I chewed the rest of my hamburger and swallowed it thoughtfully; then I slurped up the rest of my milk shake. Now or never was the time for courage, I thought. I longed to marry Arthur, but I couldn't do it unless he knew the truth about me and accepted me as I was, past and present. He'd have to be told I'd lied to him, that I'd never been a cheerleader, that I myself was the fat lady in the picture. I would also have to tell him that I'd quit my job as a wig-seller several months before and was currently finishing Love Defied, on the proceeds of which I expected to live for at least the next six months.
"Arthur," I said, "marriage is serious. There are a few things I think you should know about me, in advance." My voice was trembling: surely he would be horrified, he would find me unethical, he would be disgusted, he would leave....
"If you mean you were living with another man when you met me," he said, "I already know that. It doesn't bother me in the least."
"How did you find out?" I asked. I thought I'd been very careful.
"You didn't expect me to believe that story about your fat roommate, did you?" he said indulgently. He smiled and put his arm around me. "Slocum followed you home," he said. "I asked him to."
"Arthur," I said, "you sneaky old spy." I was delighted that he'd been jealous or curious enough to have done this; I also saw that he was pleased at having penetrated my disguise. But how annoyed he'd be if he discovered he'd only made it as far as the first layer.... I decided to postpone my revelations to some later date.
The only difficulty with the actual wedding was that Arthur refused to be married in a church, since he disapproved of religion. He also refused to be married in a city hall, because he disapproved of the current government. When I protested that these were the only choices, he said there had to be some other way. I went through the Yellow Pages, under "Bridal" and "Weddings," but these departments covered only gowns and cakes. Then I looked under "Churches." There was one division labeled "Interdenominational."
"Will this do?" I said. "If they'll marry anyone to anyone else, they can't have very strict religious convictions." I talked him into it, and he phoned the first name on the list, a Reverend E. P. Revele.
"It's all set," he told me, coming out of the pay phone. "He says we can have it at his house, he'll supply the witnesses, and it'll only take ten minutes. He says they like to do a little ceremony, nothing religious."
That was fine with me. I didn't want to be done out of a ceremony, I wouldn't feel married without one. "What did you say?"
"As long as he keeps it short."
Arthur also told me that it would only cost fifteen dollars, which was lucky since we didn't have very much money. I was torn between asking him to postpone the wedding - I'd think of some excuse, but really so I could finish Love Defied and buy a good wedding dress - and rushing to the Interdenominationalists right away, before Arthur found out the truth. Fear prevailed over vanity, and I bought a white cotton dress with nylon daisies on it at Eaton's Budget Floor. It would be a little disappointing, but I could stand the disappointment of a cheap cotton wedding a lot better than I could stand the thought of no wedding at all. I was terrified that I'd be exposed at the last minute as a fraud, liar and impostor. Under the strain I started to eat extra helpings of English muffins covered with butter, loaves of bread and honey, banana splits, doughnuts, and secondhand cookies from Kresge's. Though these indulgences were not obvious to Arthur, I was gaining weight; the only thing that saved me from bloating up like a drowned corpse was the wedding date itself, and even so, I'd gained thirteen pounds by the time it arrived. I could just barely get my zipper done up.
No one we knew came to our wedding, for the simple reason that we knew no one. Arthur's parents were out of the question: Arthur had written them an aggressively frank letter saying that we'd been sleeping together for a year, so they needn't think his marriage was a capitulation to convention. They, of course, denounced both of us and cut off Arthur's funds. I thought of inviting my father but he might reveal more of my past than I wanted Arthur to know. I sent him a postcard afterward, and he sent me a waffle iron. Arthur didn't like any of the philosophy students, and I hadn't become friends with any of my fellow wig demonstrators, so we wouldn't even get any wedding presents. I went out and bought myself a soup kettle, a pair of oven mitts and, on impulse, a gadget for taking the stones out of cherries and the pits out of olives, to make myself feel more like a bride.
