Such A Pretty Face

  “What are you talking about now? More nonsense.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m going back to Ashville.”

  He sucked in his breath, his head snapping back as if I’d slugged him.

  “My family has tried to contact me as an adult, through letters and phone calls, but I avoided them because I was huge and fat and I didn’t think I could stand the pain of talking to them again, remembering. I thought I was a disgrace to Grandma and Grandpa. You’ve told me that for years. ‘You’re a disgrace, Stevie.’” I mocked his voice. “I closed them out as I closed out all my grief, but I am done closing anyone or anything out, no matter how much it hurts. I’m going home, Herbert. Home to Ashville.”

  He staggered back and put a hand on his desk for balance. “You can’t.”

  “Why can’t I?” Why was he so…scared?

  “Because…” He cleared his throat. “It’s not necessary, Stevie. We’re your family. Put your past behind you. Put those people behind you. They were all odd, strange. Your grandparents’ people are backwoods, uneducated, uncouth people.”

  “No, they aren’t. I knew them. That’s what you forget. I knew them and I loved them. I loved The Family. I belonged in Ashville.”

  He sank into his leather chair, knees collapsing.

  What was going on? Why was he so averse to my returning? Then it dawned on me: He was afraid I would find out the truth, wasn’t he? There were secrets in Ashville he didn’t want me to know.

  “No good will come of it.”

  “Yes, it will. Even if it’s painful, good will come of it. I’m disgusted with myself for not going sooner, but I let your lies become my truth.”

  “Don’t go, Stevie. I’m warning you. Stay away from that town. They don’t want to see you.”

  That hit me in the gut, but I no longer believed it, no longer believed what he’d told me as a kid. “You’re lying. I know that. I think you’ve lied to me since I set foot inside your front door, but I was too grief stricken and young and lost, and then as an adult I was too screwed up and miserable to see it, to deal with it. But I am strong enough now. You’re a liar, and I am going to Ashville.”

  I turned and left the den. I briefly thought about being classy and shutting the door quietly, but I didn’t. I slammed it so hard I heard something fall off his shelves and break.

  I would not associate again with Herbert. Not ever.

  Family is the most difficult relationship of all, I think. There are some family members we love dearly. We believe we can’t live without their kindness, wisdom, humor, insight, their very presence. With others, they’re irritating and disagreeable but we can suck it up, limit contact, and smile now and then. And then there are family members that we cannot stand. They’re verbally abusive, unkind, or throw barbs and darts while smiling. They subtly or blatantly put us down, criticize, destroy, and destruct.

  Society says we should keep in contact with them. Set up boundaries, try to control how we respond to them, be friendly and civil. They are, after all, family.

  This is what I now believe: That is bullshit.

  Complete bullshit.

  No one should be around anyone who is abusive, mean, or dickheaded. Life is too short. I could have easily died when I had my heart attack, and thinking of all the time I’d spent with Herbert, hurting or angry from what he’d said or done…well, I was done with that.

  As I left the den, crossed the deck, and glared at the “virginal white roses” climbing up the makeshift arch for the ceremony that Herbert had ordered, I was hit in the shoulder. I stared at the eye shadow container that clattered to the ground, then up at the window. I heard Aunt Janet shriek, “Heavens to shit,” and ran on up to her bedroom.

  There would be trouble tonight, I knew it.

  And it certainly would not be limited to the big-nippled mermaid and blow-up dolls.

  But my, Sabrina Dina was spectacular!

  Herbert stormed into their bedroom about fifteen minutes later. He was grossly, sickly white. He glared, pointed at me, and shook his head. I swear I saw rampant fear in his expression, his hands shaking. “Dammit! What’s going on? How long does it take you to get ready, woman?”

  Aunt Janet sat up in bed in her robe and said, “There had better be no newspaper reporters and no photographers down there, Herbert. I have told you how I feel.”

  “Why aren’t you in your damn dress,” he thundered. “You’re supposed to be ready!”

  “Did you hear me, Herbert?”

