A Wedding in December

by Anita Shreve

  The other three from our group at Kidd were girls (women now, obviously): Agnes, Bridget, and Nora. Of the three, I know Bridget the least. She was a year behind us — around because Bill was there. If Bill was quiet and unassuming, Bridget was mute, deaf to anything but Bill's voice. They were the ur-couple, the pair you knew would stay faithful all through college and marry the day after graduation. I'm not sure what happened — well, I guess Jill happened, didn't she? — but I remember being shocked when I heard Bill had married someone else.

  Nora, I know fairly well. She was Stephen's girlfriend and always in and out of the dorm when visits were permitted, or on the sidelines at the games. If Kidd had been the kind of school where one elected a prom king and queen (Kidd was so low-key, we didn't even have a prom), they'd have been the pick. I think Nora must somewhere have a penchant for difficult, dysfunctional men, however. By the spring of our senior year, Stephen was becoming a serious drunk. From all accounts, Carl Laski was a drunk and a bastard. I don't know that he specifically treated Nora poorly, but he was, at the very least, a troubled man.

  Toward the end of that year, Stephen began finding reasons to drink two or three times a week. "Let's have a party," he would say, or "Let's get wasted." Drinking was de rigueur on Friday and Saturday nights. He got caught once and was suspended for four days. He went home willingly to dry out. I'm not sure why Nora put up with it, except that Stephen was dangerous and exciting and ridiculously good-looking. And I don't think she got the brunt of it, as I did. The vomiting, the hangovers, the self-loathing. And, to be honest, by spring semester of our senior year, a lot of us were drinking and partying, secure, we thought, with our college acceptances. Mostly we drank in the empty beach houses, the majority so flimsy we could easily break in. We'd wait until after dark and have a party inside if it was raining, outside on the seawall or the beach if the weather was halfway decent. Those were good times, and I wish I could remember them with fondness, but I can't. It was during one of those parties that Stephen got drunk, walked into the ocean, and drowned.

  No one realized he was missing until it was too late. We all assumed he'd walked back to campus along the beach, singing off-key as he had a habit of doing when he was plowed. When he didn't show up in our room that night, I alerted a proctor. I've never forgiven myself for not going out earlier to find him on the beach.

  His body washed up on Pepperell Island a week later. I've spent whole weeks, months, years even trying to forget that night. There was a funeral and a listless graduation, after which we all scattered, too ashamed and heartbroken, I think, to stay in touch. It was a tragedy for Stephen and his family. A filthy, shameful sort of tragedy for the rest of us.

  Harrison put down his pen and wiped his, brow. These were half-truths, a gloss.

  I haven't mentioned Agnes, the most grounded of us all. Nora's roommate, Agnes was always oldf-fashioned and frumpy, but everyone's good buddy. I'm not sure she ever had a date at Kidd. She teaches there now, the only one of us who stayed in Maine. She's never married. I don't know why. I'd like to think it's because she knows us cull — we men, that is — to be assholes. She's here at the inn, but I haven't run into her yet.

  So there you have it, the cast of chartacters. Alive to me in some deep geographical stratum of my being. I sometimes think I know them better than I know my current friends — George, for example, with whom I've worked for twenty years. You must tell me one day if you feel thee same about the friends you had when you were a teenager. I remember you talking about Rowena, but I'm not sure you've ever said much about anyone else.

  I miss you, Evelyn. I wish I could watch you dress for the cocktail party tonight and then walk in with you on my arm. Every man there would envy me. And then you and I could come back to this spiffy room and fall into what looks to be an obscenely comfortable bed and parse the evening, and then make love. We don't make love enough, but you know that. Every time we do, I ask myself why we don't do it more. Our lives get in the way, don't they? And the boys, whom we willingly wish in the way. They are treasures, and so are you.

  Your grateful husband,

  Harrison

  Harrison put the letter in an envelope and wrote his own address on the front. He propped the letter against a lamp.

