Slightly Married

by Wendy Markham

  I consider calling Buckley O’Hanlon, my best straight guy friend. Then I remember that after Raphael’s wedding, he and his fiancée, Sonja, were heading out to spend the remainder of Valentine’s Day weekend at some romantic inn in the Hamptons. They won’t be back until tomorrow.

  I could call Brenda, Latisha or Yvonne, but I’ll see them at the office first thing in the morning. It will be much more satisfying to stick out my hand and show them.

  But I have to tell someone, and soon.

  I’ll just wait for Kate to call back. I’m sure it won’t be long. How long does it take to barf, brush your teeth and dial the phone?

  In the kitchen, I brew a big pot of coffee, throw on a Frank Sinatra CD—and promptly find myself homesick.

  Between the fragrant hazelnut grounds and Frankie baby singing “My Kinda Town,” I could close my eyes and imagine I’m sitting at a vinyl-covered chair in my parents’ kitchen. No, it’s not in Frankie baby’s Chicago.

  It’s in Brookside, New York, just south and west of Buffalo—which might as well be in the Midwest. My father frequently plays Frank Sinatra on Sunday mornings as we lounge around in our robes with coffee. The only thing that’s missing is the aroma of something frying. Bacon or pork sausage, pancakes or eggs in butter, onions and hash browns in olive oil—there’s always something frying in my parents’ house.

  Suddenly, I’m desperate to share my big news with them—the news I told Jack just last night should wait until we see our families in person.

  Since my future mother-in-law lives a short train ride away, in Westchester County, we can tell her anytime. Wilma is the one who gave Jack the heirloom diamond in the first place, so she’s not likely to be very surprised.

  My parents, on the other hand, gave up any hope of my getting married the day I moved in with Jack. That’s because, as everybody knows, people—namely, men—don’t buy cows who give milk for free. At least, everyone in Brookside knows that. Probably because Connie Spadolini told them.

  What my mother never did understand is that in Manhattan, where cows are as scarce as affordable apartments and a gallon of milk is as expensive as a gallon of gasoline, living together is a prelude to marriage, not an alternative.

  I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees my ring and witnesses the end of the shameful era she refers to as Tracey Lives In Sin. It was only slightly less traumatic for my family than the previous eras known as Tracey Turns Her Back on Her Family (i.e., Relocates to New York) and Tracey Falls in Love With a Flaming Homosexual.

  Not that Will actually was. Gay, I mean.

  But as far as my father and brothers are concerned, if you’re going to wear black turtlenecks and expensive cologne and have an affinity for show tunes and fresh herbs, you’d damn well better be a middle-aged Italian man. Or have a vagina.

  Poor Waspy Will, sans vagina, obviously had to be closeted, according to the macho macho men in my family.

  Anyhoo, the only thing Team Spadolini would find more disturbing than my living with—and not marrying—Jack, would be my marrying Will McCraw.

  No danger of that. Will never was the marrying type. He told me that right from the start. I just chose not to hear him. I didn’t stick my fingers into my ears and sing “Love and Marriage” at the top of my lungs whenever he opened his mouth, but I might as well have.

  If Jack had told me from the start that he wasn’t the marrying type, I wouldn’t have believed him, either…but not because I was delusional. I’ve just never had any real doubt that Jack loved me and would marry me sooner or later.

  Okay, I may have had some doubt.

  And all right, at one point, I may have suspected him of having a secret girlfriend in Brooklyn to whom he was planning to give the ring.

  But like I said, that’s all behind me now.

  The diamond is on my finger. Mine.

  I’m a fiancée, tra la!

  Amazing what a difference a day makes.

  You know, if I thought there was any chance I’d find my mother at home right now, I’d call her and tell her my news if for no other reason than to ease her worries about my eternal salvation.

  But a glance at the clock ensures me that my parents are currently at their regular Sunday-morning mass at Most Precious Mother. My mother is probably praying for me and my sins at this very moment. I know she does that every week because she likes to keep me apprised of her religious intentions.

