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Lyle, Peter's oldest friend and best man, was running late again. Hardly had he brought one group of passengers to the hotel and helped them in with their baggage, than his cell phone would buzz and it was time to rush out to the airport to pick up the next. Luckily, he didn't have to drive everybody, as some guests had rented cars of their own for transport to the Boulderado where Peter's parents, Elisabeth and Giles, were personally greeting one and all. Yet whenever there was a lull at their end, Elisabeth would call Lyle to ask whose plane had landed and when they could be expected at the hotel.
It was a grand affair, the Karmon wedding, with over 200 guests attending, most of them from outside Boulder. It was doubtful if Jackie and Peter knew even half of these distant relatives, parental friends and Giles Karmon business cronies, and the guest list would have been even longer had not Jan Mayer put his foot down. This is a marriage, not a Tupperware convention, he had said. Mayer was not only Pete's cousin but an acclaimed pro in the nuptial trade with a slew of star-class events across the country in his portfolio. On account of Jackie's family's economic circumstances, Giles was footing most of the wedding bill but it was Jan Mayer who ran the show, an arrangement which suited Pete's Dad just fine as he had little interest in what he alternatively, but equally disdainfully, referred to as trifles or truffles. He just wanted to give his only son a damn good wedding with the best of everything: great American food (no frenchy dishes), the finest entertainment (no pony-tailed musicians) and an abundant quantity of decent liquor and California champagne. Damn the truffles, Giles Karmon would say to Mayer, just make it the best wedding you have ever done, ignoring that trifles and truffles were a wedding coordinator's raison d´être. An example of which – Mayer's insistence on individual welcomes for all the guests, including lace-entwined roses for the ladies and carnations for the men – had Lyle spending much of the last two days on Highway 470 connecting Boulder to Denver International.
And now everyone was edgy, with the rehearsal starting in a few hours and snowstorms delaying the flights of guests, among them Peter's half-sister and Matron-of-honor, Gabriella, flying in from California with her husband, Garett. There were also worries that another late arrival, Giles’s third wife, Carmen, might turn up inebriated, a condition they would rather Jackie's family of non-indulging born-agains not witness. But as Carmen came late to everything, it was Gabriella's whereabouts that had Elisabeth calling Lyle every twenty minutes and he was in the middle of one such call, standing in front of the airport information desk, when he felt a tap from behind on his shoulder.
—Gabriella! Lyle turned in surprise. I've been paging you. He handed her a bouquet of wilting roses and shook hands with her husband.
—Thank you Lyle, answered Gabriella, acknowledging the flowers. We heard it, but my Garett here got distracted counting roof beams or something.
As Gabriella rummaged in her purse after their baggage checks, Lyle remembered he was on the phone:
—Elisabeth, are you still there? Guess who's here? Lyle handed Garett the phone.
Both Elisabeth and Giles were shouting on the other end, asking about their delay and if Gabby was in one piece.
—I'm here, Elisabeth, called out Gabby over her husband's shoulder. See you in a jiff, darlings.
A skycap was recruited to gather bags and Lyle went for the van. The slush on the pavement seeped into his sneakers as he forded the parking lot crossing. Snowflakes spiked with the stifling fragrance of jet exhaust crept in through the openings of his inadequate jacket. The garage boom attendant asked for eight dollars. Thanks a million, said Lyle, adding up all the gas and parking money he would literally never see again.
—You don't seem dressed for the weather, Gabriella, said Lyle, as he helped them into the van with their bags. She smiled at the syllabicate tilt he gave her name. He was a slim 23 year-old with hay-colored hair and a waxy complexion that matched the pale gray Colorado skies. Gabriella had known him since he was a child playing Pacman with Pete in front of the living room fire in Aspen.
—I assumed the wedding would be indoors, she answered, laughing.
She looked up ahead of them at the low shuffling clouds reupholstering the Rocky Mountains with a fresh cover of snow, and after checking for messages on her cell phone, glanced across at the boy who was folding their van casually through Denver traffic.
—Tell me, Lyle, she asked, do you still work for WPP?
—O no, he answered. I'm done with big companies. I needed some quality time for myself.
—Great, said Gabriella. I suppose we'll be flying in for your wedding in the not too distant future then?
Lyle looked across at her and said caustically:
—The kind of dates I go out with are not the marrying kind.
Gabby laughed as she squirmed out of her jacket, but she wondered if it was not possibly a touchy subject. Maybe he was gay.
She was tall and tanned. Formidably beautiful. Even more so than one could imagine from her picture that graced no insignificant number of the magazines Lyle had browsed through while waiting for her at the airport. Jan Mayer's perseverance in convincing Jackie to have her as her matron of honor was understandable – as was the crushing disappointment this arrangement must have been for Jackie's closer and more deserving girlfriends expecting that honor for themselves.
She took off her plum tinted sun glasses, laughed to herself that Garett had so quickly fallen asleep in the back seat and pulled a card from her purse:
—Lyle, call this woman and tell her I said to use you because you are the most talented left-handed art director in America.
She checked her make-up in the sunshade mirror.
—Listen, I don't need this, said Lyle. I am doing just fine. You would be depleting your goodwill in the industry for nothing.
—Weddings, you know – they make me feel generous, said Gabriella, smiling brightly. Anyway, she will only tell you that my opinion isn't worth a hill of beans.
Lyle gave her a tight-lipped smile.
—Thanks, your highness, he said, turning on the radio.
They sat listening to a country ballad about a man who, being diagnosed with cancer and six months to live, had taken up skydiving and bull wrestling. Gabby wondered as to Lyle's offishness, but then again, she often intimidated men. It was a fact of life.
She took a folded paper from her purse and skimmed through Jan Mayer's standard maid/matron-of-honor check-list. ... haven't done that ... not that either ... hmm, doubt if I'll do that. Mayer had also penned in a note about being conservative with the language in her speech. Oh well, a few anecdotes, a few superlatives, some lyrics from a Beatles song; that ought to do it. Uncouth bumper stickers on the cars in front of them were a reminder that she was in another environment than her own. Know your audience – she should follow the advice she so freely gave others. She had apparently already screwed up with Lyle.
Hardly had their van rolled to a stop in front of the Boulderado, than the greeting committee comprised of Peter's biological parents and their current spouses was upon them. First forward was Giles, pushing 80, painfully dressed in tropically inspired skiing attire and Daniel Boone trapper’s cap. He was supported by his wife Tish, easily ten inches and two generations his junior, who featured imposingly erect breasts and glazed-doughnut lips. Behind them came Peter's mother Elisabeth, her red apple face freshly tightened for the wedding and abundantly pasted with creams and powders. Her hair was molded in prefab wavelets the color of pistachio nuts. Eliot, her husband, had a clerical look about him, with a thin nose and grim brow.
They all hugged and kissed Gabriella frantically. She was the star of the family, with a career that had taken her from world class model to newly crowned “Woman Executive of the Year in Advertising”.
—Garett tells me you're not rushing back to California, Gabby, said Elisabeth, escorting them into the lobby. That's great. We have so much to talk about.
—No, said Gabriella, smiling brightly as she acknowledged the greetings of friends and relatives in the lobby. No rushing for us anymore. Gives Garett ulcers. He likes moving slow and I know it's good for us all. Elisabeth nodded approvingly.
—Stress is our worst enemy, Gabby, she said. We have to strenuously avoid it.
—Well, stress doesn't come naturally to Garett, I assure you. He's a poster child for slow living.
Garett smiled obligingly, as they reached the reception desk.
—Of course, my wife, being in advertising, never exaggerates, he retorted. But you all know she is the maniac in our family. She's got both the kids in an anti-anxiety program, and now there's another crazy diet she is forcing us to submit to.
He shook his head and glanced at his wife, who looked back with mocking scorn. The others laughed heartily, for Gabriella's engagement in therapy and health fads was well known.
—The GI diet! said Garett. That's the latest. Eating at home has become like driving down Taylor – there are green or red traffic lights pasted on all the foods in our kitchen.
Gabby smiled over her shoulder as she handed the desk clerk her credit card. Though Elisabeth laughed knowingly, Tish didn't catch the humor and Giles, completely out of the loop, had to ask:
—And just what is the GI diet, Gabby?
—The GI diet, Giles, exclaimed Elisabeth. You don't you know what the GI diet is? The gluten index, Garett, isn't that it?
—Yes, or the glycaemic, said Garett. Anyway it's about eating much of this and little of that. Gabby says it originated in Australia.
—Kylie Minogue, Tish chipped in, nodding her head enthusiastically.
Gabriella, after accepting their room key, knitted her chin in feigned anger:
—There is nothing extraordinary about it at all. Garett only thinks it’s funny 'cause it sounded like a military thing.
—Well, said Elisabeth, better get up to your room. I'm afraid there is not much time for you to get ready.
—I'm a fast changer, replied Gabriella. I'll leave Garett here to amuse you while I'm gone.
—With her background I suppose she would be, said Elisabeth after Gabby had left them to follow the bellman up to her room. And the kids, Garett, you're not anxious about them?