  He rummaged through his luggage on the bed for his toilet kit and headed for the bathroom, stripping as he went. Once inside the shower, he let the hot water hit the back of his neck. With head bent and arms hanging loose, he refused thought, humming in­stead a few bars from "Lady Marmalade." Voulez-vous coucber avec moi, ce soir? He stood in that position for long minutes until he began to worry about Nora's water heater, about all the other guests trying to have simultaneous showers for their evenings out. He soaped himself, washed his hair, and rinsed quickly. He toweled himself dry and wiped a spot of condensation from the fogged mirror so that he could shave. Niggling thoughts returned. Would there be a dinner after the drinks, or would they all be on their own? And, if so, how would they group up? Harrison hoped Nora had taken care of that in advance. He wondered then about the wedding. No mention had been made of a minister or a justice of the peace. Wasn't Bridget Catholic? He wondered idly what the ceremony would be like, if Bridget would wear white. Was getting Carried in the face of cancer an act of desperation?

  Shaved and clean, Harrison chose between two shirts. He'd wear a sport coat tonight, his suit tomorrow. The mirror was clear when he went into the bathroom to knot his tie. Did he look forty-four? What did forty-four look like? Whatever it was, he thought, Nora didn't look it. There was still a gamine quality about her that age hadn't buried.

  Harrison checked to see that he had his key, and then he left his room. Immediately he could hear a kind of hubbub in the lobby. Of course the inn would have other guests — hadn't he seen the sign for the Karola-Jungbacker wedding? — but it was strange nevertheless to hear voices when it had seemed so quiet before. He took the stairs instead of the elevator, stepping smartly, aware now that he might be seen by someone he knew. Aware, too, of the ridiculousness of caring. In the lobby, he noticed an elderly couple heading for the elevator to the dining room — the early shift for dinner, he guessed. A younger couple seemed unanchored, having left their room too early for dinner, not sure yet where to berth themselves.

  Harrison walked toward the library. He noted, as he neared it, that the double doors were open. He paused for a moment and could hear voices. He recognized only Bill's. As he turned the cor­ner and entered the room, faces swiveled in his direction. He spot­ted Rob Zoar and a man he didn't know in conversation. Rob put his hand on the back of the man's neck and leaned in close to con­vey a private word. Harrison was slightly stunned. He hadn't real­ized that Rob was gay. Had he been at Kidd? Had the others known? In the corner, Jerry Leyden waved. Agnes O'Connor was approaching, her arms spread wide. Harrison heard his name re­peated and was suffused with a sense of lights up, curtains rising, as if for some great assembly.

  "Harrison."

  Agnes.

  "My God."

  "You look great."

  "And you."

  Harrison bent to embrace her. In his arms, Agnes felt even more solid than he had remembered (but so was he, he thought; so was he). He held her at arm's length and studied her face. She seemed genuinely happy to see him, slightly abashed at being examined. He let her go. Her face had weathered more than one would have imagined. She had on clothing that Harrison recognized as being out-of-date. A secular nun in a rose-colored suit. He could see, simply from the athletic way she held herself, that she wasn't used to dressing up.

  "How are you?" she asked.

  "Well. And you?"

  She laughed and took a sip of wine. "Will it be like this all night?" she asked. "All these ohmygods and youlookgreats?"

  "For a while. It would be worse at a reunion."

  "This is a reunion."

  "Sort of."

  "Amazing about Bill and Bridget," she said.

  "I was surprised."

&nb
sp; "And you know Bill. I mean, you're in touch, right?"

  "We used to be. I knew his wife. Ex-wife."

  "I'm happy for them. Very brave of Bridget. Of Bill, too."

  Harrison sensed Nora by the door. In the corner, a bartender was standing behind a draped table. Harrison had a sudden urge for a drink. "This inn is beautiful," he said.

  "Wonderful views." Together, they turned to look through the tall cottage windows at the views, which, of course, could not be seen at night. "I can't get over the transformation. Were you ever here before?"

  "Except for Bill and Jerry, I haven't seen anyone in this room in twenty-seven years," Harrison said.

  "You wouldn't guess it was the same place."

  "I didn't know this was an interest that Nora had."

  "Who could tell what Nora's interests were?"

  "I thought you kept in touch."

  "I did. I only mean that she was so overshadowed by Carl."

  "Surely, she held her own."

