April & Oliver (37 page)

“She nicknamed me Silver because of my touch. Corny, I know, but it was a different world back then.”

S,
Oliver thinks, remembering the diary. He raises a brow. He doesn’t like the fact that Quincy plays; it’s a rude coincidence.

“Anyway, she met your father, and I was history. The affair was years later. Neither of us meant for it to happen. It was
nostalgia, I guess. We still had feelings for each other. Look,” he says. “You should go now. You’re getting married in the
morning.”

“What about April?”

Quincy’s face goes white. He sits down, looking older than his fifty-some years. “What about her?”

Oliver stares.

“She was a nice girl, April. Hard worker. Fond of you, I remember.”

“I know about the molestation.”

His face drains of color. “That’s not how it was.”

“Three years of sexual abuse of a minor. You could do time for that.”

Quincy reddens. “It wasn’t the way you make it sound. She . . . No, I’m not going to get into this.”

“But it happened, right?”

“No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oliver waits.

“We all do things we’re not proud of, son.”

Oliver gets up to leave. “What blows my mind is that you’ve had the gall to stay in touch with my family all these years,
picnics and business deals, just like old friends. And the way you greeted April at my father’s house last summer. I don’t
know why she didn’t spit in your face.”

A vein on Quincy’s forehead becomes visible. “Cut me some slack, Oliver. You remember how she was back then, the mini skirts
and the tits.”

Oliver pictures himself landing a blow, imagines the thud as Quincy falls, sprawled in a sea of popcorn, holding his nose
to stop the blood. But Oliver resists. It’s not what his father would do.

“What I remember,” Oliver says, “is that she was a sweet kid with no mother around to tell her how to dress. She had the bad
luck to have a crush on someone she thought was nice, but turned out to be a pervert.”

Quincy looks only slightly alarmed. “You ought to know her part in things before you say any more.”

“She was fourteen!” Oliver pounds his fist on the coffee table. “Oh, but excuse me. You waited until she was seventeen to
actually fuck her. A real gentleman.”

“I’m not admitting to any of this. You have to leave now.”

“Why don’t you tell me about that time, Quincy, on the stairs in the stockroom? What was her part then?”

Quincy moves to open the door of the den, but Oliver puts his hand on the doorknob. “The statute of limitations isn’t up.
Rape of a minor is a felony.”

Finally Quincy looks frightened. “I’m married now,” he says hoarsely. “I got kids of my own. I’m not that person anymore.”

Oliver frowns. “I want you to give my father everything you owe him and then quietly get out of his life. I’ll give you till
the end of the month. And if you ever have contact with April again, you can be sure you’ll hear from me.”

Quincy turns grimly and leads Oliver to the front door. “Look,” he says. “I don’t know why this is all so urgent for you.
For the rest of us, it was over a long time ago.”

“Really, I’m impressed that you could make things right so easily after ruining a girl’s life.”

Quincy glances nervously behind him. “Look, Oliver. We both know that with or without me, April would have been the same girl
she was. I didn’t create her.”

“You used her and you damaged her, and if someone did the same to one of your daughters, you’d be hard-pressed not to kill
him.”

Quincy takes a nervous step back. Oliver walks up the drive, through the blowing leaves, feeling the chill breeze through
his damp clothes. He knows he ought to get some sleep before morning, but it feels impossible now.

T
HE CHURCH IS CHILLY,
with thick stone walls cool to the touch and a remote, vaulted ceiling. The green-gray swirl of the marble altar matches the
color of the sky, overcast and low. It is more like a November day than mid-October. Without sunlight, the stained-glass windows
are muted, each pane depicting a scene Oliver cannot decipher. The pews begin to fill, as they did one year ago. Perhaps it
is just Oliver’s imagination, but a collective memory seems to hang over the congregation, as if assembled in commemoration,
not celebration. Buddy is everywhere. Oliver retreats to the sacristy to wait.

“Best man not here yet?” the priest says, pulling his alb over his street clothes.

“He’s never on time.” Oliver manages a smile. He has known the old priest for years, the same man who married his high school
friends and buried his mother and Buddy. He is gray-haired, overweight, with a sad, kindly smile.

“You’re looking a little green around the gills,” the priest says.

“Didn’t sleep,” Oliver says.