—We have a wonderful au pair you know, he answered. Céline – from Geneva. She's fantastic.
—I bet you can count on her like a Swiss watch, said Elisabeth with a wink. Speaking of dependability, where did Lyle go? He'll be late if he hasn't picked up the flowers by now. He's never here when you need him.
She jerked her head about the room looking for Lyle, only to discover that Giles was gliding off in the direction of the lobby bar. She turned to Tish:
—Where is your husband off to, dear? He's not having a drink now, is he? The Zuckors just drove up.
Hearing her, Giles called out over his shoulder:
—You do the Zuckors, Elisabeth. I believe Carmen's here.
Rehearsal participants were filling the lobby. Elisabeth, after “doing” the Zuckors, bustled about the room with buoyant words for everyone. When Gabriella, true to her word, returned speedily, looking homecoming-queen fresh, Elisabeth quickly took her aside:
—Be a dear, Gabby, and help out with Carmen. She must have sneaked in through the back door. Probably stewed as a prune.
Gabriella had already recognized Carmen's laughter from the mezzanine banister. She nodded to Elisabeth, and taking Garett by the hand drew him with her into the bar.
—It's such a relief, said Elisabeth to Tish, that Gabby is here ... Oh no! Don't look now, but I see Jackie's Dad is having words with the concierge. I hope it's not serious. We don't have time for that.
At a desk adjacent to the Boulderado entryway, Jack Diamond, a short stiff-faced man with grizzly skin and a swarthy mustache, stood together with a sternly thin woman. He was arguing heatedly with the concierge:
—Are you trying to tell me that that woman you sent up to our room speaks English? asked Jackie's Dad.
—All our contracted sitters are English speaking, answered the concierge. We sent you Bonita Diaz. I have spoken English with her on several occasions.
—Well, I'm an English speaker myself, Mr Diamond answered, smiling menacingly, and I think I know one when I meet one – and this woman is not. How can Nurse Wilson here possibly take part in my daughter’s rehearsal if it means leaving my wife in the care of an illiterate immigrant?
Though Jackie's mother had suffered permanent puerperal insanity during the traumatic birth of their only daughter, her husband had sworn to keep her by his side forever, and Nurse Wilson had been brought in to both help raise the Diamond kids and care for their mother. Mrs Diamond would be attending the wedding, but it was deemed unnecessary to have her at the rehearsal. The concierge, after overcoming a stint of speechlessness, apologized and said he would try to find a replacement. As he was thumbing through his Rolodex, Jackie and Peter's groomsmen and bridesmaids made a rather disheveled descent down the Boulderado's famous staircase.
Jack Diamond, who had apparently been waiting for this opportunity, left Nurse Wilson and the concierge, now busy on the phone, and corralled in the youngsters, inviting them to some iced tea in the bar before leaving for the rehearsal. They laughed and said they never took anything that strong. He then ceremoniously gave each of them a purple pamphlet he had been carrying around in a satchel all morning: “What every Christian should know about marriage”.
—Whenever you get a chance, he said, smiling. It's about the will of God.
His wrinkled red face broke into a broad smile, and the young ladies and men smiled back, waving the pamphlets gaily. The soberest said:
—Thank you, Mr Diamond, I had been hoping to find something like this.
Jack Diamond bowed graciously and added:
—Well, it's all in our bibles, but this puts it together in a nice convenient fashion. Marriage was conceived, planned and designed by our Lord, as you know.
Jan Mayer had now appeared and was rounding up guests for transportation to the rehearsal. Mrs Diamond, feeling he had won some ground with the attendants, was about to tell them more when a loud commotion further up the landing interrupted him and had the whole lobby gaping in astonishment.
A red-faced woman, dressed in pansy pajamas came dancing down the staircase, excitedly clapping her hands and shouting:
—Quadrilles! Quadrilles!
Close on her heels came the unfortunate Bonita Diaz, crying:
Mrs Diamond, Mrs Diamond, pleeez...
—Alright everyone, time to go, shouted Mayer, hoping to draw attention from the intermezzo on the stairs. Where are the children? If you will, the bus is ready for us outside.
—There is room for three in the back, called out Elisabeth.
Nurse Wilson rushed over to comfort Mrs Diamond. Jan Mayer turned to a cousin who would be reading a poem in the ceremony:
—Wendy, we are only making one bus trip today so we will have to pack you all in like sardines.
—I don't mind, Jan.
—Good. Perhaps you would like to sit with Mr Bartell? Mayer indicated a puffy, pocked and beady-eyed sixty-year old, donning his overcoat in the hotel entranceway.
—It's Burger Bob, whispered Elisabeth. He's not only ridiculously rich, Wendy – he sings like Dean Martin.
The bus waiting outside politely honked twice to speed up the loading of passengers. Jan Mayer was leading a group of guests out of the lobby as Giles wandered in from the bar, smiling broadly.
—What are you up to, Giles? asked Elisabeth, anxiously. We will be the last ones.
Giles, with a drink in his hand, smiled at his ex-wife and answered:
—Chatting with Carmen and her Ponzy. Gabby and Garett joined us. They're all coming now – if slowly.
Behind him Gabriella could be seen leading Carmen across the lobby floor. The latter, a woman in her fifties with strong Mediterranean features, was laughing heartily in a low key at a story which Gabriella had been telling her in the bar. She had thinly plucked eyebrows high above blood-laced walnut eyes and a wide mouth with tumid and protruding lips. The turbulent disorder of her long, Castilian black hair gave her a nervously sensuous look. She waved delicately with her well-manicured hands at Elisabeth. Her husband, Ponzy – a nondescript man, if one ignored his comical stiff-legged gait – walked along with Garett.
—How wonderful it is to see you, my dears, said Elisabeth.
Carmen exchanged little pecking kisses with Tish and Elisabeth before noticing the scene at the bottom of the stairwell, where Miss Wilson had finally succeeded in soothing Jackie's mother. Bonita Diaz stood alone in tears while both the hotel manager and concierge were being dressed down by Jack Diamond. Carmen immediately forayed across the room to lend a hand.
—O no. Must she? said Elisabeth to Gabby.
Gabriella, bemusedly watching Carmen caught up in a bear hug with Jill Diamond, answered:
—It takes more than a couple of Bloody Marys to put that woman out of action.
—Well, I wish she wouldn't, said Elisabeth. And Ponzy has had her at Betty Ford twice. But we must be going now. What should we do about the Diamonds?
The predicament was solved by Carmen, who insisted on her and Ponzy staying with Jack and Miss Wilson until a new sitter had shown up. When the others had left the lobby, Jackie's father thanked her profusely:
—Peter's said so many wonderful things about you.
Carmen explained that if Elisabeth hadn't given birth to Pete she would have had to, because he was just such a fantastic kid and would always be her little boy and how happy she was that he and Jackie had found each other, and suggested they all move into the bar and have drinks while they waited, and wedding rehearsals weren't really a necessity anyhow. Eventually a new sitter showed up whom Jill Diamond seemed to take to straight off and who spoke English with only a slight Polish accent acceptable to Jack Diamond. Ponzy had a cab waiting and they headed off to the chapel. In the car Jack handed Carmen one of his brochures which she rolled up and used to point out the scenic highlights of Boulder.
. . . . . . .
Gabriella had given up on listening to Jan Mayer's elaborate directions. She wondered how many of the others really saw much point in the military precision Mayer was demanding and just why they had to go through everything three times, and why so many people needed to be at this rehearsal. Serves them right for getting him to do it, she thought. Lyle and the other groomsmen, who had been visiting the portable refreshment bar in the church foyer at every opportunity, had taken to clowning whenever Mayer's back was turned, and Giles Karmon, who had a whale of a snore, had to be nudged awake more than once by Tish. The only ones who seemed to wholeheartedly engage themselves in this rigmarole were Jackie, Elisabeth and the great wedding coordinator himself, strutting about, his hands conducting like a Toscanini, while Reverend Healy stood patiently thumbing the pages of a dog-eared and yellow post-it-petaled Bible.
Gabriella's eyes, irritated by Mayer's fidgeting figure, wandered above the chapel organ to a reproduction of Botticelli's Birth of Venus. She recognized it as the duplicate of a somewhat censored version on her second grade school lunch pail. Luckless artists to create such things, only to have them contorted by whoever, whenever, like “Thus Spake Zarathustra” opening up auto shows, or Beethoven's Fifth accentuating two-minute penalty calls at hockey games. Watching little Brittany twiddling with her practice bouquet and Kevin with his ring pillow brought back a similar scene: she, holding the hem of her mother's wedding dress, her brother Conny carrying that velvet cushion, a large bald, buffalo of a man whom she hardly knew lifting her mother's veil and ... that awful kiss. Broke her heart. But, of course, Tory knew what she was doing. Thanks to her marriage to Giles, Gabby could go to college and so would have Conny, had his and Tory's car not gone over the edge of Black Bear Pass the day before he was to turn twelve. A shadow passed over her face as she remembered her opposition to her stepfather, and then again the hurt when he chose Carmen to replace Tory so soon after the funeral. There could never be a loneliness like that loneliness, watching her brother and mother lowered one after another into the earth. And then there was that night – the night of her junior prom, when she awoke to find the dark haunting figure of a heavily breathing Giles looming above her bed. She gathered that the rehearsal proceedings were nearing the end for they were playing that march for the third time – at least Mendelssohn could imagine what would become of it – and Mayer was directing everyone out the chapel door in the reverse order they had come in. While she strolled arm in arm with Lyle, the memories faded. Once outside, great applause greeted Jan Mayer, the most vigorous clapping coming from Lyle and the groomsmen.
