A new couple wander up. I think they’re only tourists, gawping at my dress, but the chapel director is already muscling in.
“Wanna get married, Sir?”
He makes it sound like some cheap souvenir. “Wanna baseball cap? Free hot dog, free wedding?” Hardly free. Every time I’ve been into his office, there’s someone writing out a cheque or handing over money. Marriage is a cash transaction here.
I follow his expensive gold-trimmed loafers back into the office. It’s the only place that’s warm. A radio is blaring. A bomb attack in Phoenix: ten dead and fifty hurt. A fire in Reno – three children and a baby burnt to death in bed; a madman on the loose in Salt Lake City; pile-ups on the freeways everywhere. The newscaster signs off: “Happy New Year.” Yeah, very happy.
The chapel doors re-open and the two slobs shuffle out. Their wedding took under seven minutes. The basic chapel fee is fifty dollars, which must work out at not far short of eight dollars a minute.
The director darts back to check on me again. He’s wearing a red carnation like a groom himself, a strained and harrassed groom.
“No,” I say. “He hasn’t come. Not yet. Yes, of course I understand.” Go ahead – marry anyone you like. Mustn’t waste a minute. That’s eight whole dollars.
I hate this place. Everything is fake. Fake ministers, fake grass (they’ve bought it by the yard); fake stained glass (it’s perspex); fake candles (all-electric); fake flowers (dye and plastic); even fake marriages. I bet half these couples are only here because they’re semi-sloshed, or had a big win at the tables and decided to get married just on impulse. It happens all the time. The director told me so himself when we had our chat this morning. He seemed to rather like me (he doesn’t now), offered me coffee, sugared it with funny (tragic) stories about a guy who married ten times in succession, after nine quick-fire divorces, and another chap who turned up at this chapel with a girl he’d met just half an hour before. They divorced as well. Hilarious.
He stays open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, so he can catch every passing drunk, cash in on every instant lust or whim, keep his till ringing round the clock. He’s pretty fake himself, with his hair so glossy dark it’s either dyed, or stick-on like his regulation smile. Does he have to bare his teeth at me when he’s obviously pissed off?
I escape into the waiting room. It’s far too cold to hang around outside now. Anyway, it’s really rackety. I don’t know why these chapels are all built near busy roads – brakes screeching, throb of engines, whoops from passing drunks. Norah follows like a spaniel. There are no spare seats so I slump against the wall, Norah fussing with my dress. The next couple are summoned, get up, hand in hand. Japanese. He’s in just his shirt sleeves, she in a simple cotton skirt. I’m overdressed – that’s obvious – dolled up for St Paul’s Cathedral or Westminster Abbey, when this chapel’s hardly bigger than a shack and not much more substantial. How could I have chosen such a dump? A painted plywood gingerbread-house for the most important ceremony of my life. Except it isn’t going to happen, by the looks of it. It’s a wonder no one’s laughing. The only real traditional bride, three-foot deep in tulle and outswanking all the rest, with just one small thing missing – the bridegroom. I laugh myself. Ha ha. Norah jumps.
“Have you seen him?”
“No,” I snap. “Do you imagine I can see through walls?”
Norah looks ludicrous as well, the Blue Pearl on her eyelids smudged into blue bruise, her varicose veins showing through sheer stockings and that stupid beaded dress with its white bra back. I drag her outside again. I can’t keep still, can’t stay in that room with all those smug and smirking couples. Everyone in couples. A few doting mothers, giggly friends. Anyway, maybe Norah’s right. Maybe Reuben has come.
I use my eyes like searchlights, sweep them over chapel, shop and street. A huge jacuzzi-limousine is drawing up, all forty-foot of it. You can hire that for a hundred dollars extra – book a half-hour champagne trip of Las Vegas. There’s a hot tub in the back with mink-upholstered seats and black glass in the windows to ensure your privacy. I’d rather have Reuben’s cracked enamel bath with its badly fitting plug – so long as he was there.
He isn’t.
