“Eunice, I took the liberty of telling Cunningham to have the Gold Suite set up for the Garcias—”
“Perfect! I’ll have a door cut from my lounge into theirs…and there already is a lock-off that we can unlock between its foyer and the upstairs library we joined to your suite—and then we can quit this unseemly ducking back and forth through the hall.”
“The newlyweds might prefer to be left alone.”
“Hadn’t thought of that. Oh, well, ‘I have some friends of my own,’ as the old gal said.”
“In any case they’ll be back too soon for carpentry. I have it from a usually dependable source that a reliably dishonest member of your staff agreed to phone Mrs. Garcia the instant you returned. I assume that the call was made. I assume that they will be back by, oh, nightfall.”
“I wonder whom I should fire? That’s a hell of a way to run a honeymoon.”
“I understand the good Doctor was in on it—the idea being to keep you safe from harm, since between them they constitute your medical staff.”
“What nonsense. I’m the Pioneer-Mother type. Rugged. If I had crossed with the prairie schooners, they would have yoked me in with the oxen. But I’m glad they’re coming home. I want to kiss them and cry on them.”
“Johann, sometimes I can’t make up my mind whether you are a silly young girl—or senile.”
“The last time you called me ‘Johann’ you acquired some scar tissue. Dear, has it occurred to you that I might be both? A senile silly young girl?”
“Interesting. A possible working hypothesis.”
“If so, I’m a well-adjusted one—Jake, I’m as happy as a cat left alone with the Christmas turkey. With Joe squared away and the Supreme Court being sensible for a change my last fret is gone. Life is one long giddy delight. I’m not even morning sick.”
“Can’t see why you should be—huh?” (Boss, I thought you weren’t going to tell him?) (Eunice, he was bound to know soon…and I couldn’t just let him find out, can’t do that to Jake. This is the perfect time—he’s officially ‘first to know.’)
“I said I wasn’t bothered by morning sickness, Jake. I’m healthy as a horse and the only change I’ve noticed is that I’m hungry as a horse, too.”
“You wish me to believe that you are pregnant?”
“Don’t give me that stern-father look, Jake. I’m knocked up and happier than Happy Hooligan. I could have kept it to myself a while longer but I wanted to tell you before anyone else could notice. But be a dear and treat it as privileged—because the instant Winnie finds out she’ll start mothering me and worrying. Which is not what a bride should be doing. With luck I can keep it from Winnie until she’s pregnant, too.” (Boss, what makes you think Winnie intends to get pregnant?) (Use your head, Eunice—five to one she’s got a Band-aid over the spot where that implant used to be this very minute.) (I don’t have a head, Boss—just yours and it doesn’t work too well.) (Complaints, huh? Talk that way and I won’t marry you, either.) (We are married, Boss.) (I know it, beloved. Now be quiet; I’ve got to juggle eggs.)
“Eunice—are you sure?”
“Yes. Test positive.”
“Did Bob make the test? Or some quack?”
“A patient’s relations with a doctor are confo. But it was not a quack. Don’t pursue this line of inquiry, Counselor.”
“We’ll get married at once.”
“The hell we will!”
“Eunice, let’s have no nonsense!”
“Sir, I asked you to marry me quite some time back. You emphatically refused. I asked you at a later time. Again I was turned down. I decided not to renew my request, and I do not do so now. I will not marry you. But I will be honored and delighted to continue as your mistress until I am benched by biology—and more than pleased to be allowed again to be your concubine when I am back in commission. I love you, sir. But I will not marry you.”
“I ought to spank you.”
“I don’t think it would do me any damage, darling. But I don’t think you could bring yourself to strike a pregnant woman.” (Now kick him in the other shin, Boss. You little hellcat.) (Eunice, stay out of this row. I’m not only a woman scorned; I’m also old Johann Smith who never could be pushed too far. Jake can have us any time, sure. But I’m damned if I’ll let him be ‘noble’ about it when I’m knocked up.) (Boss, aren’t we ever going to marry him? This is a mistake, dear; he needs us.) (And we need him, Eunice. Sure, we’ll marry him—after we’ve whelped. After.) (Boss, you’re making a big mistake.) (If so, I’m making it. I never make little mistakes—just big ones.)
“I didn’t say I was going to spank you, Eunice—I said I ‘ought’ to. What happened? I distinctly remember you telling me that you had taken care of contraception.”
