Without our usual breezy jostling and teasing, Sylvia and I prepared dinner together in silence, just as we’d done the night before and the night before that. She stirred a cream sauce for the chicken breasts with tight turns of her wrist and stared down at the tiny white whirlpool she’d created, brooding, I imagined, over Richard’s sad decline. I chopped away at a thick, sweet onion as if I could somehow rearrange the pieces of his story, this man who’d turned out to be far more complicated than the character I’d decided him to be. Sylvia had kept me a secret, as I had asked, and after Richard agreed to the divorce he’d insisted on giving Sylvia his own car, and he had hers towed off to a junkyard—a mystery to Sylvia, though I knew he was trying to reverse the influence of that scallop shell, perhaps even win her back. He took the bus to work, then he walked to work, and when it was clear that Sylvia wouldn’t return, he walked but didn’t always make it to work. Eventually he quit his job at the map company, and he split the sale of their house long before the divorce was finalized, and left town.
I reached for a tomato, slit it in half, and thought of the postcard that had arrived last week: an image of an oversized slice of cake, layered with dark gummy icing, and on the other side a faraway postmark but no return address. One little word—sorry—repeated as many times as a cramped handwriting could squeeze into such a small space. “Too late,” Sylvia had murmured, crying as she read it, “too late,” while I’d held her in my arms.
“Michael?”
I turned to see Sylvia with her hand hovering above the wok cover. She lifted it off the counter with a flourish, and there was the Felix the Cat night-light that I’d kept hidden on a corner of a closet shelf.
“I’m sorry to be so dramatic,” she said, “but when I found this thing I was sure it had a story. You’re collecting again, aren’t you?” Sylvia held the night-light in her hand. “Well, I like the stories too, so why keep them from me? Please, Michael, don’t turn me into Kate.”
My own false face was growing as hard as these objects that I indeed now secretly collected. There were others she hadn’t discovered—a set of Swiss Alps coasters, a hand-painted doorknob, and a Davy Crockett toothbrush—but none of them had stories. They were merely things I’d picked up, small, empty stages for a playacting I tried to contain. Whenever I was alone I whispered to their quiet surfaces, confessing the gift of a black shell and its consequences, and at the end of each telling I imagined confessing to Sylvia as well. Sometimes she forgave me.
“I don’t know what you mean,” was all I could offer.
“Then let me ask you this,” she said, her eyes uncertain. “It’s been weeks since my papers were signed—when are you going to pop the question?”
“I don’t know,” I said, miserable, and I reached for another tomato.
“Why not? It wasn’t that long ago you said it was what you always wanted.”
I nodded, concentrating on cutting through the soft red pulp, sliding the knife down until a sharp ache stopped me. I puffed out a shock of breath and reached for a paper towel.
Sylvia grabbed my finger, examined the neat flap of skin and welling blood. “Oh no, you need some first aid here.” Pulling up her t-shirt, she held my hand to her belly and smeared my blood against her warm skin. “You want to be chased? Is that it? I’ll chase you.” Sylvia led my finger under her pants until it fit snugly inside her. The cut tingled with pain and I tried to move away, but she pressed against me.
I slipped my finger part ways out, and then in again, my palm pressing against the thick coils of her hair. My other hand groped for hers, held it, squeezed, just as I’d squeezed the tiny hand of that doll’s arm I’d given away so long ago. But our hands were warm and alive—so much better able to see us through the world together. It is possible, I thought, and though our mouths sucked at each other I managed to say, “Marry me?”
“Marry you?” She laughed. “I’ve had a minister on hold for a long time now.” She unbuttoned my shirt. “He’s a member of some Protestant denomination you’ve never heard of. I know you won’t believe this, but in his spare time he’s an auction caller.”
*
We drove through long stretches of gently sloping landscape, the rise and fall lulling my fears, letting me hope that a single ceremony might fade my deforming secret to a faint white scar. We arrived at the outskirts of a small town and stopped before an ordinary, one-story, whitewashed building. Besides the sign, NEW LIFE CHAPEL, only a cross on the lawn and a tiny stained-glass window on the front door lent the place the look of a church.
The door ajar, we knocked once, twice, then entered. With a single portrait of Jesus on the wall, a cross here and there, a small electric organ in the corner and folding chairs lined up into makeshift pews, the very self-denial of this interior promised a wedding as simple as our first ones had been ornate.