The rehearsal dinner, where the actual participants were now joined by fifty or so family members and other VIPs, was held at an Italian restaurant in downtown Boulder. Gabby found herself seated between Lyle and a groomsman, Ivor Molly, who had several years ago attended one of her seminars on ethics in advertising. He combed his long hair over his left cheek, hiding – or elaborating, depending on the tilt of his head, the maroon birthmark she thought looked like New Zealand. He bore a Green Peace button in the lapel of his jacket.
When they had taken their seats he said abruptly:
—So Ms Media Star, what are you doing to make this world a better place?
—What am I doing? said Gabby, fearing he might be serious.
He nodded with burlesque graveness.
—Could you be more specific? she asked.
—Will You Change The World Today? recited Ivor Molly loudly, turning his eyes upon her.
Gabby didn't react, and he continued:
—I heard you're the genius who masterminded that Enron campaign. Have you no qualms about that?
—Why? asked Gabriella, blinking her eyes and forging a smile.
—Well, I'm disappointed, said Ivor chidingly. To work for a company like that. I didn't think you were such a mercenary.
Was he serious? Yes, she had designed that Enron marketing campaign, pocketing her agency a small fortune. But that hardly made her a mercenary. The thrill of doing something on such a grand scale – and so successfully to boot, meant more to her than the money. She loved to see the commercials on TV and come across her ads in newspapers and magazines. She was fed up with comments like his. She told him indignantly that life was all about doing a good job – a good honest day’s work. If everybody did that, then this wouldn't be such a bad world to live in. But some people screw up and do a lousy job and some people cheat. And that's lamentable, or deplorable or maybe even punishable by a few years in prison, but it doesn't automatically condemn whoever worked with them. Everybody at Enron wasn't a crook, she reminded him, and she wasn't either.
From then on Gabriella pointedly confined her conversation to Lyle. But as the main course was served, Ivor Molly took her hand in a warm grasp and said in a friendlier tone:
—Sorry, I was only kidding. Can I pour you more wine?
He then spoke of how on the Internet he had found a paper she had written in college on the application of Rawl's Theory of Justice to advertising. He had liked it immensely. His face lit up:
—Gabriella, what would you say about coming to the Taos Retreat this autumn? It lasts for just a week. And it's a splendid time to be in New Mexico. You ought to come. I'm sure it would suit Garett and the kids immensely. Garett is a spiritual person, isn't he?
—To a reasonable extent, said Gabriella, curtly.
—It is not as impossible as it sounds, said Ivor.
—The fact is, said Gabriella, I have a pretty heavy schedule.
—Doing what? he asked.
—Well, you know, a little dab here and a little dab there – trying to make ends meet.
—Like what? he persisted.
—Like looking after the six hundred employees of our ad agency. Like twenty-three speaking engagements. Like writing my second book.
—Why do you do all those things instead of finding peace within yourself? You've already had one breakdown. I read about it.
—Well, said Gabriella, it's partly to keep in touch with the industry and it’s partly to make a living and it’s mostly none of your f... she checked herself – business.
—And haven't you your own life to keep in touch with – your soul? persisted Ivor Molly.
—Well, said Gabriella, if it comes to that, you know, soul searching is not really my bag.
Gabriella glanced right and left to the others at the table for support, struggling to retain her good humor. Molly's face was flush with excitement and New Zealand was glowing.
—Are you sure you know yourself that well? he continued.
—To tell you the truth, said Gabriella, I'm extremely uninterested in your new age proselytism.
—Why? asked Ivor Molly.
Gabriella did not answer.
—You won’t tell why?
A seven-piece band brought in for the rehearsal party had begun to play. Giles sailed straight for Gabby's table, smiling broadly.
—Think about it, said Ivor, as she got up to dance with her stepfather.
She did – about what an asshole he was. Best to make sure he got nowhere near her in the future. The band was playing a song called Animal Crackers, and guests, many of them only a few seasons away from walkers or wheelchairs or worse, hopped about imitating birds and other animals. Giles was content to just waltz Gabriella to a tempo he had learned as a child and never varied. Her obnoxious dinner companion sailed past, twirling about a bridesmaid in some retro-fifties be-bop charade:
—Mercenary!
After a few dances with those bold enough to ask her, Gabriella retreated to the darkest corner of the bar, where Carmen's husband Ponzy was sitting quietly. He had a slight drawl like his wife and he sputtered his p's. Gabriella told him how happy she was to see Carmen, who had meant so much to her after the loss of her mother. She asked if they were happy together and Ponzy assured her that they were, and while he exemplified with some particularly happy details, Gabby tried to banish from her mind the unpleasant incident with Ivor Molly. OK, he probably believed in his inner light, meditation, zen yoga bullshit or whatever it was they did out there in the desert. But, my God, he should have the good manners to keep it to himself. Of course, she should have seen it coming and broken him off earlier. But the impudence of him calling her a mercenary, even in jest, was just too much. She had had enough of envious people trying to put her down. He with his squirrelly eyes.
Garett made his way towards her through the dancing guests and, after nodding to Ponzy said close to her ear:
—Gabby, Elisabeth wants to know if you are ready with tomorrow's speech?
—Oh my god, said Gabby. Tell her to cool down. It's not that big a deal.
—She is letting everyone else go first so you will be the closing act, said Garett.
—Were you dancing? asked Gabriella, changing the subject.
—Sort of. Didn't you see me? What was the thing with Ivor?
—Nothing. Why? Did he say so?
—Sort of. Listen sweetheart, they're trying to get that Burger Bob man to sing tomorrow night. And they want me to accompany him. You'll save me from that – won't you?
—Ivor thinks we should all go and live naked in the woods, said Gabby, eating bark and worms – and mushrooms, I suppose.
Her husband clapped his hands, playfully.
—Oh, let's do it, Gabby, he laughed. I always wanted to be Carlos Castaneda.
—You can if you like, said Gabby, coldly.
He looked at her for a moment, then turned to Ponzy and said:
—There's a good sport for you, Ponzy, and walked off.
While Garett was threading his way back across the room, Ponzy, warming to the subject, went on to tell Gabriella that actually mankind had left the woods behind them many years ago and that civilization had developed on the plains and savannas, because you couldn't throw spears in the woods and throwing spears was the origin of speech.
Gabby shook her head enthusiastically, without taking in a word he said. When she saw Carmen coming over to be with her husband, she left the barstool free for her and retreated to the ladies room, where Geritol-set dancers who had run out of steam were panting heavily and splashing cold water on their faces, all the while congratulating each other on their youthful looks and athletic fitness. Gabriella was thankful for the solitude of the stall. Her agitated fingers tapped the metal top of the toilette paper dispenser. How nice it would be to be elsewhere.
Above the dispenser, written in lipstick were the words – EAT SHIT. Unbelievable! Christ, what went on in people's heads – must have been someone in the rehearsal party. What people did – what people thought in the dark. One of those octillion-year-old aunts. Think of all the thought- tormented people in the world posing as normal. Or maybe it was a personal message meant for her from the bridesmaid Tracy, whose role she had usurped. She took out her Chanel Passion Red and retorted with YOURSELF!!! to the existing message. She tried to work a bit on her speech but the repugnant face of Ivor Molly kept breaking in on her thoughts. She wished she had that voodoo doll Garett had bought her in Trinidad.
The sun shone benevolently on the snow-covered pavilion setup outside the chapel. A resounding applause greeted the entrance of Jack Diamond and Giles, gallantly escorting between them Mrs Diamond, she leaning heavily upon both their arms, smiling and wobbling her head. The contingent of Giles' wives, Elisabeth, Carmen and Tish, followed shortly behind them, with Ponzy, Elisabeth's husband Eliot, and Nurse Wilson taking up the rear. Jan Mayer motioned for silence and Giles, in a strong basso grosso, welcomed everyone to the glorious event, telling them that though he had considerable experience with occasions of this sort, today was truly something special and adding, with an emphasis on the number, definitely a “once in a lifetime” occasion. You see, though weddings might cost fortunes, divorces ruined them. Amidst the ensuing laughter, he pulled Jack Diamond under his arm and confided that at the rate their friendship was developing, Jack was either going to have him talking in tongues or Giles would see Jackie's father under the table with half a quart of Johnny Walker Black in his belly.
