Authors: Anne Tyler
“It was fine,” Delia said.
So that was the way it would be, evidently. She had been settled into
a convenient niche in people’s minds: just another of those eccentric wives you see living year-round in an Ocean City condo or raising horses on a farm in Virginia while their husbands continue their workaday routines in Baltimore. Nobody gave it a thought.
She passed through the assembling guests, smiling and murmuring greetings. Sam’s uncle Robert squeezed her hand but went on listening to Malcolm Avery rehash a recent golf game. Sam himself was helping his aunt Florence out of a black rubber raincoat that looked capable of standing on its own.
“How do we know when the ceremony starts?” someone asked at Delia’s elbow.
It was Eleanor, in a gray silk shirtdress. “Oh, Eleanor!” Delia cried, and she threw her arms around Eleanor’s spare figure.
“Hello, dear,” Eleanor said, patting her shoulder. “How nice you came for this.”
“Of course I came! How could I not?”
“I was wondering about the procession,” Eleanor said smoothly. “Do they plan any kind of music? Susie has been admirably sensible about the arrangements, but how will we know when the bride walks in?”
“Eleanor, I’m not even sure there’s going to
be
a bride,” Delia said. “She claims she’s reconsidered.”
“Ah. Well, you’ll want to go see to her, then,” Eleanor said, unperturbed. “Run along; I can take care of myself, dear.”
“Maybe I
should
go,” Delia said, and she fled up the stairs.
Susie was alone now, dressed in jeans and sneakers, lounging on the cot and reading
People
magazine. She glanced up casually when Delia knocked on the doorframe. “Oh, hi,” she said. “Are they having conniptions down there?”
“Well, they don’t … exactly grasp the situation yet,” Delia said. “Susie, should I send Driscoll up?”
“Driscoll’s here?”
“He’s here in his wedding suit, waiting for you to come marry him.”
“Well, shoot,” Susie said, lowering her magazine. “It’s not like I haven’t informed him in plain English.”
“And his parents are here, and Dr. Soames—”
“Did you talk to the realtor?” Susie asked.
“I left a message.”
“Mom. This really, really matters. If I don’t get that lease revoked, it’ll be me they come after for the money, do you realize that? I’m the
one who actually signed my name. And I didn’t want to say this in front of Driscoll’s sister, but the fact is, I am dirt poor. I’m in debt for the wedding, even—four hundred twenty-eight dollars, no thanks to that father of mine.”
“What did the four hundred twenty-eight dollars go for, exactly?” Delia asked out of curiosity.
“My dress and veil and the bouquet in the fridge. Aunt Eliza’s footing the bill for refreshments.
Please
go call Mr. Bright. If he’s still not there, tell his machine it’s a life-or-death situation.”
“Well, all right,” Delia said. “And then should I send Driscoll up?”
“He knows where to find me.”
Susie went back to her magazine. Delia started to leave, but in the doorway she turned. She said, “How come the house looks so different?”
“Different?”
“All the furniture’s gone from your room, and Eliza’s room seems… unlived-in.”
“Well, it is unlived-in,” Susie said, flipping a page. “Nobody lives here but Dad anymore.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you know that?”
“No
, I didn’t know that. What happened?”
“Well,” Susie said, “let me see. First Ramsay and Dad got into a fight about—no, wait. First
Eliza
and Dad got into a fight. She claimed it was because he didn’t let her know he’d be late for dinner, but the real truth is, she was making a play for him, Mom, like you wouldn’t believe. It was pitiful. All us kids told her so, but she was like, ‘Hmm? I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ and meanwhile there was Dad, out of it as usual, just going about his business and paying her no mind. So one day she picks a quarrel about a totally nother issue and flounces off to visit Aunt Linda, and when she comes back she announces she’s leaving for good. Now she lives on Calvert Street; that’s where Linda and the twins are staying for the wedding. Okay, so
then
Ramsay and Dad got into a fight, on account of Dad calling Velma ‘Veronica’ by accident which Velma swore he did on purpose, and Ramsay moved to Velma’s in a huff; and then Carroll moved there too because he missed his curfew one night and Dad was pacing the floor and picturing him dead on the road, he said. … And me: you know about me. I moved out in July, just before Ramsay.”
“Yes, I suppose I …,” Delia said abstractedly.