  The sooner I tell my mother the news, the sooner she can resume praying for something more relevant, like world peace, or a price break in imported almond paste.

  Last night, I suggested to Jack that we try to get a cheap Jet Blue flight to Buffalo for next weekend, and he agreed.

  What I strategically neglected to tell him is that while we’re up there, we can also find a caterer, talk to the priest, choose a band or DJ and start the paperwork with the florist, videographer and photographer.

  Over the next few days, I’m positive Jack will come to realize that we should absolutely get married in Brookside, in which case firming up our plans while we’re there will be an added bonus of the trip.

  I pour my coffee, grab a notepad and sit down on the couch to get the basics on paper.

  Fortunately, I’m really good at organizing details.

  Or maybe a better way to put it is, A control freak.

  Whatever. The important thing is to approach this wedding with a cohesive plan of action.

  That’s why I immediately decide to use a technique I learned back in junior high when I started writing for the school paper. As I recall, the key to researching a solid article is answering the five W’s: Who, What, When, Where and Why.

  Can the same formula be applied to a wedding plan?

  Why, I believe it can.

  In this case, Who would be the guest list.

  Oh, and the bridal party—though I’ve already picked out my eight attendants. Yes, eight. You don’t expect me to leave anyone out after the way they’ve all stood by me, do you?

  My sister, Mary Beth, will be my matron of honor, of course. Then there’s my sister-in-law, Sara; Jack’s sister Rachel, and my friends Raphael, Kate, Brenda, Latisha and Yvonne. I’ve even matched them up with the guys Jack will be having. Not that he’s ever said who his groomsmen would be, but I have a good idea. So I jot down their names on the list, opposite each of my bridesmaids—or bridesman, as the case may be.

  I’m careful not to match up Raphael with any of my homophobic brothers or Jack’s old frat brother, Jeff, whom Raphael once insisted is a closeted gay man. I shudder, remembering how he attempted to give Jeff a lap dance in an effort to prove the point.

  I strategically link Raphael with Buckley, who is as comfortable with his sexuality as he is with Raphael’s. The only possible hitch would be if Jack protested to having Buckley as an usher, but I doubt he will. Buckley might have started out as my friend, but now he’s a pal of Jack’s, too. We hang out together a lot as couples.

  Not that I’ve got any intention of having Buckley’s fiancée as one of my bridesmaids. It isn’t that I dislike Sonja, or that I’m jealous, which would be so My Best Friend’s Wedding.

  Really, my relationship with Buckley is strictly platonic and always has been.

  Except that we kissed a few times. Passionately. But that was over two years ago.

  And yes, I may have, on occasion, wondered if Buckley and I were falling in love.

  But that speculation ended the moment Jack came along.

  Okay, maybe not the moment.

  But definitely within a few weeks.

  Naturally, I ended it because of Jack.

  Naturally, Jack will never know that I had an unplatonic era with Buckley while I was embarking on a relationship with him. Presumably, Sonja is equally clueless.

  And I like her. I really do. There might just be a part of her that’s secretly, instinctively jealous of my entirely platonic-these days friendship with her fiancé. Or maybe on some subconscious level she s
uspects that there might have been something between us at one time.

  Whatever it is seems to keep Sonja from ever entirely opening up to me—not that I want her to, because then I’d have to.

  I’ll admit it: there might be a teensy part of me that wonders if Buckley and I might have wound up together if the timing had been different. If Jack hadn’t come along just as Buckley and I were starting to notice each other in a different way.

  None of that matters now.

  Because we’re both in love with other people.

  We’re both about to get married.

  And what happened between us wasn’t exactly unresolved.

  Not really.

  Faced with the choice between Buckley and Jack, I chose Jack. Buckley handled it just fine, and went back to Sonja shortly afterward anyway.

  In any case, that’s all ancient history. And I’m sure Jack will want Buckley to be in our wedding party, as long as he doesn’t find out that we kissed.

  More about that later. Now is not the time to be dwelling on past loves. Not that Buckley was ever my “love…”

  Oh, let’s drop it.