On the day itself, Arthur picked me up at my rooming house and we got on the northbound subway together. We sat on the black leatherette seats and watched the pastel tiles flash by; we held hands. Arthur seemed apprehensive. He'd lost weight and was skinny as a funeral brass; our reflections in the subway-car windows had deep hollows under the eyes. I didn't see how he was possibly going to be able to carry me over the threshold. We didn't even have a threshold: we hadn't rented an apartment yet, because I still had two paid-in-advance weeks left at my rented room, and Arthur said there was no point wasting money.
We got off the subway and transferred to a bus. It wasn't till after it had started that the name on the front of it registered. "Where did you say this man lives?" I said. Arthur handed me the piece of paper on which he'd scribbled the address and told me. It was in Braeside Park.
I began to sweat. The bus went past the stop where I used to get off; up a side street I glimpsed my mother's house. My face must have been white, for when Arthur glanced at me, squeezing my hand to reassure me or for reassurance, he said, "Are you all right?"
"Just a little nervous, I guess," I said, with a ducklike laugh.
We got off the bus and walked along the sidewalk, into the dank interior of upper Braeside Park, past the trim, respectable, haunted fake-Tudor dwellings of my obese adolescence. My terror was growing. Surely the minister would be someone I knew, someone whose daughter I'd gone to school with, someone who would recognize me despite my change of shape. He wouldn't be able to contain himself, he would exclaim at my transformation and tell humorous stories about my former size and weight, and Arthur would know - on our very wedding day! - how deeply I'd deceived him. He'd know I hadn't gone steady with a basketball player, or been third runner-up in the Rainbow Romp queen-of-the-prom contest. The maple trees were heavy with drooping green leaves, the air was humid as soup, laden with car fumes which had drifted in from the nearest thoroughfare. Moisture beaded our upper lips; I could feel the sweat spreading under my arms, staining the purity of my white dress.
"I think I'm having a sunstroke," I said, leaning against him.
"But you haven't been in the sun," Arthur said reasonably. "That's the house, right up there, we'll get inside and you can have a drink of water." He was pleased in a way that I was reacting with such distress; it camouflaged his own.
Arthur helped me up the cement front steps of Number 52 and rang the bell. There was a small, ornately lettered sign on the door that said "Paradise Manor"; I read it without comprehension. I was trying to decide whether or not to faint. Then, even if there was a revelation, I could exit with dignity, in an ambulance. The aluminum screen door had the silhouette of a flamingo on it.
The door was opened by a tiny old woman in pink gloves, pink high-heeled shoes, a pink silk dress and a pink hat decorated with blue cloth carnations and forget-me-nots. There was a round circle of rouge on each of her cheeks, and her eyebrows were two thinly penciled arcs of surprise.
"We're looking for the Reverend E. R Revele," Arthur said.
"Oh, what a lovely dress!" the old woman chirped. "I love weddings; I'm the witness, you know, my name is Mrs. Symons. They always have me for the witness. Here comes the bride," she called to the house in general.
We went in. I was recovering; surely this was no one I knew. Thankfully I breathed in the smell of upholstery and warm furniture polish.
"The Reverend does the ceremonies in the parlor," said Mrs. Symons. "It's such a lovely ceremony, I'm sure you'll like it." We followed her, and found ourselves in a grotto.
It was the standard Braeside living room, poorer section, with a dining room opening onto it, which in turn opened into the kitchen; however, the walls contained, not the traditional soothing landscapes (Brook in Winter, Country Lane in Fall), but several peacock fans, some framed pieces of embroidery, a picture of a ballet dancer that lit up from behind ornamented with sprays of dried leaves, a painting of a North American Indian woman smiling winsomely, a shellwork picture - flowers in a vase, the petals of each made from a different kind of shell - and a number of fading photographs, also in frames, with signatures across the bottom. The chesterfield and matching easy chairs were of plum-colored velvet and each easy chair had a matching footstool; all were smothered in many-colored doilies crocheted in wool. The mantel of the fireplace was crowded with objects: little Buddhas, Indian gods, a china dog, several brass cigarette cases and a stuffed owl under a glass bell.