Maybe he’s been held up by the crowds, even hurt. They’re getting really vicious, judging by the racket. I trudge back to the corner, so I can check on the main street again. The bright and happy New Year has already turned to ashes. The crowds aren’t dancing any more, but fighting and rampaging; smashed bodies in the gutter now, not just broken bottles. Policemen are hitting out with truncheons, clawing bloody louts apart. A girl vomits down her own ranch mink. A desperate baby howls and howls, abandoned in a pushchair looped with streamers. The pavements are ankle-deep in litter: burst balloons, spent rockets, limp and dirty flower-garlands adrift on pools of beer. I can still hear all the noise-makers – screeching whistles, shrill and jangling bells. Music for a nightmare, not a wedding.
I feel a cold hand on my arm. It’s Norah, come to find me. She looks haggard, terror-stricken. She also needs a pee. I take her to the toilets, mooch out into the tiny square of courtyard where I waited before, just this afternoon. Then, I was with Reuben, sprawled out on that wrought-iron bench, yet really in his bed – one with him, joined to him. Now I’m all alone, grown old in half a day. I pace up and down, up and down, trying to think of nothing, grey and faded nothing. Ten minutes later, Norah joins me. Her stole has slipped again. Her teeth are chattering. Her eyes stray to the bench as well, then look away. I try and whistle, but no sound comes out at all. Norah breaks the silence first.
“He’s not coming, is he, Carole?”
“He is!” I want to scream. “Of course he is.” How can she be so dim? “He’s got things to do, that’s all. He’s a busy man. Important. Important people are often late for things.”
He was late before. This afternoon. He said four sharp at the Courthouse, then turned up at twenty past. Those twenty minutes were deliberately sadistic, spun out each cruel second like an hour. It was horrid in that queue, especially on my own, with everyone else in brash and cocky twosomes. Some were really foul, pissed and pushy, or reeking of BO. Even after Reuben joined me, I didn’t feel too bright. He seemed terribly on edge and sort of snappy. I assumed he was just tired after our wild and sleepless night together, or maybe simply anxious about all he had to do still, when the queue was only moving at a snail’s pace.
Now I realise he was probably trying to tell me that he’d changed his mind, but couldn’t pluck up courage. Simpler just to go through with the licence, then do a bunk, buzz off.
It’s probably the whole Jewish thing. I’m not a Jew – he told me so himself, and though I can convert, it’s not the same. He said it didn’t matter, but obviously it does now. Most Jewish men wouldn’t touch a schicksa.
I sink down on the bench, remembering the other words he taught me – lovers’ words, private words. Norah sits as well, but leaves a gap between us as if she’s scared I’ll shout again. She stares down at her hands. They’re trembling, blue with cold. I feel a rush of shame. She waited all the evening, not just twenty minutes. I can see her suddenly, loaded down with shopping, walking round in frantic hopeless circles, jostled by the crowds. Or deafened in the showroom, hemmed in by cackling strangers. I let her down, left her on her own. Yet she didn’t complain, didn’t hurl abuse at me, demand an explanation. I was the one who got angry and unreasonable.
“Oh, Norah …”
“What?”
“I feel so awful.”
“He’ll come. He’s very busy.” She’s returning me my words, doing everything to comfort me, shaking out the stole, swathing it round my shoulders when her own are bare.
“No, I don’t mean Reuben. You, Norah. You waited hours and hours for us and …” My voice just peters out. God! I’m vile. And then I dare to say I love her, swan around beneath the stars boasting that I love the world. I don’t know what love is. She does. Even now, she looping up my skirt, tr
ying to keep it clean.
“Shall we play ‘I Spy’?” she says. “Just to pass the time till Reuben comes.”
An aeroplane kindly fills the silence. I know what we’re both thinking. My face starts crumpling up. I force it back to normal. “O … Okay,” I stammer. “You begin.”
“I spy with my little eye something begining with … with … with D.”
I shiver. It’s really raw now, the iron bench cold and hard beneath the tulle. D for damp. A randy wind is groping up my skirt. It knows I’ve left my pants off. No one else will. D for desertion. D for dark, depression, dastard.
“D for dog,” I say instead. I can’t see any dogs, but we’ve played “I Spy” before and Norah sometimes spies things no one else can.
She shakes her head.
