A Wedding in December

by Anita Shreve

  Harrison could remember Jerry's face, the way he'd tried to see around Harrison to the water. The way Harrison had backed him through the doorway and into the house again.

  "I turned and stood in front of Jerry, confronting him," Harri­son said. "I was conscious only of trying to shield Stephen from Jerry's prying eyes. I don't know what I said. Have you seen Stephen? I might have asked to throw him off the trail.

  "What happened, man?" Jerry asked.

  "I tossed him a fact or two to mollify him and to get him to go inside the house. It's fucking freezing, I said. Let's go in. I don't re­member exactly what I said, but it worked. I'd given Jerry enough to go in search of someone else to tell."

  Harrison moved to the chair Nora had left minutes before and sat down. "When I went outside again, Stephen was gone."

  On the bed, Nora was crying.

  "I ran down to the beach," Harrison said. "I yelled Stephen's name over and over again. But no one could have heard me over that surf. You remember what it was like when you were on that beach — even on a calm day you practically had to shout to be heard. I looked for footprints, but I couldn't see anything. The tide was coming in, washing whatever might have been there away. I thought Stephen had ditched the pants or washed them out as best he could and then walked back to the dorm. Maybe I'd taken too long with Jerry, and Stephen had gotten fed up."

  Harrison rubbed his eyes.

  "I know now that I should have gone screaming into the road, found a house with a light on, and called the police from there. They would have alerted the Coast Guard. Would the Coast Guard have saved him? I don't know. A man in the water, as you know, is dead in less than thirty minutes."

  He paused.

  "I returned to the dorm. He wasn't in our room. I went up and down the halls, shouting his name. When I couldn't find him, I went downstairs and told the proctor. I said the last time Id seen him, he was on the beach."

  There was a long silence in the room.

  "The school called the police, who took a spectacularly long twenty-seven minutes to get to Kidd. Irrelevant detail, for by then, of course, it was too late."

  Harrison let out a long sigh.

  "I tell myself Stephen couldn't have suffered more than a few seconds of helpless panic. But who am I to say? And how terrible those few seconds would have been. I imagine that his feet got tan­gled in his pants and that he couldn't stand up. Maybe he made it to his knees. A wave came in and knocked him over, and he tum­bled in the water and then got carried out with the undertow."

  "Oh God," Nora said.

  "It's why I've never talked about this," Harrison continued. "That one pathetic detail. I've kept that private. I've even tried to erase it from my own memory. It's my last image of my friend, try­ing to clean himself in the water. I've tried to persuade myself I've never spoken of it for Stephen's sake. Not to sully his memory. But you and I both know that's bullshit."

  Harrison put his head in his hands. Telling the story was a cruel thing to have done to Nora, and for what purpose? To tell the truth? What exactly did that do for a person?

  "Did Agnes know?" Nora asked.

  "No one knew," Harrison said.

  "We're all guilty," Nora said. "That's what Agnes meant. You. Jetry. Me, more than anyone. I owed it to Stephen to watch out for him." •

  "Me, most of all," Harrison said. "He was my friend. I think about his life — gone. A whole life gone. Twenty-seven years of a life not lived."

  "This is unbearable," Nora said.

  "As you know, his body washed up on Pepperell Island," Harri­son said, "the gruesome detail of a length of rope having risen and wrapped itself around his neck, giving rise to irrelevant rumors of suicide. I never knew anyone less likely to commit suicide than Stephen Otis. Unless you count slow death by alcohol poisoning."

  "Oh, Harrison, he'd have been a drunk forever," Nora said.

  "I came here to tell this story," Harrison said. "I didn't know it when I drove here, but I know it now. Agnes would be proud of me, don't you think?"

  "Harrison."

  "And the best part," Harrison said. "I haven't even told you the best part yet. After the funeral, Stephen's father drove to Kidd for the graduation. Don't you remember? There was a tribute to Stephen at the ceremony? After graduation, Mr. Otis came to my room and said he wanted to see where Stephen had died. That he knew that I was the last one to see him alive, and that I would know the place."

