Across the hall, Nicole’s room was dark and the door open. For a moment, Marci experienced a flash of big-sister worry until she remembered that Ellie had arranged for their whole group to crash in a hotel room downtown. Marci wondered whether they were all still out, and how Ravi was faring with Nicky’s crazy friends. She was trying to imagine poor Ravi doing lemon drop shots with the sorority sisters when blackness overtook her.
#
Not until very bright and not so early the next morning did Marci even think to check her phone to see whether Doug had called. She woke to this realization and a vicious hangover, scrambling to reach her purse from the bed as her head pounded in her ears and her stomach lurched menacingly.
He had called. Twelve times. Damn.
Fighting the urge to vomit, she sighed and held down the voicemail key on her phone. Four messages. Great.
Saturday, 8:02 p.m. “Hey, Marce, it’s Doug. It’s about seven o’clock here, and I know you were planning to go out tonight so I just made a quick run to the store, hoping to catch up with you. Maybe you’re already out? That’s right, the time difference. Shit. Well, if you’re not out or you can sneak off to the bathroom in the next few minutes, give me a buzz. Hope you’re having a great time with your family. Okay, well, hopefully I’ll talk to you soon.”
Saturday, 8:46 p.m. “Marce, hey, just on my way home and wanted to try you again before I get back to the house. There’s some family coming over tonight to play cards and stuff. I’ll leave my phone in the car so you can call if you want. Okay, babe? Love you. Be safe.”
Saturday 11:36 p.m. “Hey, hey, hey, Marcella [a loud crash in the background, possibly a trash can being knocked over] Shit!
[More clanging, mumbling] Well, bummer—came all the way out to the car and no message from you. You must be having a damn good time out there. Forgotten all about me, I guess. Heh, heh. Alright, girl. Take it easy. Going in for the night. Talk to you tomorrow.”
Sunday, 9:32 a.m. “Hey party girl. Skipped church with the family so I’m here alone for the next hour and a half or so. Hope you had fun last night. Call me.”
She ended the call and looked at the clock on her phone. It was 11:15 Georgia time, just past the window he had mentioned in the last message. She debated calling him back anyway, on the chance that his family returned later than expected. But between the coldness in his voice, the pounding in her head, and the fact that her mouth seemed filled with fiberglass insulation, she opted to put the phone back in her purse and go down for breakfast instead. The damage was done, obviously, and a few more hours wouldn’t make a difference now.
Downstairs, Nicole slouched over the kitchen table with an ice pack on the back of her neck and a plate of untouched pancakes and bacon in front of her. She seemed to be wearing the same jeans from the night before—with rhinestones down the seams, ridiculous on Sunday morning—and one of Ravi’s Georgetown sweatshirts. Ravi and their father were visible through the sliding glass door, sitting with coffee on the back porch and engaged in a conversation lively enough to indicate that Ravi was clearly not as bad off as his betrothed.
“Heavy starch and grease, girls. That’s the hangover cure I swear by.” Their mother was so bright and perky she could’ve been sharing the secret for perfect cupcakes on her own cooking show, rather than nursing the hangovers of two wayward adult daughters. “Pancakes, Marce?”
“Please,” Marci muttered gratefully. She set her plate across from Nicole’s untouched breakfast and headed for the medicine cabinet.
“Must’ve been some night,” Mom continued, smiling.
“Ugh.” This sound emanated from somewhere in the vicinity of Nicole.
“Well, you’d better get hydrated and take some Advil, because that shower is happening today come hell or high water. Aunt Theresa hasn’t talked about anything else for the last three months.”
Three hours later, they pulled up in front of Aunt Theresa’s house—a small brick bungalow off Habersham Road in Buckhead, one of the older and more prestigious Atlanta neighborhoods. The streets had modest, older homes like Aunt Theresa’s, with ample yards and very old pine trees, mixed in with enormous mansions. Some of these were obviously built at the time the neighborhood was growing, while others were newer, shinier, and disproportionately large for the size of the property. Every time Marci drove through Buckhead she was amazed at the amount of money that existed in this part of town—Austin had nothing quite like it.
