Father of the Bride

by Edward Streeter

  Wedding reception? Yes indeed. Buckingham Caterers were fully equipped to take the whole affair over. Mr. and Mrs. Banks didn’t need to give the matter another thought. Just specify the date and they could romp off to the Arizona Biltmore or Palm Beach or Palm Springs or wherever it was that people like Mr. and Mrs. Banks spent their time. The point was they did not need to worry.

  Buckingham Caterers had handled some of the biggest and most expensive weddings in the country. Mr. Massoula let it be understood clearly that they were not in the habit of putting their shoulder to weddings which were not in the upper brackets of the social scale.

  “But first,” said Mr. Massoula, reaching under the table and producing several large photograph albums, “I’d like to get your ideas about a wedding cake. Once the wedding cake has been established Buckingham Caterers take over. Now here is a very popular cake. That’s Brenda Santanya. You know. Daughter of Princess Fraschisi by her second husband.”

  Mr. Banks looked at his wife. They hadn’t even thought about a wedding cake. To Buckingham Caterers it was obviously not a matter for discussion. Mr. Massoula turned over dozens of photographs showing brides and grooms about to destroy hideous cakes of every size and shape. One could see that the cakes were different, but the brides and grooms all looked alike.

  Mr. Massoula had an encyclopedic memory for names and social connections. The First Families of the nation passed in review before Mr. and Mrs. Banks. They had never heard of most of them, but they were pleased by the way that Mr. Massoula assumed that all these people were their buddies.

  “That’s one of Tommy Manville’s weddings,” he said. “We’ve done almost all of them. Good old Tommy. Delightful person, isn’t he?”

  Mr. Massoula was obviously a young man who knew his way about.

  Mr. Banks was about to say “Yes” but checked himself. He began to wish he had chosen a less socially prominent caterer.

  “Ours isn’t going to be a big reception,” he ventured.

  “Small and select. I understand perfectly. Buckingham Caterers can handle them any size.”

  Mr. Banks’ fingers tightened on the edge of the table. “We don’t want a cake,” he said with dignity. Mrs. Banks’ admiring glance fortified his courage.

  “What! You don’t want a cake! Why—”

  Mr. Banks shot the works. “I think cakes are cheap,” he said. “Every Tom, Dick and Harry has cakes. We don’t want one.”

  Mr. Massoula looked at him with new respect. “I understand,” he murmured. “It is true that the very select weddings no longer have them. We must show them, though. Most people wouldn’t understand if we didn’t.”

  “Of course not,” said Mr. Banks. He dreaded the moment when he had to tell Mr. Massoula that this particular reception was to be held in a place called Fairview Manor.

  Mr. Massoula brought up another large album from under the table. “While you’re here I’d like to have you look at a few shots of some of our receptions.”

  As he looked Mr. Banks’ dismay turned to panic. Buckingham Caterers not only dealt exclusively with the uncrowned heads of American Industrial Aristocracy, but apparently they catered only on huge estates and in palaces. He wondered how he could get out of the whole thing gracefully. Maple Drive had suddenly become a kind of suburban back alley. Quite obviously his home would look like somebody’s gate-house to Mr. Massoula.

  But it was too late. Mr. Massoula had pulled out a pad of forms. “Now we should get some idea of what you would like to serve. We will supply the champagne of course.”

  Much to his chagrin Mr. Banks turned slightly red. “I’m sorry. What I mean is I didn’t know. That is to say I’ve bought the champagne already.”

  Mr. Massoula’s face clouded with politely restrained annoyance. “Then we will have to charge corkage, of course.”

  “Corkage?”

  “A dollar a bottle for drawing and pouring.”

  “Oh, Delilah can take care of all that.”

  “If you are referring to one of your house staff,” said Mr. Massoula firmly, “you must understand that in an affair of this kind the caterer takes over completely. Any other arrangement would cause friction in the servants’ quarters. I am sure you understand, madam.” He smiled at Mrs. Banks as mothers smile at one another over the heads of their wayward young.

  Mrs. Banks returned the smile. “Indeed I do.”

