Sister of the Bride

by Beverly Cleary

  At this point the telephone rang, and Barbara went into the kitchen to answer it. Rosemary was calling. “Is Mother there?” She sounded as if she was in a hurry.

  “Not yet,” said Barbara. “She should be here any minute.”

  “Look,” said Rosemary hurriedly. “Tell Mother to call me the minute she comes in. I’ve got a lot to say, and it’s too hard to collect enough change to make a long call from a pay phone.”

  “What happened?” Barbara was all eagerness for the latest development in Rosemary’s life, and regretted that Rosemary never had enough change for a long telephone call.

  “Greg’s mother came over and took us to lunch.” Rosemary sounded breathless, as she always did when she telephoned from school.

  “What did she say?” Barbara asked eagerly.

  “She was terribly nice and was so happy we had decided to have a real wedding, and she was positively thrilled about Gramma’s veil. She said I really should choose silver and china patterns, because so many of their friends who lived in the East would want to know, and they could hardly send handmade pottery. We’d much rather have checks, so we could buy books and records, but you can’t tell people that, so maybe she’s right.”

  “Maybe,” agreed Barbara, worrying about her mother’s list of expenses. “Does she still expect us to send out two hundred invitations?”

  “No. She said she was writing Mother that she was revising her list and cutting it to the bone,” continued Rosemary. “And she said we really must start planning the wedding. She says a wedding must be organized, or everybody goes to pieces at the last minute and nobody enjoys it. So I think I’d better talk to Mother about wedding plans. And she—oops! My time is up. Good-bye.” Rosemary hung up with a clatter.

  “Good-bye,” said Barbara to the dead telephone. At least Rosemary had agreed that they should start planning. Now, after she and her mother had been trying to get her to settle down and plan the wedding ever since Rosemary had announced that she was going to get married in June. She glanced at the cookie canister that she had forgotten to hide again before she had taken the plate of cookies out to Bill. It was empty. Even Gordy could not have eaten that many cookies at once, so he must be stockpiling them in his room for the future. She was trying to decide whether she should accost Gordy and demand her cookies back or avoid a battle and bake another batch when her mother came through the back door with her usual armload of groceries.

  “The pounds of food it takes to keep this family going!” Mrs. MacLane was glad to relieve her arms of the weight of the groceries.

  “Mother, there’s a letter for you from Greg’s mother. Rosemary has had lunch with her, and now she says we have to start planning the wedding right away. She asked me to tell you to phone her the instant you came in.” Barbara started to unpack one of the bags.

  “Oh, she does, does she?” asked Mrs. MacLane dryly. “It’s nice to know that her future mother-in-law has such an influence over her.”

  Barbara went into the living room for Mrs. Aldredge’s letter, which she handed her mother. Mrs. MacLane laid a box of macaroni on the counter, opened the letter, and read it while Barbara watched. When she had finished the letter, Mrs. MacLane glanced at the typewritten list of names and addresses that was enclosed. “Well…” was all she said.

  “Well what?” asked Barbara.

  “Well, at least she has cut her list in half. That’s a help, but there are still our friends to invite, too.” Mrs. MacLane looked worried. “I talked to your Aunt Josie this morning, and she says that even if we get the wedding dress through her store, using her discount, a dress that will go with Gramma’s veil would cost over a hundred dollars. And I suppose now we’ll have to have a caterer…. I do want Rosemary to have a nice wedding, but I honestly don’t see where that much money is coming from.”

  “I’ll put the groceries away,” offered Barbara. “You phone Rosemary. I got the impression she was going to hover over the phone until you called, because she’s in such a hurry to get on with the wedding plans.”

  Mrs. MacLane took a pad of paper and a pencil from the drawer by the telephone before she put through the call to Rosemary. Barbara moved quietly about the kitchen, so she would not miss a word.

  “Hello, Rosemary?…Yes. Yes, I received the letter and the list…. Yes, I know, dear. I know you have finals coming up, but if you stop to think, so does everyone in the family, and your father is responsible for the printing of the yearbook. You know what a chore that is at this time of year.” Mrs. MacLane doodled a wedding cake on the pad of paper while Rosemary talked. “Yes, dear, I realize you have to write a paper on Plato, but after all, it is your wedding, and you are the only one who can make some of these decisions.”