“The grooms never do.” He smiles, smoothing his chasuble over his shoulders. “Your mother would have loved to be here, Oliver.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking of her.”

“What a lady she was. So much grace. Not unlike your Bernadette.”

Oliver smiles, looking into his hands, his stomach a cement mixer.
Jitters are normal,
he thinks. “I’d better look for my brother.”

He walks down the side aisle of the church. People catch his eye: his high school soccer coach, piano teacher, his college
roommate; people he has not seen in years, his whole life represented. The agitation eats at his stomach. He is aware that
his smile is stiff and tells himself to relax. The pigtailed child from the engagement party frowns up at him from a pew,
unhappy perhaps that his hair is still not blond. He tries to smile at her, but she’ll have none of it. It seems a bad omen
not to have her approval.

In the back vestibule, Nana is sitting in a chair, wearing an embroidered pale blue suit and a pillbox hat. Beside her Hal
is down on one knee, fanning her. On the other side stands April with her hand on Nana’s shoulder.

“Is she okay?” Oliver asks.

“I’m fine,” Nana says. “I was just thinking about a dream I had this morning. I was on a hilly trail I used to hike as a child
and Buddy was there up ahead. He held out his hand to help me over some rocks.”

“She’s a little under the weather,” Hal says. “Too much excitement last night, I think.”

Oliver kneels down, his tails brushing the floor, and takes Nana’s hand. Her face looks pale, her eyes not quite focused.
Hung over, Oliver thinks. “April.” Nana winks. “Doesn’t he look snappy?”

“A handsome groom if I ever saw one,” she says.

Oliver stands to face her. April is wearing a cheerful pale yellow dress, her hair pulled back. He thinks she looks relaxed.
He glances at the chain around her neck and recognizes it as Nana’s. She must have polished it for the occasion; Oliver has
never seen it so bright.

“Break a leg,” April says and kisses his cheek. There is a scent on her skin, like the sea, but the moment she pulls back
it is gone. “Now get out of here,” she says. “It’s bad luck to see the bride.”

Out front, a white limousine pulls up. Oliver’s muscles tense, his breathing ragged.

“April,” he whispers. “I need to ask you something.”

Her eyebrows fly up.

“I’m serious,” he says. “It will only take a second.”

“It can wait,” she says firmly, glancing out at the limousine.

He takes her wrist and leads her toward a narrow stairwell leading down to the bathroom. She pulls back. A bridesmaid glances
over at them, then away again as she helps an usher pin on his rose. Oliver pulls April into the stairwell and down the narrow
steps.

Inside the bathroom, she covers her mouth in horror. “What are you doing?” she hisses. “People saw that.”

“I found out,” he says, “about my mother and Quincy.”

“Oh, my God, Oliver, don’t you see this isn’t the time?”

“You never told me,” he says, his hand still tight around her wrist.

“Bernadette is on her way into the church!”

“You could have said something, but you didn’t.”

“Are you having a breakdown? Get a grip, Oliver.”

“I don’t see why you kept it from me.”

“Look, what you need to do right now is run up those stairs and get to the altar.”

“April, I’ll never forgive you for this.” He releases her wrist and pushes back out the door.

At the top of the stairs he sees a flowing glacier of white, hears the rustle of silk and taffeta. The back of Bernadette’s
hair is meticulously French-braided and adorned with flowers. A little girl in a wheelchair and a boy with wide-set eyes giggle
as they touch the dress, tossing up the lace and watching it float down. Their mothers gently coax them into the church. Bernadette
touches the boy’s cheek as he goes. The great white dress bristles as she turns to see Oliver.

Al grips Oliver’s shoulder and turns him around. “This way,” he says. The two walk up the aisle. Oliver’s heel scuffs the
white runner. He nearly trips. The damn rented shoes. At the top of the aisle, near the altar, he and Al turn around to face
the congregation.

“Have you flipped?” Al says quietly, smiling out at the crowd.

“Hm?” Oliver says.

“I’m taking attendance. Are you here?”

“Present,” Oliver says.

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I remembered the rings?”

Oliver does not answer. People wave to him and he waves back vacantly. The organist plays a hushed version of the Pachelbel
canon. Bernadette’s mother comes down the aisle accompanied by Brad. Next comes Oliver’s father escorting Nana. She moves
awkwardly without her walker, feet snagging the white cloth, a different woman from the one he saw dancing the night before.