  “By the way,” said Mr. Massoula, “are you serving French champagne?” Had he said, “You are serving French champagne, of course?” the meaning would have been the same.

  “As a matter of fact I’m not,” said Mr. Banks in a tone that acknowledged the eccentricity of his decision. “I just think it’s a shame to waste good vintage champagne on these kids. So I’m giving them American,” he finished lamely.

  Mr. Massoula nodded understandingly. “That will be all right with us,” he said graciously. “Now, about the food. Let’s see. The wedding is in early June. How about a large cold salmon at either end of the table with the various salads in great bowls in the center? Another dramatic arrangement is a cold sturgeon in the middle of the table. Now for the ices, we pride ourselves on a very special effect with colored electric lights embedded in a huge cake of ice, capped—”

  “But,” interrupted Mrs. Banks timidly, “we hadn’t intended to have that kind of a reception.”

  Mr. Massoula gave her a puzzled look and laid down his pencil. “What did you have in mind, madam?”

  Mrs. Banks fingered her handbag nervously. “Well, we thought that maybe some small assorted sandwiches—different kinds, you know—and ice cream and little cakes—”

  “Of course you can have what you wish, madam, but that is usually what we serve at children’s parties.”

  “Well, it’s what we want” said Mrs. Banks with a sudden harshness that in turn surprised her husband.

  She realised that neither of them had ever before catered in such a hovel.

  “Of course. Of course,” said Mr. Massoula, making notes. “And I can assure you that you will be pleased when you see the results. Now where will the reception take place?”

  “Twenty-four Maple Drive, Fairview Manor,” said Mr. Banks belligerently.

  “Is that a club or a country estate?” asked Mr. Massoula.

  “It’s my home,” replied Mr. Banks with dignity.

  Mr. Massoula bowed slightly in deference to the generic sacredness of all homes. “What attendance do you anticipate?”

  “About a hundred and fifty.”

  “Is it a large house?”

  “No,” said Mr. Banks defiantly. “It’s a small house.”

  “Then of course you are planning for a marquee on the terrace.”

  “I have no terrace. If they overflow the house they can tramp around in the yard.”

  “And what if it rains?” asked Mr. Massoula with a rising inflection, glancing at Mrs. Banks. “What if it pours that day?”

  “That’s just what /said,” put in Mrs. Banks. “Stanley, what would we do if it poured?”

  “A marquee is very inexpensive,” reassured Mr. Massoula soothingly, “and even if it doesn’t rain you really should have it. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll have one of our field engineers go over the property. We always have to do that anyway to study circulation problems and that sort of thing.”

  “Listen,” said Mr. Banks desperately. “We’ve talked about everything but how much this is going to cost.”

  “The cost,” said Mr. Massoula, “will be relatively small for a party such as you describe.” His tone indicated that the kind of party which Mr. Banks had described wasn’t much of a party. “For the minimum refreshments which you have specified the cost will be a dollar and a half a head, plus corkage, plus the cost of the marquee and sundry small expenses. For that Buckingham Caterers take complete charge, including experienced and courteous men who have been with us for years. Don’t consider the cost, Mr. Banks. It will be trifling compared to the service which you will r
eceive.”

  • • •

  Apparently the social season was dragging a bit, for a few days later Mr. Massoula arrived in person at 24 Maple Drive. He was accompanied by a sheepish-looking character with handlebar mustaches, whom he referred to as Joe. Mrs. Banks assumed that he was one of the field engineers whom Mr. Massoula had spoken about, although he looked more like a horse-car conductor.

  Mrs. Banks was a meticulous housekeeper and she had always been proud of her home. Now, as Mr. Massoula and Joe wandered from room to room with cold appraising eyes and occasional mumbled comments, she realized that neither of them had ever before catered in such a hovel.

  “Small,” said Mr. Massoula.

  “I’ll say,” agreed Joe. “How many head did you say?”

  “Hundred fifty.”

  “Jesus,” said Joe. Mrs. Banks was afraid he was going to expectorate, but he refrained with an obvious effort.

  “Circulation’s bad,” said Mr. Massoula.