  "Not really."

  Harrison sensed distaste. "You don't sound as though you liked him much."

  "Oh, do I give that impression?" Agnes asked.

  Harrison laughed. As if the bartender had read his mind — which, Harrison supposed, was what bartenders were supposed to do — he appeared at Harrison's elbow asking him what he'd like to drink. Harrison looked at Agnes's glass. "What are you drinking?" he asked.

  "White wine. Considerably better than my usual."

  "I'll have that then," he told the waiter.

  "You're an editor," Agnes said when the bartender had gone.

  "I am. I work for a small publishing firm in Toronto. We publish mostly Canadian and British authors. Audr Heinrich? Vashti Baker?"

  Agnes nodded vaguely. "And you have kids," she said.

  "Two boys. Charlie, eleven, and Tom, nine." Harrison was handed a delicately etched glass of cold white wine. "Nora said you're teaching at Kidd."

  "I'm the one who never left. You know, there's always one in every class who never leaves? Who wants to be a perpetual student?"

  "How is the old place, anyway?"

  "You wouldn't recognize it, Harrison. Very multicultural now. Terrific emphasis on science. The buildings all have new additions. I have a condo in Rowan House."

  "Really?" he asked. "In the turret?" Harrison took a quick glance at Rob and at the man he didn't recognize. He felt overdressed in a tie.

  "Yes, as a matter of fact," Agnes said.

  "I'm envious. I always wanted to see what it looked like inside the turret."

  "Well, anytime you find yourself downeast..."

  Harrison smiled.

  "You've never been to a reunion," she said, and from her matter-of-fact and slightly scolding tone, Harrison deduced that Agnes had been to all of them.

  "No."

  'All the really interesting people never go."

  Harrison took a sip of wine. Rob and his guest were talking with Jerry and Julie. Rob looked elegant in a dark gray suit with an open collar. "Who's the guy with Rob?"

  "His name is Josh. He's a cellist."

  "I didn't realize about Rob . . ."

  "No, I didn't either," Agnes said.

  "Would he have known at Kidd?" Harrison asked, knowing even as he posed the question that it was none of his business. He tried to remember whom Rob had dated.

  "I suppose," Agnes said. "Biologically speaking, from what I've read, he would have to have known. In those days, though, he couldn't have acted on it, could he? Well, not so that anyone no­ticed. Now, of course, we have a Gay and Lesbian Coalition. It's good, and I'm glad we have it, but I worry that the really young students who are just discovering their sexuality will gravitate to the group before they know what they're about." Agnes fixed something inside her blouse, a bra strap gone awry. "Rob and Josh want to go to the outlets tomorrow. There's an Armani for them, a J.Crew for me. I might do some Christmas shopping. Want to come with us?"

  "Thanks. I might."

  Agnes leaned back, making a show of surveying him from head to toe. "Let's see, button-down shirt, blue blazer — Brooks Broth­ers, right?"

  Harrison smiled. "Is it that bad?"

  Through a wall or from down a corridor, Harrison could hear the lively sounds of another party, a bigger gathering, one with music. Jerry, standing by the drinks table, said to his wife, Do what you want. I don't care.

  "How's your mother?" Agnes asked.

  The question surprised Harrison. No one from Toronto ever asked about his family. They simply didn't know him as having a family. "She's still living in the old house in Tinley Park, just out­side Chicago. My sister, Alison, is in LA. She's a scriptwriter."

  "Really," Agnes said, her eyebrows raised at this unexpected bit of glamour. "Anything I'd have seen?"

  "When we were in LA just recently, Alison was working on a movie with Ben Affleck and Morgan Freeman. The boys got to watch the stunt doubles in harnesses film the special effects. My wife, Evelyn, got to chat with Ben Affleck, which of course made her day."

  Nora, her hair tucked behind one ear, was speaking to the bar­tender at the drinks table. Harrison had expected her in her uniform — the sheer blouse and skirt — but she had on a dress, black with a shallow V-neck collar. Again, Harrison thought of European women.

  "Did you fly?" Agnes was asking.

  "There's a direct flight from Toronto to Hartford."