“So are you going to call the realtor, Mom?”
“Oh. Right,” Delia said, and after a brief pause, she walked out.
In Eliza’s old room, she sat on the edge of the bed, lifted the receiver, and then stared into space.
Imagine Sam pacing the floor. Always before, it had been Delia pacing the floor, and Sam pooh-poohing her and telling her to simmer down. “How can you be so cool about this?” she used to ask him. “What have you got in your veins: ice water?” And it seemed to her that he had given a little smile at that, a gratified, sheepish little smile, as if she had paid him a compliment.
She dialed the realtor’s number again. “This is Joe Bright,” the machine said. “I can’t come to the …”
“It’s Delia Grinstead again, Mr. Bright. I’d appreciate your calling me at your earliest convenience,” she said. And just to oblige Susie, she added, “It’s a matter of life and death. Bye.”
Downstairs, the voices were a woven mass, as if people had given up on the wedding and settled for a party instead. But when she descended to join them, conversation halted for a moment and people turned expectantly. She smiled at them. She was glad now she’d worn the forest-green, with the skirt that swung so alluringly just above her ankles.
She crossed the hall to the living room, and the others followed. Probably they thought this was a signal of some kind. In fact, Carroll, killingly attractive in his usher’s suit, caught up with her to offer his arm and lead her to a front seat, and a moment later Eleanor joined her, escorted by Ramsay. “Put Aunt Florence in a straight chair,” Ramsay muttered to Carroll. “She says her back is acting up.” Delia heard the usual audience sounds—coughs and rustling skirts. Driscoll’s parents settled on the couch. Dr. Soames took his place on the hearth, smiling benignly toward the room at large and extracting a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket.
“Bridal jitters all over now?” Eleanor whispered to Delia.
“No, um, not exactly.”
Velma’s colorless child chose a wing chair so big for her that her Mary Janes failed to touch the floor. A young man Delia didn’t know—some relative of Driscoll’s, no doubt—deposited Eliza on the love seat, and Linda plopped next to her unescorted and eased her feet out of her pumps. “Is she coming?” she mouthed when she saw Delia looking at her. Delia merely shrugged and faced front again.
Now Driscoll was standing beside Dr. Soames, fidgeting with his
boutonniere. And the bridesmaids were clustered at the foot of the stairs, where the ushers joined them when the very last guest had been seated.
Sam bent over Delia. She hadn’t seen him coming; she drew back slightly. “Should I put the record on?” he asked her.
“Record?”
“Is she ready?”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, no, I don’t believe she is.”
He straightened and stared down at her. He said, “Then shouldn’t you be doing something?”
“Like what?”
He didn’t answer. His lips were very dry and white. Delia smoothed her skirt and sat back to observe the next development.
She had never realized before that worry could be dumped in someone else’s lap like a physical object. She should have done it years ago. Why did Sam always get to be the one?
Now he turned toward the record player, which was housed in a walnut cabinet at Delia’s elbow. He clicked a button, and a moment later the sound of horns flared out. Delia recognized the theme from
Masterpiece Theatre.
Privately she found the selection a bit too triumphal, and she suspected from the sniff on her right that Eleanor felt the same way. Everybody else, though, sat in a reverent hush as Sam strode from the room. Delia heard his shoes crossing the hall and crisply mounting the stairs. Why, this wedding must have been planned to duplicate her own: the father of the bride escorting the bride down the stairs and through the double doorway to the center of the living room, to a spot directly beneath the gawky brass chandelier.
But suppose the bride did not stand waiting in the upstairs hall?
The footsteps must have continued, but the music drowned them out. Or maybe Sam had stopped at the top of the stairs, just beyond the guests’ view, instead of going in to talk with Susie. That was more like him. In any case, the trumpets blatted on while people smiled at one another (
Isn’t this so informal and so family
, they were probably thinking), and then the footsteps started down again. But anyone could tell that no bride was keeping pace with that rapid, noisy descent.
Sam marched to a spot directly in front of Dr. Soames. Delia wondered, for an instant, whether he planned to carry on regardless—take the vows in Susie’s place. But he moistened his lips and said, “Ladies and gentlemen …”
It was Delia who reached over and lifted the phonograph needle.