  “Hear what? All I need to hear is that you’re going to be ready in five minutes. You got that, Janet? We’re starting in five minutes with or with—”

  She raised her eyebrows. “With or without me?” Her whole body shook. “Herbert, you will listen to me. I have already told you, and I told the quartet over the phone last week, that I do not want them playing ‘Here Comes the Bride.’ I’m too old for that.”

  “Get ahold of yourself!” He threw a trembling hand in his wife’s direction. “Polly, why are you lying on the bed? Stop this laziness this instant.”

  “I’m lying here because I’m hoping Mom will change her mind and avoid the public spectacle of a marital hanging,” she drawled. “Then we can all take a nap or get drunk. I vote for drunk.”

  “We are renewing our vows, young lady, and our commitment to each other.”

  “No, you’re making a political statement. You’re a whack job, you know that, right, Dad?”

  Herbert was so mad I thought he might hit Polly, so I scrambled to stand in front of her. “Get out, Herbert,” I said.

  “Yes, do,” Polly drawled. “You can take yourself, your own self-made whack job, and go whack.”

  “I have told you, Herbert, I’ll have no political statements,” Aunt Janet said. “Do not make any of your anti-gay speeches. This is not a campaign rally.”

  “Woman, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you will stop speaking to your husband in that manner and accept my authority. Do you understand?”

  “No, I don’t.” Aunt Janet threw her foundation bottle at him. “Tell me, Herbie, what would you do if I walked out? Right now. Would you care?”

  “He would pop a gasket in his head and die,” Polly said. “Not because you left him but because of the humiliation and waste of political capital it would cause. He’s a pillar! He’s running for reelection!”

  He scoffed. “You won’t leave me. You know the consequences of that action. I’ve told you before, I have been clear, so I won’t even entertain the notion.”

  “Entertain it, Dad,” Polly drawled. “Please.”

  “I’m sick of you telling me what to do,” Aunt Janet said. “Sick of you ordering me around. Sick of your disapproval and disappointment. Sick of you running my life, and I’m sick of myself for letting you run it. I am sick of myself!”

  Now Herbert’s jaw dropped open.

  “And I don’t want to do this. I don’t even know why I’m here and not in…” She put a hand to her mouth.

  “You will not embarrass this family with all of our friends here—”

  “They’re your friends, Herbie, not mine. You took all my friends away from me.”

  “I took the friends away from you who were inappropriate for you and would lead you astray, into a life unbecoming of my wife, inappropriate for a woman in the public eye—”

  “Yes, she could have hung around with Ellen the Emasculator,” Polly drawled. “Now that would be enough to make me want to swim in a pool full of vodka rocks.”

  “She’s so splendid,” I added. “Her bosom shakes with indignation.”

  “Bosoms can do that,” Polly noted.

  “I miss Virginia. She won’t be back for six weeks!” Aunt Janet said this almost to herself, then the fire was back in her eyes. “Six weeks! She’s leaving for an African safari tomorrow! She invited me and you said I couldn’t go!”

  “That’s right. I won’t have you gallivanting around the world with Virginia. Plus, there’s no reason
to go to Africa. Heathens, unsafe, unhealthy, diseased, superstitions, poverty stricken.”

  “Why do I let you tell me what to do?” she asked, almost to herself. “Why have I let you bully me my whole life? When do I get to become myself and do what I want? Do I have to wait for you to die to do it?”

  Herbert hardly knew what to do. To say he was stunned down to his shiny black shoes and tuxedo would be an under-statement, but he was a wily man, and he realized ruling by force and threat weren’t working here. Polly started singing a song about a husband who was shot by his unhappy wife, Janet was having a meltdown, and I had somehow scared the crap out of him with my announcement about Ashville.

  “You can do as you wish, within reason, and within what I feel is right for you as my wife.”

  Aunt Janet threw a perfume bottle at Herbert, who ducked in the nick of time, then said, “You even pick out my clothes! You hired a personal shopper for me, and when I wanted two new skirts in a different style, you had her pretend they didn’t have my size! Don’t pretend you’re shocked, Herbert, I knew! I knew! I hate my clothes. I hate them. I hate that stupid dress, too!”