  “I’ll say,” agreed Joe.

  “We’ll have all the windows open on that day,” assured Mrs. Banks.

  “What we mean by circulation,” said Mr. Massoula kindly, “is the guest flow from room to room. A room with two interior doors has minimum circulation. A room like this with only one is—is—well, it’s a death trap. Where does this go?”

  Mr. Massoula pulled the knob of a door. It came off in his hands.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Banks miserably. “It does that unless you push it in first. That just goes into a closet anyway.”

  Mr. Massoula placed the knob on the dining-room table. “Is this the pantry?” The two men seemed to fill the little room.

  “Small,” said Mr. Massoula.

  “Dark,” said Joe.

  Mrs. Banks snapped the electric switch. Nothing happened.

  “Bulb’s busted,” said Joe. “I seen enough.”

  Mrs. Banks followed them gloomily back to the living room.

  “Circulation in this room’s O.K.,” said Mr. Massoula.

  “Only one that is,” said Joe.

  “But you couldn’t get more than a hundred and twenty-five in the house.”

  “Squash ’em like bugs if you did,” said Joe.

  The knob of the door came off in his hands.

  “I’m planning to take a lot of these things up to the attic, you know,” explained Mrs. Banks. “All those straight chairs go up, and the small tables and standing lamps, and we’re thinking of taking up the rug.”

  “Takin’ th’ rug up ain’t goin’ to give any more room,” said Joe. Mr. Massoula maintained a displeased silence.

  “Have you any suggestions?” asked Mrs. Banks nervously.

  “Yes, madam, I have,” said Mr. Massoula. “Even with a marquee you’re going to be cramped. By the way, Joe, go out in the back and measure for the marquee. Now you see, madam, circulation’s your big problem. The first thing you’ve got to do is clear this room of all furniture.”

  There was a suggestion of tears in Mrs. Banks’ voice. “You don’t mean the big davenport and the armchairs and—”

  “Of course. And the piano. Everything must come out of this room. Now in the dining room—”

  “Does the dining-room table have to go too?” she wailed, but Mr. Massoula was not listening.

  “That chandelier over the dining-room table—could that be looped up or something?”

  In view of the fact that the chandelier was not made of rubber tubing Mrs. Banks did not see how it could.

  “Then you better have the electrician take it out an’ cap it temporarily,” said Mr. Massoula. “It’s in the way. Now about these doors between the rooms. They’ve got to be taken off. You’d be surprised to see how much circulation you lose on account of doors. Especially doors like these.”

  Mrs. Banks might have forgiven him if he had not added that last sentence. As it was she lost her temper as an alternative to tears. “What in the world do you think I’ve got upstairs—a cold-storage warehouse? And who do you think is going to lug all this stuff up there—if there was room? And who do you think is going to get it down again?”

  But Mr. Massoula was a creative artist. Details were not in his line. “We’ll connect the marquee to this French door from the living room,” he said. He tried to open the door but it merely slammed violently back and forth at the top. The bottom was apparently glued to the sill.

  “It’s stuck,” explained Mrs. Banks. “I’ve been meaning to have that door fixed.”

  Mr. Massoula opened a window and leaned out. “Hi, Joe,” he bawled. “Figure on a connecting angle through the French door here. Measure from the outside. The thing’s stuck.”

  “I’ll say,” came an angry voice from the lilacs. “Too many God-damn bushes out here. Ought to get rid of ’em.”

  12

  TOMORROW’S MY DAUGHTER’S WEDDING DAY

  The day before the wedding came at last. When one concentrates fiercely and at length on an event in the distant future it eventually becomes fixed in the mind as something forever remote. As a result it is a shock to awake some morning and find that the distant future has suddenly become the immediate present. It is like a foolish rumor about a lion in the district, which no one takes seriously until the beast springs at you from behind a lilac bush.

  The wedding rehearsal was scheduled for five-thirty. Mr. Banks set out for the office exhibiting a nonchalance that he did not feel. Yes, of course, he would take the three-ten from town. There was nothing to get so excited about. Beneath the surface, however, he was distinctly nervous. He felt like a man moving beneath powerful floodlights.

