The Wedding
December 16, 1955: The Day Before
It had been snowing since mid-day and traffic throughout the city had been slow, snarled, or, in many areas, even nonexistent.
The mothers at the hotel “organizing,” Walter was tied up someplace on the south side, and because Marsha didn’t drive, and wouldn’t in any case due to this snow, Eli was only too happy to get away from the tumult at the Palmer House and spend some time alone with his daughter, and he’d—though he would have certainly been drafted—volunteered to drive to the airport to pick up Mitchell, where now, the excitement had caught up with Marsha and she was once again in the washroom vomiting when Mitchell’s plane landed.
Looking for Marsha, “Eli, hi!” shaking hands, “Don’t tell me…” Remembering that the last time he’d come home she’d been in the washroom vomiting. “…she got sick again.”
Smiling, “I guess you just do something to her, Mitch.”
“Mitchie!”
Turning to the sound of her voice, seeing her running to him, “Marcie!”
Flinging herself into his arms, they kissed till—he’d never seen her without a tan; even last October she’d still had the remnants of a tan—now, though, holding her at arms’ length, “You okay? You look so pale.”
An uncomfortable thought in her mind, “Mitchie, I just threw my guts up.”
“Yeah,” he smiled, “your dad said I make you sick.”
“That’s not exactly what I said, Mitch.”
“Daddy, he does make me sick. I puke whenever he comes home.” Taking Mitchell’s hand, “Guess you do something to me, kid.”
Hugging her again—knowing that after tomorrow nothing in the world could possibly happen to, literally, keep them apart—whispering in her ear, “I’m going to do something to you alright!”
“Yeah,” whispering back, “me, too! But now,” she said, “we’d better get going because by the time we get there everyone’ll be waiting for us.”
***
Grey exhaust smoked from the thousands of cars that inched their way through the snow-induced, extended rush hour.
Slapping from side to side, the wipers of the Buick left streaky, wet stripes across the windshield.
Holding hands, sitting closely together in the front seat, “You hear anything else about the car?”
“No, only what I told you: That Uncle Willie say’s the motor’s in great shape, the body and paint look like new, it’s got brand new tires and that Myron will have it all shined and gassed up waiting for us tomorrow.” She looked at the filthy, snow and mud-encrusted cars around them. “And that he says it’s ‘cherry.’ I can’t wait to see it.”
He knew what cherry meant regarding Marsha and himself, “Yeah, me, too.” but couldn’t quite relate their virginity to a new car.
Finally, they were beneath the el tracks of Wabash Avenue.
Within minutes, stopping in front of the Palmer House, Eli handed the keys to the doorman and the three rushed through the revolving door.
Taking the elevator up, “They’re here!” someone shouted as they entered the large room and, as Myra, Walter and Rhea went to welcome them, the rest of the ensemble applauded.
***
Within forty minutes of starting, the rehearsal was finished.
The entire wedding party taken to dinner at a nearby restaurant by the parents of the groom, Mitchell looked for a sign of hostility or animosity between Marsha and his mother, but at the moment, happily, there did not appear to be any.
Marsha and Mitchell went to the homes of their parents, to sleep alone for the last time, in the eyes of God, as unmarried people.
The Wedding
December 17, 1955: The Day of…
Clear and cold that morning, there was about four inches of new snow on the ground, but the streets were relatively dry as Mitchell and Walter drove to the formal wear shop on Devon Avenue where they tried on their rented tuxedos. Everything fitting properly, they took them from the shop on oversized hangers inside large, white plastic bags weighed down by the bulk of their black, patent leather shoes.
After driving to the Goldman apartment, Walter waited in the car as his son ran into the building to get Marsha.
“You okay? You look even paler than yesterday.”
“Yes, I’m fine, Mitchie.” She didn’t know how to tell him. “It’s just the anticipation, and all this excitement is getting to me.”
“Maybe you’ll feel better after breakfast.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Thinking, God, I wish it were that simple.
At a Sambo’s restaurant, Mitchell had his usual of orange juice and coffee, eggs over easy, pork sausage, hash-brown potatoes and a toasted English muffin with cream cheese. Walter had the same, but with ham instead of sausage. Marsha, looking as though she were ill, just had toast and tea.
Finished eating, dawdling over his third cup of coffee, “Come on, Dad!” Prodding his father to drink faster, because…
***
“My, God, Myron, I can’t believe it! It’s fantastic!”
“Bill and me, we kind’a thought you kids’ll like it.”
“Like it?” Slightly revived, “I love it!” Marsha said.
The cream-colored top was down on the sleek, shiny, navy-blue ’52 Ford convertible with automatic transmission, revealing the dashboard, AM/FM radio, steering wheel, and dark-blue, leather upholstery.
“Hmmm?” Always trying to think of ways to placate Myra, especially during the sailing season, “Wonder if your mother would like a convertible?” Walter asked, thinking, But even if she doesn’t, I would!
“If you’d like, I’ll keep a lookout for one, Walt.”
