November, 1860
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this company to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony—an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocence, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church . . .”
Spoke the Reverend before us. Between us. In robes.
Behind us: mother, Negro Bill.
So here is my witness, thought I, the whoremonger. On this day of all days that I am to be wed.
“. . . and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God. Into this holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined . . .”
But there were others in the room. In the giantess shadows my mother and I cast down in the nave of the Neponset Church.
Now sitting upright in the pews. Or leaning on them, loiter-like. Or lying on them facing up as though they were counting the beams in the ceiling. Wandering down and across the slim aisles to always just miss crossing paths with each other. And when they did cross paths, just brushing. Heatless and purposeless. Coat-sleeves and bustles.
“. . . if any man can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else for ever hold his peace . . .”
Dead ones did. They said their part. Had been saying their part all throughout the proceedings. Their pointless, unanswered, ongoing laments. All the worse for the fact that they targeted nothing. Declared nothing more than the fact of themselves. How death, at last, could be no mystery. Death was just our waking lives. Death was a stranger, senile and aggrieved, babbling in an empty room.
“—hold my peace, much longer now, when her highness, Madame Antoinette, is so late? Am I to, as they say, eat cake? Or am I to eat what the froggy bitch sells me?”
“—Won’t someone tell the hulking fool that I will not be turned away? That Poughkeepsie attack-dog or no, I’ll persist—that I will find him out at last!—that I will stand here, in the dark, as deep as I am in my cups until—”
“—woe? Such a pure weight of woe upon me and my cunt? And when I have gone to the chemist’s to tell him, has he not been a righteous judge?”
“. . . Wilt thou love her, comfort her honour and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him—love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health—and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as you both shall live?”
“I will,” said I.
Or did I say.
But I had said it. Loud and clear.
“Who giveth this woman,” said Reverend Not-Hascall, “to be betrothed unto this man?”
My mother, departing the side of Bill Christian. And she gave me her arm. And I felt that it knew me. Partake of this arm, which has trafficked in wonders. And when she had stood there a moment, unsmiling, her hand gave a squeeze and withdrew back to Bill.
Not-Hascall’s hand upon my hand. While Willy’s hand contained the rings. Bought on the cheap yesterday and left out without the time to box them up.
“With this ring, I wed thee,” Not-Hascall continued, “and with all worldly goods endow. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
And Willy was tasked with repeating his words. The rings were upon us. The rings were our rings. And the Reverend Not-Hascall continued to mutter the familiar, dark prayer of the One and True Lord:
“Our Father who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done—”
First time ever Willy Mumler kissed me, light, upon my lips.
Not-Hascall shut his book of prayer: “And so I say to you—Amen.”