by Alex Wellen
“What do you mean you ‘promise to hold my hand through the night’?” I asked here.
“I dunno,” Paige said, embarrassed.
“But you’ve never held my hand through the night before.”
“It’s an expression.”
“I’ve never heard that expression.”
“Forget it.”
“No, leave it in. But do I have to promise to do the same thing?”
“No, Andy. You don’t have to promise to hold my hand through the night.”
“All I’m saying is we’ve only got time for like five promises, and that one isn’t at the top of my list. Plus, I suspect neither of us will really sleep if we’re holding hands.”
Paige and I revert largely to the language from our original draft, with enough revisions to hopefully satisfy Harvey; among the changes, we eliminate the part promising a “world filled with peace and love,” and instead emphasize words like honesty, respect, and support.
“Avert your eyes!” Harvey commands me, as he turns onto Paige’s street.
Once he confirms the coast is clear of my soon-to-be bride, I’m allowed to open them again.
My best man is waiting for us in his driveway, dashing as ever in tan pants, a checkered brown sport coat, a cream-colored dress shirt, and a brown paisley necktie.
“Cookie’s going to sit this one out,” Sid says, slowly lowering himself into the front seat. “She’s too consumed with coordinating the party afterward.”
“The less attraction we draw, the better,” I say, relieved.
“But she wanted me to wish the two of you all the luck in the world over the next twenty-five years,” Sid says.
“Just the next twenty-five?”
“She says the first twenty-five are the hardest.”
For the wedding ceremony, we’ve stripped attendance to the bare minimum: Paige, Lara, Sid, Harvey, and me. That’s it. Even my parents won’t attend. They’re going to meet us at The Old Homestead for the reception, just like everyone else, and they’re fine with that.
Harvey heads south on I-80. No one speaks for most of the ride.
“Small fry, this arrived at the house for you yesterday,” Sid says nonchalantly, handing me a business envelope over his shoulder.
Sid’s already opened it. The letter is addressed to “Euraka Productions” from “Baby Me Products” in Arlington, Virginia.
The subject line reads: “RE: Pacifier capable of receiving lozenge.” I race through the text. “Thank you for your submission …” Baby Me Products will “design, manufacture, and distribute” your pacifier. Another paragraph goes on to discuss “exclusivity” and “a patent application.” Post-it arrows point to three different places where I’m supposed to sign and date the nondisclosure agreement and accompanying rider.
There is also a check inside made out to our company for $1,000.
“They’ve agreed to make it!” I scream, startling Principal Martin as he turns onto the University of California Berkeley campus.
“Quite the contrary,” Sid remarks. “They’ve agreed not to.”
I check again, and he’s right. The letter states “in no way should this agreement be read as a commitment on the part of Baby Me Products to design, manufacture, or distribute the above-referenced device.”
“Here’s how it works: you get a thousand bucks every year that Baby Me Products doesn’t make it,” Sid explains. “For up to three years—the outside amount of time it would likely take to receive a patent.”
“I’m totally lost,” I admit.
“This is what they do,” Sid explains calmly. “It’s an option. Companies pay for the exclusive right to … keep the door open. They hedge their bets.”
“So this is worse than a company rejecting one of our ideas. This time they’re not only rejecting the idea, but also making sure that no one else rejects it?” I confirm. “For $1,000 a year, the idea gets shelved?”
“No, this is a good thing, Andy. Read the fine print. Baby Me Products is going to subsidize the patent application, and if it gets granted, you get to be the named inventor, as long as you agree to exclusively license the idea back to them if they decide to manufacture it. It could happen. They just aren’t prepared to make too many promises right now.”
“I don’t know. It feels like we’re selling out if we cash this,” I say, studying the check. “They’re treating us like second-class citizens.”