But Jack and I, we reached one agreement straight off the bat, he continued. That our two wonderful children both knew what true love looked liked when it finally stared ‘em in the eye. And they reached out for it – and, by god, they got it – and by god they are going to keep it. Ladies and gentlemen, drink up. It’s wedding time! The speech was received with great applause and cheers, and a lithe, gorgeous young soprano accompanied by an octet of strings from the Denver Philharmonic launched into “Killing me Softly”. Carmen moved over to stand beside her ex-husband.
—Wow, is she good, Carmen whispered. What an exquisitely beautiful voice. And as for great performances, Giles, that was one hell of a speech. We might still be married if you had spoken that eloquently with me.
Giles murmured something about why they were no longer married and Carmen quickly released his hand from her grasp. Jack Diamond gave Giles a big pat on his back, thanking him profusely in front of all for the speech but leaning closer to his ear, said:
—Just one detail, Giles. We don't speak in tongues in our church.
Giles laughed so loudly at this information that Tish had to turn to them reproachfully:
—Shush you two! Listen to this woman sing, will you. All I can say is I never heard such a wonderful voice. Is she famous?
—Neither have I, said Jack Diamond, but I'm not sure the song is appropriate to the occasion.
Giles shrugged his shoulders as the parents made their way towards the chapel entrance:
—You are probably right Jack, but I wouldn't mind her strumming my back with anything she chose.
—I envy them, said Tish as they stood in the chapel foyer waiting to be seated. They are the greatest artists. They have rhythm and they have grace. God bless them.
She turned to the others for collaboration, but saw only embarrassed smiles and look-aways. Her husband was covering his eyes with his head down.
—Face it, they can dance better, sing better, and play most sports better than we can, she continued. Just look at the Nuggets...
—Yes, my dear, said Jan Mayer. But you must be careful how you phrase things. You don't want people to think you're a racist.
Tish turned on him defiantly:
—I may not have half the education of the rest of you, but I think I know what racism is, Jan, and it certainly isn't admiring people for their talents and skills. Some people have it and some don't. And no one's going to shut me up for thinking so.
She had worked herself up considerably and might have continued arguing right into the chapel. Jan Mayer remarked that this was an extremely inopportune moment for a nature-nurture debate.
—We know you mean well, Tish darling, but we must be careful how we phrase things – because if it is a racial trait to be a good dancer or singer, then some unkind person might say it is a racial trait to steal or beat each other up.
The ushers were patiently waiting to seat them but Tish was not pacified.
—Well, I haven't the slightest idea what nurture-nature means, but there is such a thing as respect for people's ideas – I beg your pardon! And I certainly didn't say anything about stealing. I believe in respect and I am pretty sure Reverend Healy would support me on that.
—Most certainly, said Jan Mayer, in a one last-ditch attempt to calm the waters. And I for one believe your theory that all positive traits are genetic, and all negative ones socially nurtured, is brilliant.
—You are mocking me, said Tish, almost in tears.
—No, Tish, we love you dearly, said Jan Mayer, giving her a big hug. And I believe this nice young usher here is ready to show you to your seat.
After taking Jack to his daughter in the chapel vestibule, Jan checked in on the attendants waiting in the front office. Here, chaos prevailed. Ivor Molly lay flat on his back, Kevin's ring cushion propped under his head. Lyle, who by now should have been at the head of the church with Pete and Reverend Healy, was attending him:
—You are going to be alright, Ivor, said Lyle. Just relax. We've got plenty of time.
—Actually we don't, said Jan Mayer. Can you pick yourself up, man?
—I don't think I can do it, said Ivor. I don't think I can move.
—Relax Ivor, you're hyperventilating – just relax, said Jan Mayer.
—I am so sorry, said Ivor Molly. It feels like I've daggers piercing my guts.
—We will get you a doctor – God knows there are plenty of them here, said Gabriella.
—No, no doctor, I will be OK.
Gabriella ran out and called to one of the wedding photographers standing in the foyer:
—Find out where Dr Gogarty is sitting and discretely inform him he is needed here.
Ivor, after an attempt at getting to his knees, was down again.
—March on in there and don't mind me, he cried. Please. I can take care of myself.
—Well, you are going to have to find another pillow, said little Kevin.
—God bless you, Ivor laughed, weakly.
After a moment's self-deliberation, Jan Mayer told Tracy there would have to be some changes, that without a groomsman he couldn't let her march in. It was a matter of symmetry. She would make her entrance through a side door. Otherwise they might think you are the Maid of Honor, he told her. Upon which Tracy exploded into tears and informed him frankly that she should have been, and another of the bridesmaids said that if Tracy couldn't march, then none of them would, and that he could stick his symmetry up his pompous ass.
—OK, OK, everybody calm down, said Jan Mayer. Sean, go out there and find somebody wearing pants the same color as yours – quick! Ivor, I am afraid we are going to have to borrow your jacket. Where in the hell is Gabriella?
—Here I am! cried Gabriella. Ready to rock and roll.
“Oohs” and “aahs” and the photo flashes expressly forbidden by Mayer followed Gabriella's majestic passage up the aisle trailing the paired groomsmen and bridesmaids. She retained her most modest pose, though the sight of Tracy's new partner, Garett, uncomfortably squeezed into Ivor's tuxedo, almost had her in giggles.
—Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God, under the wings of angels, began Reverend Healy ... who gives this bride...
—I, said Mr. Diamond, beaming like the fourth of July.
—Who takes this...? asked Reverend Healy.
—I do – and – I do, said Pete and Jackie when their turn came.
While the bride and groom exchanged promises of love and fidelity... a covenant between two hearts ... Lyle went to them with a red rose folded in their each own handcrafted, leather-bound Bible. This was a Jan Mayer innovation. He had also suggested that Reverend Healy, in Hindu fashion, anoint the bride and groom's foreheads with vermilion, but Elisabeth had objected, saying that plain Christian traditions were good enough for them, and that went for Comanche prayers and liberated doves as well . ... love is patient, love is kind... Gabriella caught Garret's eye, just the two of us and that sweet little Mexican priest in Santa Lucia, and he had surprised her with the mariachis, and then the buggers would never go away ... a season, a time, a purpose ... everybody was furious when they found out, as if there weren't enough big weddings to go around ... love conquers all ... What about that Korean, Moon, marrying two thousand couples at one go in Madison Square Garden? Bet there were some real lemons in that bunch. But you never know. Might turn out better than two kids getting drunk at a party and thinking each other was a better deal than they really were. Faith made for miracles. Blind faith – brand faith – bingo! When you reached that level you could forget competition, pricing, you could forget it all. Reverend Healy was having a coughing attack. Too bad – serves her right though, puffing away like that out in the back. Beautiful woman nevertheless. Little Kevin held his cushion splendidly high ... love conquers all.
She wondered if ... it's what we all like to hear, even if the movies have run it into the ground. Ah, here it comes. Nice, Jan.
—... speak now or forever, cough, hold your peace, said Reverend Healy.
Reverend Healy's coughing problem was escalating in severity. Lyle came forward and gave her three solid back slaps. She took a drink of water from a glass kept in her pulpit.
—I now, cough, pronounce you, cough, man and wife. You may, cough, cough, cough... Unable to continue, she indicated with her hands that the bride and groom could kiss, which they did and marriage was a done deal.
As the bridal procession left the chapel, Mendelssohn's indefatigable march was relayed from the organ to the octet playing in the pavilion where the guests returned for refreshments and to wait out the photo session. Eventually the little orchestra shifted into Mozart, and Burger Bob praised him as the greatest composer who ever lived. Isn't it strange that they've never been able to write music like that since? said Elisabeth's husband, Eliot. Carmen, refreshing herself with a vodka straight-up on ice, was following their conversation.
—Why is that music so great, Bob? she asked, swirling the cubes in her glass.
—Because it is the truth, answered Burger Bob, categorically.
—Because, Carmen continued testily, I would just like to know how you can be so sure of that?
—Well, if I remember correctly, it was Mozart along with Beethoven and Bach they sent up into outer space, said Mr Diamond. They only sent up the best our civilization has to offer.
—Did they send up a sixteen-ounce frozen margarita? asked Carmen, to appreciative laughter. And just who are ‘they’, anyway?
Jan Mayer told a story about the NASA committee chosen to pick out the best music the human race had ever produced – the most beautiful, the most perfect. There was a professor on the panel, Johannes Kepler, an Austrian. He was, like, the great eminence of the whole bunch, and he kept quiet while everybody else wore themselves out arguing for this composition or that, and when they finally got around to asking him his opinion he nominated a work by Dicky Do and the Donuts. What Professor? his colleagues asked. We couldn't hear you clearly – what are you recommending? And Johannes Kepler said, I vote for “My Baby Gets the Hiccups (every time we start to kiss)” with Dicky Do and the Do-nuts. And he wasn't joking. Kepler said that the truth and essence and beauty and whatever and what-all of music were all contained in that song – it was all there. He said that it was sufficient to just send the first verse if there was a shortage of space in the capsule.
—Sounds like a bad joke to me, said Burger Bob.
—Sounds like a crock of manure, said Mr. Diamond, who had just returned from the photo session.
—It's true, I've heard it too, said Ponzy, but what he then said was that actually they only needed to send the first note, because all music that ever was or ever would be was contained in that one single note. And that the outer space folks would enjoy figuring out the rest for themselves.
