Bygones (23 page)

* * *

Randy saw Maryann walking toward him dressed like some celestial being. Her black hair hung in a cloud against a dress the color of a half-ripe peach. It had short sleeves as big as basketballs, which caught on the tips of her shoulders and seemed to be held there by a sorcerer's spell. Her collarbones showed, and her throat, and the entire sweep of her shoulders above a very demure V-neck.

Maryann walked toward Randy, thinking that in her entire life she'd never met anyone as handsome. His cream-colored tuxedo and apricot bow tie were created to be modeled against his dark skin, hair and eyes. She'd never cared much for boys who wore their hair past their collars but his was beautiful. She'd never cared much for swarthy coloring but his was appealing. She'd never hung around with underachievers but Lisa said he was bright. She'd certainly never gone with wild boys but he represented an element of risk toward which she gravitated as all habitually good girls will at least once in their lives.

“Hi,” she said quietly, stopping before him.

“Hi.”

His lips were full and beautifully shaped and had a lot of natural pigment. Of the few boys she'd kissed, none had been endowed with a mouth as inviting. She liked the way his lips remained parted while he stared at her, and the faint flare of pink that tinged his cheeks beneath his natural dark skin, and his long, black, spiky eyelashes framing deep brown eyes that seemed unable to look away.

“They sent me with your flower. I'm supposed to pin it on you.”

“Okay,” he said.

She pulled the pearl-headed pin from an apricot rose and slipped her fingers beneath his left lapel. They stood so close she caught the scent of his after-shave, and whatever he put on his hair to hold it in place and make it so shiny, and the new-linen smell of his freshly cleaned tuxedo.

“Maryann?”

She looked up with her fingertips still close to his heart.

“I'm really sorry about last night.”

Was his heart racing like hers? “I'm sorry, too.” She returned to her occupation with his boutonniere.

“No girl ever made me watch my mouth before.”

“I probably could have been a little more tactful about it.”

“No. You were right and I was wrong, and I'll try to watch it today.”

She finished pinning on his flower and stepped back. When she looked into his face again a picture flashed across her mind, of him with drumsticks in his hands, and sweatbands on his wrists, and a bandanna tied around his forehead to catch the perspiration while he beat the drums to some outrageously loud and raucous song.

The image fit as surely as Mendelssohn and Brahms fit into her life.

Still, he was so handsome he was beautiful, and his obvious infatuation with her resounded within some depth of womanliness that had lain dormant in Maryann until now.

Today, she thought, for just one day I will bend my own rules.

* * *

Bess, too, had taken a boutonniere from the box and gone out in the vestibule to find Michael. Approaching him, she thought how some things never change. Males and females were made to move through the world two-by-two, and in spite of the Women's Movement, there would be tasks that remained eternally appropriate for one sex to do for the other. At Thanksgivings, men carved turkeys. At weddings, women pinned on corsages.

“Michael?” she said.

He turned from conversation with Jake Padgett and she experienced a fresh zing of reaction at his uncommon pulchritude. It happened much as it had when they were dating years ago. The moment his dark eyes settled on hers, embers were stirred.

“I have your boutonniere.”

“Would you mind pinning it on for me?”

“Not at all.” Performing the small favor for him brought back the many times she'd brushed a piece of lint off his shoulder, or closed a collar button, or any one of the dozens of niceties exchanged by husbands and wives. It brought her, too, the smell of his British Sterling at closer range, and the warmth of his body emanating from beneath his crisp lapel as she slipped her hand beneath it.

“Hey, Bess?” he said softly. She glanced up, then back at the stubborn stickpin that refused to pierce the wrapping around the flower stem. “Do you feel old enough to have a daughter getting married?”

The pin did its job and the boutonniere was anchored. She corrected its angle, smoothed his lapel and looked into Michael's eyes. “No.”

“Can you believe it? We're forty.”

“No, I'm forty. You're forty-three.”

“Cruel woman,” he said, with a grin in his eyes.

She backed up a step and said, “I suppose you noticed Lisa picked the same colors we had in our wedding.”

“I wondered if it was just a coincidence.”

“It isn't. Get ready for another one—she took our wedding pictures to the florist and got a bouquet just like mine.”

“Did she really?”

Bess nodded.

“This girl is serious about her matchmaking, isn't she?”

“I have to admit, it did things to me when I saw it.”

“Oh yeah?” He dipped his knees to bring his eyes level with hers, still grinning.

“Oh yeah, and don't get so smug. She looks absolutely radiant, and if you can look at her without getting misty I'll pay you ten bucks.”

“Ten bucks I got. If we're going to bet, let's at least pick something that—”

Someone interrupted. “Is this the fellow who's been sending me Mother's Day cards for six years?” It was Stella, in her bright silvery tiers, coming at Michael with her arms spread.