That was the least she could do, she figured, since it was Sam who announced that he was sorry to have to say this, he hated to put people out like this, but the wedding had been postponed a bit.
“Postponed” was optimistic, in Delia’s opinion. But people did seem to view it as the most minor readjustment in the couple’s schedule. Linda announced crossly that she and the twins were reserved on a noon flight home two days from now, totally nonrefundable, which she damn well hoped Miss Susie would bear in mind. Dr. Soames, leafing through a pocket diary, muttered something about meetings, visits, Building Fund … but later in the week looked all right, he said; looked quite promising, in fact.
Even Driscoll’s mother, who seemed more distressed than anyone, turned out to be thinking mainly of a reception she was giving after the honeymoon. “Will they be married by Saturday night, do you think?” she asked Delia. “Could you just, maybe, feel Susie out a little? We’ve got fifty-three of our closest friends coming; you too if you’re still in town.”
“Maybe Driscoll will know more when they’ve finished talking,” Delia said. “I’ll have him get in touch with you the minute he comes downstairs.”
For Driscoll had at long last gone up to speak with Susie. He should have done that at the start, if you asked Delia.
The rain that had been threatening all day was falling now, and people scurried to their cars once they were out the front door. First Dr. Soames left, and then Sam’s aunt and uncle with Eleanor, and Driscoll’s sister with the unnamed usher, and finally Driscoll’s parents. Then Eliza said, “Well! I thought that little sports car of Spence’s had boxed me in for life!” and she swept out, with Linda and the twins in tow. But Ramsay and Carroll stayed on, dogging Delia’s heels as she carried platters of food to the kitchen, which meant that Velma and Rosalie had to stay as well. They made themselves scarce, though, watching TV in the study. Meanwhile Sam set the living-room furniture in order, and Carroll told Delia the entire plot of a movie he and Ramsay had seen. This man, he said, had been stuck in some kind of time warp where he had to keep reliving the same one day over and over. Delia thought that with all the topics they could have been discussing, Carroll had made a mighty peculiar choice, but she just said, “Mmhmm. Mmhmm,” as she flitted
around the kitchen, swathing various platters in plastic wrap. Carroll followed so closely that she couldn’t reverse direction without advance notice, and Ramsay wasn’t far behind.
But then Sam brought in the tablecloth, bunched in a clumsy cylindrical shape, and the atmosphere changed. Carroll stumbled in his recitation. Ramsay got very busy shutting cupboard doors. Both of them seemed to be watching Delia even while they were looking away.
“Tablecloth,” Sam said. He passed it to her.
Delia said, “Oh! Good! Thanks!” Then she said, “I’ll just take it down to the …,” and she wheeled and walked through the pantry and down the basement stairs.
Not that that tablecloth had the slightest need of laundering.
At the bottom of the stairs the cat was waiting, gazing up at her intently. Vernon always escaped to the basement when there were guests. She said, “Vernon! Have you missed me?” and she bent to cup his round, soft head. “I missed you too, little one,” she whispered. He was purring in that exaggerated way cats have when they want to put humans at ease.
Footsteps crossed the pantry and started down the stairs. Delia rose and went over to the washing machine. Vernon vanished into thin air. The machine was full of damp laundry, but she stuffed in the tablecloth anyhow and recklessly poured detergent on top.
Behind her, Sam cleared his throat. She turned. “Oh! Hello, Sam,” she said.
“Hi.”
She busied herself with the washing machine, selecting the proper cycle and rotating the dial with a zippery sound. Water started rushing; pipes clanked overhead. Outside the dust-filmed window, ivy leaves bobbed beneath the falling raindrops.
“As soon as Driscoll comes down,” she said, turning again to Sam, “I’m going to call a cab, but I figured I’ll wait till then so I can say goodbye to Susie.”
“A cab to where?” Sam asked.
“To the bus station.”
“Oh,” Sam said. Then he said, “It would be silly to call a cab, with all these
cars at hand.
Or rather, I don’t mean silly, but … I could drive you. Or Ramsay could, if you prefer. Ramsay’s been using the Plymouth, you know.”
“Oh, has he?” Delia asked. “How has it been running, anyway?”
“All right.”
“No more electrical problems?”
He just looked at her.
“Well, thanks,” she said. “I probably
will
ask for a lift, if it isn’t too much trouble.”