Inside, Theresa’s house reflected her own eclectic style more than the pretense of the neighborhood. The walls were brightly colored and every room dotted with collectibles from her lifetime of travels—everything from African tribal masks to a real honest-to-God bear rug from Siberia. Aunt Theresa was a photojournalist and had been all over the world. Growing up, both Marci and Nicole had always thought she hung the moon; she was one of the reasons Nicole had chosen journalism. And perhaps the reason Marci had always… well, wanted to write, anyway.
Today Theresa’s warm little house was enhanced by the sound of happy chatter as about twenty or so of their female relatives and family friends mingled in the various rooms. The three of them walked in the living room, their mother pushing Nicole from behind, whispering “big smile, big smile!” They were greeted with a collective gasp and oohs and ahs and “Here’s the bride!”
Almost immediately, Marci felt a bony death grip on her arm and caught the smell of menthol cigarettes. Dammit. She could go to no family function, it seemed, without their decrepit great-aunt Mildred latching on to her immediately and cornering her for the entire event, demanding to know who she was dating and why she wasn’t married with kids already. Ever since her baby sister had gotten engaged first, Marci had been dreading her next meeting with Mildred.
Her mother glanced back apologetically and mouthed, “Be nice,” as she followed Nicole into the center of the main living room while Mildred held Marci hostage in the foyer. For the next twenty minutes, she nodded politely and attempted to watch what was happening at the shower—there was some kind of game going on in which everyone had some a secret word taped to her back and the other guests were trying to get her to guess it. Bursts of giggles were breaking out periodically, which seemed only to invigorate Mildred’s diatribe for being interrupted.
“That’s what I was just saying to the black girl who helps me...” Marci cringed, knowing that “the black girl” was actually Odessa, a tolerant woman in her 50s with four adult children of her own. She also knew that Aunt Mildred’s own children had all chipped in every month for the last six years to pay Odessa a secret bonus to keep her from quitting, as so many of Mildred’s “girls” had before her.
“It used to be girls didn’t worry about their careers, especially good Southern girls. You served God and your family first and that’s the way it was. Nowadays you girls are so selfish.” Here she pointed a skeletal finger directly into Marci’s face. “You think that your happiness matters before anything else. What about family? Don’t you care about anyone but yourself? I hope your sister intends on staying home with the children when the time comes, not gallivanting all over the world like—”
“Like me?” Theresa appeared out of nowhere, smiling. “Don’t worry, Aunt Mildred,” she trilled, tossing an arm around Marci’s shoulders and wheeling her toward the living room, “I can’t get these girls to visit me often enough to be a bad influence on them. Shall I get you some tea? We’re about to do gifts.”
Marci heard Mildred mutter some sort of reluctant assent, but she was too grateful for her freedom to risk looking back and making eye contact again. She quickly made her way to the punch bowl on the other side of the room and engaged in hasty conversation with a second cousin up from Valdosta while Theresa tended to Aunt Mildred. A few minutes later, Marci had just realized she’d left her cell phone in the car, and that she had not yet spoken to Doug, when Theresa raised her punch glass for a toast and announced to emphatic applause that it was time to open gifts.
It
was amazing how many things the world suddenly thought you needed when you were getting married. Marci knew for a fact that Nicole could barely put together a grilled cheese sandwich, and yet out of countless wrapped boxes she pulled cooking devices and serving trays that looked foreign even to Marci. A deviled egg platter. A crème brûlée torch. Espresso maker. Panini press. Waffle iron. She tried to picture Nicole and Ravi, who both worked at least sixty hours a week and knew the Chinese takeout man on a first-name basis, sitting to an elegant brunch of fresh-squeezed orange juice, cappuccino, and waffles...