“Stella!” he exclaimed. “You beautiful dame!”

They hugged with true affection. “Ah, Michael,” she said, cheek-to-cheek with him, “if you aren't a sight for sore eyes.” She backed up, commandeering both his hands. “Lord in heaven, you get better-looking every six years!”

He laughed and kept her hands in his larger, darker ones, then clicked his tongue against his cheek. “You, too.” He looked down at her delicate satin pumps. “But is this any way for a grandma to dress?”

She kicked up one foot. “Orthopedic high heels,” she said, “if it'll make you feel any better. Come on. You, too, Bess, I want you to meet my main man.”

They had barely shaken hands with Gil Harwood when the bride appeared in full regalia. She stepped into the vestibule and both Michael and Bess lost communion with everything but her. They turned to her as one, and as she began moving toward them Michael's hand found Bess's and gripped it tightly.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered, for both of them.

She was a pretty young woman, the synthesis of her mother and father, and as she moved toward them they were aware of many things—how nature had amalgamated the best features of both of them into her face and frame; how happy she was, smiling and eager for this wedding and her future life with her chosen; that she carried their first grandchild. But mostly they were aware of how carefully she had recreated aspects of their own wedding.

The dress rustled just as it had when Bess wore it.

The veil was a close match to Bess's own.

The bouquet might have been preserved intact from that day.

“Mom, Dad . . .” she said, reaching them, resting a hand on each of their shoulders and raising her face for a touch of cheeks. “I'm so happy.”

“And we're happy for you,” Bess said.

Michael added, “Honey, you look absolutely beautiful.”

“Yes, she does,” Mark spoke, coming to claim her.

The photographer interrupted. “Everyone, please! I need the wedding party at the front of the church right now. We're behind schedule!”

As Lisa moved away and the mélange of shifting began toward the front of the church, Michael's eyes found Bess's.

“Even though you warned me, it's still a shock. I thought for a second it was you.”

“I know. It's very disconcerting, isn't it?”

During the next hour, while the photographer set up pose after pose, Michael and Bess seemed to be always together, whether in the picture or watching from the sidelines, intensely aware of each other's presence while recounting scenes from their own wedding.

Late in the photo session the photographer turned and called, “Now the members of the bride's family. Immediate family only, please.”

There was a moment of hesitation on Michael's part before Lisa motioned him forward and said, “You too, Dad. Come on.”

Moments later there they were—Michael, Bess, Lisa and Randy—on two steps in the sacristy of St. Mary's, the church where Michael and Bess had been married, where Lisa and Randy had been baptized, confirmed and received their first Communion, where they had gone as a family during all those happy years.

“Let's have Mom and Dad stand on the top step, and you two just in front of them,” the photographer said, motioning them into position. “A little to your left . . .” He pointed to Randy. “And Dad, put your hand on his shoulder.”

Michael placed his hand on Randy's shoulder and felt his own heart swell at touching him again.

“That's good. Now everybody squeeze in just a little tighter. . . .”

The photographer peered through his viewfinder while they stood close enough to feel one another's body warmth, touching where they were ordered.

And Lisa thought, Please let this work.

And Bess thought, Hurry or I'll cry.

And Randy thought, Dad's hand feels good.

And Michael thought, Keep me here forever.

 

DURING THE FINAL MINUTES while guests milled in the vestibule and the bride and her mother were having their photo taken in the dressing room, Michael turned and saw two familiar faces coming toward him.

“Barb and Don!” he exclaimed, breaking into a huge smile. The surprise stunned him even as he hugged the couple, who had been best man and maid of honor at his own wedding. During his years with Bess they had been dear friends but in the years since the divorce, some queer misplaced sense of unworthiness had prompted him to let their friendship flag. He had not seen them in over five years. Hugging Barb, he felt his emotions billow, and shaking Don's hand brought such a sharp pang of fraternity, it simply wasn't enough: he caught him in a quick embrace that was returned with equal heartiness.

“We've missed you,” Don said at Michael's ear, squeezing so hard Michael's bow tie compressed his windpipe.

“I missed you, too . . . both of you.”

The words brought a shaft of regret for the years lost, of pleasure for the friends retouched.

“What happened? How come we never heard from you?”

“You know how it is . . . hell, I don't know.”

“Well, this segregation is going to end.”

There wasn't time for more. Others found Michael—former neighbors, aunts and uncles from both sides, some of Lisa's old high-school friends and Bess's sister Joan and her husband, Clark, who had flown in from Denver.

Soon the ushers seated the last of the guests. The vestibule quieted. The bride prepared to make her entrance. While Maryann arranged Lisa's train, Michael found a moment to whisper to Bess, “Don and Barb are here.”