  Harrison leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of him. "We drove in Mr. Otis's car. I didn't know what to say. I had everything to say and yet nothing. I led him to the house. We parked the car in the driveway. We walked through the sand dunes at the side of the house and then out to the seawall. I just stood. I was shaking.

  "Here? his father asked.

  "I nodded.

  "There was nothing you could have done, son, he said to me. He called me son and put his hand on my shoulder. Trying to comfort me. I was screaming inside. It wasn't true, I wanted to tell him. There was everything I could have done."

  Harrison hoped Nora would not echo Stephen's father or say — as so many women might have done — You did the right thing.

  Empty absolution akin to a sin in Harrison's book, a book that strangely had more blank pages the more there was to add to the ledger.

  It was crap that confessing a thing relieved one of guilt, Harri­son thought. How convenient to think so, how utterly deluding. Confessing a thing, he knew now, made the thing more real.

  And how sordid and sad this tale he had confessed. Harrison could not remember Stephen now, not precisely who he'd been. He had images and photographs, some few stills at home, more in the yearbook, where Stephen Otis was ghoulishly omnipresent. Cap­tain of the baseball team. President of the senior class. Class clown. Some images of Stephen Harrison had actively tried to bury. Lying on a bunk with Nora. Wading into the water. Others, Harrison savored. Catching a grounder on a hop close to his chest and leap­ing with a throw home that saved a run and won the game. But Stephen — the essence of Stephen — was gone, just like the es­sence of Harrison's father was gone, recalled now only through an­ecdote or photographs. The man himself had vanished.

  Harrison heard a faint rustle on the bed behind him. It was time for him to go. The classy move would be to stand and leave without a backward glance, without the few exchanges that could only be banal, that would cheapen all that had gone before. But Harrison knew he'd told the story badly, perhaps making more of it than there was at the time, using threads of pure emotion for his tale, so that leaving without a word might be stagy or false. Friend to friend, Harrison ought to comfort Nora. Ought to say, at the very least, I'm sorry.

  Nora put her hands on Harrison's shoulders, and he flinched. Two warm delicate entities with the energy of bombs. Signaling what? Forgiveness? Or was this meant simply to be a calming ges­ture, to soothe, to still conversation, her ear as attuned to the banal as his was.

  The hands moved inside his collar, electrifying Harrison, and then around and along the skin of his chest until her head rested on his shoulder, her cheek next to his ear. The decision — to clasp her hands in a firm no and allow her to remove them; or to turn and kiss her mouth, an emphatic yes — was made in a split second. Harrison stood and held the girl, now a woman, after twenty-seven years of intermittent imaginings, the reality so vivid it made his breath tight. He kissed her, the kiss more mature as well, speaking of years of experience he would have to imagine now for the rest of his life.

  Nora disengaged herself and walked to the door. Harrison thought, for one heartbreaking moment, that she meant to leave him, as she often did, but instead, she locked it. When she turned to him, no funny half smile on her face, his heart took off in a sprint. She stepped out of her shoes. How beautiful she was. Harri­son saw Evelyn slipping a nightgown from her shoulders, and he pushed the image — that parallel story — from his mind, a delib­erate act of betrayal. And once banished, Evelyn was gone for the duration
, the duration as yet unclear. An hour, possibly. Perhaps a night. Conceivably a lifetime. Though the word itself, "duration," suggested not only this glorious beginning but, on the horizon, a necessary and finite end.

  Before the wedding, Bridget had set aside the tissue-wrapped lingerie to have ready when she and Bill returned to the suite. She shut the bathroom door, leaving Bill to light the candle beside the bed. They were both exhausted from the long day of waiting and then the service itself (Bill nearly collapsing with Melissa's unex­pected arrival), and then the dramatic finale of Agnes's astonishing announcement (which certainly explained the woman's tears dur­ing the ceremony), but Bridget knew that Bill would not fall asleep until she was in the bed with him. It was, after all, their wedding night.