—What note was that? asked Mr Diamond, and everybody laughed.
—How about the best story ever? someone asked. Or did they only have to send up the letter ‘a’?
—If you’re talking about short stories in English, answered Eliot, some people think it is Joyce's “The Dead”, but I don't know if it made it onto the space capsule.
—Why is that such a great story? asked Burger Bob.
—Maybe because great art is like great lovemaking, answered Eliot. You just can't go for the climax straight off. You've got to diddle around first and “The Dead” has great diddling and a great climax.
—Strange, said Burger Bob. I've never heard of it. What's wrong with O'Henry and Samuel Clements? Zane Grey?
—Hey, I saw “The Dead”, said a groomsman. It's a movie. There's no lovemaking. After this big Christmas party, this guy's wife remembers some kid she used to be in love with and the husband gets all jealous. There is no sex whatsoever.
—I didn't say there was sex. I said it was like it, said Eliot. It's not the same thing.
After every conceivable combination of bride, groom, attendants, family, dignitaries and three Karmon dogs brought in by envoy from the ranch in Aspen had been photographically accounted for, Jackie and Peter were sent off with cheers and rice in a four-horse carriage, and the guests were transferred to the Boulderado in buses to prepare themselves for the reception dinner. It would be a full evening and then some, and after all the feting they had already done, Giles hoped Jack would still be game for it.
—Well, I believe, said Jackie's father, that I'm game enough for anything because, you know, I'm the Jack of Diamonds.
As the Karmon wedding reception swung into life on the Boulderado's second-floor banquet hall, Gabriella set out to patch up relationships with her fellow bridesmaids, offering complements on their performance in the wedding and invitations to visit her in Sausalito. But she caused new ire amongst the girls by coming to dinner, not in her bridesmaid's dress, but a Marc Jacobs outfit much more suitable to her figure. At the parents table, Ponzy, who had been quiet during much of the meal, boasted of his wife's mastery of the Internet and added that she had amassed a copious collection of music without spending a penny.
—And do you mean to condone, asked Mr Diamond incredulously, anyone just going out on the Internet and taking whatever they want and not paying a penny for it? I call that theft, sir.
—If you define theft as taking something from someone so that they no longer have it, then theft it isn't. It's more like cloning, said Jan Mayer.
—Well, I wish we could clone honesty and respect for property, said Jack Diamond.
He was confounded that the record companies and the police couldn't put a stop to it.
—They can't because the Internet is so hard to control, said Eliot. That's the way it works.
—If you say so, said Jack Diamond. But why does it work that way?
Eliot repeated that it was just the way things were. Carmen voiced the opinion that it was silly that anyone should own immaterial things – and if we can share them without cost, then the world is surely a better place for it. She turned to Tish for support but the poor thing, still crushed from her faux pas earlier in the day, had made up her mind to avoid voicing opinions altogether.
—I, too, would like the world to be a better place, said Jack Diamond, but why would anyone choose to create anything they wouldn't get paid for?
—Art has always been a sacrifice – a great sacrifice for some, said Jan Mayer.
As the subject had grown lugubrious it was soon buried in more congenial table-talk. Though, at one point, Eliot could be heard saying to Diamond:
—They are all crooks, those Internet people, very dishonest people they are.
After an abundance of food and drink had been consumed and acclaimed by the guests, and a great many speeches given, Giles stood up and invited everyone to fill their glasses with champagne, or carrot juice if they so chose, and to give their utmost attention to the next and final speaker, his little pearl, who, as long as he was on this earth would not want for anything she desired – though at the rate her career had taken off and his stock portfolio was diving – he sincerely hoped she would return the favor. Gabriella pushed back her chair and stood up to great deal of applause. She blew a kiss to Giles.
Placing her confident hands serenely on the back of her chair, she smiled brilliantly, taking in as many of the two hundred expectant faces as possible. The orchestra, which had struck up Copeland's Fanfare for the Common Man, concluded with a snare drum roll and the banquet hall servers discretely retired to the back of the room but no further, choosing to listen, despite a professionally conditioned aversion for wedding speeches, to this famous celebrity, and foregoing the opportunity for a quick cig out on the snow-covered kitchen landing.
She began:
—Reverend Healy. Jackie and Peter. Family and Friends.
—Since each of the preceding speakers has spoken with such ardor, and so expansively, of these two newlyweds, one might think that all has been said, but in truth – not. So, put down your glasses and lean back on your chairs for this might take all night... had you scared there for moment, didn't I? Fear not, I'll be brief.
—No, no – we want to hear it all! called out Mr. Diamond.
—Talk to my agent, Jack. As some of you might know, I work in advertising, which might lead to the misguided notion that my task is to pull the wool – or the bull – over your eyes. Well, folks, that is only my day job. At a time like this, I tell it straight from the heart.
—Friends and family. This is the first, though certainly not the last, occasion our two great clans have gathered, thanks to the abundantly generous hospitality of the parents. Will the parents, Giles, Elisabeth, Tish, Elliot, Jack, Jill, Carmen, Ponzy all please stand up? You too, Nancy. As you have well noticed, there are more of these parents than most of us can keep track of.
Gabby made a sweeping bow to the parents now standing, accepting the warm and enthusiastic acclaim of the guests. She continued, her voice toning down and her face growing serious:
—And, let me tell you, if my dear mother, Tory, bless her heart, was still with us today, I know she would have sat at that table as well, for though a woman might leave Giles Karmon, she can never stop loving him.
There he is: my stepfather, Pete's dad, a man whose autograph is now gratefully treasured by more than half of the wedding contractors in Boulder County. Ladies and Gentleman, the great Giles Karmon!
And, by the way, that these wonderful people were all sat in the first row pew today is not your standard wedding procedure, but one of the hundreds of creative details thought up by our very own distinguished wedding coordinator. Will the fabulous Jan Mayer please take a bow?
Wonderful job, Jan, but next time, please find my husband a tux that fits him?
Incidentally, the latest report from Saint James is that Ivor Molly is rapidly recovering from his appendicitis attack. He sends his best wishes to Jackie and Pete, and the all rest of us. —Dearly beloved we are gathered, ... aren't those wonderful words? Is there, in this callous, iconoclastic age any tradition more worth our respect and reverence than the institution of the American marriage? ... and didn't she do a beautiful job? Didn't she shine? Folks, give it up for Reverend Healy. Praise the Lord. Stand up, woman!
It struck her only then that Reverend Healy was the only black in the audience, and she wished she'd skipped that “Praise the Lord” reference. She turned her head slowly to face Jackie's parents.
—Mrs Diamond, Jack, Nurse Wilson.
—I am sure by now most of us have had an opportunity to speak with Jack – those little purple pamphlets in everyone’s pockets are witness to that. And if you get the chance, ladies, I recommend a chat with Nancy Wilson, who, I have happily learned, knows needle-point like none. Folks, I give you West Kansas needlepoint champion three years running, Nancy Wilson ... and sitting in between them, supported by Jack and Nancy's loving, unselfish, tender, devotion, a beautiful woman – her presence here tonight bearing witness to life's flickering, fragile, but imperishable flame. Jill, I know you can hear me. I know what you are feeling in your heart at this moment. I sense the pride and joy you are now feeling for your daughter. Jill, we love you.
—God bless you, Gabby! said Jack Diamond, loudly.
—And God bless you, Jack, she replied. A perplexed forgetful look came over her face and she reached for her glasses and her speech notes on the table Let's see, who I have forgotten? Ah, now I remember. She put down her notes and turned to the bride and groom.
—Look at them. Look at those two beautiful people. Stand up kids. Let's hear it for them. Don't sit on your hands, folks. Don't be scared. Beauty frightens us – intimidates us. Don't let it. Rejoice in their happiness. Bask in their sunshine. Celebrate them, people. Celebrate!
Giles asked someone to make sure the video cameras were rolling.
—God, she's good, said Jan Mayer.
Giles nodded, rocking his whole body back and forth in his chair. Elisabeth's make-up was dissolving in a flood of tears. Gabby paused and the room grew silent.
—Dearest Jackie. My adorable Peter.
—So many decisions to make. So many choices. So many forks and bends in the road ahead. But the highway is wide open. And the fast lane is yours. And through teamwork – and Jackie, make damn sure you're in that driver’s seat at least half of the trip – together you'll get where you want to be. To where only love can take us. Well, the road is not perfect. There are potholes, and detours, traffic jams and speed traps. Accidents can happen and believe me they will, but, oh God, then there are those moments when you just sail on with the top down, the wind blowing through your hair, under a blue-sky’d, sunlit heaven, your favorite tune blasting away on the radio, and nothing, nothing, nothing can slow you down or get in your way ... that is, until you run out of gas, and got to make it to a road stop, and end up eating some of the worst restaurant food in America.
She raised her glass on high, taking in all of the room with one final sweep.
—Let us drink a toast to them and while we're at it, why not a toast to ourselves for our great fortune in being here, knowing them, loving them and sharing in the most wonderful moment of their lives.
