles.”

“What do you have there?”

“Some tonic water.”

“Uh huh.”

“With just the tiniest splash of gin.”

It occurs to me that I should not be allowing him to drink, and that this is something we should discuss.

“Russ. Can we be serious for a moment?”

“Doug, if we can't be serious for a moment, then the terrorists have already won.”

“We don't have a lot of rules,” I say.

“That's true.”

“I can't control what happens when you're out with your friends. I just have to trust you to make the right decisions. But I don't want you drinking or doing drugs on my watch.”

He regards me thoughtfully for a moment and then smiles and raises his glass. “Agreed. But surely one celebratory drink under your watchful eye … ”

“Just go easy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So,” I say, throwing my arm around him. “Any women here catch your fancy?”

He looks over to where Debbie is laughing with her girlfriends and sighs. “Just one.”

“I don't want to sound too negative here … ” I say.

“I know,” he says miserably. “Love sucks.”

“Amen to that.” We bang our glasses together.

The groomsmen congregate at the bar where Mike's brother Max is rowdily moderating a wide-ranging discussion on the S&P Five Hundred, sports teams, and which actresses they would currently be fucking if they weren't too busy being fat, bald, and married. I have nothing to contribute, but it's as good a place as any to hide for a few minutes.

“Doug,” Max says, throwing his arm around me. “I think I'm in love. Three o'clock.”

“What?”

“Over there,” he says, pointing. “The girl in the black dress.”

“She's very pretty.”

“Are you kidding me? Look at the ass on her.” He licks his lips. “I have got to get me some of that.”

“Her name is Claire.”

“You know her?”

“I do.”

“Well, what's her deal, anyway?”

“She just left her husband,” I say. “She's dying to get laid.”

“You're shitting me.”

“I'm telling you. It's a sure thing.”

“Okay,” he says, releasing me. “Wish me luck.”

“Break a leg.”

I watch him approach her, watch her eyes narrow as he makes his pitch, and then watch her take a deep breath and start to speak, and as much of an asshole as Max is, I actually feel a little sorry for him. He's back two minutes later, red faced and dejected. “You are such an asshole,” he says.

“You lasted longer than most.”

“That girl has got some major issues.”

“Come on,” I say, patting his back. “I'll buy you a drink.”

“Doug,” Mike says, coming up behind us. “You see Potter?”

“No.”

“Neither have I and he's supposed to give the toast. I hope everything's okay.”

Dave and Laney. Shit. I forgot they're going to be here. As if I didn't have enough to deal with, I'll have to pretend not to notice Laney staring balefully at me all weekend. “I'm sure they're fine.”

“Well, I don't know what could be keeping him, but would you mind stepping in for him tonight if he's a no-show?”

There is irony, and then there's my life.

         

Once everyone has found their seats, and I'm safely sandwiched between Russ and Claire, my buzz having settled down to a nice, insulating hum, I am finally able to relax. My mother, looking radiant in her salmon-colored gown, sips at her wine and surveys the room with a satisfied smile. She leans against my father, who kisses her scalp every few minutes and taps his fingers along with the band, happily greeting all the well-wishers who stop by to greet him. “Stan!” they say. “Great to see you!” And he says, “Great to be seen, Phil, great to be seen.”

They are positively beaming, my parents, vibrating together in their happiness, and I love them like never before. The rest of us talk about nothing in particular, cracking jokes and gossiping about our assembled relatives, and it's all moving along swimmingly until Mike starts tapping his water glass with a knife, and a hush falls over the room as he stands up to speak.

“Debbie and I are so happy that you could all be here to celebrate with us. All I can say is that I never believed someone this beautiful would ever be willing to marry someone like me.”

“You and me both, buddy!” Max shouts out, and everybody laughs.

“Anyway, I just wanted to ask my good friend Doug, who, coincidentally happens to be the brother of the bride, to offer a toast.”

I look up, horrified, as the room breaks into applause. I seem to recall Mike asking me to fill in for Dave, but I figured he'd give me some warning before I had to go on, and that's when I'd planned to worm my way out of it. So when the clapping dies down, I'm still slouched in my seat, wondering what the hell to do.

“Doug?” Debbie whispers across the table nervously.