“Your memory is good, sir. The exact phrasing, as I phrased it most carefully. I have ‘taken care’ of such matters in whatever fashion I wished. Every time. With you. With others. Each time I have taken such care as suited me—at that time and with that man.”
“Hmmm! That’s as unresponsive an answer as I’ve ever heard. Let me put it more plainly. Eunice, did I get you pregnant?”
“I won’t answer. You know that at least one other man has slept with me—and I may have been the bride of the regiment. Jake, you would not marry me when I was a virgin; you still would not marry me when you made me your mistress. So where I got this child in me is not your business and you have no right to quiz me and—much as I love you!—I will not tolerate one more question along this line. Not now nor in the future! Whom I chose to father my child is my business. But you may be certain that I selected him with care, eyes open and wits about me. You’ve been acting as if you were a father dealing with a wayward daughter, or a Welfare Visitor trying to establish responsibility for an unlicensed pregnancy. You know that is not the situation. I am ninety-five years old—much older than you are—able to afford a dozen bastards if it suits me—and it may—and wealthy enough to tell the world to go pee up a rope. Jake, I was sharing happy news with you. You elect to treat it as bad news and take me to task about it. I won’t accept that, sir. I made a mistake in telling you. Will you please treat the matter as privileged—and never mention it again?”
“Eunice.”
“Yes, Jake?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, Jake.”
“Had I been twenty years younger—even ten years!—I would have married you long before now. Since you won’t tell me—and since I have no right to quiz you; you are correct—will you forgive an old man’s pride if I choose to believe that I am the man you picked? I promise that I will not discuss that belief with anyone.”
“Jacob, if you choose to believe that, I am honored. But I ask no promises. If you chose to proclaim such a belief, I would never shame my oldest and closest and most beloved friend by denying it. I would smile proudly and let my manner confirm it. But, Jacob my beloved, to you I neither affirm nor deny it—and never will. I did this on my own. I alone am parent to this child.” (Watch your words, Boss! You almost spelled it out.) (He’ll take it as rhetoric. Or if he does suspect, investigation will prove that he’s wrong. Hank Olsen knows which side of his bed is buttered. Mine, that is.) (And the dates are going to check out so that Jake will be certain it’s his. Hmm—) (Still think I’m a fool, Eunice?) (No, Boss—just reckless. You scare the hell out of me at times.)
“Well, Eunice, from the restrictions you have put on me that seems to be all we can say about it.”
“That was my intention, Jake.”
“I understood. What would you like to do the rest of today—at least until our newlyweds return? Play cribbage?”
“If you wish, Jake, certainly.”
“I have a better idea. If you want to join me in it. Could be fun, I think.”
“Will be fun, Jake. Anything is always fun shared with you. Even if it’s just cribbage.”
“This is a better two-handed game if it’s played right. Let’s phone Mac, ask him to have h
is clerk start the ball rolling—and get married. With luck we can be legal by twenty-one or -two—and still get in a couple of boards of cribbage before bedtime.”
“Oh, Jake! ‘Cribbage’!”
“Answer me, woman. A simple ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. I won’t argue it…and I won’t ask you again. And blow your nose and wipe your eyes—you’re a mess.”
“Damn you, Jake! Yes! Let me go and I’ll blow my nose. I think you’ve cracked my ribs, you big brute. That’s a hell of a way to treat an expectant mother.”
“I’ll do worse than crack your ribs if I have any more nonsense out of you. Now to call Mac—I’ll have to think up a plausible lie so that he’ll be justified in authorizing the County Clerk to issue a special license.”
“Why does it have to be fancy, Jacob? I thought you were going to tell Mac that you had knocked me up?”
“Eunice, is that what you want me to say?”
“Jacob, I’m going to marry you as quickly as possible, I don’t care how. I hope Winnie and Roberto show up in time but I’m not going to wait; you might come to your senses. I thought you preferred to claim that you had done me in and I know I agreed to confirm it. So tell Mac so. Tell anybody.”
“Doesn’t fret you?”
“Jake dearest, maybe that’s the best way to handle it…because, presently, God and everybody is going to know about the Silent Witness. Jake? Do you recall my first day of freedom? The day after Mac conditionally confirmed my identity and discharged me as a ward of the court?”