D for drunks, I wonder. No, they’re out in the street, with a lot of other D’s. Danger and destruction. Damage, deathblows, débris. “D for drains,” I try.
“No.”
“D for daisy?” I bend down to pick it up. It’s a lump of chewing gum, well sucked and dirty grey. I hold it in my hand – my daisy in the dark – feel tears splash warm and stupid on my fingers.
“Give up?” asks Norah. She likes it when I give up in “I Spy”. I nod.
“D for dress!”
Of course. D for Dress. The most expensive lavish dress I’ve ever owned – and all for thirty minutes’ empty vanity. No wonder Reuben hasn’t come. He tried to show me there were more important things than clothes. I sit in silence.
“Your turn,” prompts Norah.
I mop my face, grateful for the dark. “I spy with my little eye something beginning with …” I pause, leap up. Someone’s calling me. “R!” I shout. I can’t spy anything, but I can hear him.
“Wait here!” I yell to Norah. “Hold my flowers.” I toss her the bouquet. R for roses, rapture, sheer relief.
I run, trip, recover, bunch my dress up, hurtle on.
“Reuben, darling …” I’m crying, laughing, both at once. I knew he’d come. He’s kissing me, and the entire world’s clocks are chiming midnight in our mouths, all the bells ringing out New Year; rockets, golden rain, coloured streamers …
He pulls away, and I see him for the first time – his crumpled denims, scuffed and dirty sneakers. I hoped he’d wear all white, like Jewish bridegrooms do, or at least a clean white shirt. He looks tired and really drawn. He probably had too much to do – just couldn’t fit it in and still have time to change. It doesn’t matter. He’s here – and that’s enough.
The director scurries over. I almost kiss him too. Yes, of course we’ll wait ten minutes. I’ll wait for ever now Reuben’s here beside me. There’s no sign of the Rabbi. That doesn’t matter either. The minister can marry us. I was far too hard on him. I like his suit. It’s smart. And the shoes are quite unusual. He escorts an elderly couple into the chapel. They’re beautiful. I love them. White hair, bridal white. Six thin unsteady legs, their witness even older and more doddery.
Witness. Norah. Shivering on that bench. We need her – and my flowers. “Don’t go away,” I call to Reuben. “I’m going to fetch the bridesmaid.” I dart back to him, whisper in his ear. “Will you kiss her, Reuben? Just for me. A really lovely kiss, one she’ll treasure always. Don’t scare her. Make it very gentle, but …”
He nods, seems nervous, keeps glancing at his watch. I think he’s still upset about being late, impatient now to make up for lost time. I’m impatient, too, impatient to be married and then to be alone with him – back in bed for a few snatched private hours before our flight. I’ll let him rest first, really sleep, revive. I hate to see him quite so tired and tense. Oh, he’s wonderful. I love him. Oh, Norah, Norah, Norah, just wait until you see him.
She’s still sitting on the bench, eyes down, bouquet gripped stiffly in her hands, big brown feet turned out. I’m worried suddenly. What will Reuben think of her? He’s used to girls like Angelique and Cheryl. I tried to explain that Norah’s fairly simple and not that young, and …
“Norah?”
“Yes.”
“Look, don’t say too much, will you? I know you never do, but don’t go on about the hospital or …”
She looks hurt and almost frightened. I lean over, hug her and the flowers. God! It’s difficult. Perhaps she won’t approve of Reuben either. Norah doesn’t go for jeans, and she’ll see they’re frayed and dirty. I just wish he had a tie on. I know it doesn’t matter, but …
I smooth my own dress down. “He’s … not dressed up, Norah. He doesn’t care about that sort of thing. He thinks it’s trivial and we ought to …” I wheel round. I can hear shouts and running feet, a sudden piercing shriek. Those ruffians in the street must have got into the chapel, the drunken New Year rampage spread as far as here. I grab Norah by the hand, drag her after me. We’ll be safer back with Reuben if there’s going to be a shindig.
We pound up to the chapel, stop in shock. The doors are open. A vase has been knocked over, plastic flowers tangled on the floor. The white-haired bride is sobbing, the minister and bridegroom dashing out. Three policemen armed with guns and truncheons are hurtling down the street. They’re chasing someone. A lout, a tramp, a tall dark shifty figure still streaking well ahead of them. I shade my eyes against the fusillade of lights. It’s Reuben.
