The wedding had been deliberately arranged for Tuesday, an inconvenient day that might discourage curious relatives. Both the Markowitzes and the Huntingtons breathed the heavy atmosphere of shame; both prayed in secret for poor attendance. But despite entreaties for heavenly intervention, two dozen people showed up at the rehearsal dinner Monday night. Vanessa had chosen Anthony's Pier 4 down by the docks.
When Quinn and Will arrived, Van greeted them with haunted eyes and the red blotches on the sensitive skin of her neck that served as a stress barometer.
“Help,” she croaked.
“Where's Stan?” Quinn asked.
“Placating his mother. She started to cry after her first glass of sherry.”
Will draped his arm around her shoulder. “This time tomorrow it'll be all over.”
Quinn felt her throat constrict.
“They made him get a haircut. I don't recognize him.” Van's blotches were spreading to her cheeks.
“Have you had anything to drink?” Quinn asked. “Come on, honey. Let's get you smashed.”
They led Van to her table. The picture windows framed Boston Harbor, which was pink and glistening in the sunset.
“Did you get our present?” Quinn asked.
“We're not going to open it until tomorrow night, when we're alone and married.”
Will's eyes flickered to Quinn's for a moment, then retreated to the spectacular light show outside. The clouds were laced with silver now, and the smooth water was gold.
Make new friends, but keep the old; some are silver and the others gold.
He wanted to reach out and touch Quinn's russet hair.
Their present was an antique silver picture frame that held a photo of the four of them leaning against Stanley's bus. Stanley looked fierce, the camera having misinterpreted the stubbly shadows of his face as sinister. His eyes were dark with mystery. Quinn wished he'd worn a golden earring. Van was self-contained, with lowered eyes and half-smile only a trace too haughty for the quintessential madonna. Will, a head taller than the rest, looked foolish and goofy, with the relaxed grin Quinn usually saw only after they had made love. Quinn herself, nestled under Will's shoulder, was a trembling fragile flower, hanging on to the arm of her man for protection. She carried a wallet-size copy with her everywhere.
Van had seated Quinn and Will to either side of Mr. Markowitz's sister. Aunt Sarah was a concrete hulk of a woman with tight little curls that clung to her head like terrified blue caterpillars.
In a voice smaller than expected from a diaphragm of such magnitude, she asked, “What's that?” pointing to a bowl by the centerpiece.
“Bacon bits,” Quinn answered, then hurriedly elaborated. “Uh, for salad or baked potato. You don't have to eat it. I don't like it much myself, bacon.”
Aunt Sarah regarded her impassively. Quinn wondered at the incongruity of the woman's gaily flowered dress.
“I'm Quinn Mallory,” she said, and extended her hand. “That's Will Ingraham on your right. We're friends of Stanley and Van's.”
Suddenly Aunt Sarah's face registered her arrival at some private conclusion. She smiled. Quinn felt a rush of pleasure as the grim face surrendered to half a dozen dimples. There was a childish space between her front teeth.
“Stanley is my favorite nephew,” Aunt Sarah said. An Eastern European childhood was evident in her pronunciation. “I love him very much.”
Quinn was at her mercy. “Me, too,” she echoed.
“I see he is happy, thanks God.”
“Yes,” Quinn said.
Then Aunt Sarah turned to beam at Will, allowing Quinn the opportunity to watch his face fill with astonished delight.
Despite her charms, however, Aunt Sarah was a formidable obstruction between Quinn and Will. They couldn't hold hands; they could barely see each other. When she finally excused herself to visit the ladies' room, Quinn asked, “When do you think we can leave?”
“Empty bed in an empty hotel room, what a waste,” Will agreed.
“I have to cross my legs.”
At the Arlington Copley Hotel they warmed their tiny room with lovemaking, some of it ferocious enough to leave bruises on Quinn's rib cage. She fell asleep at 4:00
A.M.
, half waking an hour later to see Will writing at the desk. Wads of paper littered the glass top like giant popcorn balls. She drifted back into a dream about the fir tree in Rockefeller Center.
When she woke, he was lying beside her. Panic snatched her eyes open: today was Van's wedding, today Will would fly away. She watched him sleeping. His eyelashes were dark near the lids, but the tips were pale. It was a detail she had never noticed. How many hundreds of similar discoveries she had yet to make in an adventure that ought to absorb a lifetime.