Marci, who did know her way around the kitchen a little bit, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of resentment knowing that most of these items would be returned for store credit, or kept in garage storage while Nicole ate frozen waffles and delivery pizza. Next, she opened an oversized Dutch oven roasting pan, beautiful and expensive, and gushed, “Oh, I can’t wait to cook a Thanksgiving bird in here!”
Marci snorted involuntarily, and had to fake a coughing fit when the whole room turned to look at her. Her mother shot her a warning glare, so she took the opportunity to step out the back door, on the pretense of being unable to stop coughing.
While Nicole opened a monogrammed crystal punch bowl, Marci crept around the side of the house and realized that her mom’s Buick was in full view of the front window where the shower was. What excuse could she make for running out to the car? Cough drops? Allergy pills?
Marci, stop. This is ridiculous. You are thirty years old and are allowed to leave a party for five minutes to check your phone. What if you had an important business call or something?
Just to be safe, however, she ducked behind some bushes and skittered in a hunch to the far side of the car as though she were in a shoot-out, flattening herself against the hump in the floorboard to retrieve her purse from the other side. She settled back onto the hidden side of the floor of the car with her feet hanging out the open door while she pulled out her phone. No missed calls—Doug was either completely pissed or had given up on reaching her.
Almost 3:45. She tried to think what time he might be leaving to head back to Austin, and decided that if he wasn’t already in the car, he certainly would have his phone off or hidden as usual. She dialed the number, trying to think how to explain last night’s phone neglect.
“Hello?” Cathy’s upbeat voice hit Marci like sharp steel in the chest. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Hello?” Cathy repeated.
“Um—hi, may I speak with,” she searched her brain, panicked, “Nicole, please?”
A pause. Or did Marci imagine it? Cathy’s voice was polite, however: “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.”
“Oh, sorry. Um, thanks,” Marci stuttered. The call had ended before she’d finished.
Shit, shit, shit. Why had she called him? Why hadn’t she checked her phone last night and called when he had told her it was okay? He was going to kill her. What was going on there now? Were they together in the car? An absurd jealousy began to mingle with her panic. Why would Cathy be answering his cell phone?
“You, too, huh?” The voice startled her out of her miserable spiral, and she looked up to see Melissa, the cousin from Valdosta, sucking hard on a cigarette near the bushes. “I keep trying to quit, but damn I hate bridal showers.”
Marci laughed weakly. “Uh, yeah, me, too,” she muttered, and pushed herself back toward the house. Forgetting the clandestine nature of her trip to the car, she walked directly past the window and through the front door in a daze.
Inside, the gift-opening portion of the festivities had finally drawn to a close, and everyone seemed to be giving the bride advice about marriage. Marci hovered in the entryway.
“Try to live near family if you can; it makes things so much easier, especially once you have kids.”
“Don’t have kids too soon. You need time to enjoy being together.”
“But don’t wait too long, either; those eggs of yours won’t be young forever!”
“Never go to bed angry. Even if you have to fight it out until three in the morning.”
“Don’t fight about the little things. Don’t get mad because he doesn’t pick up his socks.”
“Girl, you’re about to find out what pigs men can be—Dan didn’t put his underwear in the hamper for the first ten years of our marriage. I had to quit doing his laundry entirely before he learned that lesson...” Giggles and mutters of assent rose from around the room.
“Nicky, just don’t lose yourself.” Marci looked up at the familiar voice and saw their mother in tears with her hand on Nicole’s knee, but also looking up pointedly at Marci as she said it. “Enjoy your husband, but you be sure and live your own life, too.”
#
Ravi had a conference call that evening, so the four Thompsons rode together to have dinner and take Marci back to the airport. Marci held her cell phone cradled in her hand the entire ride, and stared aimlessly out the window while Nicole and Mom recounted the details of the shower and the gifts, and Dad feigned polite interest.
She couldn’t seem to stop herself from running through all the various scenarios from this afternoon. Even though she knew it didn’t matter, the details of why Cathy had answered Doug’s phone and whether he knew she had called, and what, if anything, had transpired between them—all these things seemed to matter greatly. And the fact that Doug had not called her back since it happened three hours ago was particularly worrisome. She imagined a horrible fight in which Cathy threw his phone out the car window. And worse.
