We Could Be Beautiful (15 page)

We sang from a book. The words were separated into syllables for us. Marge had an operatic voice. William’s was a monotone. I didn’t sing, but I politely looked on since Marge was eagerly holding the book out for me.

Catholics had a lot of information memorized. There was some chant that included the line “We have sinned, we have sinned,” which was accompanied by softly beating one’s chest? And then raising one’s arms in a Pilates-like repetition?

“Christ has risen,” the priest said.

“He has truly risen,” everyone said.

“Christ has risen.”

“He has truly risen.”

William said these words like he’d been born saying them. At church he went into a trance. He sat straight up like a soldier, total attention on the stage. I kept waiting for him to break character—to look over at me and smile, to roll his eyes at this talk of Christ truly being risen—but he did not.

Pat Robertson announced that the baskets would go around. He asked that we be generous. In return we would receive the gifts of bread and wine. The collectors wore plain clothes. The baskets were attached to long sticks. William put a twenty in, which I assumed was for both of us. Marge put in a folded check. As the haunted-house music played, the collectors ceremoniously dumped their baskets into a larger wooden basket at the front of the stage, which was supposed to be reminiscent of something handmade on the Nile, maybe, and which looked like a hamper from Pier 1 Imports.

Then it was time to say “Peace be with you” to our neighbors, which was my favorite part for two reasons. One, it allowed me to see that these robotic chest-beaters were actual people, and two, William actually made eye contact with me then.

“The chaaaaa-lice,” the priest sang-spoke, and people formed a line to eat the body and blood of Christ. “You stay here during this part,” Marge said, and scooted past my legs.

That chalice looked exactly like the one from
Indiana Jones
. The priest was holding it up with such intensity, his eyes squeezed shut in either rapture or fear, it was hard to know. A tiny part of me might have been jealous—these people actually believed in something beyond their boring human selves—but most of me was judgmental. The theatrics of church were just absurd.

I watched people chew their wafers as they walked back to their seats. Some looked indifferent, others looked forlorn. I assumed the forlorn ones had committed bad sins recently, and they were mentally repenting as they ate the body of Christ.

When it was over, we stood in another line to say good-bye to the priest, who was shaking hands by the door. Marge said, “You did great, honey.”

“Thanks.” I laughed.

“Do you pray at home?”

“No.”

“Well,” she said, leaning in confidentially, “you should start. It’ll make you feel better.” To William she said, “Did you grow up in the church, William?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I did,” William said.

“I can tell.”

When it was her turn, the priest said, “Marge, is that you?”

Marge whipped around, took his hand. “Oh, Father, that was a magical service. Thank you.”

“Thank
you,
” he said. “How are you doing? How’s your knee?”

“Much better.” Marge extended her leg, rotated it. We all looked at the knee, which looked…like a knee.

“Good, good,” he said.

“Peace be with you,” she said.

“And also with you.”

Marge continued out the door. William and I took her place in front of the priest. “Hello. I’m William, and this is Catherine.”

“Hello there.” The priest shook our hands. He was a gangly man with ropy neck skin and a large head that seemed dismembered from his body in that robe. His twinkling eyes and that encouraging smile—this person looked too happy to me. Which meant he was delusional. “I’m Father Ness.”

“A pleasure.”

“Come back now.”

“Absolutely,” William said.

We made our way down the crowded steps. The parishioners congregated in insular little circles. Marge put her arm around a frail man in a wheelchair. Oh good, she had a friend. “See you next week! Oh, and Catherine, there’s a ladies’ bowling league we have here. You should join us!”

The woman in Chanel went bowling? “Yeah, okay, bye,” I muttered, and continued to walk away from her.

On the street William put his hand on the small of my back, looked up at the clay-brown cathedral, and said, “I feel a strong connection to God in this space.”

“Are you saying you want to get married here?”

“I think it would be nice. I think my mother would approve.”

“Good,” I said, and craned for a kiss.

•

Dan arrived with a gorgeous black orchid. The center was purple with two yellow dots. “I didn’t bring a gift to the engagement party.”

“Oh, Dan, thank you.” I took the plant and hugged him. “These are so rare. Where did you find it?”

“Brooklyn.”

“I should go to Brooklyn.”

“It’s a nice place.”

I tried to think of something clever to say to that. Nothing came to mind quickly enough. “Come in,” I said.