“Yeah, do that, Myron.” Handing him a business card. “Give me a call at the office, but if a lady answers, just leave your name and tell her to tell me to call you back.” Looking at Mitchell, “Don’t say anything to your mother, okay!”
“Sure, Dad.” Patting Marsha on the behind, “One of the first things I’m going to do when we get to Seagate is to teach you how to drive.”
“That sounds…” A sharp pain shooting through her lower abdomen, trying to hide it with a weak smile, “…great.”
Noting the catch in her voice, looking at her closely, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” squeezing his hand, “I’m fine. It’s just that I have so much to do today.” Glancing at her watch, “Maybe we’d better get started back.” The pain worse when she stood, anxious to sit down, “I’ve got to be at the beauty shop by one, and if they’re going to have enough time to make me beautiful, I’d better be on time.”
“Honey, you’ve plenty of time! And besides, you’re beautiful just the way you are.” But the way Marsha looked then, he didn’t really mean it.
“Look kids, I’ve got to be heading home, too,” Walter said. “I’ve got a barber’s appointment and, knowing your mother,” looking from Marsha—a pang of regret crossing his mind—to Mitchell, “she’ll have a million things for me to do this afternoon. Tell you what; why don’t you two take the Buick, and I’ll drive that wreck,” jerking his thumb towards the Ford convertible.
“Yeah, sure, Dad. Fat chance!”
He’d felt Marsha’s coolness since the night of the coffee cup incident, and sorely missing her affection, now putting his arms about her, “In case I haven’t told you, and in case I don’t have time later, I do want you to know that I’m very happy to have you for a daughter.” Looking into her eyes, he silently asked for forgiveness. But, Marsha’s arms hanging by her sides, receiving nothing in return, trying to hide his disappointment at this, going to the Buick, waving half-heartedly, “See you later.”
“Bye, Dad.” Knowing that Marsha did have a great fondness for his father, bewildered by her coldness to him, but unwilling to question her, or to get into an argument about it on this day, holding the door open for her, “Okay, baby,” waving to Myron, “let’s see how this thing drives.”
***
“So, how’s it feel, Mitch?”
“Marcie, It’s wonderful! It drives like a dream… Look, it’s not too far out of the way, and I promise to get you there in plenty of time. Come on with me, I want to show the car to my mother.”
Looking at her watch, then the clock in the dashboard, “The clock seems to keep good time… Sure, I want to see your mother’s face when she sees it.”
Parking directly in front of the house, as Mitchell ran to get his mother—because she wanted to see the look on Myra’s face—Marsha slid into the driver’s seat.
Coming out of the house with a coat over her shoulders, looking at the car, but apparently seeing only Marsha, “What’s she doing here?” Myra said loud enough for Marsha to hear, and without another word, turning, going back in the house, rattling the windows, Myra slammed the door shut.
“Huh?” Flinching at the sound of the slamming door, bewilderment showing on his face, standing with his mouth open, he looked at Marsha, “Huh?” then at the door.
Hurt and angry, “Mitchell, come on!”
Taking a step towards the house, “What in the hell was that about?”
“No! Come on, Mitch!” Sliding over to the passenger seat again, Marsha did not want him to fight with his mother, today of all days. “Just get me to the beauty shop, please!”
“But, why?”
“Please!”
“Why’d she do that?” Getting into the car. “Everything was fine last night! What in hell’s bugging her?”
“Your mother’s nervous about tonight.”
Starting the motor, “Yeah, aren’t we all!” Pulling away from the curb, “I don’t understand! Why’d she do that?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along. I don’t know why she does these things.”
“But Marcie, everything was fine last night. I watched to see if there was any problem between you two, and there wasn’t. And I know you haven’t talked to her since then, so what in hell happened to make her act that way?”
“Your mother’s been doing this to me ever since we became engaged. Everything’ll be okay one minute, then the next she’s mad at me and I never know why.” Sometimes, though, she did.
“Sorry, baby. I don’t know what she’s trying to prove.”
Snuggling close, “Mitchie, don’t let what happened just now bother you and spoil our day. We have this beautiful new car, and we’re getting married tonight…”
“In the eyes of God!”
“Yes, ‘in the eyes of God’, and tomorrow we’ll go home.”
“Yeah, and tonight…” he said slyly, kissing her forehead.
Knowing what he was thinking. Knowing it was time she told him, “Mitchell,” she said seriously, “I’ve got to tell you something.”
Looking at her, Marsha’s expression and tone of voice causing his heart to lurch, because for a second he, unreasonably—especially since she’d just said, ‘we’re getting married tonight’—thought she was going to tell him that she didn’t want to marry him. “What’s wrong?”
“Mitchell, I’ve… I don’t know how to tell you this, but… Look, it wasn’t supposed to happen for another nine days, and that’s one of the reasons we picked today for the wedding, but…”
Alarmed, steering to the curb, “Marsha,” putting the car in Park, “what’s the matter?”