  She wondered how Matt and Brian and Melissa had got on play­ing pool. She and Bill had said good night shortly after Agnes's exit, assuring everyone that they would see one another in the morning for a farewell breakfast. By the time Bill and Bridget had left the room, only Jerry, Rob, Josh, and Harrison remained, and whether the men repaired to the library for more drinks, Bridget didn't know. She thought not, that like Bill and her, they had gone back to their respective rooms to ponder the essential opaqueness of their fellow man.

  Bridget glanced quickly in the mirror. She unclipped the wig, shook it a bit, and set it back on her head to unsettle the hair, give it more of a tousled look. Her face was pale in the over bright light — good for putting on makeup, frightening when catching a glimpse of oneself late at night. She divested herself of the hideous pink suit and hated underwear, enjoying for a moment her physical freedom. She would lose the weight after the chemo. Her doctor had said not to worry, that he had patients who had returned to size two with little trouble. Bridget would never be a size two, but an eight would be lovely.

  She unwrapped the pink tissue paper and held up the antique silk nightgown, cut on the bias, nipped in slightly at the waist. This was a treasure for a bride, a young bride, but when Bridget had seen the elegant black gown in the window of the vintage clothing store, she had thought, Why not? Why should she deprive Bill of something that would please him? Why should she not treat this wedding night as she'd have done had they married in their twenties?

  She tried on the gown and examined herself in the mirror. The lace-trimmed slip-dress gently shaped her breasts and hid the fact that her nipples, as a result of the surgery on her right breast, were pointing in different directions. She brushed her teeth and put on gloss that would undoubtedly get all over Nora's lovely linens. She blotted her mouth. She still had her makeup on, and that might smear itself all over the pillows, too, but what was a girl to do? Some mess ought to be expected in the bridal suite, no?

  She opened the door from the bathroom and was surprised to find all the lights still on. When she turned the corner, she saw that Bill was perched at the edge of the bed, dressed in his shirt and socks and boxers. Had she come out from the bathroom too soon? Had he been busy, calling Matt's or Melissa's room to see if they had had a good time? She took a step further into the room, and he looked up at her. He was crying.

  Bill was crying.

  "I didn't have you for so long, and now I might lose you," he said simply.

  With a chill, Bridget realized that Bill thought she would die. Possibly, he had had this thought all along.

  It was one thing to imagine one's own death, quite another for someone else to imagine it. Worse, for someone to say it out loud.

  Bridget wished she had a robe. But she couldn't leave her new husband crying at the edge of the bed to go in search of one. Brid­get took a few steps toward Bill and then stopped.

  "Bill?" she asked.

  "All my life I've wanted this," he said, "and now we'll have what. . . ?"

  The question went unanswered. Bridget's chill was quite real now. She wrapped her arms around herself to stop the shivering but felt only the thin silk of the nightgown.

  "It seems so unfair," Bill cried. "So brutally unfair. And I caused this."

  My God, Bridget thought.

  Bill crossed his arms over his chest and began to rock back and forth at the edge of the bed. In his black socks and boxers, he looked unmanned. For too long, he had put at bay the ugly facts of her illness. Why they had chosen this moment to push themselves forward, Bridget didn't know. Perhaps it had been the arrival of his daughter, his happiness complete, that had unraveled him. The fraudulence of that happiness apparent only when he was alone in the suite for the few unguarded minutes Bridget had been in the bathroom.

  She and Bill could not spiral apart, Bridget thought. There was simply too much at stake. There was Matt for one. There was her health for another. And then there were all those years they had not had. This one chance to make up for them. Reaching past Bill, Bridget lit the candle at the bedside and turned out the light.

  There was one last thing.

  She unclipped the wig from her scalp, slid it off, and tossed it to the floor.

  "Why don't you get under the covers," Bridget suggested.

  She walked to the other side of the bed and slipped between the sheets. She could hear Bill undressing. A man crying was a fright­ening sight. She hadn't minded at the wedding, because she'd known those were tears of joy, of relief. These, however, were tears of despair. Terrifying and frightening. Bridget must, whatever hap­pened, stop them. If Bill disintegrated, Bridget would disintegrate. If Bridget disintegrated, Matt would disintegrate. That chain reac­tion could not be allowed to happen.