“No!” I yell. “You’re chasing the wrong man. That’s my husband, not a criminal. He wasn’t drunk or fighting. He hasn’t done a thing. Stop! Please stop them, someone.”
No good. They’re catching up with him. One huge cop draws level, trips him up. A police car screeches round the corner. He’s bundled in.
“No!” I scream again – or try to scream. It comes out as a whisper. They must have gagged me, tied me up. My legs won’t move at all now. All the churning, sickening motion’s in my stomach; sirens in my stomach, blaring out as the police car speeds away. Two red eyes growing smaller smaller smaller in the dark. It’s very dark. I think it’s just a dream. Norah’s in the dream. I can hear her voice, feel her ice-cold hands on mine.
“He’s here,” I say. “Don’t worry. He’s come. We need the flowers.”
Someone’s crying. I touch my cheeks. They’re dry. Little knots of people are gathering on the pavement, more cars sweeping up. One I’ve seen before. A red Mercedes. The driver’s door swings open and a girl gets out, dashes over, grabs my arm, drags me with her back towards the car. I can smell Anaïs. That’s Angelique’s perfume. And her voice.
“Carole – quick! Get in.”
I try to struggle. Even if I’m dreaming, I’ve got to be with Reuben, save him, kill those brutal cops. “Get away! You’re hurting, Angelique. You’re only jealous. You slept with him, I know you did. He told me so. Get off!”
She slaps me, hard, and suddenly everything is red – the car, the night, the speed; the lights flashing flaring past us as we hurtle down the freeway, the music pounding painful in my head.
I shut my eyes and red slumps slowly, dully, into black.
Chapter Twenty
Carole’s dead, I think. She hasn’t said a word. There’s just some music playing, very loud. I can still hear sirens. The police caught Reuben, but they were really after me. They thought I’d stolen the raincoat and the ring. I meant to give them back, but Al rushed off too fast. He said he had to catch a plane. He shouldn’t have done that when his mother was so ill. I think we’re flying now. You can fly in cars. We did before, in Al’s. I wasn’t frightened then. I’m frightened now, very very frightened.
Carole’s in the front with Angelique. I can only see her head, and that’s bent over. It reminds me of a flower-head, a dead one on a broken stalk. I keep reaching out to touch it, hoping it will move. It doesn’t.
There’s someone else beside me in the back. I’m not sure who he is. He doesn’t speak at all and when I said “hallo”, he only stared. I edge away from him, jerk forward once again, stroke Carole’s hair.
She stirs and moans. I’m so happy, I start laughing. Right out lou
d. Angelique turns round.
“What’s wrong?”
“She isn’t dead.”
“Who?”
“Carole.”
Carole hears her name, turns round herself. Her face looks very pale, her eyes half shut. I don’t think she remembers who I am.
“Norah,” I remind her. “Norah Toomey.”
She doesn’t smile or say hallo, just turns back again. I dropped her wedding flowers, left them on the bench. She’s probably very cross.
Angelique starts talking to her. I can hear their voices, but I can’t make out the words. Then Carole starts to cry, really sob. Her tears are on my own cheeks, running down. I wipe them off. I mustn’t make a noise or they’ll tell me to get out, leave me all alone again, like I was Downtown when they set off all those fireworks. I don’t think they were fireworks. That was Israel. They were blowing up the town. I saw the ambulances, and there were policemen everywhere. The police in Israel all have guns. And carry long black shiny bombs. The bombs went off, all of them at once, the loudest noise I’ve heard in all my life.
I can hear it now, again. Black holes in the sky, tall buildings falling down. I try to run. I’m trapped. Heads and bodies pushing shoving round me. Yellow eyes which never shut. People singing foreign songs. Crashes, showers of sparks.
The birds are terrified. Pigeons flapping round and round the sky. They’re trying to escape. They can’t. No one can escape. I can feel their wings beating in my chest. The police are very angry. They’re punching people, even those who’ve died. I can see the dead ones bleeding in the street. One man has no face. Only bruises.
Sin City Page 36