The band, having missed the cue prearranged by Gabby, had to be prompted by a wave of her hand. The piano player hit E-flat and the wedding singer began:
There's nothing you can say that can't be sung There's nothing you can do that can't be done There's nothing you can say ... it's easy
Swinging their glasses wildly, a boisterous, jubilant chorus of voices joined in.
Love, love, love, Love, love, love – it's easy.
The 7/8 cadence of the bridge caused some false starts and laughter and then the mighty chorus was upon them.
All you need is love (Brr-rump-di-dum, filled in the more vocally bold) All you need is love (Brr-rump-di-dum), Love is all you need
The jubilation that ended the song shook the banquet hall floor like an earthquake. Carmen, also in tears, said she needed a vodka straight-up right away.
. . . . . . .
The Boulderado, weary from food, drink and music, was ready for bed. In the banquet hall, servers grew less timid in their forays at clearing the tables, picking at what they could around lingering guests.
—I suppose we should be getting out of here, these people all want to get home, said Ponzy. Where's that Jack of Diamonds?
—He is down in the kitchen, said Jan Mayer. Doing missionary duty amongst the Latinos, I suppose.
—Doesn't he ever give up? said Elisabeth, frowning.
Jan Mayer laughed.
—I believe he's making converts and winning hearts right and left. We should send him to the Middle East.
—Be damned if he'll have me in church tomorrow, said Giles – or is it today? He looked at his watch, muttered something about forgetting his medicine, and left the table.
Tish called after him as he started off down the stairs:
—But Giles, I heard you promise.
At that moment the serving elevator door opened and Jack Diamond appeared, shepherding a bewildered little man in green overalls, white apron, and red headscarf. Jack presented him as his new friend Victor, and had him shake hands with everyone before letting him return to the kitchen.
—Can you believe it? That good fellow and I belong to the same church, exclaimed Jack. And I who thought they were all charter members of the Pope's Rosary Club.
—I can't find Garett, said Gabriella, coming up the lobby stairway.
—He's doing his thing, Gabby, said Elisabeth. She pointed to a darkened room at the end of the hall from where they could hear meditative, tinkering music.
—Oh, he finally got to the piano. Is he playing for someone? asked Gabriella.
—Nobody – everyone's gone, said Tish.
—Wrong, said Jan Mayer, Burger Bob is in there. Adding with a coy smile, and if I'm not mistaken, so is Wendy.
—Well, they better hurry up if they're going to do the town with the rest of us, said Carmen.
Jan Mayer glanced from Gabriella to Carmen and said, delicately covering a yawn with the back of his hand:
—Hard to imagine how you all can keep going. Another party after all we have been through today?
—Well, I think we all need some good hot coffee to get us back in the groove, said Carmen. I'll see if I can find someone to make it for us.
—What was Tory like? Tish asked Gabriella when Carmen had gone. I know from pictures that she was a very beautiful woman.
—Very, said Gabby, but above all she was a dedicated mother. The greatest sadness in my life is that she is not alive for me to thank her for what I have become. I just might have surprised her.
The others all laughed.
—How did she meet Giles? asked Tish.
—She worked in a coffee shop where Giles was a regular. He ate the same breakfast every morning, sitting in the same bar stool, with the same paper, and the same waitress – my mother. She knew little about him, though she'd seen him park his Ferrari in the lot.
—I think it was a Maserati, said Elisabeth. His wife at the time, Margaret, had a thing for Maseratis.
—Well it wasn't a VW, said Gabby, laughing. Anyway, one day Giles, after a year of “the usual” breakfasts, completely out of the blue, with a fork of eggs still in his mouth, asked my mother out. And she just stood there staring at his wedding ring. Once he'd explained that he was in the final stages of a divorce, she said yes.
—How romantic, said Tish.
—Amen, said Gabriella. So she went out and bought a killer dress, which, believe me, meant putting a dent in the cookie jar. She had him pick her up at the coffee shop because she didn't want him to see how we lived – or perhaps let on that she had two kids. The other waitresses were green with envy when she got into his car.
They all laughed at the thought of it.
—But Giles has always loved children, said Elisabeth. It wouldn't have mattered to him.
—He was taking her to Delmonico's, continued Gabby. And, well, you can just imagine her sitting next to him in that car with that dress barely ... she had legs, let me tell you, and just looking and smelling so good. Giles could have run over half a dozen pedestrians and never known it.
Gabby did a little pantomime of Giles driving like a fool while ogling her mother, that had everyone in stitches.
—At the restaurant, when the cocktail waitress came over to get their drink orders and Mom looked up from the menu, all she could see was her dress – the very same dress on the waitress – it was, like, their uniform and, Tory, she died. She told Giles she had to go to the Ladies and she ran out the back door and walked home in her heels, four miles, crying all the way. The next day Giles got her number from the coffee shop, called her up and asked her to marry him. And he didn't balk when she told him about me and Conny.
The laughter which followed Gabriella's story was interrupted by the return of Giles and Carmen with a waiter, balancing a trayful of Irish coffees, in tow.
—Take your medicine everybody, said Carmen. Everyone's gone to the “Four Quarts”. I've got directions and a cab is waiting.
—Well, you go ahead, we'll get the next one, said Gabriella, hoping to avoid going at all. Garett has found a piano, and you know how he is.
—Yes, you better get started, said Elisabeth, before Ponzy takes his plate for a pillow. But I'm afraid Eliot and I are already w-a-a-a-y past our bed-time.
Giles also demurred, though he encouraged Tish to go if she wished. She said that as long as they had taken a room at the hotel, they ought spend some time in it. Ponzy was helped down the stairs by his wife – who could have used some help herself – and together with the inextinguishable Jack Diamond they got into the waiting cab. There was a good deal of confusion as to just where the Four Courts was located. The driver, a chemistry student from Minsk, who had apparently been hired without the vaguest notion as to the street layout of Boulder, drew a blank at the directions Carmen and Ponzy, which were conflicting in any case, were giving her. The bellhop, seeing their difficulty, came over and tried to speak Spanish with the Ukrainian.
—Conózcale Arapaho? he asked through her window.
—A rap a hoe? repeated the driver.
—Whatever is going to become of this country? said Diamond.
—You asking me? said the driver.
—Look, said Carmen. Just drive straight on until I tell you to turn.
—Yes, Ma'am, answered the driver.
She punched both the meter and gas enthusiastically.
Upstairs Gabriella sat quietly at the table with Tish. The man playing the piano in that dark room – she could not see his face, but she recognized the rivulets of black notes and accentuated arpeggios that he loved to immerse himself in – her husband. He was playing so quietly that Gabriella had to strain her ears to listen against the commotion of waiters folding up the last of the serving tables. Then she heard the voice of a man singing. It wasn't Garett. And the piano playing shifted into a stumbling sequence of rusty bar-piano chord progressions. The spell was broken.
Garett wasn't much of an accompanist. He preferred just playing for himself: always said his music was his mystery and he never wanted to know where it led. It certainly had always been a mystery to her, a gap between them she could never breech. He had been talking lately about doing a new album though he hadn't been in the studio since they had adopted the kids. She hoped he would go through with it. What fun to market it for him. If he'd let her, she'd name it “Distant Music”.
Still laughing at Carmen's discombobulated exit, the others joined Gabby and Tish at the table.
—Poor Ponzy, said Jan Mayer. How she does drag him around. Carmen might as well have him on roller skates with a leash.
Gabriella said nothing, but held up her hand for them to be silent, pointing off to where her husband was now accompanying the unfamiliar voice. The tune was recognizable, though the singer was fumbling with the lyrics.
You're lovely,, Never, never change Keep your breathless touch Darling please arrange it 'cause I love you...
—O, exclaimed Jan Mayer. It's Burger Bob singing and he wouldn't sing all night. Only now when everybody's gone. Isn't that something?
—Well, we're still here, said Tish. Let's go listen.
Before they got halfway over to the piano, the singing and playing had stopped and Garett, followed by Burger Bob and Wendy, came towards them.
—That's a shame, said Eliot. We were just coming to hear you. It sounded really great.
—O, Bob and Garett, Tish chimed in. What meanies you are to stop just when we were coming to listen.
—Everyone has been after you two all night to perform, and you have made so many poor excuses, said Mayer.
—And now when there is no one to hear you...
—We weren't putting on a show, said Burger Bob, curtly, while Garett merely looked the other way.
—Well, said Elisabeth, if you are going to catch up with the others you had better get a move on it. And make sure you have some wraps. It's cold out there.
—Typical Colorado weather, said Tish.
—Yes, and famous it is for giving us colds, said Elisabeth
—Actually, it is not typical at all, said Giles. It's a record breaking winter. On television they say that all of the central western states are covered in at least ten inches of snow.
They're generalizing, said Burger Bob. It's raining in Las Cruces.
—Well, the snow certainly made a wonderful backdrop for the wedding, said Wendy. It couldn't have been more romantic, if you ask me.
—Bob doesn't like a lot of snow, because then people can't visit his drive-thrus, said Elisabeth, smiling.
