All That's True

by Jackie Lee Miles

  I decide not to actually put Mrs. Decker’s name on the note in case my mother should take the letter over to Mrs. Decker and confront her. This way it could be a note from any number of neighbors. How my mother will figure they know this information to be factual is the next question. But I don’t have an answer for that and will have to rely on the fact that my mother will be so overcome with grief that she will not question how they know, just that they know. After all, it’s common knowledge on soap operas that the wife is always the last to know, and soap operas are designed after real life. I’m fairly sure of that.

  The next one I write is from the viewpoint of Mrs. Anderson, who is in her eighties and is known for being a nosey neighbor if ever there was one. She once reported that she saw Beth smoking a cigarette when Beth was still in high school, and Beth got grounded until she convinced my father she would never smoke again. She hasn’t that I know of. Mrs. Anderson is the neighbor who weighs at least three hundred pounds. She rarely leaves her house so it is possible that she knows everything that goes on in this neighborhood and what time of day any and all events occurs as well. I oftentimes see her peeking out of her plantation shutters. And her backyard is adjacent to Bridget’s pool house, so she could easily have heard all the groaning that goes on in there.

  So a note from Mrs. Anderson would not be questioned. Plus I can actually sign her name. She is old enough that she might not remember whether she wrote the note or not if my mother should approach the subject with her. This note is right to the point:

  Dear Margaret,

  I am sorry to inform you that your husband is having an affair with your neighbor. I’ll let you decide which one.

  Helen Anderson

  I decide to write one last note from an anonymous neighbor who doesn’t really exist. Since I’ve made this person up I decide the note should be formal.

  Dear Mrs. St. James,

  Your husband is being unfaithful. You may wish to visit your next-door neighbor’s pool house to confirm this. Wednesday evenings are the best time. Yours truly, A concerned neighbor.

  I’m finished. I reread them to make sure that each one sounds different. It’s the best I can do. I put them in my top dresser drawer. They will be there when I need them. Days go by and I see no need to use them. My mother is back on her program in earnest and seems to be doing very well. She amazes me. Eventually I don’t think about those letters anymore, which is a very sorry thing, because I should have burned those letters the minute I wrote them.

  ***

  Rosa is sick and my mother is actually doing the laundry. She’s putting my undies in my top dresser drawer. That’s where I keep the letters stashed along with the one I wrote to Donna. They’re under my panties, except I’m fresh out of panties. That’s why my mother decided to tackle the laundry.

  I’m about to walk into my room. The door is partway open and my mother has one of the letters in her hands. I watch as she opens each and every one. I’m not sure what to do. Maybe I could tell her it was an English assignment. We were to make up the biggest lie possible and write all about it. That might work. Before I can decide my mother glances at the door and sees that I’m standing there. She quickly folds up the letter in her hand, places it on top of the others and puts them back in the drawer like she’s never even seen them. And what do I do? I stand there and pretend I haven’t seen a thing, either.

  “How’s the laundry going?” I say and walk into my room very casual-like, but my insides are actually doing the tango. I plop down on my bed. My mother turns to me and says, “Fine. That was the last load.” She fluffs the back of her hair. “I certainly hope Rosa gets better soon. I’m completely worn-out.” She puts a pleasant look on her face, but it’s the kind of pleasant one she always uses when she’s trying to make people think she’s fine when she’s not. Fine, the very word reminds me of her program literature which it says stands for Frustrated, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional. She presses her lips together in a closed-mouth smile and her eyebrows go up a little bit and her eyes open wide—that kind of look. I know that look.

  “I think I’ll take a nap,” she says. She walks out of my room but leaves the door open and I can easily see she’s not headed down the hall to her bedroom. I watch as she goes downstairs. I lean over the banister. She’s headed toward the kitchen. I sneak down the stairs and slide behind the column that separates the drawing room from the wet-bar. She isn’t headed to the kitchen after all. She stops at the cabinet next to the wet-bar sink and takes out a bottle of wine. It’s only half full, but it’s been sitting there since the day she last stopped drinking. She said it would remind her of how pathetic she can be. My mother takes a glass down from the wine rack above her. She pours a full glass and downs it in three swallows. She pours another. My mother is drinking again and it’s my fault. And it’s Donna’s fault for enticing my father to begin with. This makes it my father’s fault for ever getting involved with her regardless of what she did. We’re all guilty—every one of us.

  ***

  “What are you going to do?” Bridget says.

  Telling Bridget was supposed to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I’m as miserable as ever. I want to stick my head in the washing machine while it’s still on the spin cycle. Have it smack me around good. How could I be so stupid? I should have burned those letters. Instead, I kept them tucked away like I did my prized artwork when I was in the first grade.

  “There isn’t anything I can do,” I groan and flop backward onto my bed spread-eagle. “My mother hasn’t said a word. It’s like it never happened. Weird.”

  “Maybe not,” Bridget says. “Maybe she’s doing what lots of grown-ups do. They ignore stuff. Like that will make it go away. My father does it all the time.”

  “He does?”