“You look very nice today.”

“Yeah, we went to church.” I rolled my eyes. I waited for him to say “Why?” But of course he didn’t say that. He just nodded. I put the orchid on the table in the entryway, and we went upstairs.

“So,” he said, “how’s your week been?”

“I’m fine, but I’m stressed about the wedding.”

He nodded, taking this in. “Why don’t we sit for a few minutes today?”

I laughed. “Sit as in meditate?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“I’m not very good at meditating.”

“Have you tried?”

“Sort of.”

We sat on pillows in the massage room, facing each other, legs crossed. Dan faced the crochet and I faced the other wall, which had an intricate wood carving on it—William’s—of lovers and their picnic at the foot of a sprawling tree.

“Cover one nostril, breathe in.” I watched him do it. “Cover the other nostril, breathe out.”

I couldn’t seem to stop sighing. “This is hard.”

“It gets easier.”

I watched him, little Buddha, continuing to breathe. Maybe being half Japanese made him calmer. Maybe being calm was a cultural thing—it was ingrained in you or it wasn’t. Which meant that if it wasn’t ingrained in me, it wasn’t my fault.

After the longest ten minutes of my life, we actually Om’d together. I felt ridiculous doing that and wondered if William had heard us over the sound of Stan playing.

“How do you feel?”

“Better.” I sighed heavily, and we laughed at how I had sighed.

“Good.” He helped me up off the floor. “Breathing usually helps.”

Behind the panels, I stripped. I got under the sheet, said, “Ready.”

I watched his bare feet through the hole in the massage table, saw his toes tighten when he pressed into my back.

“You’re very tight here today.” He tapped a spot on my shoulder.

“I am?”

“You are.”

“I blame the wedding.”

He laughed.

I don’t know why I chose that moment to ask him. Maybe I wanted him to say, Yes, I am seeing someone and we have semi-nonconsensual anal sex all the time and it’s completely normal and don’t even worry about it. And maybe it was the norm for him, at least the anal part, because maybe he dated men. I still wasn’t sure.

“Are you seeing anyone, Dan?”

“You know, I was, but we broke up recently.”

“Oh, sorry. Are you sad?”

“I am heartbroken.” Dan said this so easily. It was the type of thing I would never say out loud. I was glad we weren’t looking at each other.

My response was more like a noise than a word. “Aaaawwwwoooh.”

“Thanks. It’s okay. I know I’ll feel better once more time passes.”

We didn’t talk any more after that. I started wondering about Dan’s life. After Japan, he had grown up in Santa Monica or Santa Barbara, one of the Santas. Where had he gone to college? And who had broken his heart? That’s what I really wanted to know.

At some point I actually fell asleep on the table. That had never happened before. I must have really needed the rest. A whispering “Catherine, Catherine” woke me up.

“I need to change,” I heard myself say, my voice cold and abrupt.

“Sure,” Dan said. “I’ll leave the room.”

I put on a robe and felt fuzzy walking to the door. When I opened it, Dan was standing there, hands clasped behind his back, talking to William. I didn’t know why the sight of them together seemed so wrong.

“How was it? You look relaxed.” An arm around me, a kiss on the forehead. My embarrassment at Dan watching, but Dan was watching the floor.

“I am. But planning a wedding is stressful.” I made a sad face like a child.

“We’ll figure it out,” William said.

“I know,” I whined.

He kissed me once more and walked into the blue light of the room.

•

At dinner he said, “I understand your apprehension, but I really feel we should hire a wedding planner.” The restaurant was packed. We were on the sidewalk, too close to another couple. They were younger than we were, and both had very oily faces. “You might find it will make things easier.”

“Did Gwen hire a wedding planner?”

William, for a flash, looked uncomfortable, but then he was quickly composed again. “No, she didn’t.”

“Did you and Gwen get married in a church?”

“We did, yes.” He was looking around for the waiter, then looking at his empty glass.

“Where did you meet Gwen?”

A chuckle from William, who was now holding his empty glass up so the waiter could see it. “At an art show, in fact, in Lausanne.”

“Is that where you go to pick up the ladies? L’art shows?”

