Greg
and Lizzie were supposed to be married today. That’s what the
invitations say, and that’s why the men have knotted silk ties
around their fat necks, and why the women have squeezed their ugly toes
into shoes that may have fit once, but don’t anymore. It’s
why they are all sitting on the hard benches, fanning themselves and
admiring the Bird of Paradise at the altar. Some of them carry
tissues, because they always cry at weddings. Others would rather be
home watching the game. They talk quietly among themselves. A child
yells, “I’m bored!” and falls to his knees beneath
the pew, pouting.
10:00
am
The
church bells ring ten times. The bride is not here yet. Her
mother paces up and down in her gauzy purple outfit. Her
neck is flushed, and her eyes are watery. Her husband pats her hand,
attempting to console her. She pulls her hand away, and turns her back
to him.
My
son is standing at the altar. He looks so handsome in his tuxedo.
He has his father’s long curly lashes and high cheekbones, may he
rest in peace. His perfect white teeth are frozen in a wide
smile, but his eyes are darting back and forth, searching for her. He
swallows a lot, and wipes his forehead with the lavender silk
handkerchief that matches the bridesmaids’ dresses. My
heart aches for him.
They met two years ago today, September 27th. She was cleaning
out cages at the zoo, and he was there to see the new lion exhibit.
Somehow, they started talking, and he asked her out for coffee. Ever
since then, it’s been, Lizzie this, Lizzie that. I tried to be
happy for them both, but my son deserves better--- a doctor, a
lawyer, maybe even a teacher. A woman who cleans up animal waste for a
living is not acceptable.
He
proposed exactly one year after the day that they met. He spoke
with someone at her zoo and got Lizzie’s favorite chimpanzee to
bring her the ring while she was preparing his mid-morning snack. My
beautiful son stepped out from behind a cement elephant, took the ring
from the chimp, dropped to his knees, and proposed. She said yes. It
was the worst day of my life.
Her
mother, on the other hand, was thrilled. And why wouldn’t she be?
Her daughter, who dropped out of college to follow The Dead, and who
appeared to have no ambition beyond cleaning animal cages, was marrying
a surgeon at one of the top hospitals in the state. I’m sure the
moment she heard the news, she pictured herself driving to the Cape on
weekends to visit her daughter, son in law, and 2.5 grandchildren at
their beach house. My beach house.
Oh,
I oohd and ahhd over the wedding gown. She got it off the rack for
$300.00 during that outrageous Running of the Brides at Filene’s
Basement: Floor-length, train, lace veil, beaded bodice. I admired the
photographs in the cruise brochure: the towering mountains, the
crystalline lakes, the honeymoon suite with champagne and hot-tub. I
wrote a check.
She
helped me pick out my dress for the wedding. I took her out for a
ladies’ luncheon, and we giggled together like sisters. I gave
her a copy of my chocolate chip cookie recipe (he’ll love you
forever) and she confided that she was scared of clowns and allergic to
walnuts. I dyed my shoes a pale forest green to match the
dress. I hosted the rehearsal dinner last night at the fanciest place
in town. I made a speech welcoming her to the family, and even cried a
few tears. I sent everyone home with a box of homemade chocolates
shaped like chimps.
The
bells chime once. She still has not arrived. People are starting to
whisper and fidget. The bridesmaids are flirting with the groomsmen and
smoking cigarettes on the lawn. Some of Lizzie’s relatives
approach me and extend their congratulations, giggling nervously about
how the bride must have gotten cold feet. They glance furtively
at the church door, willing the bagpipers to start playing. I look up
at the frescos on the ceiling, and smile. I say thank you so much for
coming.
Chaos
Descending
The
mother of the bride has tears streaming down her face, and has sent her
husband to the altar to distract the guests and thank them for coming.
He recruits the ring bearer, the bride’s spoiled brat
nephew, to lead them all in a few choruses of “She’ll be
Coming ‘Round the Mountain.” The bride is not answering her
phone.
It
is 10:40 am. Lizzie is still not here. My son is sitting down by the
altar now, holding his head in his hands. His face is blotchy, but he
is too proud, and still too hopeful, to cry. I wish that I could kiss
all his troubles away, like I could when he was little. “Boo Boo,
Mommy,” he would say. “Let me kiss it--- all gone,” I
would say, and he would run off and play. But I can’t kiss his
pain away this time. It’s too late. And just for a moment, I
regret what I did. But only for a moment.
Alexandra N. Kontes lives in Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in kill author and in The Legendary, and is forthcoming in Fractured West.
| People are always searching for the root cause of an evil act, trying to make sense of it. I am fascinated by the idea that sometimes, whether we like it or not, there is no acceptable or justifiable reason for evil. I also enjoy writing about offbeat characters, and frequently juxtapose horror and humor in my work. |