  Next on the list is What. This one will have to wait for Jack, but I do make some notes. Afternoon or evening reception? Sit-down dinner or buffet? Black-tie optional or out of the question?

  When? I can answer that right now: the third Saturday in October, if at all possible. I’ve had my heart set on an autumn wedding since before I ever laid eyes on Jack, so as far as I’m concerned, the timing is nonnegotiable, provided we can find a place. The last time I checked, Shorewood Country Club in my hometown was available that particular day, but that was a few months ago. I’m sure it’s since been booked.

  Which leads me to…

  Where? I write Brookside and underline it three times. Then, in case Jack wants to read my notes, I add an obligatory question mark. Then, to be fair, I put down NYC and, of course, follow it with a question mark. A few of them, actually, to reflect my imaginary doubts about that particular locale.

  And now we’ve arrived at…

  Why?

  What the hell kind of question is that?

  Since I’m asking myself, I guess I can’t complain.

  Okay, so why are Jack and I getting married?

  The answer is obvious: because we love each other. Because we want to spend the rest of our lives together.

  Nothing else really matters, I remind myself with a guilty glance at the pad in my hand.

  Not who, what, when or where.

  Nothing but the why.

  The phone rings as I’m contemplating that profoundness.

  I grab it, and it’s Kate, of course.

  “Where have you been?” I ask, glancing at the clock.

  Good thing I wasn’t bleeding to death and calling on her to save my life.

  Not that I ever would, because she’s not good with blood, or heroics. She’s the kind of person who runs screaming from the room if there’s an insect, loud noise or the slightest hint of gore….

  Which makes childbirth an interesting prospect for Kate, to say the least.

  “I was throwing up, Tracey.” She always pronounces my name “Trice-ee.” Today, her Alabama accent is laced with misery.

  “For an entire half hour?”

  “Pretty much. I can’t do this.”

  “You can’t do what?”

  “Be pregnant.”

  “I hate to tell you this, Kate…but it’s kind of too late to change your mind.”

  She’s silent.

  Ominously so.

  “Kate, you’re not considering—”

  “No!” she says indignantly. “Of course not. I didn’t say I’m not going to do this, I just said that I can’t,” she says as if that makes the slightest bit of sense.

  “Sure you can.”

  “I really don’t think so. It’s horrible. All of it. My boobs are huge…”

  No, my boobs are huge. They’ve always been huge, regardless of my weight fluctuations. I inherited my grandmother’s famous Bullet Boobs, and I shudder to imagine what will happen to them when I find myself pregnant someday. They’ll be instantly transformed into dangerous Missile Boobs, I’m sure.

  Kate’s boobs, however, went from twin chest freckles to twin mosquito bites, if that. I know, because she insisted on showing me her new “cleavage” when we were having our final bridesmaid-gown fitting for Raphael’s wedding.

  “I hate feeling sick all the time, too,” she grouses on. “And I hate getting so big and fat—”

  Mind you, as of Friday night, she was still zipping her size zero jeans, and you could have stuck the Manhattan White Pages between her belly button and the snap.

  “Plus, I’m so tired all I want to do is sleep.”

  I should probably point out that the last issue isn’t necessarily a huge problem since all she has to do, really, is sleep. She’s a stay-at-home wife thanks to her family’s money and Billy’s Wall Street salary with staggering bonuses. She has always spent a lot of time sleeping.

  “I know how hard this is for you, Kate.”

  I say that because I’m a good, loyal friend.

  I also say it because it’s the truth.

  But mostly I say it because I’m anxious to move on to my news.

  As always, however, Kate is the main topic of conversation and she isn’t eager to relinquish that role.

  “Do you know what makes me throw up in the mornings, Tracey?”

  No, and I really don’t want to.

  But I daresay that doesn’t matter, because I bet Kate is going to tell me.

  “Everything.”

  See?

  I murmur my sympathy, glad that at least she didn’t elaborate.

  “Billy’s breath is the worst,” she says then, and it takes me a moment to realize we’re still talking about morning-sickness triggers and haven’t moved on to a new topic, i.e., Billy Has Halitosis, in which case I’d be more comfortable changing the subject to my engagement.