“You bet your ass we’re selling out! But second-class citizens? No way.” Sid laughs. “This from the guy who just spent the last year pouring good money after bad getting ‘Poor Man’s Patents.’ You’ve literally got someone at your doorstep willing to finance the real McCoy and you’re still complaining. Snap out of it! I don’t know what you wrote in that letter of yours, but it sure had the magic touch.”
“I told them the truth,” I say. “Well, as much ‘truth’ as possible without incriminating anyone. The invention stands on its own, but to seal the deal, I wrote about Gregory, his notebook, Paige, this wedding.”
“The truth: what a novel approach,” Sid admits, rubbing his chin.
We drive through Berkeley’s lush campus. School’s out, but it’s summer. Cal students wear tank tops and shorts and look ready to be active.
“This place has got a damn good engineering program,” I confirm with Sid, as I study the contemporary architecture.
“Best in the country,” Sid brags. He quickly picks up on where I’m going with this. “What courses did you take in pharmacy school? Organic chemistry, calculus, physics. A lot of those are prerequisites for engineering, you know. I bet most of your credits from U.C.S.F. would probably transfer.”
Harvey begins winding up the Berkeley Hills to the Lawrence Hall of Science.
“I was hoping they might. Even if I can’t get into Berkeley, UC-Davis and UC-Sacramento have pretty decent engineering schools,” I say.
Sid nods.
“I’d have to talk it over with the wife, of course,” I say. This is the first time I’ve used the word, and it cracks me up to hear it. I sound like I’m pretending to be an adult or talking about somebody else’s life.
“I think you should try for Berkeley. You’d be close, and if you needed money, I bet Rite Aid would keep you on part-time,” Sid suggests.
I pull taut the large rectangular Baby Me Products check. Between the little bit of money Gregory put aside for us in his savings account, his pacifier, and this check, we might be able to cover the rest of the wedding costs. And for our first anniversary, Baby Me Products will send us another check. Maybe Paige and I will take a trip.
Gregory wanted us to wait so he could give his daughter a proper wedding. He managed and then some.
CHAPTER 38
A Shotgun Wedding
PRINCIPAL-turned-peace-officer Harvey Martin pulls up to the concrete plaza of the Lawrence Hall of Science so he can drop Sid and me off and park. I grab my tulips and check my watch. The museum closes in three minutes. Busloads of children exit the building—some buddied up, others holding hands in a human chain. Sid and I walk past the fountain and wait for Harvey by the ledge.
The visibility is even clearer than the day Paige and I booked this place. It’s a completely unobstructed view from the Bay Bridge to the Golden Gate. This might be my favorite place on the planet.
“We’ll always share the same wedding anniversary” I inform him.
“I’ll be a big help to you if you ever go senile,” Sid says.
I wonder to myself how many more anniversaries we have together.
Throughout the rest of the conversation, we rarely look at each other, our eyes trained on the gorgeous, serene scenery.
Some time passes in silence, and then I ask him: “Why do you think Gregory never phased out the Co-Pay program?”
“I know he was trying,” Sid insists, thinking about it. “But I think he felt stuck. He talked to me about wanting to fix things, but we were never quite sure where to begin. Like most illegal
drug rings, I suspect, it started off with a small group, but over the years, it snowballed, and after a while, none of us was sure who really needed the drugs and who just took them because they were free. Then the laws kept changing. Medicare made it so complicated. Some people die from eating too many doughnuts. If you ask me, I think it was the doughnut hole that did him in.”
Sid mulls it over some more. “He never said it outright,” Sid continues, “but I’m pretty sure he thought you were the one who could help get us on the straight and narrow. ‘Wait and see,’ he would tell me. ‘Just wait.’”
I realize now that I never told Sid that Gregory asked me to “wait.”
“I also think he found it very gratifying to help people. Gregory really was the Mayor of Pomona Street,” Sid says, raising an eyebrow. “Getting so far in debt—I know it hurt his pride something awful. It’s tough when you get to my age and you’ve been self-sufficient all your life: you don’t want to file a paper with the government declaring yourself bankrupt. But we were being silly,” he admits. “Cookie and I need medical coverage, and we’re going to get some. I’ve decided I’m not too proud to sign us up for Medicaid.”