  The “renewal of vows” dress hanging on the hanger was stiff, proper, a heavy flounce of off-white yuck.

  “You’re going to resemble an aged Little Bo Peep,” Polly said. “And there’s your wolf.” She pointed at Herbert. “He’s gobbled you up already.”

  “I will not allow you to have one of your mental meltdowns at my party!” Herbert seethed.

  “Your party, Herbert? I thought it was ours.”

  I put my slinky red dress on about fifteen minutes later, and it was a clothing miracle. I felt liberated. Free. Sexy! Except for the fact that my aunt was renewing her vows to a weasel fart, I was a new Stevie.

  When I came out of the bathroom adjoining Aunt Janet’s bedroom, Polly said, “You are flat-out gorgeous.”

  Lance wobbled out, “I think I’m going to cry.”

  Aunt Janet sighed. “You are beautiful, Stevie. You remind me of your mother. It’s your lovely face, Stevie….” She touched my dimple.

  I thought I’d choke on that comment. For decades I had fought against that image in the mirror. I didn’t want to be her and had spent years running from the resemblance, denying her, burying her under food. As I had lost weight my momma’s face had emerged from my own, and she had killed my Sunshine. I had struggled and struggled. How could that be beautiful?

  “Never forget that your mother loved you, sweetie,” Aunt Janet said. “She was so sick, but she did love you.”

  “No, she didn’t,” I croaked out, but part of me, way deep inside, said real quiet, “Yes, she did, she loved you as much as she could.”

  “Yes, sugar, she loved you,” Aunt Janet said, tears pouring out. “It was in her eyes when she looked at you, when she held you when you were a baby, when she sang to you, when she painted with you.” Aunt Janet kissed, then hugged me. “That’s from your mother. She was too sick to do it herself, but I know, dear, I know that she would have kissed you with all she had if her disease had not taken her away from us.”

  I put my hand on my cheek, covering the kiss.

  Then me, Polly, Lance, and Aunt Janet turned and stared into the mirrors on the closet doors together.

  I saw my momma’s face in mine, but Polly leaned in and kissed me, and I smiled and saw my dimple, and Aunt Janet linked an arm around my shoulder, and in the blue eyes I shared with my momma I saw my own expression, the pain I figured I’d always carry with me, but also a new strength and determination there, and maybe, finally, a dose of courage.

  And then Lance said, blubbering a bit, “Stevie, you’re way prettier than any of my blow-ups,” and I laughed, and in the laugh lines around my eyes, and in my black curls, the strength of my chin, I saw myself.

  Finally, in the mirror, after so long, I saw me. Not Stevie and Helen, but Stevie.

  Aunt Janet kissed me again.

  I headed back outside to direct people, answer questions, say hello to early guests, make sure all was right, and then I saw him.

  He was standing near the tables under the white tents, staring quizzically down at Lance’s dolls. For a second I admired that he-man the size of a redwood, with shoulders like a tractor, blondish hair, a tough face and a tough jaw, with eyes that turned me to mush. I admired the man who danced with me outside, and made me pasta, and held me on his lap, and said he wanted to start with me from right here, right now.

  He turned, then, because you can always tell when someone is staring at you, and he smiled. I smiled back, in my red dress, with the ruffle at the bottom.

  “Thank you again for coming!” Herbert boomed to the guests, all properly seated in rows, in white chairs, on either side of a strip of white satiny material, on the perfectly manicured grass, awaiting the bride, currently having a fantastic meltdown. Herbert stretched out his arms, loving the attention, the man of the house, leader of the pack. “This is a celebration of what marriage should be.”

  I heard three camera snaps and saw two quick camera flashes. The photographers and reporters were all from local newspapers.

  Aunt Janet was going to be unhappy.

  “This is a celebration of what a solid, old-fashioned American family is, and should always be.” He turned to me and Polly, holding our bridesmaids’ flowers on his right, and Lance, on his left, the best man. “A long, happy marriage, between a man and a woman. One man. One woman. Children.” He smiled piously when certain members of the audience cheered, then grew somber. “I have no idea what’s happening in this state. This liberal, free-love, anything-goes state. I have no idea what’s going on in this country, where there are no moral standards, no values, no boundaries of what is right and wrong, and a general disregard of the biblical structures that built this country!” His voice rose and fell.