“My dear, I am not likely to forget that day.”
“Nor I. Count two hundred sixty-seven days. That is when the Silent Witness should show up.”
“You’re telling me that I am the father of your child.”
“Not at all, sir. I was in heat and had slipped the leash and you may assume if you wish that I spent the day bouncing in and out of beds, going from one man to another.” She smiled beatifically. (Boss, that’s awfully close to the truth—but it sounds like a whopper.) (It is the truth, Eunice; I worded it most carefully. That is the second best way to tell a lie—tell the truth so that it sounds like a whopper.) (And I thought I knew how to lie.) (I’ve had years more practice, Beloved—and as a kid had more reason to lie than you ever had. Lying is a fine art; it is learned only through long practice.)
“Knock off the nonsense, Eunice, or I’ll start married life by giving you a fat lip. Okay, we’ll tell Mac that; the truth is often the simplest solution. But we have to have health certificates; Mac can get us out of the waiting time but not out of that requirement. My doctor will phony one for me without stopping to take a blood sample and make tests, but how about that quack you mentioned? Will he cooperate?”
“Jake, I don’t recall mentioning a quack. If Roberto gets here in time, I think he would take a chance. Or Rosy would, I think. I don’t think I’m harboring even a cold bug unless I picked up something from Joe and Gigi. Most unlikely. But how about you, darling? Washington, D.C., has the highest V.D. rate in the country. Did you fetch anything home?”
“Oh, nothing but big and little casino.”
“A nice girl like me can’t be expected to understand such terms.”
“You impudent little baggage, I slept alone in Washington. Can you make the same claim? For the past five days?”
“Of course not, dear; I’ve never been interested in sleeping alone—and Gigi is very snuggly. I commend her to your attention—take a look at that painting.”
“I’m sure she is. Just Gigi, eh? Not Joe?”
“Is Joe snuggly, Jake? Tell me more!”
“Woman, you may get that fat lip before I marry you.”
“The groom’s present to the bride? Sir, if you want to give me a fat lip, I’ll hold still, smile happily, and take it. Oh, Jake darling, it’s going to be such fun to be married to you!”
“I think so, too, you dizzy bitch. Mmm, my doctor will phony a certificate for you, too, if I explain the circumstances. But he’ll need your blood type.”
“Jake, the whole country knows that my blood type is AB-negative. Had you forgotten it?”
“Momentarily, yes. That’s all I need. Except—Wedding here? Or in Mac’s chambers?”
“Here, if possible. I want our servants for ‘family’ if Winnie and Roberto don’t show up. Jacob, do I dare send a car with a message and ask Joe and Gigi to allow themselves to be fetched here for this purpose? I do want them present. Gigi is no problem; she will do as Joe wishes—but I think you know Joe better than I do. I don’t even know that he has clothes he would be willing to wear here—all I saw him wear were denim shorts so caked with paint they could stand alone.”
“Mmm, I agree that Eunice’s former husband is entitled to be invited to Joan Eunice’s wedding, though there has never been a protocol established, that’s certain. Dear, the clothes Joe wore in court would be okay for a home wedding. How about yourself, Eunice? Going to be married in white?”
“I think I’ve been insulted again. Wear white so that somebody can sneak a picture and sell it? ‘Ninety-Five-Year-Old Sex-Change Bride Wears White.’ Dear, if I wear white, let’s ask Life to send a photographer and cut out the middleman. Jake, I’ll wear white if you tell me to. If you don’t, I’ll pick something but it won’t be white. Something.”
“‘Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.’”
“Erase and correct, Jake. Here is the twenty-first century version:
“The bride is old,
“The license new,
“The body borrowed,
“The groom is blue.”
“I am like hell blue, I simply need a shave. Get out now and let me be. Beat it. Go take a bath. Try to smell like a bride.”
“Instead of payday at Tillie’s? I can take a hint. But you take a bath, too.”
“Who notices the groom?”
Cunningham had a busy six hours. But so did everyone in the ugly old mansion. To the old-tradition strains of Mendelssohn’s “Processional” the bride walked slowly in hesitation-step through the rotunda. (Twin, ‘Here Comes the Bride’ always sounds to me like a cat sneaking up on a bird. Pum…pum…tee-pum! Appropriate, hnnn?) (Eunice, behave!) (Oh, I’ll behave. But I prefer ‘John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith—his name is my name, too!’) (You can’t know that one. It’s eighty years old and long forgotten.) (Why wouldn’t I know it when you were singing it in your head every second they were dressing us?)