Gabby would have given anything not to go anywhere, to just be alone with Garett, but she had promised Elisabeth to look out for Carmen and get her home safely. She wondered why Elisabeth was so concerned about Carmen whom she obviously didn't like, and hardly ever spoke to. Garett stood aloof. Lost. In another world as usual. Distant Garett. Beautiful, distant Garett. She went to stand beside him and took his hand.
—Bob, Tish asked, what was the name of that song you were singing?
—“The Way You Look Tonight”, said Burger Bob. I thought everybody knew it.
—Yes of course, “The Way You Look Tonight”, she repeated. I just couldn't think of the name.
—A classic wedding reception piece, to be sure, said Jan Mayer.
—Don't get on his case, Jan, reprimanded Giles.
They wandered together down into the lobby. Burger Bob asked the bellhop to find them a taxi.
—Well, good night, Giles, and thank you for a terrific party, he said.
—Good night, Gabby. Good night Garett, and don't get into trouble at that club.
—Good night, Elisabeth, it's been wonderful. What do you say, Tish – not too late to join us?
—Oh, my place is here with Giles, she answered. It's good night for me.
—Good night, Gabby, Wendy.
—Your shoe is untied, Garett, said Eliot.
—Thank you, Eliot, said Garett.
—Good night, everybody. Don't be too late – church tomorrow, said Giles.
—Good night, we love you, said Tish.
The Four Quarts, a dark, dull-yellow-lit, low-ceilinged basement club lacking charm, headroom and a life-sustainable supply of air, was jammed to the walls with college students and many of the younger Karmon wedding guests. Through the misty smear of a fog-machine, a strobe-light disjointed discjockey waved his vinyl menacingly at the room’s inhabitants. Hardly had Burger Bob and Wendy gotten down the stairs before they fell into a clench – a dance without legroom, his right hand tapping the beat on her buns, her eyes blissfully shut. Garett waded off towards the bar to get beers none of them really wanted.
If Carmen, Ponzy and Jack Diamond were tucked in here somewhere, Gabriella couldn't see them. She felt, and not just a little, giddily exhausted: the ceremony, the reception, twelve hours of alcoholic infusion. The music pounded her brain. Wedding guests came up thanking her for her speech, or so she assumed: for no matter how loud they shouted (and spat saliva) into her ear, it was impossible to fathom a word of what they were saying.
Garett returned with four Tecates looking lost and distracted as usual, and as usual, the room's distracted lost women looked to Garett - like flies sizing up an attractive variety of flypaper. She longed to just grab him and yank him out of this place. She shut out the clamor of the club with memories of their life together: lying in bed with her laptop on her knees reading his first email. He had written no words, just a single question mark. This guy thinks he's Victor Hugo, she had laughed to herself, and mailed him back the exclamation mark he was hoping for. On the beach at Raratonga under a glove of palms, brushing sand from his browned shoulders, both laughing at the sight of that hermit crab running about in a Coca Cola can. Out front of a bar in the California desert on a black and pungently hot night, watching a motorcycle gang romping it up, doing wheelies and guzzling from half-quart whiskey bottles, and true to form he had called out to one of the bikers:
—Does it go fast, buddy?
But the man could not hear him over the roar of the motorcycles, which was a lucky thing, for they might have thought he was being impertinent.
What he knew, what she knew, what no one else could ever know about them: these secret thoughts illumined her memory. She longed to remind him of those moments, their moments of brilliance and ecstasy. They were not done, of course – there was more to come. But sometimes she felt with him that there were no more words, as if they had used them all up.
She longed to be rid the stifling air of the club, she wanted to be in bed with him beside her. She shouted over the cacophonic ocean of noise:
—Garett!
He did not hear her at once. She grabbed him by the arm and motioned with her head towards the door.
A Victorian horse and carriage, complete with costumed driver and cozy plaid blankets, waited invitingly outside the Four Quarts, but Gabby told the driver, sorry, 'cause after all we are living in the twenty-first century, and together with Wendy and Burger Bob they hoped into a heliotrope-colored, neon-light festooned, “disco-taxi”. Gabby took the front seat and for once was glad for loud music, for Garett had an annoying compulsion for chitchatting with cab drivers.
But the music wasn't loud enough. Soon after leaving the club, Garett shouted from his backseat to the driver:
—How tall is that Earl Boykins, anyway?
—He's five foot five, the driver shouted back.
—Gees, how does he do it?
Garett pointed out for Gabriella a bus stop shelter billboard. Rising from a socle of snow, four deadly-serious, half-naked, afro-American giants surrounded and dwarfed a fawn-eyed boy holding a basketball. Gabby waved to the fawn-eyed boy.
—Good-night, little Earl, she said, gaily.
When the cab drew up before the hotel, outdrawing Burger Bob, she handed the driver a twenty and keep-the-change, and he ought to offer earplugs if he couldn't turn down his sound system.
—That's a good idea, Ma'am.
—You're welcome to it, said Gabby.
Garett helped her out of the cab. He held her hand lightly as when they had danced at the reception. She had felt proud and happy then – and loved. This touch aroused her once again. She pressed his arm closely to her side. They were nearing their freedom, approaching the end of their escape tunnel. From the street she could see the light in their room. Fleeing all the Burger Bobs and religious fanatics and other hypocrites and people in general without wisdom, courage or taste...so many genuinely unattractive people. As they stood at the hotel entrance door, she rubbed his cheek with her nose.
The lobby was dark. The bellman dozed on a chair and Wendy and Burger Bob tiptoed to the elevator waving silent, preoccupied good nights. Garett, who had come to life in the disco-taxi, zigzagged up the stairway in goose-steps, dribbling an imaginary basketball. She couldn't resist tripping him up with her hand, and he fell to one knee, giving out a happy cry, waking up the bellman. They apologized profusely. In the hallway on the second floor, the door lock responded with reproaching flashes of red as Garett fed it the plastic key-card. A thumping noise and guttered gasps could be heard from within. They giggled like little children. The next lock they tried was more obliging.
Their beds were turned down and there were chocolate mints on their pillows with a handwritten note from their room maid, Maria, who was delighted to continue serving them.
—“After Eights”! What a kind soul Maria is, said Gabby, happily.
Stylized snow crystals were falling on the central western plains.
—We don't need the media to tell us it's snowing, dear. We can see that well enough just looking out the window. Extinguish that contraption, like a good boy.
She put the “Do-Not-Disturb” sign on the outside door knob and turned off the overhead lights.
Garret unhooked his tie while looking at himself in a full length mirror. Gabriella threw off her jacket and crossed the room to the window where flakes of snow dashed and dissolved on the pane. She turned away, with her back to the lights of the street, and removed her blouse. Softly, she called to him.
—Garett!
He turned away from the mirror and moved towards her.
—You're not too tired to help me with my bra, are you dear? she said, turning again to look out over the wintry street.
—I suppose I can muster some last little joule of energy for such an enjoyable task, he answered, in a more mechanical than earnest tone.
—Well, you know what I've taught you about keeping a woman waiting, she said.
—Yes, you said, never keep a woman waiting, he answered with a smile.
He loosened the clasps of her bra, releasing its hold on her breasts, and parting it gently across her shoulders, let it fall to the floor. Both could see their reflections in the hotel window, the dark brown of her nipples crowning her snow white breasts. But his eyes were focused past the window pane to the streets below. Her hands, which had been fingering his belt behind her, fell to her sides and she glided away from him to the arm of a stuffed chair.
—You know what, Garett?
—What?
—Carmen, she answered. I promised Elisabeth to watch out for her but she wasn't at the Four Quarts. I have no idea what happened to her. What if...
—She can take care of herself. She's a very capable woman.
—She's something, isn't she? Can you believe she told me I was the main reason she married Giles? To protect me from him. Amazing, if it's true. I wonder who she thought she was protecting when she married Ponzy? He's such a dullard.
Garett nodded in agreement, still looking out the window. Irritation with his complacent, vacant, presence rose within her. Is this about me or is it him? She felt invisible and ignored. Desire me, stupid. Am I not desirable?
—She didn't stay with Giles very long, did she? he said. She discovered you weren't so delicate after all, or maybe she just got tired of being called Carmen Karmon.
Why were they talking about Carmen? She didn't want to talk about Carmen or Giles or anybody. But she said:
—Yeah, I could look after myself.
She moved to the desk and sat down brushing her hair with aggravated strokes. She didn't hear Garett come to her from the window, bending over, cupping her breasts with his hands and gently kissing the nape of her neck.
—You're strong Gabby and you're so beautiful, he whispered. Your beauty is from start to finish.
She reached up with her hands and held his head to hers. He is such a slow starter, she thought – of course he had been longing for her. Of course. How could she have ever doubted it?
She turned around rising from the chair. Then, slipping one arm swiftly about his waist and drawing him towards her, she said, softly:
—Garett, where in the hell have you been all night?
He did not answer, his body stiffened. She asked again, imploringly:
—Tell me, Garett, what is the matter?
He looked away at the rocky mountains in a lithograph hanging over the bed – or was it the Alps?