“I suppose so,” he said, twirling his hair. “You know, Catherine, I don’t like to talk about the past.” He took my hand. He slid the ring halfway up my finger and then slid it back down. He adjusted the rock so it was facing straight up. He looked at me. He said, “Everything I care about is right here at this table.” He smiled. His teeth were so white. They were blinding.

13

M
arty Williams was a short, flashy Colombian with carnie hands and thoughtfully contoured eyebrows, and he knew everything. He was also straightforward as hell. He reminded me of Susan in a way. He called the church thing “severe.” “But,” he said, “it’s so passé it’s almost chic again.”

His pin-striped suit and his gelled-back hair made him look like a crook. The only thing that didn’t go was the hot pink handkerchief in his breast pocket. He was like a cartoon, squat to the ground and quick in his movements. He’d been recommended to me by a friend from Deerfield who’d had the most fabulous wedding I’d ever been to, so I knew he had to be good.

“So what’s the deal? It’s booked? What’s the date?”

“William’s secretary is sending the baptismal certificate.”

“They’re called administrative assistants now, Cat—no one says ‘secretary’ anymore. Which church? I’ll call them.”

“St. Patrick’s, the small one.”

“The
small
one?”

“In Nolita.”

“Okay. Don’t call it ‘the small one’ ever again. And don’t even say St. Patrick’s. That will confuse people. Say ‘a quaint church in Nolita.’ Got it?”

“Got it.”

He Googled the number on his phone, put the phone to his ear.

“Yes, hello, I’m calling on behalf of Catherine West. Have you received William Stockton’s baptismal certificate?” Marty cracked his knuckles, walked in circles around the living room. “Uh-huh…uh-huh…uh-huh.” Stupid Herman ran right into Marty’s leg, and Marty mimed a scream. “Good. When is your next available date?” Herman followed Marty in circles now around the couch. “October seventeenth at ten a.m.? Uh-huh. It’s a Saturday, okay. One moment—hold please.” He pressed Mute with one deft chubby finger. “Cat? That work for you?”

“Ten? Isn’t that a little early?”

“Do you have anything later in the day?” Marty said into the phone. “You don’t. And the next available date would be what? Okay, December?”

“No,” I said, “that’s too long.”

“We’ll take October.”

Ten o’clock in the morning was the most unromantic time for a wedding, but it would have to do. October seventeenth, though—that sounded good. I could go with that.

“Uh-huh…uh-huh…uh-huh. A meeting with the priest, great. September?”

“Sure,” I whispered. Why was I whispering?

“That works, praise the Lord. Thank you. Bye-bye now.” He did a curtsy for me. “You have a wedding date, my friend.”

“At ten a.m.? Is that the worst?”

“No, it’s normal for churches. Get over that right now.”

•

We made a list of all the things I wanted. I wanted lots of flowers, good music, and the best champagne. Marty said, “Your desires are vague, Cat. You sort of know what you want, but not exactly. But that’s fine. That’s where I come in.”

And he was right. When I didn’t know what I needed, Marty knew what I needed. He also took it well when I disagreed with him, and usually I didn’t even have to verbalize—he took cues from my facial expressions very well. When he asked, “Do you like geraniums?” he took one look at my face and said, “Understood.”

Marty said the reception should be near the church, at the gallery space of a friend of a friend in SoHo. It would be “très,” he promised. Everything was très with Marty Williams.

“Do you think the church thing is très?”

“No, the church thing is chic.”

“What’s the difference?”

“It’s subtle.”

After our debriefing we walked around the neighborhood to get a feel for what my style was, even though Marty said he already had me pinned from seeing the inside of my house. “You are L.A. simple meets Upper East Side traditional meets obsession with white. Are you a virgin?”

“Are you serious?”

“Had to ask.”

Marty walked surprisingly fast for a person with such short legs. “Chop-chop,” he kept saying. He stopped in front of a furniture store. In the window: two unimpressively basic chairs with vomit-green cushions. “You like these?”

“No.”

“Good, they’re ugly.”

He said whatever he wanted all the time, and walked around touching things as if anything could be bought. At Jonathan Adler, Marty went right ahead and stuck his hand into a display case to feel the heaviness of some napkin holders that looked very très. The salesperson was standing right there, trying to speak, and Marty said, “No, no, we got it, honey, thank you.” He half closed his eyes, really feeling the weight of these napkin holders, shaking them in his hands like little maracas. “Nope,” he said, “not for us.”