  “Sure. Like when he took me out of Westwood Academy. He acted like I’d never even been there in the first place. And when my grades were so bad afterwards, he hired a tutor and said, ‘Looks like you’re definitely doing better,’ and my grades didn’t get better for a long time.”

  “Double weird.”

  “No, denial!” Bridget says and pops up into a sitting position. “She’s having a major case of it.”

  “But why?” I say.

  “Probably because then it won’t hurt so much.”

  I go to the dresser drawer and retrieve the letters. “Here.” I hand Bridget the one from Mrs. Decker. “Help me tear them up.”

  We sit over the wastebasket and tear them into pieces the size of confetti. I dump the contents of the wastebasket into a paper sack. We go over to Bridget’s and she tosses the mess into her trash can.

  I’m going to be like my mother and pretend they were never there to begin with.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  The day of the wedding rehearsal is here. Both families and all of the attendants are instructed by Beth to meet at St. Lucy’s at seven o’clock. We’re here early and Beth is greeting everyone as they arrive like she’s already in the reception line. She has Parker standing next to her and he’s busy shaking hands. Kind of silly, but I get in line and shake along with the rest of them.

  They’re having a solemn high Mass at noon tomorrow. There will be a priest and a deacon and a sub-deacon—they’re actually priests, too, but they take on a different role for this type of Mass. There will be a lot more chanting and singing going on than a regular Mass. And they’ll use incense. To begin with, in the sacristy, all the priests wash their hands. There will be two acolytes to assist them with their vesting, which is a big deal. Thankfully, I won’t be one of the acolytes. I’m excused because I’m in the wedding, which is a relief because I think it was my turn to serve again. Anyway when the deacon and the sub-deacon put their stuff on they must follow all these rituals and recite certain prayers each time they put on another piece of clothing. First, comes the amice, which is a rectangular cloth of linen with long strings for tying and it’s kissed, because it’s embroidered with a cross, and then it’s pla
ced on top of the head while reciting one of the other prayers. Then it’s tied around the shoulders on top of the cassock. Next this long linen tunic with sleeves, which is called the alb, is put on and then the cincture, this long cloth cord is tied around the waist. The sub-deacon completes his vesting by putting the maniple on his left arm. The maniple is an embroidered piece of fabric folded in half with a cross in the middle. He already has his tunic on, which has short sleeves. The deacon places his stole, a long narrow embroidered piece of cloth—which is similar to the maniple, except it’s longer—over his left shoulder and binds it in place at his right hip with a girdle, an elastic cloth. He then puts on his maniple and his dalmatic, which is similar to the tunicle. Talk about complicated. Now you know what I was doing every Saturday at altar class. Very boring and confusing. The priest celebrant does the same except that he crosses his stole in front of him at the waist. And after the maniple he puts on a cope, a long, heavy embroidered cape. The Catholics are heavy into embroidery. After the Gospel and homily, the priest, assisted by the acolytes, removes the cope and puts on a chasuble, similar to the tunicle, but without sleeves and usually with an embroidered cross on the back. After the dismissal and before processing out, he’ll take off the chasuble and put the cope back on. It’s like they play musical chasuble with celestial music.

  There’s no telling why they go through this ritual, but they take it seriously and you will not see one smile the whole time they’re doing it. They also wear a biretta while they’re sitting. This is a four-cornered hat with a pom-pom on top in the center and three fins on top around the edges. They’re plain black for the priests and deacons, but if anyone special shows up for a Mass, say a monsignor or a bishop, they’re purple with red trim, or sometimes black with red trim. Archbishops are purple and cardinals are scarlet. There are so many different types of masses and so many orders for these priests to follow that it’s no wonder they’re not allowed to get married and have a family. When would they see them?

  Father O’Malley explains the procession to Beth and Parker. He’ll be the main priest tomorrow at the wedding. I don’t know the other priests’ names. They’re from a different parish. Father O’Malley makes it clear that only after the other priests have all filed in will the wedding march begin and the bridesmaids may proceed to the altar. Beth insists we are to proceed slowly making sure to stop and bring our feet together after each step and take a slight pause before proceeding with another step. When we attempt this it looks like we all have sprained ankles.

  “Andi,” Beth explains, “It’s right foot first, left foot up to meet your right foot, then left foot next, and bring your right foot up to meet your left foot and then right foot again. Can you do that, please?”

  If I tell her no, maybe she’ll kick me out of the wedding, which would make me perfectly happy. But it would destroy my mother. I smile and say, “Sure. Watch this.”

  I do it perfectly. It still looks all jerky. I think we should just take our time and walk down the aisle and forget the feet meeting feet part.