“Will,” she whispered. He slept on, so she began to trace the shape of his ear with her fingertip. His face was ruddy while he slept, as if he'd been in the sun too long. Finally he opened his eyes.
“You bastard,” she whispered.
“Ym,” he said and slipped an arm around her waist. “M'ere.”
At first the bruises and cramped muscles protested, but soon her body softened under his hands and the pain melted away.
Afterward they lay in silence, staring up at the ceiling. There was a crack that formed a rough cross. Bless this bed, Quinn thought. Or maybe,
Requiescat in Pace.
“Are you really going to do this, Will?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you ⦠is it ⦠well, if you were polite, you'd sound a little more miserable about it.”
He rolled over to face her. The pale tips of his eyelashes had darkened with tears. There were shiny hollows under his eyes.
“Oh, Will.” She reached for him, trying to drive her body through his skin and be enclosed. He would be forced to carry her with him everywhere, and she would have no choices.
“I dreamed I saw you writing,” she said into his shoulder.
“No. I was up.”
She pulled back to look at him.
“Needed to set a few things down.”
“Let me see.”
He shook his head.
“Please.”
“Not now. Sometime.”
There wasn't much sometime left, she thought, then took a deep breath and plunged out of bed.
The Silver Ghost was waiting when she stepped out of the marble lobby into a hazy summer morning. There would be sailboats on the Charles River today, like brides with their crisp white veils. Sinking back into the seat, she tried to think of Stanley and Van's union without envy. But the irony stung.
“Shit, piss, and corruption,” she said.
“Excuse me, miss?” asked the driver.
“Oh,” Quinn said, thinking fast. “Sure to be instructions. About the wedding. I'm a little nervous.”
The Huntington house was filled with lilacs, and with their sweet fresh scent. A maid led Quinn upstairs to Van's bedroom, where the prospective bride was screwing on the pearl earrings Stanley had given her as a wedding present. She wore a creamy silk dress with an Empire waist and lace trim on the sleeves and bodice. After much indecision she had opted for wearing her hair down, just clean and straight, the way Stanley liked it most. She was beautiful. My friend, Quinn thought, watching from the doorway, and tears welled up.
Sensing someone's presence, Van turned, saw Quinn and the tears, and held out her arms. Blue jeans and T-shirt were enveloped in clouds of silk.
“Does this stuff water-stain?” Quinn asked.
“It better not.” Van held her by the shoulders. “You know what I wish for most of all?” she asked. “For you to be as happy as I am.”
Quinn's chin trembled. “One of these days it's bound to happen.” She broke away and paraded in her jeans. “Think I'll look cute sashaying down the aisle?”
“There's a part of me that would just as soon you wore that.”
“There's a part of your mother that would pick me up by the ears and dump me into the chicken liver.”
“Please,” Van said. “In this house we call it
pâté.
”
Quinn giggled. “How does she explain gefilte fish?”
“Quenelles, my dear.”
“Well, pretty soon you and Stan can ride off into the sunset and let the Montagues and Capulets fight it out on Beacon Hill.”
“Have I told you how much I'm going to miss you?” Van asked.
“Have I told you how much I wish you'd zip it up?”
“Are you going to be all right?”
“Of course I'll be all right. Did you ever know me when I wasn't?”
“I mean about Will.”
“I know what you mean. I'll survive.”
“Mother has a copy of our itinerary for you.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, I'm not going to bug you on your honeymoon.”
“You will if you need us. Won't you?”
“In a dire emergency. Ingrown toenails. Hemorrhoids, something like that.”
“We'll see you as soon as we get settled in New York. If your mom's okay, maybe you'll be there too.”
“Could be, but don't you be thinking about me on your wedding day. It's only once. Enjoy it. I'm going to.”
“Enjoy it? With that crowd?”
“Nothing to it,” Quinn said. “But I'd better get dressed or you'll have a tacky-looking maid of honor.”
Quinn watched the living room ceremony through a mist. She could make out that Stanley was almost clean-shaven, and that he, too, was close to tears. Quinn scanned the rows of guests and spotted Will toward the back, with his legs stretched out into the aisle. His hair was dark and slicked down with water from his shower. She liked it this way, a hero from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. She also liked it when it dried, full and sun-streaked and wild. He felt her eyes on him and winked.
