And that, in the end, was exactly what Mrs. Bernstein had come to realize: Beth needed her assistance. The girl simply didn’t know where to begin, and thus, her mother must take her in hand and show her what to do. The irony of this was, of course, that Susan Bernstein—back when she was Susan Gilman, of Shaker Heights, Ohio—had insisted on planning her own wedding in the most unconventional manner possible, despite the fact that she knew exactly how a proper person planned such an event, as her own mother thought of little other than balls and fund-raisers and luncheons and, of course, weddings. When Beth announced that she was getting married—to this man the Bernsteins had only met once or twice (but then, how often had her parents met Donald before she married him?)—a vast reservoir of knowledge came rushing back to Mrs. Bernstein: invitations mailed no less than eight weeks in advance, seating charts, veil lengths and levels of fullness (elbow length, fingertip length, cathedral length), and so on.
Over the two weeks that had passed since Beth and Will’s announcement—as Beth avoided even talking about the wedding—Mrs. Bernstein had found it more and more difficult to refrain from asking: “Are you thinking passed hors d’oeuvres for the cocktail hour? Or just crudités?” and “How many bridesmaids do you plan on?” Just to get the girl’s mind going. There was also the temptation to burst out with passive-aggressive statements like “If you don’t register soon, you won’t get any engagement presents, because none of Daddy’s family will know what to get you.” To which—when she finally did give in to the urge and say it—Beth, unsurprisingly, said simply, “Mom, we’re not getting married for the gifts! We’re getting married because we love each other. I don’t think we want to register, anyway.” And Mrs. Bernstein, querulously, had replied, “Everyone gets married for the gifts. Otherwise you’d just shack up together forever.” Of course, she didn’t believe this at all. She hadn’t thought of gifts either when she’d married Donald. Why had she said it? She couldn’t say.
Earlier in the week, she’d finally gathered herself together and given Beth a quiet ultimatum: they needed to get the basic wedding stuff done as soon as possible, otherwise they’d be in deep water. “I’ve looked at the calendar and the invitations absolutely have to go out by July fifth,” she told her daughter, using the voice she reserved for talented but lazy students. “They need to get to guests by the tenth, otherwise people won’t have time to make travel arrangements. And we must figure out the food. And your dress.”
“Okay, Mom,” Beth had said amiably, to Mrs. Bernstein’s surprise, and agreed to come out to Scarsdale over the weekend. It would be both easier and cheaper, Mrs. Bernstein thought, to obtain most of the wedding things in Westchester. They could simply go to the stationers in town, or to Neiman’s or Saks, where they could also take a look at dresses for both Beth and her bridesmaids (though she hadn’t yet said anything about bridesmaids; was it possible there would be no bridesmaids?). It was too bad Altman’s had closed, she thought for the thousandth time.
She couldn’t help but wonder if Beth’s procrastination had something to do with second thoughts about this man, Will; or, rather, about the fact that he’d been married before (unhappily, but still) and had a little boy, who would be coming to live with them once they were married (and, Mrs. Bernstein hoped, installed in a bigger apartment). Apparently, the little boy was precious and sweet and well adjusted despite the tragic circumstances of his birth. But Beth herself had only met the child a handful of times and a kid who seems charming during an afternoon at the park inevitably becomes a little less so when it’s time for dinner and bath and bed. Or when tired or sick. “You won’t be able to sleep in on Sundays, you know,” she’d warned Beth. “And sit around all day reading the paper. You can’t do that with a kid.” Beth had said she knew that, she understood, she loved Will and she loved Sam. But Mrs. Bernstein worried.