  “I make him get up and brush his teeth the second the alarm goes off every morning. And I make him open the refrigerator whenever I need something because the smell of it just does me in.”

  “Good idea,” I say, rather enjoying the image of arrogant Billy as foul-breathed refrigerator doorman at Kate’s beck and call.

  “And then there’s the thought of meat—any meat…Oh, God, Tracey, I feel like I’m going to hurl just talking about it.”

  “Then let’s change the subject,” I say quickly. “I’ve got news for you.”

  “What is it?” she asks feebly.

  Realizing she’s fading fast, I blurt, “Jack and I got engaged last night.”

  “Oh my gosh! I’m so happy for y’all!”

  I have no doubt that Kate means that from the bottom of her heart…even though she follows it up with a horrible gagging sound and throws down the receiver with a clatter.

  I hang on, hoping she’ll return momentarily so that I can regale her with the romantic saga of Jack on his knees in the gutter.

  But it’s Billy who a good minute later picks up the receiver and asks, “Hello? Tracey?”

  “Yeah…?”

  “Listen, Kate’s got her head in the toilet again. She told me to tell you congratulations and she wants to take you out to lunch next weekend to celebrate.”

  “Okay…thanks. And be sure to tell her the wedding won’t be until after she has the baby, so not to worry.”

  “What wedding?”

  “Mine and Jack’s,” I say, miffed that Billy would offer secondhand congratulations without even asking Kate the reason.

  “Oh, that’s great,” he says in exactly the same fake-enthusiastic tone he might use if somebody’s six-year-old niece gave him an ugly crayon drawing.

  “Well, see ya.” Billy hangs up.

  Wow. First time I get to make my big announcement, and one audience member pukes, and the other doesn’t give a damn. Where do we go from here? I just hope it isn’t an omen of
some sort.

  I can’t help but feel sorry for poor Kate.

  I also can’t help but feel the distinct need to share my news with somebody who won’t be dismissive. Or vomit.

  But there’s nobody to tell, unless Jimmy the doorman is on duty…and I’m not dressed for the lobby at the moment.

  Talk about anticlimactic.

  Maybe I was wrong last night about getting engaged at last being different from Christmas, or losing your virginity, or eating a post-diet Twinkie.

  Maybe there is just a hint of letdown after all….

  Or maybe I’m just experiencing a momentary lapse, because when I hear Jack stirring in the bedroom, my heart does an excited little flip-flop.

  I go in to find him lying on his back, stretching. He was staring at the ceiling but his eyes flick immediately to me, and he smiles and pats the mattress by his hip.

  It looks like he’s over his panic-infused gastric attack.

  “Hey, good morning,” I say, and sit on the edge of the bed beside him, one leg curled underneath me. “Want to get up? I’ve got coffee made, and I think we’ve got a couple of eggs I can scramble…”

  “In a few minutes, maybe. Or you could just come back to bed…”

  He pulls me down and kisses me.

  I kiss him back, but I’m thinking of all the wedding details I need to get moving on; the plane tickets that need to be bought; the shower I should be taking…

  “I don’t know,” I hedge.

  “Come on…it’s Sunday morning…”

  Then Jack kisses me again, and I decide that everything can be put off a little longer. What’s another hour when I waited six months to get engaged, and we’ve got a lifetime in front of us?

  3

  My friend Brenda materializes by my desk the moment I sit down in my office Monday morning.

  Yes, my office. Not my tiny cube down the corridor, where I spent the first few years of my advertising career. My own office, not spacious but definitely less tiny than the cube, with my own window. So what if it’s just on the seventh floor and overlooks a solid brick wall across a narrow alleyway occupied by a Dumpster?

  It beats cube life, as I’m sure Brenda would attest if you asked her.

  I wouldn’t. Ask her about cube life these days, that is. Ever since I got promoted a few weeks ago, I’ve found myself feeling oddly guilty and undeserving. Kind of like that guy who escaped the Titanic wearing a dress.