"Here comes the Reverend," said Mrs. Symons in an excited whisper. There was shuffling noise behind us. I turned, then collapsed into a plum-colored armchair; for there, standing in the doorway in her long white gown with the purple bookmark, leaning now on a silver-headed cane and surrounded by a nimbus of Scotch whiskey, was Leda Sprott.
She looked me straight in the face, and I could tell she knew exactly who I was. I moaned and closed my eyes.
"Wedding nerves," shrilled Mrs. Symons. She grabbed my hand and began chafing my wrist. "I fainted three times during my own wedding. Get the smelling salts!"
"I'm all right," I said, opening my eyes. Leda Sprott hadn't said anything: maybe she'd keep my secret.
"Are you all right?" Arthur said to me. I nodded. "We were looking for a minister named E. P. Revele," he said to Leda Sprott.
"I am E. R Revele," she said. "Eunice R Revele." She smiled, as if she was used to incredulity.
"Are you qualified?" Arthur asked.
"Of course," said Leda. She waved at an official-looking framed certificate on the wall. "They wouldn't let me perform weddings if I weren't. Now, what will you have? I specialize in mixed marriages. I can do Jewish, Hindu, Catholic, five kinds of Protestant, Buddhist, Christian Scientist, agnostic, Supreme Being, any combination of these, or my own specialty."
"Maybe we should take the specialty," I said to Arthur. I wanted it over and done with as soon as possible, so I could get away.
"That is the one I myself prefer," said Leda. "But first, the picture." She went to the hall, where she called, "Harry!" I took this chance to look at the certificate. "Eunice P. Revele," it said, right enough. I was confused: either she was really Leda Sprott, in which case the ceremony would be invalid, or she was really Eunice P. Revele; if so, why had she used another name at the Jordan Chapel? But then, I thought, men who changed their names were likely to be con-men, criminals, undercover agents or magicians, whereas women who changed their names were probably just married. Beside the certificate was a photo of Leda, much younger, shaking hands with Mackenzie King. It was signed, I noticed.
Mrs. Symons was trying to get Arthur to put a plastic wreath of flowers around his neck, with no success. She put one on me, though, and a man in a gray suit came in with a Polaroid camera. It was Mr. Stewart, the visiting medium. "Smile," he said, squinting through the viewfinder. He himself smiled broadly.
"Look," Arthur said, "this isn't...." But there was a flash, and Mrs. Symons whipped off my wreath.
"When the gong sounds, you stand to attention," Mrs. Symons said. She was very excited. "You look lovely, dear."
"It sounded all right over the phone," Arthur said to me in a low voice.
"Who were you talking to?" I asked. "You said it was a man."
"I thought it was," Arthur said.
The gong sounded and Leda paced in, wearing a different robe, a purple one, trimmed in red velvet. I recognized the remains of the Jordan Chapel curtains and pulpit: times were evidently hard. With the help of Mr. Stewart, she got up onto the footstool that stood in front of the fireplace.
"Arthur Edward Foster," she intoned. "Joan Elizabeth Delacourt. Advance." She broke into a fit of coughing as, hand in hand, we approached her.
"Kneel," she said, stretching out her arms in front of her as if about to dive off the stool. We did. "No, no," she said irritably, "on either side. How can I join you together if you're already joined?" We got up, kneeled again, and Leda placed a slightly trembling hand on each of our heads.
"For true happiness," she said, "you must approach life with a feeling of reverence. Reverence for life, for those loved ones who are still with us, and also for those who have gone before. Remember that all we do and all that is in our hearts is watched and recorded, and will someday be brought to light. Avoid deception and falsehood; treat your lives as a diary you are writing and that you know your loved one will someday read, if not here on this side, then on the other side, where all the final reconciliations will take place. Above all, you should love each other for what you are and forgive each other for what you are not. You have a beautiful aura, my children; you must work to preserve it." Her voice dropped to a mumble; I think she was praying. She swayed dangerously and I hoped she would not fall off the stool.
"Amen," said Mrs. Symons.