  Decisions like who is to be the maid of honor, thought Barbara, carefully folding a paper bag that was the right size for carrying a lunch.

  “All right,” said Mrs. MacLane. “You are going to wear Gramma’s wedding veil. That much we have settled…. I know you’d rather wear a short dress, dear, but you can’t wear a short dress with a long veil. It wouldn’t look right. Now how many attendants do you want?”

  Barbara held her breath.

  “Yes, dear. Barbara for your maid of honor.” Mrs. MacLane jotted a note on the pad of paper while Barbara felt lightheaded with relief. “And now who else?…Yes, Millie and Greg’s sister, Anne. And what about your cousin Elinor? You know Uncle Charlie will be hurt if you don’t include her.”

  Even Barbara could hear Rosemary’s wail over the telephone.

  “Now, Rosemary,” said Mrs. MacLane, “I know she’s only twelve, but she can be a junior bridesmaid.”

  Oh dear, thought Barbara. Elinor was at the chunky stage, where she appeared to have no waistline. She was painfully self-conscious, and she giggled. Oh, how she giggled, especially when boys were mentioned. Barbara could picture her walking down the aisle, her lips compressed in an effort to hold back the giggles, her bouquet quivering. Barbara could understand Rosemary’s wail of protest, so loud even she could hear it. A junior bridesmaid who went off into a gale of uncontrollable giggles during the ceremony would certainly spoil the wedding. And then Barbara, avid reader of wedding news, had an inspiration. “Mother,” she whispered urgently.

  “Just a minute, Rosemary.” Mrs. MacLane held the phone against her shoulder. “What is it, Barbara?”

  “Elinor could circulate the guest book at the reception. Lots of wedding stories in the paper mention a girl who circulates the guest book. That would give her something to do.”

  Mrs. MacLane relayed this suggestion to the bride, who thought this a perfect solution. Circulating the guest book would make Elinor feel part of the wedding party, and she would be less prone to giggles if she did not feel that everyone was looking at her.

  “And what about the reception?” inquired Mrs. MacLane, now that cousin Elinor was disposed of.

  The buzz of Rosemary’s voice through the telephone receiver was rapid. Apparently she knew what she wanted in the way of a wedding reception. Barbara strained to catch even one word.

  “I think that’s a very wise decision,” said Mrs. MacLane. “Punch and cake at the church will be easy for everyone. And if the weather is pleasant, as it probably will be, we can have it outdoors. The Sunday school room is a little dark, although I’m sure flowers would help it.”

  There went a catered reception, thought Barbara, glad this strain on the family budget was eliminated. An outdoor reception in the garden of the church would be much prettier—flowers and pink punch and light dresses against a background of old redwood trees, the afternoon sun filtering through the branches, a bird singing—no, skip the bird. The picture was getting too sentimental.

  “As near as I can make out,” said Mrs. MacLane, when her conversation was finished, “what Rosemary wants is a do-it-yourself wedding. She doesn’t want a caterer or a florist to decorate the church. She wants us to gather flowers for the church ourselves, although just where we are to gather
them she doesn’t make clear. She says the things we do ourselves are the most beautiful. Except for the cake. It seems that all her life she has looked at wedding cakes in the window of Larson’s Bakery and dreamed of seeing her own there someday.”

  “Oh,” said Barbara, interested that her sister was revealing sentimental feelings, “does she want a do-it-yourself wedding dress, too?”

  “If she does, she will have to be talked out of it,” said Mrs. MacLane. “She isn’t the only one in the family who has finals. Come on, let’s get out the wedding veil again and see what kind of dress might go with it that we can afford.”

  Barbara was only too happy to agree. Naturally they would want to see what the veil looked like on a bride, and naturally she would be the one to try it on. As they walked down the hall past Gordy’s room, Gordy burst into song. “Love, oh love, oh careless love.” Barbara glared.

  “That’s a pretty song,” said Mrs. MacLane, pausing at Gordy’s door. “I like it much better than that gloomy one you’ve been singing about twenty-nine links of chain around your leg. Why don’t you sing it more often?”