  "Was it awful? They say it is. I haven't flown since 9/11."

  "The lines were bad. Other than that..."

  "Of course, it would have to be Portland, wouldn't it, where the trouble started," Agnes said. "I think everyone in Maine felt responsible."

  "I imagine heads have rolled."

  "Well, you certainly don't want to fly out of Portland right now," she warned. "The longest lines in America. Do you feel safer in Canada?"

  Harrison noticed that Agnes had on incongruously sexy high-heeled shoes. He wondered if she had bought them for this occa­sion. "In Toronto? No, not at all."

  Agnes glanced around the room. "Where are Bridget and Bill, I wonder?"

  "I'm sure I saw Bill earlier," Harrison said.

  "Who are the two kids in suits?"

  At the table where hors d'oeuvres had been set out, two teenage boys were on a reconnaissance mission. If they were anything like his sons, they wouldn't leave the table until they'd had the equiva­lent of a meal. "I think one of them is Bridget's son, the other his friend. I'm not sure which is which."

  Poor Bill," Agnes said, and Harrison didn't know whether she was referring to the fact that Bill's family would not come for the wedding or the worse fact of Bridget's diagnosis. "I hope she's all right," she added, immediately answering Harrison's question. "I'm getting another drink. You want one?"

  "Not just yet. But thanks."

  Nora was still by the door. Harrison headed in her direction. "Delicious wine," he said when he had reached her side. "I like the glass, too."

  "I find them in flea markets. I had lessons. For the wine."

  "Really?"

  "At a vineyard not far from here."

  "I didn't know they produced wine in New England."

  "There . . . there are lots of small vineyards sprinkled all through Vermont and Massachusetts and Connecticut. Some of it is very good."

  "Are you still happy?" he asked.

  She thought a minute. "Not ecstatic. As I was earlier. The day is gone, isn't it? But I'm excited to have everyone together. After so long."

  "Is this your drinks-in-the-library uniform?" he asked, gesturing to her dress.

  Nora shrugged.

  Harrison was aware of a sharp and inappropriate desire to touch the bare skin of her arm. "Agnes and I were wondering where Brid­get is. She got here okay?"

  "She did. She's still in her room changing. She's shy. Do you re­member her as shy?"

  "I remember her as attached to Bill at the hip."

  "Everyone thinks Bill wanted to do this for Bridget because she might die
," Nora said. "But the real reason is that he's never gotten over hurting her the way he did. When he broke up with her in col­lege and started dating Jill. I've never met her. Jill, that is."

  "As I recall, Jill is an incredibly attractive woman with a healthy manipulative streak. Bill might not have had a chance."

  "He thinks he and Bridget have a chance now."

  "I hope that's true." Harrison paused. "Hope that's true for all of is, actually."

  Nora smiled.

  "How was the rehearsal?" Harrison asked.

  "The bride started crying for reasons that escaped all of us."

  "You don't drink?" Harrison asked, pointing to Nora's glass of sparkling water.

  "I'm working."

  "Doesn't seem fair."

  "Well, I'm both. I'll have a glass of wine at dinner." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "Tell me a story," she said.

  "What?"

  "A little story. I don't have much time."

  "Here?" Harrison asked.

  Nora nodded.

  "Okay. Well. Let's see . . ." Harrison said and paused. "Okay, here's a story," he began, thinking to best her at her own game. "One day I was taking a walk on a Sunday morning at Kidd, and I noticed across the road one of the most beautiful girls I'd ever seen. I caught up to her — I was still on my side of the road — and thought I would call over to her and talk to her and ask her her name, but I choked at the last minute. I think I said hello but then just kept walking. And you want to know something? I've regretted all my life that I didn't cross that road and start a conversation."

  There was a long silence between them. Nora crossed her arms, the empty water glass dangling between her fingers by the stem. "I was disappointed when you weren't at the gate," she said finally.

  Harrison could feel the heat begin in his neck and crawl up be­hind his ears.

  Telling the truth is erotic," Nora said. "Like opening the mouth wide for a kiss."

  The thrumming sensation Harrison had had earlier in the day began again inside his chest. "It's what lovers do when they meet," he said.