“Hello?” Sylvia called out.
A side door opened and a beefy man peered out of a dimly lit room, his eyes blinking. “Mr. Kirby, Miss Mathews?”
“Yes, that’s us,” Sylvia replied.
“I’m Reverend Coslow,” he said, grinning as he stepped out to greet us, and at once I remembered the beatific lilt of his chant at a charity auction I’d once attended.
I shook his thick hand. “I saw your work a year or so ago. You had great style—”
“Yes, your fiancée explained to me how you first met at an auction.”
I turned to Sylvia, and her smile disguised any hint of this little lie she’d told. It was, after all, true enough.
“Actually,” the minister continued, “I’m happy to be able to bring together my godly and my worldly …” His voice trailed off when a woman stepped from that same side room, her crown of dyed black hair accentuating hardened eyes in a soft face.
“This is Mrs. Renée Thomas. Our organist,” Reverend Coslow announced. “She’ll be your witness. She’s our marriage counselor too, and after the ceremony she’ll give you some good conjugal advice—included in the wedding fee, of course. I don’t know what we’d do without her.”
Renée smiled modestly at the minister’s praise, but when he turned to us and explained the details of the paperwork, I caught her glance at him, a mixture of longing and resentment that she swiftly extinguished.
We paid the fee. Then Renée sat at the organ and poked out suitably solemn music while Sylvia and I walked down the aisle together. We’d just arrived at the altar when the minister leaned into the microphone: “Whatdowehavehere, dearlybeloved, whatdowehavehere? ABRIDEabride, amostbeautiful beautifulbrideandaGROOM, agroomheretoo, notabadgroom, betterthanmostbetterthanmost, betterthanmostI’veseen, anexcellent groom.”
I gaped at Sylvia, who smiled at this surprise she’d planned. Here was a ceremony that just might erase the memories of those disastrous weddings we’d each endured. But the music had stopped with an electronic squeal, and Renée’s hand reached for the cross at her neck. The minister, however, was already off again: “Asyoucansee, asyoucansee, asyoucansee, theymakeanexcellent COUPLE, anexcellentan excellentcouple, atruly stunningatrulystunningpair, andtheyare HERE, theyareheretheyareherehere, dearlybeloved, theyareheretotakepart, totakeparttogether, totakeparttogether intheHOLYriteoftheHOLYrite oftheHOLYriteof matrimonymatrimony MATRIMONY, theHOLYriteofmatrimony.”
Renée hacked out a mild coughing protest, but this wasn’t enough to stop the proceedings—in rapid tones, Reverend Coslow announced that Sylvia and I, both previously married, were used goods, bidding for each other. “ButintheEYESoftheLord theLordthe HOLY LORD OUR FATHER, youareNEW, mychildren, youare newtoeachotherandnewtotheworld. AnyoneELSEwantstomakeabid makeabidabidaBID, forthisbride orthisgroom, brideorgroom, afineafinematchedset, averyfinematchedset, makeitnowmakeitnow makeitnow … orforeverholdyourpeace.”
In the silence I imagined those empty rows behind us filled with our particular ghosts: Sylvia’s parents and mine, Laurie, Dan, Kate and Richard, and all the other characters of our lives. How would they calculate our worth? And would Richard, recognizing me, rise from his chair and raise his voice in protest?
Sylvia nudged me with her shoulder when the minister continued. “NowwehaveaRING, aringaring, awedding band, agoldGOLD fourteencarat GOLDweddingband, agoldwedding band. HasaninterestingSTORY, asignificantSTORY, thebridewantsto tellyouitsstory.”
Sylvia held out the thick gold band. “Michael, this ring belonged to my father. Its story goes back to the summer when I was nine. My parents were buggy from the heat and having one of their melodramas on the porch, and in one of Dad’s usual B-movie gestures he pulled the ring off and threw it at Mom.
“It flew past her into the empty lot next door, and we ran down the steps after it, Mom already crying and Dad apologizing like mad. That lot seemed huge to me in those days, an entire country of grass and dirt and weeds, and we looked until it was dark. At least Dad and I did—Mom cried in the bedroom as loud as she could to inspire us.
“Somehow I thought that my parents wouldn’t be married any more without that ring, and I told myself I’d rather starve before giving up. Dad left to get flashlights, and when he turned on the porch light on his way inside I saw a glint of something a few feet ahead of me.