  “Okay, Mom, I will.” Gordy grinned at Barbara, who wanted to hit him over the head with his guitar. “Sorrow, sorrow, to my heart,” he sang with gusto. “Sorrow, sorrow, to my heart.”

  Once again Barbara wondered why, of all the thirteen-year-old boys in the world, she had to have this particular one for a brother. And even though he stopped singing, the words of his song continued to ring through her head.

  In the bedroom Barbara and her mother took down the suit box from the closet shelf, set it on her bed, and removed the lid. Gently they lifted out the veil and spread it out on Rosemary’s bed, which was not cluttered with stuffed animals.

  “It is lovely,” admitted Mrs. MacLane. “I don’t blame Rosemary for wanting to wear it.”

  “It’s awfully long.” Barbara was waiting for her mother to ask her to try it on, the veil she would wear for her own wedding someday.

  “There is no possible way that it could be worn with a short dress. It needs a dress with a train. And Rosemary simply can’t wear a long satin dress in June in California. It would be much too warm.”

  “Isn’t a dress with a train awfully expensive?” asked Barbara doubtfully.

  “I’m afraid so.” Mrs. MacLane’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully as she looked at the veil and considered its possibilities. “Peau de soie might be nice, but a dress with a train of any really nice fabric is going to cost more than we can afford.”

  “And that will mean long bridesmaid dresses, too,” Barbara was saying, when suddenly Buster ran into the room and, in one flying leap, landed in the middle of the fragile veil. His claws clutched the gossamer threads, and he rolled over on his back, ready to play the change-the-sheet game that Barbara played with him once a week.

  Mrs. MacLane gasped. Barbara screamed and grabbed at the cat. Buster rolled over in the lace.

  “Stop him!” cried Mrs. MacLane. “He’s ruining it!”

  Gordy stopped singing in the middle of a phrase and came to see what the commotion was all about. He stood staring, unable to say anything. Buster laid back his ears and with his strong hind legs kicked at Barbara through the lace. The old veil shredded.

  “Do something,” beseeched Barbara, struggling to hold Buster motionless within the lace. The claws of his hind feet scratched her hands.

  “That beautiful old lace…” Mrs. MacLane was in despair.

  Gordy approached Buster cautiously. “Nice kitty,” he said, petting his cat through the lace. Buster hesitated, stared at Gordy an instant, dismissed him, and went on kicking with his hind legs.

  “Nice kitty!” Barbara was bitter as she handed the whole lacy, kicking bundle to her brother. How anyone could call this demon, this fur-covered fiend, nice…

  Gordy ignored his sister as he continued to pet Buster. “Relax, boy,” he said soothingly.

  “What will we tell Gramma?” Mrs. MacLane wondered aloud. “She’ll be heartbroken, simply heartbroken.”

  Gordy stroked Buster through the lace. Now he had his cat’s attention, because the animal stopped kicking and, with his ears laid back and his tail lashing, he looked watchfully at Gordy. “Nice kitty,” crooned Gordy. “Nice old boy.” Gently he began to unhook the cruel claws from the threads.

  “Maybe if I opened the refrigerator door he’d want to run into the kitchen,” suggested Barbara.

  “Oh no, that would be worse,” said Mrs. MacLane. “He’d jump down and tear the lace even more.”

  “Nice kitty.” Gordy ignored his mother and sister.

  “Nice puss.” Buster’s hind feet were disentangled from the lace. Carefully Gordy unhooked it from a front paw. Buster was not entirely convinced he wanted this delightful game to end. He laid back his ears and extended the claws of his front paws in ten cruel arcs.

  Barbara moaned. Her sister’s wedding, to say nothing of her own, ruined by an evil cat. And she had not even had a chance to try on the veil.

  “Come on, Buster,” coaxed Gordy. Buster slowly sheathed his claws, but kept a wary eye on Gordy. “How would you like some cat tuna, huh, Buster?” Through the lace he rubbed Buster’s nose, and Buster became less wary. He enjoyed having his black-satin nose rubbed. He raised his head as if to say, Do it some more. Gordy unhooked the last claw and carefully lifted the cat free of the veil.