  I watched Jake’s face as it hardened. I had warned him about Herbert and his upcoming political statement against gay marriage. It hadn’t gone over well with Jake. His brother was gay. That was the brother who owned the boat we borrowed on the Willamette.

  Beside me, Polly said, without bothering to lower her voice, “Dad sure knows how to roll out the romance, doesn’t he? Set the mood. Praise his wife, talk about their decades-long love affair, their life together….”

  Herbert glared at her, pious smile frozen tight.

  We smiled back angelically.

  Aunt Janet was going to be extremely unhappy.

  “But we’re better than that!” Herbert boomed. “We know what America is about!”

  Lance was starting to boil. He was sweet and kind, but once that temper switched to high, watch out. Please.

  “We’re not here to celebrate only my and Janet’s long-lasting, happy, fulfilling marriage, we’re here to celebrate what marriage is, what it should be, what all men and women should commit to. A loyal union. Faithful to one another. Blessed. Fruitful!” he pontificated, then held out his hands to us.

  Perhaps we were supposed to wave our fruitiness to the clapping crowd, but none of us felt the urge.

  “Yes, fruitful,” Polly drawled. “As in, we’re all fruitcakes.”

  “Nuts. We’re all nuts,” I said, glancing at Lance, whose face was tight and reddening. Would he hit his father in front of all these people?

  We got the glare from Herbert.

  We smiled back, angelically.

  “And now, let’s begin this ceremony and let’s hope and pray that others will join us in our battle against gay marriage! An abomination! A curse! Against the Bible! Anti-American.”

  There was weak, scattered applause, the photographers took a few pictures, the reporters scribbled their notes.

  Oh, Aunt Janet would be steamingly unhappy.

  I peeked at Jake. He was staring pretty hard at Herbert, that jaw rock hard.

  Herbert nodded at Mrs. Bunce, the multimillionaire piano player, who glowered at Herbert, then started playing. I had told her to play the song Aunt Janet requested, not “H
ere Comes the Bride,” which Aunt Janet thought was a ridiculous song to be played for a woman of her years.

  Unfortunately, that was the song that was played. Later Mrs. Bunce told me, with an enormous amount of huffing and puffing, that Herbert had told her to play “Here Comes the Bride,” and told her how “romantic” it would be for his wife, that Janet wanted to reenact her wedding day. Mrs. Bunce was so mad that Herbert lied to her that she let the air out of all of his tires the next day with her steak knife.

  I froze, absolutely froze, when I heard those notes, and said, “The bride’s gonna be pissed.”

  Beside me, Polly wailed, “Oh, you are a polluted moron.”

  And Lance said, “You bastard. She said no to that song.”

  He did not say it quietly. Herbert’s head swiveled toward Lance before he forced that lizardish smile to his mouth again.

  It was all a control-freak game to him. He’d wanted that song, and he was going to get it. He’d wanted the reporters, and they were there. He’d wanted to renew his vows for political gain, and he would do it. To hell with Janet. I was disgusted. Absolutely disgusted.

  The “Here Comes the Bride” song played out.

  No Aunt Janet.

  I heard Herbert clear his throat under his arc of virginal white roses.

  He nodded at Mrs. Bunce a second time.

  She glowered, then played the full “Here Comes the Bride” song again.

  “The bride’s not doing what she was told,” I said. “Betcha she’s in trouble now.”

  “You screwed up, whack job,” Polly said.

  “She didn’t want that song, Dad,” Lance said again, louder. “You knew it. She told you. She had another song picked out.”

  This time, as the song finished, I noticed a line of sweat across Herbert’s brow, the top of his cheekbones flushed.

  Would Aunt Janet actually stand him up? Would she dare? Had she finally had enough? Had she heard “Here Comes the Bride” and that was that?

  For a third time, “Here Comes the Bride” was pounded out again while Mrs. Bunce continued to perfect her glower.