Geraldine was horrified at Emilia Mae’s choice of a dress. “Who wears blue to their own wedding?”
“I do,” argued Emilia Mae. “It’s stupid to go out and buy something white so I can make a spectacle of myself in front of ten people. This fits me right, and I’ll dye high heels to match.”
The virtues of this robin’s-egg-blue sheath were the three long curved darts in front and the vertical back darts, which made her look slim in places she wasn’t. The dress came with a polka-dotted scarf long enough to drape over her head and serve as a veil. That, combined with Alice’s tiara, and there it was, a complete wedding outfit.
On the day of the wedding, the May light shone through the high, slender windows of the Baptist church. Alice wore her sleeveless ladybug dress with her black patent leather pumps, which made a clopping sound as she walked down the aisle with her mother. They walked slowly enough for Emilia Mae to worry that people would see her shaky knees, but no one seemed to notice as the sublime notes of a Bach flute solo oozed from the phonograph.
Emilia Mae caught sight of Cora holding Xena’s arm. Xena looked even tinier than usual. She wore a black dress with white palm fronds on it and a black velvet open pillbox with a veil and bow. She had to be in her nineties by now. Emilia Mae thought, This is what Xena will wear when they lay her out. Dillard was at the altar. He wore her father’s navy suit with its too-wide lapels and too-short sleeves. He greeted her with a shaky smile. His eyes seemed bigger and bluer, his chin so perfectly square, and that full mouth—God, he was handsome.
Reverend Klepper stood next to him. Fourteen years ago, she and he had stood in this same church week after week, with him trying to convince her that she was having a baby and not some satanic creature. What a pain she must have been. And here was Alice, so unwanted and, if she had had her way, nearly unborn, now the delight of everyone’s life. How she had produced a creature full of such joy was still a mystery to Emilia Mae, a beautiful mystery. She squeezed Alice’s arm before letting it go and taking Dillard’s hand. It was cold. When Emilia Mae looked down, she could see the bluish tips of his fingers. She rubbed them until they were warmer.
Reverend Klepper began. “As we share in this wedding ceremony, it is well that we remember that in the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, he concluded, ‘It is not good for man to be alone.’ So, He created woman to share in man’s life—to assist in man’s striving—to satisfy man’s need. He also created the woman to be loved, honored, and appreciated by man.”
Emilia Mae had never thought of it that way.
Dillard took his vows in a slow whisper. When Reverend Klepper asked if anyone…or forever hold your peace, Emilia Mae glanced at her mother, uncertain what she would do, but Geraldine’s eyes were downcast as if she were reading a magazine or pulling a loose thread from her dress.
Reverend Klepper pronounced them man and wife, and then smiled at Dillard when he said, “You may kiss the bride.” Emilia Mae put her hand behind Dillard’s neck and kissed him on the mouth. He held her around the waist and kissed her back. It wasn’t as showy a kiss as Emilia Mae had hoped, but who cared? She was Mrs. Dillard Fox! She bounced down the aisle to a recording of “Fly Me to the Moon,” certain how everyone in that church envied her so.
After the ceremony, cake cutting, and first dance, Emilia Mae went up to Geraldine, who was standing alone in the reception hall. “I hope you can find it in your heart to be happy for us.”
Geraldine had watched Dillard and Emilia Mae during the ceremony. Dillard’s eyes had spilled onto Emilia Mae with such care and affection that she had to believe it was love. For her part, Emilia Mae stood tall and happy. She had cut her hair pixie style for the wedding, and for the first time, Geraldine noticed Emilia Mae’s ears. So tiny, like butter cookies straight from the oven. Earle’s voice came back to her in a jolt, the sweetness of it when he prodded her to try and love their colicky little girl. “I’ll do my best,” she’d promised. Now that colicky little girl was asking her mother to love her again, to love her new husband. Geraldine smiled and heard Earle in her voice when she answered, “I’m happy for you, Emilia Mae, I really am.”
Dillard turned out to be the perfect husband. He loved Emilia Mae. She loved him. She couldn’t keep her hands off him, couldn’t take her eyes off him. It made her laugh to remember how she used to gawk at those couples who stared at each other cow-eyed. Now she was one of them. The sound of his voice, his Southern accent, those eyes, that square chin. Everything about him stirred her. If it were up to her, they’d make love every time he kissed the back of her neck or said her name in a certain way. The miracle of it was, he seemed to love her back. Whenever they could in public, they touched each other—a squeeze of the hand, a rub of the back. Alone, they made love almost every night. She felt like Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. They were Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this. Her father’s love was kindly but dependent on her mother’s mood. Her mother’s love could be given or taken on whim; Emilia Mae spent more time yearning for it than actually receiving it. Alice’s love, a child’s love, was sweet. But Dillard’s love? It was pure, and erotic, and required nothing more from her than simply being herself. When she thought about all the men she’d slept with at the Neptune Inn, she remembered the sex as numbing, something she’d bartered in exchange for them making her feel liked. Her mother teased her and Dillard and said they were like teenagers. But teenaged Emilia Mae never experienced the kind of happiness that thirty-two-year-old Emilia Mae was feeling now.