Standing at the counter, she waited for the coffee to bubble up to the top section of the little pot and went over, again, what they needed to do: invitations (choose paper, envelopes, inserts, figure out the wording), dress for Beth (ideally they’d simply choose one today), dresses for bridesmaids and a suit or tux for the little boy, Sam (Mrs. Bernstein could buy her own dress later, coordinating with Will’s mother), food (Beth must look at the menus Mrs. Bernstein had sent for from the few caterers who did events on Vinalhaven), cake (she had photos from various bakeries), and, well, that was probably enough for one day. Steam began to escape the top of the steel pot. Mrs. Bernstein turned off the heat and poured the thick liquid into a squat white mug. A year earlier, she’d replaced the house’s ancient, crumbling kitchen. All the surfaces were now a glittering white. When she’d selected the cabinetry and countertops (poured concrete, very much the thing these days), she’d imagined the room transformed into a rustic hideaway, the kitchen of a Cotswolds cottage, with roses tapping at the windows, and sun lying in patches on the floor’s pale tiles. Now she wasn’t sure she liked it. The effect was a bit sterile.
She brought her coffee to the table and riffled through the paper until she found the Style section, which she habitually read first, in order to ease herself into the harder news. She skimmed the wedding announcements for former students, then turned back to the front page and began an interesting story about a group of radical young people who’d protested the practices of some huge, evil-seeming corporation. Turning to the story’s second page, she saw a familiar face in the line of protesters dressed in clever simulations of prison garb (what a great idea!). A handsome man in, perhaps, his middle thirties. Was he a student of hers? She looked at the caption. “Journalist William Hayes (far right, foreground) was arrested on Friday, along with Robert Green-Gold, following a skirmish with Crown executive vice president Charles Harris. Mr. Hayes is currently writing a much-anticipated biography of tech guru Ed Slikowski, who also participated in the protest (third from left).”
William Hayes. Why was that name familiar to her? She’d finished the story and moved on to a piece about spas for dogs before the name and the face coalesced—Lil’s husband, who had, of course, introduced Beth to Will in the first place. Wow, she thought, that’s so neat! She felt an impish desire to wake Don and tell him that one of Beth’s brainy, apathetic friends was in fact—could you believe it?—some sort of radical, who’d been arrested. All of Beth’s Oberlin chums—the girls, that is; the boys were a whole different story, which she didn’t even want to think about now—reminded Mrs. Bernstein of little girls dolled up for a party, in their ladylike dresses and ringlets. When she was their age, she’d run around braless, in raggedy jeans and leotards, Beth propped on her hip, her hair hanging down her back in thick clumps. But they were sweet girls, definitely, and all very smart. And that was the way, wasn’t it? The rebellious parent begets the dutiful child. Perhaps Beth was more political than she knew. For all Mrs. Bernstein knew, Beth could have been at this protest, along with Lil and Tuck. She looked at the photos again. What fun! And how creative! This young man, Green-Gold, sounded really interesting. Perhaps he’d want to come speak at the high school? She’d have to ask Beth about it.
Beth’s train got in on time—miracle—and mother and daughter had time for a quick breakfast at the diner, after which they walked a block to the stationers in town, where they priced a simple cream card, with matching envelope and response card, and to the small bridal shop a block over, which was packed to the gills with high school girls being fitted for prom dresses. Beth wouldn’t look at anything with lace or beads and snapped at the saleslady, who was, Mrs. Bernstein admitted, a bit of a dolt, hovering over Beth and bringing her poofy, frilly things, with leg-of-mutton sleeves, or rhinestone cuffs. “We can go, sweetie,” whispered Mrs. Bernstein, as they sat wearily on a fake Louis XIV love seat, plastic-wrapped sample dresses on their laps, waiting to get into one of the four dressing rooms. Squeals rushed at them from behind the flimsy white doors. “You’re not crazy about any of these dresses, are you?” Beth shook her head. “Then, let’s go to Saks.” They g
ot up and slipped the dresses back on the overstuffed racks.
Outside, Beth raised her hands over her head and stretched. “That was awful,” she said, letting out a little laugh.
“I know. I didn’t think they’d have anything that was right for you, but I didn’t think it would hurt to take a look. Boy, was I wrong!” She glanced at her watch. “Is it time for lunch? Should we eat in town? Or we can just go to Saks and eat there.”