  “You get that horrible cat out of here,” stormed Barbara. “Why Mother and Dad let you keep that awful beast is beyond me. He claws everything to shreds. My stuffed animals, the furniture, everything. Someday he’ll claw the whole house down over our heads in splinters, and then I hope you will be satisfied!”

  “Relax, Barbed Wire,” drawled Gordy. “Who let him play with the sheets in the first place?” And with Buster draped over his arm Gordy left the room.

  Barbara felt suddenly deflated. Gordy was right. She had let Buster play on the bed when she was changing the sheets. She had even encouraged him. Naturally he had thought the wedding veil was some new kind of sheet and that she would be willing to play with him. It was all her own fault.

  “What’s done is done,” said Mrs. MacLane sadly. “Let’s see how much damage there is. Perhaps it can be mended.”

  Carefully Barbara helped her mother spread the veil on the bed once more, and together they stood looking at the damage. In the center of the veil were three jagged holes, two large and one small, and these were surrounded by little breaks and tears. They both could see that it was hopeless. The veil could never be mended.

  “It’s ruined,” was Barbara’s blunt pronouncement. She added bitterly, “And now that she doesn’t have a veil to wear I suppose Rosemary will go back to her original idea of a practical wedding in a Harris tweed suit.”

  Mrs. MacLane managed a rueful little laugh. “She didn’t say she planned to be married in a tweed suit, Barbara. That is an exaggeration.”

  “And what about my wedding?” demanded Barbara. “That old tomcat has spoiled my wedding, too.”

  “We’ll worry about your wedding when we come to it.” Mrs. MacLane fingered the edge of the veil. “It’s a long way off.”

  “I’m only two years younger than Rosemary,” Barbara reminded her mother.

  “Don’t you start getting any ideas,” said Mrs. MacLane mildly, her eyes on the veil.

  Barbara did not say anything. How surprised her mother would be if she knew that only a little while ago Bill Cunningham had kissed her, sort of.

  “You know,” said Mrs. MacLane suddenly, “I do believe all our problems are solved!”

  “By a tattered veil?” Barbara was skeptical.

  “Yes,” answered her mother. “The veil is only damaged in the center. This end could be made into a very lovely short veil, finger-tip length, by cutting it here and gathering the cut edge onto a band or a spray of orange blossoms or something of the sort.”

  Barbara could visualize this. The lace was so fine and so light it would make a very beautiful sh
ort veil.

  “And the other end,” continued Mrs. MacLane, “and the part on either side of the holes could be made into a little jacket to wear over a simple wedding dress. See, the back and front could be cut here and the sleeves there, so that the scallops on the edge of the veil would make the edge of the jacket.”

  “Mother, that’s a marvelous idea!” cried Barbara. “Lots of wedding dresses have little jackets. I read about them in the paper all the time. And that way Rosemary can wear a short dress and so can the rest of us!”

  “And now that that is settled, let’s put the veil away before anything else happens to it.” Mrs. MacLane spoke briskly. “It’s time to start dinner.”

  “What about Gramma?” asked Barbara, as they folded the tattered veil and returned it to the suit box. “What do you think she will say?”

  “Your grandmother, even though she is old and her feelings are easily hurt, is a woman of character who has survived many disappointments in her lifetime,” said Mrs. MacLane, “and although she will be upset when she hears what happened, I am sure she will be happy that enough of her veil was saved for Rosemary to wear.”

  Chapter 8

  After Buster’s shredding of the wedding veil, hostility between brother and sister grew more intense. Barbara shoved Buster outside whenever she found the cat in the house. “You’re just an old nuisance!” she would say, and slam the door. Then Gordy would begin to sing Careless Love in an irritating way that Barbara felt amounted to blackmail.

  At the same time plans for the wedding went ahead, and because most of the planning was done by telephone, Barbara became quite openly an eavesdropper. Almost every evening Rosemary called with an order or a suggestion, and almost always the call ended abruptly when her twenty cents had run out. Then Mrs. MacLane would call her back so that the toll would go on the family’s telephone bill. Aunt Josie came over several evenings to talk over the wedding. She was full of ideas. It was very smart this year for bridesmaids to carry garlands of ivy instead of flowers. And had Rosemary thought of having the wedding veil gathered onto a coronet?