Frank once called my marriage ceremony the most beautiful
shotgun wedding he’d ever seen.
Considering the fact that it was my family doing it and not
the family of my intended bride, this was a remarkable observation.
But any wedding where the guns aren’t visible is a beautiful
wedding.
My uncles, of course, kept looking at me to see if I
intended to bolt. But after two and half years of running, I was worn out.
Frank, my best man, stood in the church vestibule reminding
me of the fact that Louise was late and that my uncles were getting nervous. I
blamed my friend Garrick, who had volunteered to drive her to the church
because Garrick was late for everything.
Frank, who kept lifting and replacing religious books from
their slots on the wall, reminded me that Jimmy was with Garrick. I told Frank
to stop messing with the books, and so he went over to mess with the holy
water, splashing some over the side of its container.
Then I heard a car door slam and peered out the window,
seeing only an old lady with a dark veil tugging on the door I leaned again.
She looked startled to see me standing there when she finally got it open,
holding her umbrella as if she wanted to hit me with it. I gave her a weak
smile and held the door open for her.
Frank splashed some more holy water, and told me to calm
down and that brides are always late.
This wait was nearly as bad as the wait getting out of jail,
waiting for bail, waiting for the guard to turn the key in the lock, waiting
for the arrogant guard in the property room to let me sign for my possessions.
Up at the other end of the church, the priest waited, too,
fiddling with some vestments. My uncles squirmed and glanced back down the
aisle at me. I shook my head.
Uncle Harry, who had volunteered to serve as the father
figure in this strange farce, came into the vestibule just as I made my way to
go out to the street, demanding to know where I thought I was going, and when I
told him, to look for my bride, he told me to stay put.
“It’s cold out there,” he said.
The chilled February breeze pushed through the partly open
door more indignantly than the old lady had. I closed the door.
These men with their invisible shotguns scared me. I blamed
them for driving my mother mad, and driving my father away, and driving me nuts
with the persistent phrase “you have to do the right thing.”
This though pissed me off, and shoved the door open and went
outside anyway. He didn’t follow, a shivering Frank did, shaking his head at
me.
“What’s with your uncle?” Frank asked. “He told me to get
the hell away from the holy water.”
At that moment, the maroon Chevy pulled up and five figures
popped out its four doors. Louise wore brown. Garrick, a burly man, wore a
sports shirt, work pants and sneakers. Jimmy wore his usually flannel shirt,
jeans and sneakers. Behind them, and better dressed than any of us came
Garrick’s girlfriend Jean and her daughter, Lauren – both chattering at Louise.
Jimmy told me we needed to get this thing over with quick
because he had things to do, drawing a sharp remark from Garrick who said “like
smoking pot and listening to Bach.”
“I like Bach,” Jimmy said.
Jean told them both to behave.
Louise was already crying. She had called her parents to
invite them, but they had said something rude and hung up. Jimmy said something
rude about her parents. Jean told him to shut up. I complained about them being
late. Garrick blamed Jimmy who arrived at Garrick’s house an hour late.
“If you had told me to come an hour earlier, I would have
been on time,” Jimmy said.
Jean told them both to shut up again, and then ushered them
into the church.
Louise and I held back, looking at each other, realizing how
much we had changed since we had first met, but already aware that something
important had passed that a marriage ceremony wasn’t going to bring back.
Behind us another car door slammed and strangers climbed
out, looking at us, as we looked at them. We went into the church.
My aunt held our daughter’s hand near the front pew. We – Frank,
Jimmy, Garrick, Jean, Lauren, me and Louise walked up into the altar area,
where the priest had use form a semi circle. Someone was crying near the front
and I realized it was my mother. Most others waited as the priest read off what
we had written for him to say, what he had added to, more of a hippie wedding
than anything traditional, nothing about enslavement, nothing about eternity,
just peace, love and understanding.
Louise looked at me, and I looked at her. We knew it
couldn’t last, but at that moment, with all the echoes of the priest’s voice
around it, it didn’t matter.
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