Surprise and delight lit her expression. She quickly scanned the heads of the seated guests but of course, they were facing front, and furthermore, it was time for the ceremony to begin. The ushers unfurled the white runner. The priest and servers waited up front. The organ rumbled. The strains of
Lohengrin
filled the nave. Bess and Michael took their positions on either side of Lisa and watched Randy head up the aisle with Maryann on his elbow.

When their turn came, they stepped out onto the white runner with their emotions running as close to the surface as at any time since the plans for this day had begun. Bess's knees shook. Michael's insides trembled. They passed the sea of faces turned toward them without singling out any. They gave up their daughter to the waiting groom, then stood side-by-side until the traditional question was asked: “Who gives this woman?”

Michael answered, “Her mother and I do,” then escorted Bess to the front pew, where they took their places side-by-side.

In a day laden with emotional impact, this hour was the worst. Michael and Bess felt themselves moved by it from the time Father Moore smiled benignly on the bride and groom and told the gathered witnesses, “I've known Lisa since the night she came into this world. I baptized her when she was two weeks old, gave her her first Communion when she was seven and confirmed her when she was twelve, so it feels quite fitting that I should be the one conducting this ceremony today.” Father Moore's gaze encompassed the assembled as he went on. “I know many of you who have come as guests today to witness these vows.” His eyes touched Bess and Michael and moved on to others. “I welcome you on behalf of Lisa and Mark, and thank you for coming. How wonderful that by your presence you do honor not only to this young couple who are about to embark on a lifetime of love and faithfulness to one another, but you express your own faith in the very institution of marriage and family, and the time-enriched tradition of one man, one woman, promising their fidelity and love to one another till death do them part.

“Till death do them part . . . that's a long, long time.” The soliloquy went on, while Michael and Bess sat inches apart and took in every word. The priest told a lovely story about a very rich man who, upon the occasion of his wedding, so wanted to show his love for his bride that he imported a hundred thousand silk worms and upon the eve of his wedding had them released in a mulberry grove. In the pre-dawn hours the grove was laced with the efforts of their night's spinning, and before the dew had dried on the silken threads the groom ordered that gold dust be sprinkled over the entire grove. There, in this gilded bower by which the rich man attempted to manifest his love, he and his bride spoke their vows just as the sun smiled over the horizon, lighting the entire scene to a splendiferous, glittering display.

To the nuptial couple the priest said, “A fitting gift, most certainly, this gift the rich man gave his new bride. But the richest gold a husband can bring to his wife, and a wife to her husband, is not that which can be sprinkled on silk threads, or bought in a jewelry store, or placed on a hand. It is the love and faithfulness they bring to one another in the ongoing years as they grow old together.”

From the corner of her eye Bess saw Michael turn his head to look at her. The seconds stretched on until she finally looked up at him. His expression was solemn, his gaze steady. She felt it as one feels a change of season on a particular morning when a door is flung open to reveal that winter is gone. She dropped her gaze to her lap. Still he continued watching her. Her concentration was besieged, and the words of the priest became lost on her.

She tried letting her gaze wander but always it returned to Michael, to the fringes of his clothing, which was all she'd allow herself to watch . . . to his knees . . . to the side seam of his tuxedo, which touched the edge of her skirt . . . to his cuffs, his elegant hands resting in his lap, the hands that had touched her so many times, that had held their newborn babies, and provided a living for them, and had rung the doorbell earlier today and had hugged Lisa and touched Randy so tentatively several times that she'd seen. Oh, how she still loved Michael's hands.

She emerged from her preoccupation to find everyone getting to their feet, and she followed suit, bumping elbows with Michael as he rose and jiggled his right knee to drop his pantleg into place. It was one of those little things that got her: Michael jiggling his pantleg down the way she remembered from a past when such a simple action meant nothing. Now it took on undue significance simply because it was happening beside her again.

They sat once more and Bess felt Michael's upper arm flush against hers. Neither of them drew away.

Father Moore spoke again, letting his eyes communicate with the congregation. “During the exchange of vows, the bride and groom invite all of you who are married to join hands and reaffirm your own wedding vows along with them.” Lisa and Mark faced each other and joined hands.

Mark spoke clearly, for all to hear.

“I, Mark, take thee, Lisa . . .”

Tears rolled down Bess's cheeks and darkened two spots on her suit jacket. Michael found a handkerchief and put it in her hand, then, in the valley between them, where no one else could see, he found her free hand, squeezed it hard, and she squeezed back.

“I, Lisa, take thee, Mark . . .”

Lisa, their firstborn, in whom so many hopes had been realized, during whose reign as the center of their world they had been so unutterably happy. Lisa had them holding hands again.

“By the power invested in me by God the father, the son and the holy spirit, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

While Lisa raised her happy face for Mark's kiss, Michael's hand squeezed Bess's so hard she feared the bones might snap.

In consolation?

Regret?

Affection?