Beth considered. “Let’s go to Saks. I’m not really hungry.”
“Okay,” said Mrs. Bernstein, resolving to give in to any and all of Beth’s wishes for the entirety of the day. “So is Sam excited about the wedding? You loved being a flower girl at Aunt Margo’s wedding. Do you remember?”
“Just barely,” said Beth. In fact, she did not remember at all, but she wished she did.
“You wore the most adorable dress. I still have it—in the cedar closet. It was pink cotton, with a layer of thick lace over it, and a wide black satin ribbon around the waist. And you had little black shoes with straps.”
“Mary Janes?”
“Yes, yes. You looked so cute. You loved to get dressed up. Other kids hate it, you know. But you loved it.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Bernstein slowed her gait, distracted. “Beth, I just remembered. Did you read the paper today?”
Beth hadn’t. It still sat unopened in her bag. “Why?” she asked.
Her mother smiled mischievously. “Well,” she said. “Let’s put it this way. A friend of yours has been arrested.” Beth looked at her mother blankly. None of her friends were very likely to be arrested, unless it was for some sort of benign negligence, like unpaid parking tickets. Then, of course, she knew. Of course. There was only one person it could be. One person with a temper, who would, perhaps, get into a fight at a bar, or leave a restaurant without paying, or break into a friend’s apartment through the window and get mistaken for a burglar. Her sinuses prickled. “Maybe you know all about it already,” Mrs. Bernstein said. Beth shook her head. “No?” cried Mrs. Bernstein, her blue eyes twinkling. “Okay, if you had to choose one friend who might be arrested, who might it be?”
“I don’t know, Mom,” said Beth. “I have no idea.”
Frowning, Mrs. Bernstein reached up one small hand and smoothed her daughter’s fine hair. This moodiness was just too much. “I’m sorry, honey. What’s bothering you?” Beth clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth and jerked her head away.
“Nothing, Mom. Nothing is bothering me. I’m fine.”
Mrs. Bernstein shrugged. Why were children like this? “Okay,” she said.
They began walking, in silence, down Chase Road, toward Mrs. Bernstein’s red Subaru. In silence still, they drove out of the town center and got on the Bronx River Parkway going north, toward Saks. “So,” Mrs. Bernstein said finally. “I’m thinking we can stop in at the stationery department and quickly price invitations, then head directly to the bridal salon, the fun part! We want as much time there as possible, right?” She flashed Beth a broad smile. “They’re having a sample sale, so it may be mobbed, though the sale started on Thursday, so everything may be gone, but that’s fine. You should choose the dress you like. Don’t worry about whether it’s on sale or not. Daddy and I are paying for this, okay?” Beth nodded nervously. She hated talking about money. “You only get married once,” Mrs. Bernstein rambled on. “And then we can go to Neiman’s and take a look at the dishes and stuff. I don’t remember if they do bridal or not. But it could be a good place for you to register.” Beth nodded, avoiding her mother’s sidelong gaze. A familiar feeling took root in her chest, like warm needles. If she spoke, the tears would start. In the months since she’d met Will, she’d barely cried in the old way, as she had, embarrassingly, at Lil’s party the previous week. She’d thought herself reborn, reinvented, with a new sort of confidence, a new toughness, which was strange, ironic, really, considering the uncertainty of those first days. She smiled now, the warmth in her chest abating, as she remembered how nervous she’d been, thinking he was interested in Sadie. She knew now—he’d confessed, much later, maybe in January—that he’d asked about Sadie merely as a way of speaking to Beth without seeming as though he was hitting on her. “An age-old tactic,” he’d said. “Really,” she’d asked. “It seems kind of weird.” “Well,” he replied, “it worked, didn’t it?”