"You may rise," said Leda. She asked for our rings - I'd insisted on double rings, and we'd got them in a pawn shop - and circled them three times around the statue of the Buddha, though it might have been the stuffed owl; from where I was standing, I couldn't see. "For wisdom, for charity, for tranquillity," she said. She gave Arthur's ring to me and my ring to Arthur.
"Now," she said, "holding the rings in your left hands, place your right hands on each other's hearts. When I count to three, press"
"Three is the mystical number," Mrs. Symons said. "Four is too, but...." By this time I'd recognized her: she was one of the old Jordan Chapel regulars. "My name comes out to five," she continued. "That's numerology, you know."
"There's a story I heard recently that would be appropriate for this occasion," said Mr. Stewart. "There were once two caterpillars who were walking down the Road of Life, the optimistic caterpillar and the pessimistic...."
"Not now, Harry," Leda Sprott said sharply. The ceremony was getting out of hand. She told us to put the rings on each other's fingers, hastily pronounced us man and wife, and clambered down off the footstool.
"Now the presents!" cried Mrs. Symons. She scurried from the room. Leda produced a certificate, which we were all supposed to sign.
"There's someone standing behind you," Mr. Stewart said. His eyes were glazed and he seemed to be talking to himself. "She's a young woman, she's unhappy, she has on white gloves ... she's reaching out towards you...."
"Harry," Leda said, "go and help Muriel with the presents."
"We don't want any presents, really," I said, and Arthur agreed, but Leda Sprott said, "A wedding isn't a wedding without presents," and pink Mrs. Symons was already hurrying in from the hall with several packages wrapped in white tissue paper. We thanked them; we were both acutely embarrassed because these well-meaning, rather pathetic old people had gone to so much trouble and we were secretly so ungrateful. Mr. Stewart gave us the Polaroid snapshot, in which our faces were a sickly blue and the sofa was brownish-red, like dried blood.
"Now I have something to say to the bride and groom ... separately," said Leda Sprott. I followed her into the kitchen. She shut the door and we sat down at the kitchen table, which was an ordinary one covered with checked oilcloth. She poured herself a shot from a half-empty bottle, then looked at me and grinned. One of her eyes, I could see now, was not quite focused; perhaps she was going blind.
"Well," she said. "I'm pleased to see you again. You've changed, but I never forget a face. How is your aunt?"
"She died," I said, "didn't you know?"
"Yes, yes," she said, waving one of her hands impatiently, "of course. But she must still be with you."
"No, I don't think so," I said.
Leda Sprott looked disappointed. "I can see you haven't taken my ad
vice," she said. "That's unfortunate. You have great powers, I told you that before, but you've been afraid to develop them." She took my hand and peered at it for some moments, then dropped it. "I could tell you a lot of mumbo jumbo, which would probably mean just as little to you as the truth," she said. "But I liked your aunt, so I won't. You do not choose a gift, it chooses you, and if you deny it it will make use of you in any case, though perhaps in a less desirable way. I used my own gift, as long as I had it. You may think I'm a stupid old woman or a charlatan, I'm used to that. But sometimes I had the truth to tell; there's no mistaking it when you do. When I had no truth to tell, I told them what they wanted to hear. I shouldn't have done that. You may think it's harmless, but it isn't." She paused, staring down at her fingers, which were knotted with arthritis. Suddenly I believed in her. I wanted to ask her all the questions I'd saved up for her: she could tell me about my mother.... But my belief faded: hadn't she just hinted that the Jordan Chapel was fraudulent and her revelations guesswork and playacting?
"People have faith in you," Leda said. "They trust you. That can be dangerous, especially if you take advantage of it. Everything catches up to you sooner or later. You should stop feeling so sorry for yourself." She was looking at me sharply with her one good eye, her head on one side, like a bird. She seemed to expect some reply.
"Thank you," I said awkwardly.
"Don't say what you don't mean," she said irritably. "You do enough of that already. That's really all I have to say to you, except ... yes, you should try the Automatic Writing. Now, send in your new husband."
I didn't want Arthur to be alone with her. If she'd been this blunt with me, what was she likely to say to him?
"You won't tell him, will you?" I said.
"Tell him what?" Leda asked sharply.