She walked steadily down the center of a long white velvet carpet, through the arch and into the banquet hall, now transformed with flowers and candles and organ into a chapel. (Boss, there’s Curt! I’m so glad he made it! That must be Mrs. Hedrick with him. Don’t look at them, twin; I’ll giggle.) (I’m not looking at them and you stop trying to—I must look straight ahead.) (You do that, Boss darling, and I’ll count the house. There’s Mrs. Mac—Norma—and Alec’s Ruth, with Roberto. Where’s Rosy?—oh, there he is beyond Mrs. Mac. My, isn’t Della dressed fit to kill?—makes us look shabby.)
The bride wore a severely simple dress of powder blue, opaque, with high neck, matching veil, long sleeves, matching gloves, skirt hem brushing the velvet runner and long train sweeping behind. She carried a bouquet of white cattleya dyed blue to match. (Twin? Why that last-minute decision for panties? They make a line that shows.) (Not through this gown; it’s not skin-tight. The ‘bride’s knot,’ Beloved—for symbolic defloration.) (Coo! Don’t make me laugh, Boss.) (Eunice, if you louse up this wedding, I’ll—I’ll—I won’t speak to you for three days!) (Joan twin, I won’t spoil it—Jake wants symbols, he shall have them.) (And I want symbols, too!) (And so do I, twin, so do I. It’s just that I have never been able to see life as anything but a vast complicated practical joke, and it’s better to laugh than cry.)
(Yes, darling—but let’s not do either right now. I’m having trouble with tears.) (I thought they were my tears. Doesn’t Thomas Cattus look handsome? I heard you order the ‘Lohengrin recessional’; that one is even fun
nier than the Mendelssohn—to an Iowa farm girl it sounds exactly like the triumphant cackle of a hen after she lays an egg. I’ll laugh then, I know I will.)
(All right to laugh and cry both then, Eunice—and to hang on tight to Jacob’s arm. Look, dearest, this is an old-fashioned wedding with all the clichés because Jake and I are old fossils and that’s the way it should be.)
(Oh, I approve. Cunningham looks worried—can’t see why; he’s done a beautiful job. Boss, those panties struck me so darn funny because you ordered the ‘Bilitis’ and the ‘Graces’ to be placed on easels in the drawing room where everyone at the reception can stare at them. Riddle me that.) (Eunice, there is no inconsistency. A bride is supposed to be covered; those paintings are meant to be looked at. With Joe and Gigi here I darn well want them to be looked at!) (They’ll be looked at. Stared at. Some wives may look at them with intense interest. Maybe.) (Maybe. Eunice, you know I’ve never asked a husband not to tell his wife anything; it’s not right to ask one member of a married couple to keep secrets from the other. Besides, he will or he won’t, no matter what you ask—and he should; he knows her better than we do. But those pix are as harmless as the fruit punch we have for those who turn down the champagne. It’s irrelevant that I posed for them, I simply want Joe’s genius to be appreciated. Enjoyed.)
Joe Branca had used no small part of his genius in making up the bride. Starting with a bare, clean canvas—fresh out of her tub—he had worked long and hard to make up Joan Eunice from head to toe with such restraint that even close inspection could not detect any trace of his efforts. As in “The Three Graces” it was simply Eunice’s own beauty, invisibly enhanced—strongly enhanced, better than life, more natural than nature. He turned down the use of a hair fall and simply fluffed her own hair (still far shorter than Eunice’s hair had been) and sprayed it slightly to keep it unmussed under her veil.
The bride’s matron of honor was made up with much less restraint. Having seen the miracle wrought on Joan Eunice, Winnie had timidly asked Joan if she thought it would be all right to ask Mr. Branca to improve her a little? Since she was part of the wedding party?—and Joan and Gigi had enthusiastically pushed the idea. Joe had studied Mrs. Garcia, then said, “Forty minutes, Joan Eunice—is time? Okay, Winnie, wash face.” The result exploited Winifred’s red hair, made visible her transparent eyebrows and lashes, livened her too-white skin—yet looked more natural than the stylized face Winnie usually wore.