“It was the ring, halfway down the dried stem of a stalky weed—God knows what the odds were for it to land like that—and it looked like some demon had stuck the ring on its finger, trying to steal my parents’ marriage. I pulled the ring from the weed, but I didn’t say anything right away. All alone in that lot, I thought how powerful I was. I held my family’s happiness in my hand.”
Slipping the ring on my finger, Sylvia added, “But who’s alone now?”
I didn’t deserve the story held within the ring’s smooth circle, but instead of confessing to Sylvia, I took out a simple gold band I’d chosen for her and said lamely, “No story yet, love. We’ll make our own, okay?”
The ring fit her finger, we said our I do’s to rapid-fire vows and then the minister paused to say, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Behind us Renée punched out a march on the organ and we kissed, long and sweet, to the words “SOLDsoldsoldtoeachother, soldtoeachother in the EYES of the LORD, soldforakissakissakiss, onekiss, SOLDforakiss.”
The organ sputtered to a stop, but we held our embrace until the minister said, “Congratulations. This certainly has been a one-of-a-kind service.” Then, with a glance at Renée, he added, “Never to be repeated.”
He motioned us to the side office. We followed, signing the necessary documents, and when Renée entered the room Reverend Coslow said, “I’ll leave you now in our counselor’s able care.”
He walked off and Sylvia whispered, “Aw, can’t we skip this?”
“Shhh, how can it hurt?” I returned. “If he can break the rules for us, we can follow his.”
Waiting behind her desk, Renée held a printed list in her hands, and we sat down, prepared for a well-meaning lecture. Barely nodding, she began reading in an odd, affectless voice. “‘Number One. Now you are one person, not two, and your time is each other’s.’
“‘Number Two. Always tell the truth as gently as you can, and always accept with grace the truth you’re told.’
“‘Number Three. Having children is a blessing, and keep your heart open for each new arrival.’
“‘Number Four. Never go to sleep angry.’”
“I’ll say,” Sylvia murmured, and she leaned in to nuzzle my neck.
Renée put down her list. “Excuse me. I’m not finished.”
“Sorry,” Sylvia replied, straightening.
“I know you’re happy and want to go off. Well, you should be happy. Lots of folks never marry the one they’d like, or they marry the one they shouldn’t. You both know that. And the hard part’s not over, it’s just the beginning. I’ve seen many happy couples pass through here, and I’ve given them all advice. I wish most of them listened better. There’s hardly a soul in this town who doesn’t wish for a better marriage.”
She paused, her mouth a thin line. “I was very interested in that story you told your new husband. There’s stories I might tell you both.”
“Please, tell us one,” Sylvia said, trying to placate her.
“All right. I will. Instead of reading this tiresome list.” She swept the sheet away and it twisted to the floor.
“A boy and a girl here, they worked at the luncheonette in town—he tended the grill, she waited tables. After hours they got to talking about the highs and lows of the day and they fell in love. They were nice kids, but they weren’t ready for what makes living together so hard.”
In a steady voice, Renée seemed to talk past the open door behind us, where Reverend Coslow lingered by the altar. “They argued over nothing, little types of arguments that quick get bigger, and soon enough they closed their hearts without even knowing what they were doing. I’ve seen it happen so often. One night they were cooking and it wasn’t enough to disagree, snip snip snip, they had to get mean. He hollered something terrible to her, she ran to another room and he followed.”
Renée paused, now staring straight at us. “They shouted for a while longer and forgot about that frying pan on the stove. When they remembered, the fire was already spreading.”
“Michael, let’s get out of here,” Sylvia murmured, standing. “We don’t have to listen to this.”
Renée wouldn’t let us get away so easily. We’d desecrated the chapel, and she was going to get her revenge. “Ever try to put out a grease fire?” she asked, her voice rising sharply.
Sylvia tugged me from my chair. We hurried down those aisles of chairs still filled with our invisible guests and Renée followed, shouting, “They got burned so badly nobody around here can bear to look. Though we try to do our best by them!”
We tore down the steps outside, across a few feet of parking lot gravel to our car, and I grappled in my pocket for the keys. Renée stopped at the top step, and Reverend Coslow’s pale face appeared at the screen door behind her as she spit out, “Their own anger was the kindling—and that’s one of my stories!”