It mattered not, for she was squeezing his right back, needing that link with him, needing the firm pressure of their entwined fingers and their locked palms. She studied the back of Randy's head and said a silent prayer that his antipathy with Michael would end. She watched Lisa's train slide up three steps as she and Mark approached the altar to light the unity candle. A clear soprano voice sang “He has chosen you for me . . .” and still Michael's hand gripped hers, his thumb now drawing the pattern of an angel's wing across the base of her own.

The song ended and the organ played quietly as Lisa and Mark came toward their mothers, each carrying a long red rose. Mark approached Bess and Michael released her hand.

Over the pew, Mark kissed her cheek and said, “Thank you for being here together. You've really made Lisa happy.” Shaking Michael's hand, he said, “I'll keep her happy, I promise.”

Lisa came next, kissing each of them on the cheek. “I love you, Mom. I love you, Dad. Watch Mark and me and we'll show you how it's done.”

When she was gone Bess had to use Michael's hanky once more. A moment later, as they were kneeling, he nudged her elbow and reached out a hand, palm-up. She placed the hanky in it and concentrated on the proceedings while he wiped his eyes and blew his nose, then tucked the handkerchief away in his rear pocket.

They celebrated the remainder of the Mass together, received Communion as they had in the past and tried to figure out what it had meant when they'd held hands during the vows while for the rest of the service they maintained a careful distance, touching no longer. When the organ burst forth with the recessional they were smiling, following their children from the church, Michael's hand holding Bess's elbow.

Lisa had insisted there be no receiving line at the church: it put a crimp in the festivities and made some people uncomfortable. So when the bridal party burst from the double doors of St. Mary's, their guests burst right behind them. The hugs and felicitations that happened on the church steps were spontaneous, accompanied by a quick shower of wheat and a retreat to the waiting limousines.

The bride and groom piled into the first car, the photographer snapped some pictures and Michael called, “Randy and Maryann, you can ride with us!”

Regretfully, Maryann replied, “I'd like to but I brought my own car.”

Randy said, “I guess I'll ride with Maryann, then. See you there.”

Bess touched Michael's arm. “I have to get Lisa's things from the changing room. I told her I'd bring them to the reception.”

“I'll come with you.”

They reentered the church and went to the brightly lit room where it was quiet and they were alone. Bess began collecting Lisa's street shoes, makeup, overnight bag. She was putting the smaller bag into the larger one when a great wave of melancholy struck. She released the handles of the duffel bag, covered her eyes and dropped her chin. Standing with her back to Michael she fished in the duffel bag for Kleenex while she felt a first sob building.

“Hey . . . hey . . . what's this?” Michael turned her around and took her gently in his arms.

“I don't know,” she sniffled, with her hand between them, covering her nose with the tissue. “I just feel like crying.”

“Ah, well, I guess it's allowed. You're her mother.”

“But I feel like such a jerk.”

“Doesn't matter. You're still her mother.”

“Oh, Michael, she's all married.”

“I know. She was our baby and now she doesn't belong to us anymore.”

Bess gave in to the awful need to let the tears go. She put both arms around his shoulders and bawled. He held her loosely and rubbed her back. In his arms she felt less like a jerk. When her tears had stopped she remained against him. “Remember when she was little, how she used to put on shows for us?”

“And we thought for sure she was going to be the next Barbra Streisand.”

“And how she always had to sit up on the cupboard when I was baking cookies and try to help me stir. Her head would always be in my way.”

“And the time she tied her doll blanket around the light bulb in her playhouse and nearly burned the house down?”

“And the time she fractured her arm when she was ice skating and the doctor had to break it completely before he could put it in a cast? Oh, Michael, I'd sooner have had him break my own arm than hers.”

“I know. Me, too.”

They grew quiet, reminiscing. In time they became aware that they stood quite comfortably in a full-length embrace.

Bess drew back and said, “I've probably ruined your tuxedo.” She brushed at his shoulder while his hands rested at her waist.

“We did all right by her, Bess.” Michael's voice was quiet and sincere. “She's turned into a real winner.”

Bess looked into his eyes. “I know. And I know she'll be happy with Mark, too, so I promise I'm done with these tears.”

They remained awhile longer, enjoying the closeness, until she forced herself to step back. “I promised Lisa we'd make sure this room was cleaned up. Would you mind closing up the flower boxes while I fix my face?”

He dropped his hands from her and said, “Don't mind a bit.”

When she got a load of herself in the mirror, Bess said, “Mercy, what a mess.”

Michael looked back over his shoulder while packing up the floral tailings. Bess opened her purse and began repairing her makeup. Michael put the box on a chair by the door, zipped up Lisa's duffel bag and added it to the collection, then ambled back to Bess and stood behind her, watching in the mirror as she did mysterious things to her eyes.