  When he'd undressed, Bill slipped between the sheets. He reached for her at once, a small involuntary sob escaping him. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," he said, holding her close.

  "I know," she said.

  "You look beautiful," he said, a small laugh catching itself inside a hiccup. "I'm going to have to kill myself tomorrow when I re­member this."

  "Don't do that," she said. "I can't be a widow."

  He ran his hand over her hip. "I didn't mean . . ." he said.

  "No," Bridget said. "I know you didn't."

  Though of course he had. He had meant that he believed that she would die soon, and that he would be left alone. And it was sad. Why should Bill not be allowed to feel the pain of it? He and she might have had twenty-seven years together. At best, now, they would have two, maybe three, and most of that time would not be good time. For all she knew, this night might be the best they got.

  "Can you ever forgive me?" Bill asked.

  "For what?"

  "For leaving you. For marrying Jill."

  "I forgave you a long time ago."

  "You did?" he asked. "When?"

  "Oh, I don't know," Bridget said, "last week maybe?"

  Bill kissed her in the way that he did, a way she liked very much. They were old lovers even though they'd been together for less than two years. They had their routines. They were not adventurous. Perhaps tonight Bill might have tried a little something different. But sorrow — that most effective antidote to sex — had got the better of him.

  Bridget took her husband's hand and brought his fingers to the side of her head. "Touch me here," she whispered.

  She had never made love to Bill without her wig. She knew what her scalp felt like — the frighteningly thin hair, the patches where she was bald — but she believed that this must happen now. For them to be truly married, he must touch her head. For a moment, his hand rested where she had left it. Perhaps he wasn't exactly sure what she intended. She waited for him, knowing that in a moment he would understand.

  He smoothed the side of her head, above her ear, near the tem­ple, and then around to the back of the neck. As he did, Bridget thought about the girl at the sheitel macher and wondered what her wedding night had been like. Had she ceremoniously removed her wig to reveal her own shorn head? Had she wept? Did her husband, a nameless, faceless man, caress her head as lovingly as Bill was doing now, recognizing his wife's sacrifice?

  Bill was gentle, for which Bridget was grateful. H
er scalp was sensitive, a fact she hadn't known before she'd lost her hair. He removed his other hand from under her body and held her head in both. He pulled her to him and kissed her, a long and pro­tracted kiss.

  This was better, Bridget thought. Why pretend that she was not sick? Why not love her exactly as she was? Wasn't this what every woman longed for?

  Sunday

  She said his name, as if in a dream. Harrison drifted back to sleep. He was unconscious only seconds, minutes at best.

  The room was dark, the shades drawn. He was curled toward Nora, who was lying on her back. Harrison remembered now, the memories jolting his heart and causing instant heat through­out his body. What had been urgent last night was, in retrospect, astonishing.

  He reached for her and found her arm. Her skin was warm and dry.

  He saw Nora above him, her knees cradling his body. On her back, her arms flung toward the headboard. He was more than as­tonished that he and she had made love: he was thunderstruck.

  Harrison could just make out Nora's profile. He must have dreamed that she'd spoken his name, because she was still asleep. His side of the duvet was crumpled near his waist. He brought the covers to his chest. The inn was quiet. Harrison could not hear music or voices. For how long had he and Nora been asleep? Be­hind closed doors, in other rooms, people lay in beds, restless or dreaming.

  Harrison could smell Nora in the bed beside him. Sex, when taken out of context — even when in context, he thought — was both a bizarre and a wondrous activity.

  Last night, Harrison had given in to temptation. This morning he sensed another temptation — to view what had happened be­tween him and Nora as a fulfillment. In 1974, they'd kissed each other. Harrison remembered the promise of the hand beneath his shirt. Had Stephen, in his involuntary but macabre scene-stealing way, not ended what had begun that night between Harrison and Nora, would their romance have played itself out by the end of their freshman year in college — Harrison in Boston, Nora in New York City? Might Harrison have one day found himself Carl Laski's rival?