I lay my tulips on the ledge and reach into my jacket pocket.
“If you’re not too proud to do that, then maybe you’ll consider this,” I say, handing him a small wad of papers. “You don’t have to look at it right now, but I printed it off the Veterans Affairs Web site. It spells out the difference between being ‘dishonorably discharged’ and being discharged under ‘other than honorable conditions.’ They sound alike, but they’re not. A ‘dishonorable discharge’ is ‘punitive.’ It’s a criminal proceeding where you go to court and a military tribunal court-martials you. But that didn’t happen to you. You were discharged under ‘other than honorable conditions,’ which is much more common and much less severe. ‘Dishonorably discharged’ veterans don’t get medical benefits from the VA. ‘Other than honorable’ veterans do.”
Sid isn’t sure what to make of this. I can see him thinking: there aren’t too many ways I could know what I know. Stay with me, Sid. Keep your cool. Remember where we are and what we’re doing here. I’m about to marry the woman of my dreams. Sixty years ago to the day you were willing to sacrifice everything to do the same.
“So you’re saying they’re not the same?” he checks.
I shake my head. He continues to stare.
“Who told you about me?” he asks.
“Cookie.”
“No, she didn’t,” he says, definitely not believing me.
I know the whole truth will eventually come out, but for now, I need him to suspend reality. From the corner of my eye, I can see Harvey approaching.
“We better skedaddle,” Harvey yells over, toting a boom box and a black moleskin notebook. “I just saw our girls in the parking lot.”
Sid studies me through wraparound shades. He takes a deep breath.
“Ready?” Harvey says, reaching us.
I grab my flowers.
“We are,” Sid says, shaking the VA papers in my direction. “Thanks, small fry. I can always count on you for solid medical advice.”
Harvey lunges at me, throwing a sweaty palm over my eyes. This means Paige is close. Blindfolded this way, Sid takes my arm and the two of them slowly guide me inside.
“I AM so going to get fired for this,” Sheila says, hustling us against the flow of schoolchildren traffic. Sheila knows full well that Paige and Lara are right behind us. “They are going to rehire me just so they can fire me again,” she says, dipping her nose to smell her fresh new bouquet of white tulips.
Lawrence Hall of Science is now officially closed, but there are still about two dozen preschoolers milling about the Science Park. Sheila is definitely risking her job by letting us do this, but at a rate of about $100 per minute, it’s hard to feel like a five-minute wedding is a huge favor. Today’s price tag does not include a cocktail hour or a fancy dinner party. Our deposit simply buys us a speedy ceremony set against one of the world’s most dazzling backdrops. Sheila gets nothing out of doing this for us except a sense of satisfaction. Never again will I underestimate the power of flowers and senseless begging.
“Montessori Preschool,” Sheila mutters, studying the last lingering group. “They’ve got bus problems.”
“Yeah, I saw it smoking in the parking lot,” Harvey says.
“A replacement bus is on its way,” she explains. “I’ll be preoccupied keeping them busy inside. I need you folks to stick to five minutes and leave, pronto. Okay?”
“In and out,” I promise her.
Like a skilled dogcatcher, Sheila rounds up the strays: two teachers at the picnic tables, some little girls in the rock garden, a few little boys working the telescopes. She tucks the last of them inside, and just like that, silence.
I can hear my heartbeat.
Our photographer, Lonnie, a scrawny guy recommended to us by his film school classmate Cleat, directs us to a nice sheltered spot under a black oak tree perched at the edge of the property. He tells us the lighting is good here and yet shady enough for Sid to take off his wraparound shades.
While Harvey aligns himself with the trunk of the tree, Sid pops an audiocassette in the portable stereo and hits play. Harvey directs Sid and me to stand to his right, and he casually signals to anyone who can see him in the building that we’re ready.