Oliver scans the crowd. In the back vestibule he catches a glimpse of white, a dress like an icecap. He closes his eyes and
prays, for what?

His father is having trouble getting Nana up the aisle. Oliver goes to help, but realizes halfway down that this is not the
right protocol; the groom is supposed to keep his post. But what’s more important here? He takes his grandmother’s other elbow.

“Oliver.” She beams at him, patting his arm.

He glances into the vestibule where ushers and bridesmaids are finding their places in the lineup. He hears giggles and whispers,
a tone of happy excitement. No sign of April. Suddenly he realizes that Bernadette is looking at him, her mouth fixed in a
dreadful, panicky smile. He looks away.

Back at the altar Oliver stands squarely and awaits the organ music. Through a side door entrance April slips in quietly and
slides into the pew beside Nana. A strand of hair has fallen from her clip and cascades in a frail arc down her cheek. On
her wrist he sees pink marks, the impression of his hand.

The music begins. He watches the flower girl, a relative of Bernadette’s, meander up the aisle. People coo adoringly. The
girl in the wheelchair claps. Next begins a string of bridesmaids wearing chartreuse strapless gowns. The music pauses. People
stand. The wedding march, a tune Oliver has always disliked, pipes through the organ. Bernadette walks slowly up the aisle,
face veiled, clasping her father’s arm. When he lifts her veil to kiss her, Oliver sees that she is crying. Her father gives
Oliver an uneasy look and hands her over.

Oliver smiles at her but she doesn’t meet his eye. He takes her arm and faces the priest. Bernadette signals the bridesmaids
for a tissue. Oliver squeezes her hand, but she does not return the pressure. Because he looked too soon? He thinks of Orpheus.
The priest is speaking but Oliver hardly hears.

“As we begin, we call to mind those loved ones who have gone before us, whom we know are present in spirit to share the great
happiness of this day,” the priest says. “Especially Bernadette’s sister, Jenny, and grandfather Lawrence; Oliver’s grandfather
Spencer, his mother, Avila, and his cousin Buddy. God rest their souls.”

Oliver shifts his weight, gripping Bernadette’s hand. All he wants now is to say
I do
and have it over with. He tries to think of his honeymoon. At this time tomorrow, they’ll be on a plane.

There are whispers behind him. He hears someone say “Buddy?” It’s his grandmother’s voice. Oliver turns to look though he
knows he shouldn’t. Pale and weak, Nana stands and steps into the aisle. “Buddy?” she says again, her voice oddly slurred.

The priest raises his eyebrows but continues to read as Hal tries to usher Nana back to her seat.

“What on earth does he mean?” Nana says more loudly now. “God rest his soul?”

“Sh, it’s okay, Mom,” Hal says soothingly. “Let’s let them get married.”

“Oliver wouldn’t get married without Buddy,” she says, her voice growing even stranger than before. “Where is he?”

An altar boy with squeaky sneakers crosses the marble floor of the altar holding a paper cup of water.

“Sit, Mom,” Hal says softly. “You’re not looking so good.”

She sits suddenly and awkwardly, crashing down on the pew. A collective gasp rises from the congregation. The girl with the
pigtails says loudly, “What happened, Mommy?” Hal gestures to Al, putting an imaginary phone to his ear, and Al disappears
off the altar into the sacristy. When Hal holds the paper cup up to Nana’s lips, water dribbles from the side of her mouth.
Oliver sees fear cross his father’s face.

The priest announces a hymn, number 47, though everyone knows it’s not the usual time for a song. There is a moment’s pause
as the flustered organist rifles through his book.

The priest goes to Hal, who lifts Nana in his arms and eases out of the pew. April follows. The congregation murmurs, straining
for a view.

At the same moment, Oliver and Bernadette look at each other, each holding a lit candle in their hands, which they were about
to join in lighting the nuptial candle. Wax drips to the floor. Just as Oliver wonders if they should still go over to the
big candle, Bernadette blows hers out. A crushing feeling comes over him.

The congregation continues to sing, tentatively and off key. After a moment, flashing lights appear through the stained-glass
windows. No sirens, thank God. Bernadette turns and goes into the sacristy. With what feels like his last breath, Oliver blows
out his candle and heads for the door.