While Quinn watched the bride and groom, Will watched Quinn. She was wearing a pale lavender dress that matched the lilacs spilling over the mantelpiece. Will tried to memorize her solemn expression. He knew she was trying not to cry.
“⦠pronounce you man and wife,” intoned the judge. He was an austere-looking man with purple veins in a chalky face. He produced a tiny smile while suggesting to Stanley that he might kiss the bride. Stanley had lapsed into a trance, so Van was obliged to nudge her new husband with an elegant elbow. The kiss lasted a long time. Quinn watched Mrs. Huntington glower as the congregation began to titter. Finally Van's shoulders started shaking with laughter and Stanley had to let her go. There was a gasp from the nearly suffocated bride, and the string ensemble began its recessional.
Guests filed out behind the newlyweds to crowd into the library, the dining room, and the small backyard. Quinn was just ahead of Stanley's parents.
“It's not legal without the glass,” Mr. Markowitz complained.
“Sh, sh,” pleaded Mrs. Markowitz.
“Listen, I've got a right. He's my son. Not even a
mazeltov,
for Christ's sake.”
“Morrie, sh,” said Mrs. Markowitz. “It was nice. Very nice.”
Quinn turned around to smile at them. “It all went very well, don't you think?”
“What's not to go well? Two minutes and it's all over,” Stanley's father grumbled. Mrs. Markowitz had turned red.
“Don't you think we ought to talk Stanley into breaking a wineglass or something,” Quinn suggested. “Just to make it official?”
Mr. Markowitz gave his wife a bruising pinch on the arm. “See? Sharp as a matzoh, this one. So he doesn't break it under the
chupah.
The thought is what counts.”
“Right,” Quinn agreed, wondering how a matzoh could be sharp. Mr. Markowitz had Stanley's eyes. She enjoyed looking into themâsoft, dark, affectionate eyes.
They formed a reception line in the garden outside. Stanley's uncle was talking with Mrs. Huntington at Quinn's elbow.
“What's that accent you got?”
“Accent?” Mrs. Huntington said.
“Yeah, where you from?” the uncle persisted.
“New York City.” Her voice filtered up the back of her throat and out through her nose like an impersonation of William F. Buckley, Jr.
“Hey! Me, too! Small world!” he exclaimed. “Brooklyn, Ocean Parkway. Where'd you go to school?”
“Chapin,” said Mrs. Huntington through narrow nostrils.
“Don't know it.” The uncle lost interest. He moved on, and a moment later Quinn heard him ask Dr. Huntington if he knew a cardiologist in Borough Park by the name of Irwin Finkelstein.
Quinn spied Will's shoulder protruding from behind a tree trunk in the only secluded corner of the garden. She called to him, and he approached wearing the expression of a sacrificial lamb. She introduced him to Vanessa's teen-age cousin as Henry Thoreau.
Soon
Tales from the Vienna Woods
drifted out from the living room, where the ensemble had gathered beside the fireplace. The music gradually drew everyone indoors, but Quinn and Will lingered in the doorway, watching Stanley and Van come together in their first dance. Stanley was a little stiff with his carefully rehearsed
one
-two-three,
one
-two-three. Vanessa swayed like a calla lily in the breeze. Will watched the eyes in the faces that ringed the floor, eyes that enclosed the couple in a poignant circle of hopes.
Then Dr. Huntington cut in. He gazed down into his daughter's face and held her gingerly. Things would never be the same between them again, and both of them knew it.
Stanley, meanwhile, was having a hard go of it with Myra Huntington. Despite her lovely clothes and graceful figure, the woman could not dance. She moved her feet in tiny panicked shuffles. Stanley, with his lurching triangles, was practically dragging her across the floor. They struggled like strangers colliding and rebounding in a crowd.
At the urging of Vanessa, Dr. Huntington drew the Markowitzes onto the dance floor. Stanley's mother was bashful, but she danced easily in the arms of her son. Van and Mr. Markowitz paraded across the room, more walking than dancing. Quinn strained to hear the conversation as they came near.