After that first date followed a week of terrible anxiety—Beth wondering what exactly had passed between them—during which she heard nothing from Will; and then another week, during which she wondered why exactly she agreed to go out again with this man. But she’d gone, of course she’d gone, as she’d thought of little but him—her mind, returning eternally to him, the feel of his hands on her, the set of his jaw—and she felt she had to see what came next, as though their fates were ordained, their story already written, and she needed merely to show up to catch the ending. And so she’d gone, rather than running away, as some little voice inside her kept suggesting, so that even, at the last minute, as she walked in the door of a dark Italian place in the West Village—a relic from a more mannered era, with silent, nodding waiters and dark booths and brass fixtures—she’d thought, Should I just go? I could just go home right now.
Part of her thought that he mightn’t show up, that she’d be left alone, sipping Chianti, for hours. But then, no, he was there, waiting for her at the table, a bottle of wine in front of him. He stood when she came in and kissed her gently, on the cheek. Some level of reserve had vanished, though all his pretensions and weird turns of phrase and banter remained. He was so—she struggled to find the word—unbridled in his opinions, and somehow this—she saw now—forced her to figure out her own thoughts about all sorts of things, rather than simply blandly agreeing or saying “I don’t know much about it.” That night his problem—this was how Beth thought of it now—seemed to have disappeared. He never mentioned it again and she’d not asked, though she liked to think that she’d cured him. Soon they were spending every Wednesday and Saturday together—Will arranged for Sam to spend the latter night with his mother. They always ended at his apartment, rather than her sublet, which still felt more like a hotel than a home and was, after all, in Queens. He showed her pictures of Sam—a saucer-eyed waif, with blond curls sticking out all over his head, and rosy lips—but refused to allow Beth to meet the boy. “Doesn’t it bother you?” Lil asked her constantly. “Not really,” said Beth, though it did, of course. “It would drive me crazy,” Lil told her. “He’s keeping the most important part of his life from you.”
One day in April—a week or so after Will signed his divorce papers—Beth finally cracked. “Are you ever going to let me meet Sam?” she asked as they sat at his small table, sipping the dregs of an after-dinner coffee (Nescafé, Will’s secret shame). “No,” he responded. “I’m not.” Beth was so shocked she didn’t know what to say. “Not until I know you’re going to be in his life permanently,” he went on. “So you need to think about whether you want that.” She’d nodded numbly. Permanently, she thought, egads. The ongoing fact of his marriage had neatly allowed her to avoid questions of permanence. But now it was over. Nothing in her life felt even close to permanent, not her apartment, nor her work, which involved, of course, her dissertation, which was seeming more and more distant and irrelevant in the face of the job she’d finally managed to wrangle for the spring semester, teaching two 200-level English classes at Baruch—for so little money, she’d been using her credit card to buy food, which made her burn with shame—with no real indication that they’d give her a real contract, though she seemed to be making inroads with both Gail Bronfman and NYU, where she’d start teaching summer session in a week. It was just one class, but in her field, at least, and for a thousand dollars more than at Baruch, where the students had barely spoken English. Will kept telling her to pitch stories to magazines, now that her piece had come out on Salon (to little fanfare, though it had thrilled her to see her name on the site,
her words below it).
A month later, on a Saturday evening in May, as they once again sipped their after-dinner coffee—he could cook, she’d discovered—he called from the little kitchen, “So, tomorrow, I thought you might want to come along with Sam and me. We’re going to the Central Park Zoo.”
“Um, okay,” said Beth, heart pounding.
“Here’s something to wear,” he added offhandedly, coming out of the kitchen and handing her a small black box, the sort of small box people were always being handed in movies and television shows, the sort of small box that could only contain one thing. Beth had never wanted such a box or the thing in it; nor had she ever dreamed of being presented with one of these objects, not in any sort of romantic, traditional way. She’d been annoyed—deeply annoyed—by the way Lil behaved in the months before her wedding, and surprised that Lil wore that enormous, suburban ring. She’d said it was out of duty to Tuck’s mom, but Beth knew better. Lil liked it.
A Fortunate Age Page 21