Lost in this reverie, it took a moment for her to realize that Nicole was now talking directly to her: “...I don’t know how you put up with it. I am so sorry she cornered you like that. You missed the games! What a creepy old bat.”
“Nicole Elizabeth Thompson!” Their mother actually reached back and smacked Nicole on the knee from the passenger seat. “You will not talk about your great-aunt that way! She has lived a long time and she deserves your respect. Didn’t she give you that wonderful little bowl?”
“It was an ashtray, Mom. What am I going to do with an ashtray? It’s 2004.”
“Well, at any rate. She is a dear old woman –”
Their father snorted in the driver’s seat.
“Arthur!”
“What? She’s a bitter old witch and you know it. Ease up.”
Nicole laughed and stomped her feet in triumph, and even Marci couldn’t help but smile.
“I can’t believe you would say that!” Their mother was outraged with their father, one of her very favorite emotional states.
“Elaine,” he said slowly, “maybe if you explained why she’s such a nasty old crone, the girls would have a little sympathy for her.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
He looked at her pointedly over the glasses he used for driving.
“Oh, come on, Arthur. That’s a silly rumor...”
“What rumor?” Nicole asked, leaning forward.
“You have to admit it makes sense, don’t you?” he said, looking back at the highway.
“Whether it makes sense or not, I am not going to spend Marci’s last hour in Atlanta gossiping about a poor old lady who has no one left to be kind to her, Arthur. Anyway, I think all that mess with Dottie has been blown way out of proportion.”
“What mess?” Nicole and Marci said in unison.
Their mother had folded her arms in what they all knew was an irrevocable refusal to speak further, and was now staring out the window at the trees and billboards along I-285.
“Your mother’s Aunt Mildred,” their father began, and an exasperated sigh floated out from the passenger seat, “is very...er, opinionated, as you may have noticed. Especially about the subject of marriage. Well, before she married Herbert, who you two never knew—”
“Marci met him. She was two. The year before he died.”
“Okay, well, yes. Anyway, before she married Herbert and had their two sons—”
“Your Uncle Ron a
nd Uncle Mike,” their mother put in, as though this might be interesting enough to distract from the delicious gossip both girls could sense was coming.
“—she actually got married sort of late for her time. She was in her late twenties when she and Herbert finally tied the knot. Before that, she was a teacher.”
“First woman in our family to go to college!” Mom piped up.
“Yes, a sharp lady, Mildred is. Anyway, during college and while she was teaching, Aunt Mildred had...a friend.”
“A roommate, Arthur,” Mom corrected. “Which was not uncommon at the time.”
“Sure, sure.” Dad went on, “Anyway, many folks in the family, including your grandmother when she was alive, believed that Mildred and Dottie were more than just friends, if you know what I mean.”
They did. Marci and Nicole looked at each other, dumbstruck. Picturing mean, stony Mildred with a husband and raising kids was difficult enough. A forbidden lesbian lover was just too much to bear. They grinned gleefully at each other.
“They lived together for more than seven years, and were more or less inseparable. The story goes, your great-grandfather—maybe he was catching on, I don’t know—anyway, he threatened to cut Mildred off entirely if she didn’t get married in a year or something like that. He was a wealthy man, and I think family meant a lot to Mildred. Well, we all know how the story ends.” He looked at his wife again, all playfulness gone from his voice, and put a hand on her knee. “Personally, I can’t imagine having to make a choice like that.”
She seemed to soften at this. “How do you know this story anyway? I never told you.”
“Well, your mother hinted at it once or twice, but I got the full story from your Uncle Alvin one Christmas. Too much eggnog, I guess. I think he always felt ashamed that he never stood up for Mildred...just watched her marry Herbert and hoped she’d be happy. Obviously, she never really was.”
The Marriage Pact Page 6