—It's nothing. I was playing on that really nice Bösendorfer, and he just walked up beside me and started singing, right out of the blue, and I had no choice but to accompany him. He just broke into my music and ... I felt like I was being attacked. He was attacking me with his “The Way You Look Tonight.” What is it with that guy, just because he owns Burger King?
He turned away from her, shaking his head, and walked over to the bed. Gabriella, appealing with her eyes to an invisible audience, followed him. She caught sight of her bridesmaid's dress, lying limply on the armchair where she had thrown it when changing for the reception – a puzzling expression of prairie schooner billows and slick city cuts in lime green that some designer friend of Mayer's had thought up. She thought of leaving it as a tip for Maria. She stopped just short of the bed and said:
—Nobody owns Burger King, Garett. It's a corporation. Bob just owns a lot of franchises. He just wanted to impress Wendy with his vocal talents. What does that have to do with us? Did that have to ruin our evening?
He looked up running his hand through his hair, but offered no answer. Gabby, in a voice she would have used with her children, repeated:
—Garett, what is going on?
—I was just thinking about the UK.
—OK, so now we are thinking about the UK. Great. You know I was hoping we would get around to discussing the UK. By all means let's talk about the UK.
—I was thinking about this time I was hitch-hiking to London from Belfast, he answered, as if oblivious to the irony in her voice. The ferry gets off in Stranraer. It was a long time ago. Long before you and I, of course.
Gabriella sighed heavily. This was her Garett in a nutshell. She contemplatively eyed her pillow.
—Hitchhiking, she repeated, slowly.
—Outside of Stranraer, I got let off at some crossroad and there was another hitchhiker there, holding up a sign for London on a piece of cardboard.
Gabriela said nothing. She assumed silence was the best way to minimize this narrative.
—We teamed up and hitched together. I just happened to think of her – the look on her face when I left her in London. You see: the way she looked that night.
—Her? said Gabriella, coming to life. OK, so this is not about the UK or about hitchhiking – it is about a girl. You are not thinking about England, you are thinking about some English girl who you were screwing in your salad days.
—No, I didn't screw her. And she was Scots. We just hitch-hiked together – from Stranraer to London – that's all.
Something clicked in Gabriella's head.
—So that is why you told Elisabeth you wanted to go back to England?
He looked at her in surprise.
—For what?
She shrugged, sleepily:
—How would I know – to see this girl again...
He shook his head slowly and sighed deeply.
—Hardly. How can you get worked up over some seventeen-year-old from my distant past, whose name I can't even remember?
—So what is the big deal, Garett?
—She was from the Gorbals in Glasgow, he said. Do you know it? It is quite a famous slum.
A famous slum? However she had seen herself in the wedding, marching down the aisle, giving that stupid speech, floating about the banquet room, not once doubting her own self – her charm and her beauty, not once doubting her ability to bring men to their knees - now, the one man who she allowed to love her, the one man who mattered, was pushing her down with lovers from the past. Pop goes the balloon and it took just one little pinprick and it came from him, her husband, her man. She walked into the bathroom lest he see the devastation in her face.
She struggled to keep her voice indifferent.
—No, Garett. I'm sorry, but I don't know all the famous slums in the world. And I think you are about to tell me you were in love. I think you were screwing this gorgeous Gorbals girl, Garett.
—I didn't screw her. And she wasn't “gorgeous” – she was ugly. She was plain, skinny, ugly. That's the thing, you see?
His voice had modulated gradually into a sadder tone. Gabriella, beyond exasperation, peeped around through the bathroom door and recited slushingly, her mouth full of toothpaste:
—She was just a young thin pale soft shy slim slip of a thing then.
—Where in the hell did you get that from? He stared at her frowning.
She continued brushing, her naked breasts swinging in counterpoint to the vigorous strokes of her arm.
—After a lorry ride or two, we were left off at some café and we had tea together. She had a thick, comical accent like that janitor in the Simpson's, only for real. She was running away. Things were not good at home. It had something to do with her father; I guess he drank and he beat her. And she didn't have a job – or maybe she had a job but it was a lousy job that she was sick of, and she had quit school too early, and there was no future in Glasgow for anyone, specially not for her. That was her story.
He paused, studying his hands.
—And she listened rapturously to all my bullshit; about being born rich and leaving it, traveling all over Europe and Africa, singing in clubs and working on films. And she said that I was the most exciting person she had ever met. And she wasn't putting it on. She was, like, hopelessly defenseless. And I felt ridiculous for it.
—I thought all that stuff was true?
—Yeah, but it was all so circumstantial. I was so circumstantial. And such an asshole. When we got in cars, I would have her sit in the front seat and converse with the drivers. She would refer to herself and myself as a ‘we’, but I had to make it clear for everyone that we had just met and that we were not a ‘we’ at all.
He paused again, looking to Gabby for a sign of understanding.
—I had to distance myself from her because she was ugly. I was too weak to see past that. I was so shallow, so false. She was sweet, smart, brave; she had nothing in London at all – one friend who worked in a pub and she wasn't even sure of her address. I could have helped her, but...
—Maybe you should have advised her to go back to Glasgow? suggested Gabriella.
—She offered me friendship – OK, love perhaps. She said that we would look out for each other in London and whatever happened I could count on her. She meant it – god dammit, I know that – with all her heart.
—And you?
—As we got closer to London I worried that I wouldn't be able to shake her off. But when we were dropped somewhere on the outskirts, well, we just said goodbye and ... not even a hug. I never saw her again. I was such an asshole – such a shallow, phony, chicken-shit, asshole. Do you understand now?
He lay flat outstretched on the bed in his bomboniere Jackie & Peter boxer shorts, and when he closed his eyes, two perfect little tears squeezed out onto his cheeks. She sat quietly for several minutes watching the rise and fall of his chest and then walked over to the mini-bar to get herself some vodka.
When she returned to the bed, he was apparently fast asleep.
She stood above him staring at his face, his Asturian nose, chin tucked into his shoulder. Some girl with a sign on a cold motorway. An ugly girl. She followed the shape of his figure downwards. His legs were spread innocently, innocuously wide, his toes slightly curled. Such a pose.
She felt no jealousy now, only indignation, and anger. Her eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown her clothes. The strings of her slip dangled to the floor. His shoe lay on its side beneath it. She picked it up, balancing it in her hand lightly before smashing it into his unprotected crotch. He awoke with a scream, pulling his limbs together in fetal contraction, cupping his numb-dumb member, his face contorted in pain.
—Gabby! What in the hell!
—Shush my darling, she said with her finger to her lips – you'll wake up the entire hotel.
—Gabby?
—Sorry, baby, gut reaction. But now you know how it feels.
—How what feels? his voice still trembling from the pain.
—Well, for starters: here we are, you and I, alone together in a relatively nice hotel room, if one can ignore the botanical wallpaper, without the kids, just the two of us, finally free from all that shit out there. And tonight at the reception when they played “A Thousand Miles Away” and we danced with each other and I thought to hell with all these people because it's after all just the two of us ... and twenty minutes ago I was feeling pretty horny – I can hardly move my eyelids, but I was keeping them wide for you, baby – I was feeling horny for you, and that was the only thing keeping me awake and you, it turns out, are a thousand miles away, or ten thousand, thinking about some girl you couldn't get it up for twenty years ago. You get it now?
—But it has nothing to do with us.
—Oh, really? Nothing to do with us? Isn't it we who are shallow, cowardly, circumstantial? Phonies, fakes, hypocrites? Isn't it we you meant?
—No, not you Gabby.
—What are we, Garett? We are what we see and smell and touch: that's our world. And beauty – it's our judge and our judgment. And it also happens to be how I make my living – our living, I might add. I work on that shallow, superficial, skin-deep surface you are slamming. Appearances, packaging, that's my trade – and guess what: it's for real. Reality is on that surface. And all that da da da fire sermon shit is a bunch of pretentious hot-air crap; an abyss – a void. You can't go there and you can't live there. We ain't Buddhas, baby – we're consumers. We consume and then we die. In the profound words of the waitress: Enjoy! And for God’s sake, stop moping about it.
She sat on the bed, plucking at a lone strand of hair on her thigh, an escapee from her last wax job. Garett stared at the ceiling. Tears now rounded his cheeks, falling to his pillow. My poor darling, we are all circumstance – by birth, by fate. Of course it's not fair. Power's not fair. Wealth is not fair. Beauty? No way José. Only death is fair. Death trumps all and beauty, yes. But what’s the big deal, Garett? We're only snowflakes, butterflies with our little ephemeral moments of glory – our circumstantial, ephemeral moments. And then ...
She laid herself flat-out on the bed so close to her husband that she could feel his warmth but not touching, and closed her eyes. Slumberous flakes of snow, silver and dark, fell over her body, Garett's body, and all the sleeping and sleepless bodies of the Hotel Boulderado. It truly was snowing everywhere. Snowflakes from stars and moons everywhere, falling like comets or dust or nothing. Falling on us all. Falling upon the beautiful and the ugly, the real and the counterfeit, the living and the dead.
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