  The floodlight operator must have been off duty during his trip to town, however. The same apathetic faces greeted him at the station with the same apathetic comments about the weather, their health, or their lack of it. As the train pulled out of Fairview Manor, Reggie Fry lurched into the seat beside him and spent three stations describing an intricate realestate deal in the course of which he had outwitted and discomfited the best brains in the business. Mr. Banks could stand it no longer.

  “My daughter’s getting married tomorrow,” he said simply.

  “Really?” said Mr. Fry. “Didn’t know you had a daughter. Time flies, eh? I hope she’s got a place to live after she’s married. It’s a bad situation. Getting worse. The Real-Estate Board put out some interesting figures about it in their last bulletin. I’ve got it here somewhere. Here it is. Now just let me read you these few paragraphs. This is on the volume of building of one-family homes in the mid-continent states during the first quarter.”

  Mr. Banks shuddered and gave himself up to his thoughts.

  He would have found it hard to describe just what he expected when he arrived at the office. Obviously he had not anticipated organized cheering as he came in the door, yet it depressed him to have Miss Rooney nod to him from the switchboard and say, “Morning-MrBanksnicemorning,” just as she did on the other three hundred working days of the year.

  “Now just let me read you these few paragraphs.”

  Even his partners failed to grasp the significance of current events. As each one drifted into Mr. Banks’ office during the morning he offered some fatuous remark about not falling down in the aisle or trying to bend over in his cutaway. Then, having made their concessions to the trivia of life, they concentrated on the task of dumping on his desk every unanswerable and boring problem they could dig out of their pending files. They reminded Mr. Banks of executives cleaning out their desks before leaving for their summer vacations.

  During the moments when his partners were not bedeviling him the outside world took up the torch. The cream of the dullest and most long-winded of Mr. Banks’ clients flocked into his office for no other apparent reason than to make sheep eyes at him and fill up an idle hour with the sound of their own voices.

  The only positive note was the telephone. Whenever Mr. Banks thought about that morning during later years it was his telephone buzzer which sounded the motif o
f the nightmare cacophony.

  “Darling, the worst thing. Old Mr. McQuade is down at the station.—McQuade, dear. I don’t know. He’s some relative of yours.—Well, it’s no use arguing about that now. He’s down at the station and he wants to know where he’s supposed to go. Where in the world am I going to put him?”

  Only the presence of a customer mooning beside his desk restrained Mr. Banks from detailed instructions.

  “Hello. Is this you, Stanley?—This is Ella. Ella.— Is this Stanley Banks?—This is Ella. Yes. How are you? We came down the last minute as a surprise. Now we don’t want you to bother your head about us. Just tell us how the trains run to Fairview Manor and how to get from the station to your house. If you haven’t room to put us up we can go anywhere at all. The last thing we want to do is put you to any trouble. I guess you’ve got troubles enough just now.” (Hysterical laughter.)

  The sheep-eyed gentleman beside Mr. Banks’ desk looked at him anxiously. “I hope that wasn’t bad news,” he said.

  “No, no,” said Mr. Banks. “I’ve got a daughter getting married tomorrow.”

  “Oh, of course. Quite,” said the sheep-eyed gentleman and resumed his narrative.

  “Darling, I’m so sorry to bother you again but I’m almost crazy. You can’t imagine what’s happened. The Bennett boy has come down with measles and they can’t take in Cousin Laura and Bob. What in the world are we—I know, dear, but I thought you might have some ideas.”

  By twelve-thirty he could stand it no longer. Shoving a pile of papers into a desk drawer, he rang for Miss Bellamy. “I’m getting the hell out of here,” he said defiantly. The phone rang. “I’m gone.”

  “So sorry,” murmured Miss Bellamy into the mouthpiece. “He was called away very hurriedly. He just this moment left the office. No, I don’t think I could catch him. I know how sorry he’ll be. He wanted to talk to you. Yes, I’ll certainly tell him.” She hung up the receiver. “It’s that Mr. Wadley you’ve been trying to get for three days.”