Louis Armstrong starts singing about “trees of green” and “red roses, too.” The doors to the museum are motionless.
Thirty yards away, Sheila finally props open the back entrance to the museum, and the maid of honor, stunning in her long navy blue dress, steps up to the threshold. In the movies, this is the part when she dashes across the lawn to tell the groom about the runaway bride, but Lara’s big smile assures me everything’s fine.
“The wife picked this next number. Canon in D Major,” Sid whispers. “Cookie says it’s the song every woman secretly wants played at their wedding, even if they complain it’s overplayed.”
The soft, regal sounds of the harpsichord and violins begin slowly.
A precious young girl in a white dress steps out of the museum carrying a single white tulip. She can’t be more than five years old. She follows Lara, who walks across the lawn in step with the building sound of the orchestra. Right behind that cute preschooler with the wild curly brown hair is her shy male classmate. He appears to be carrying something, too. Another flower girl is right behind him giggling. Boy, girl, boy, girl, the processional follows Lara down the long stone walkway. The line is twenty children deep.
When Lara reaches us, she steps to Harvey’s left and begins doing traffic control: girls on one side of the lawn and boys on the other. Our impromptu guests are trying so hard to maintain composure, but the seriousness of the music is too much for many of them to take. The giggles are contagious.
The first boy then reveals what he’s carrying. Before taking his seat, he hands me a small sapphire-colored crystal. I can only assume the stone is part of a collection Sheila found in the museum gift shop. If she loses her job, Sheila may have a future in wedding planning. I thank him and cup my hands so the remaining rock bearers can drop off their gems.
I’m so consumed with balancing my rock collection that I don’t even notice Paige standing at the end of the aisle in the most exquisite strapless wedding gown I’ve ever seen. Tightly fitted at the top with a red sash across the waist, the white satin dress flares at the bottom, just barely brushing the floor. A short white veil hovers over her shoulders.
This is my beautiful bride.
I think that by not wiping my nose or patting dry my cheeks that I’m not crying, but I am. I take a long, deep breath. The music swells as the rest of the strings in the orchestra join in. I pour all the stones into Sid’s shaky hands and Sid starts stuffing them in his pockets.
Paige has a look of wonderment about her. She’s about to burst into tears or nervous laughter. When she finally reaches me, she asks whether I appr
ove of her dress. I take her hands in mine and tell her that it was worth every penny.
Lara gently lowers the music and Harvey welcomes our one friend, Sid, our one family member, Lara, and all the distinguished guests of Montessori Preschool. This evokes some proud smiles, a few laughs, and a lot of rocking.
Harvey removes the elastic band holding his notebook closed and begins reading from his notes: “When people get married, they promise to stick together ‘for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.’ But the way I see it, Paige Reese Day and Andy Gordon Altman have already had their fill of worse, poorer, and sickness. We wish them better, richer, healthier lives. Like I always say: if you’re lucky, today will be the worst day of your lives.”
Harvey Martin may have just ruined our wedding. Paige and I use the same blank space above our heads to figure out what Martin meant.
Lonnie snaps a picture.
“I know we’re on the clock here, so I want to turn the ceremony over to the groom, who would like to recite some personal vows. Andy?”
“You have the vows,” I politely remind him.
“You have the vows,” Harvey whispers back.
“Remember: you made us redo them. I e-mailed you.”
“Never got ’em. Maybe they got caught in my spam filter.”
“Your spam filter?”
Martin shrugs his shoulders.
“You have a wonderful memory, Andy. Paraphrase,” Sid suggests, handing me the two wedding bands.
I’m drawing a total blank. Paige takes my ring and then my hand and slips it on my finger.
“I promise to love and trust you,” Paige begins, insisting on my full attention. “To laugh and grow together. To occasionally sell you my clothes, to award you points, and to invent new ways for us to play together. I promise to be your partner, your best friend, and your family.”