Dillard started giving flute lessons, and both of them made a steady wage at the bakery. They scraped up enough money to buy a stucco house not unlike Geraldine’s. The house had two bedrooms, a small porch, one and a half bathrooms, and a basement that smelled like wet towels. Dillard painted over the stained yellow in the bathroom with poppy red. He refinished an old mahogany coffee table for the living room and varnished it a rich antique oak. He cut out pictures of all of Alice’s favorite television stars—Dick Van Dyke, Lucille Ball, Marlo Thomas, Fred and Wilma Flintstone—made fake silver and gold frames for them, and then hung them in her bedroom like museum portraits. He painted Alice’s room bright pink, the living room lavender, and his and Emilia Mae’s room sky blue.
Nobody used the basement except as a place to toss old suitcases and clothes they didn’t want until Dillard turned it into a music room. He painted the gray walls white and built a bookshelf out of bricks and planks of wood where he set out his father’s musical instruments. Next to the bookshelves was one straight-backed chair, where he sat when he played the flute, and a wooden stool for Alice to sit on when she sang. Across from Dillard’s chair, a full-length mirror allowed him to check his posture and make sure his arms were lifted and his feet flat on the floor. He built a special shelf in the closet to hold his cigar box full of photographs and old letters.
At a yard sale, he bought three overstuffed pillows and a bedspread for his and Emilia Mae’s bed. A few weeks later, he added two stuffed Daffy Ducks to the mix. Each morning, he’d make the bed and settle the ducks on one of the pillows with their wings around each other. “That’s us,” he would say. “Two odd ducks.”
And each time, she’d answer, “Yup, two odd ducks with a home of their own.”
Dillard was the one who kept the house clean. Without complaining, he’d put away the boots that Alice had kicked off on the living room floor; he’d wipe away spilled cereal crumbs from the kitchen and was handy with leaky faucets and overflowing toilets. He told Emilia Mae that vacuuming relaxed him.
Emilia Mae never did like the dark. The dark was where her truths and past seeped out. Dillard offered his chest at night, a bony rack of comfort and musk. He held her head and stroked her hair. She would take his hand and move it to her breast. Sometimes he kept it there; sometimes he’d let it wander down to her hip.
Emilia Mae loved the piney smell of him and the way his hands always felt cool against her skin. In bed, he was thoughtful and careful, knowing when and where to stroke and touch her. He loved her in every way he could, and in loving him back, she lost her way as she had all those years ago with the gap-toothed man from Albany.
Of course, Dillard had some eccentricities, but who didn’t? Emilia Mae found it odd the way he ate, quickly and furtively, as if someone might snatch his food away. At times he seemed to disappear. His eyes would go stony and he’d look past her as if she wasn’t there. Where did he go? Then there were times when he actually did disappear. He said long walks refreshed his mind, though he didn’t say where he went walking. But that was all right; that’s just who he was.
God created woman to assist in man’s striving and satisfy his needs. That’s what Reverend Klepper said at their wedding. Wasn’t she doing just that by leaving him to his quirks rather than harping on them? She knew what they had. Dillard loved her. She loved Dillard. That’s all that mattered.
Emilia Mae wore her first year of marriage like a fur coat. The rich ladies from Wykagyl used to intimidate her with their flashy jewelry and soft manicured fingers. Not anymore. She was rich, too, now, rich in love. Dillard took interest in what she wore, how she felt. Often, he’d bring her and Alice little presents: barrettes, dime-store jewelry, a favorite record. She’d trim his hair, his thick golden hair, and leave him sweet notes under his pillow.
Marriage made Emilia Mae feel grown-up; it also gave her conversation.
“Dillard and I went biking on the South County Trailway this weekend. The foliage was beautiful.”
“Dillard made linguine with clams last night. The best I’ve ever had.”
Weeks before their first anniversary, he started telling her that he had a surprise for her. When May 22 finally arrived, he picked an outfit from Emilia Mae’s closet: a short navy skirt, a blue and white striped sweater, and blue pumps. He was dressed in all white with a navy vest and his tweed flat cap.
Before they left the house, Emilia Mae tugged at his vest. “Where are we going?”
“What kind of a surprise would it be if I told you?”
They took the New York Central train to 153rd Street, where throngs of people were heading uptown. A light that could be coming from a flying saucer shone through the darkness. Yankee Stadium. They hiked up a few ramps, then took a dark narrow passageway to the gates. Odors from the restrooms mixed with the smell of hot dogs. Dillard held her hand and pushed forward. They walked through a gate, and the world exploded in color. The grounds were a Technicolor green; the banners hanging from box seats a startling red, white, and blue. The scoreboard was lit up so brightly Emilia Mae had to squint to read it. Even the air smelled richer: fresh grass and late spring. A night game at Yankee Stadium.
“I can’t believe you did this,” she said.
Dillard kissed her neck. “Happy anniversary. I’m so glad you’re happy.”
He was too good to be true.