  With the rehearsal out of the way we head over to the Ritz-Carlton for dinner. It is a major feast. This is the best part so far. The entire banquet room is lit up like Camelot. All of the tables have candles and white roses in the center. There are twenty-four people in their wedding party, not to mention Parker’s parents and brother and sister and then me and my parents, so it’s quite a crowd. Dinner is four courses. The first course is an avocado and shrimp appetizer, after which they serve us lobster bisque, followed by Cornish game hens that are the cutest things, accompanied by garlic mashed potatoes and string beans almondine. For dessert there is a raspberry torte with fresh whipped cream. It looks like a work of art. Naturally there’s champagne, but I notice my mother is back to drinking apple juice, so maybe she’s gotten over the letters. Better yet, maybe she’s forgotten all about them. All in all, it’s a very nice evening. Beth looks quite beautiful, like always, but happier than I’ve ever seen her. Tomorrow’s the wedding, supposedly the best day of her life, but if she knew what was going to happen she’d excuse herself and go to the bathroom and kill herself, or at least puke. That’s another reason it’s best we never know what’s in our future. No sense upchucking a perfectly wonderful dinner.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Picture the worst thing happening at a wedding. That’s Beth’s wedding. Everyone’s in their place, exactly where they’re supposed to be. The flowers are like a garden from heaven. They’re everywhere. The priests are doing all their chanting and rituals right on schedule. Father O’Malley steps to the front of the altar and bows, and then turns to Parker. He places Parker’s right hand in Beth’s left hand, then turns to Beth and says, “Repeat after me.”

  “I, Elizabeth Amelia St. James, take you, Parker Chandler Barrett, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do us part.”

  Personally, I think they should have come up with something more original for their wedding vows, but Beth insisted on keeping it completely traditional, right down to “Here Comes the Bride.” But that’s not the point. I’m getting to that.

  So Beth repeats every word without skipping a beat and places the ring on Parker’s left hand.

  Father O’Malley turns to Parker and tells him to repeat after him. Parker looks like he’s about to fall on the floor. His face is whiter than milk. Parker, says, “I, Parker Chandler Barrett, take you, Elizabeth Amelia St. James, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do us part.”

  Father O’Malley is about to tell him to place the ring on Beth’s finger and Parker jumps in and says, “Wait!”

  No one in the church moves or makes a sound. If someone dropped a feather you would be able to hear it. Everyone has their eyes riveted on Parker who has a peculiar look on his face that says he would rather be at an inquisition than standing at the altar.

  “I can’t, I mean I don’t. That is, I’m not ready,” Parker blurts out and turns to Beth. He mouths what looks to be an “I’m sorry” and darts behind the altar and out the door that leads to the priests’ dressing area. My mother starts sobbing. My father stands up and turns to all of our guests with his mouth open. Beth drops to the floor like she’s been hit with a stun gun. I lean over and gather her in my arms as best I can.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I say. Even though I don’t think for one minute it will be. Everything’s a mess. Plus, they have a gazillion wedding gifts stacked up at home. I’m wondering what’s she going to do with them. And then, out of the blue, Beth opens her eyes at me and smiles and says, “Oh, Andi, I’m so relieved.”

  You figure that one out.

  ***

  It’s been six weeks since Beth’s wedding fiasco, but you would never know it even bothers her. It’s like she doesn’t even care that she never got married. But it’s bothering my mother. She’s nipping at the bottle again. I can smell it on her breath. And she has stopped going to meetings. My father doesn’t notice, yet. He’s too busy adding up all the wedding bills and trying to figure out if he can write it off his taxes. My mother had Rosa move all the wedding gifts to the front parlor. It looks like a department store gift registry. There’s china and crystal and every electronic gadget you can think of—actually, some really neat stuff.

  I invite Beth to come down to Table Grace and help pack the food boxes. Then I get a great idea.

  “Why don’t you donate some of your clothes to the boutique? Wouldn’t that be cool?”

  Beth gets this look on her face like she’s been smacked in the head and has finally come to her senses.

  “Perfect,” she says. “I’m getting rid of anything I’ve ever worn for the last four years. Why not? I don’t need those clothes.�
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  She dashes up the staircase to her bedroom and starts tossing most of the contents of her closet onto the bed. The boutique will have enough cool stuff to outfit an entire school if she keeps this up. But I’m not complaining. Our stock was getting kind of low. Of course, not everyone is Beth’s size, but we’ll worry about larger sizes later and take everything we can get.

  I ask Henry to drive us down to Table Grace. The trunk is loaded. Beth eagerly climbs into the front seat. She’s getting back her old spunk. I’m happy for her. Being jilted at the altar after planning the wedding of the year has to rank right up there with all time worst moments.

  “Hey, let’s stop next door,” I say. “I’ll ask Bridget to come. She can help us tag all the clothes.”

  Henry does a U-turn and pulls into their driveway. Donna is out in the front yard wearing a skimpy halter top and short-shorts. She has a figure like Demi Moore, I’ll give her that. She looks up when I get out of the car. There’s a smudge of dirt on her face and she brushes her hair out of her eyes and smiles. She looks like something out of a magazine ad for Pike’s Nursery.

  “Hi, Andi,” she calls brightly.

  Why does she have to be so nice? It’s hard to hate her. I nod and wave. “Is Bridget home?”

  She points to the house and nods her head. I ring the bell and hear Bridget bounding down the stairs. Her golden retriever Rudy barks like the house is being invaded, but actually he’s a very friendly dog and will lick you like an ice cream cone if you let him.