Wedding in Great Neck (9781101607701)

by McDonough, Yona Zeldis

  Lincoln cautiously began circling the lounge in case Caleb had come in and he’d not spied him yet. In addition to being in pain, Lincoln was also ravenous, for he’d never actually eaten that granola bar. He badly wanted a coffee but was worried the heat would cause the tooth pain to spike, so he settled for an overpriced corn muffin purchased from a vending machine. In vain he attempted to peel back the film of hermetically sealed plastic as his frustration mounted. Finally he clawed the damn thing open. Once the sticky-surfaced, doughy-centered blob was revealed, he took a big bite, avoiding the side where the broken tooth lay in wait. He looked at his watch—again—and then anxiously scanned the waiting area.

  Still no sign of Caleb. He quickly finished the muffin, which was bland and gummy; when he looked down, he saw a festive sprinkling of crumbs all over the front of his shirt. He brushed them off. The tooth fragment was still in the pocket, and he pulled it out to inspect it more carefully.

  It could have been a piece from a 3-D puzzle; the companion piece was in his mouth, still attached to his gum, still a blessed part of flesh and bone—his flesh, his bone. This broken bit was the future, though, an intimation of what was to come: decay, loss, the inevitable shedding of the mortal skin. He ran a pinky over the fragment one more time before pinging it into the trash. It didn’t even make a sound when it hit. Yeah, death awaited him, like it awaited every single other living creature on the planet. But not today, damn it. Today Angelica was getting married. Woo hoo! Now where the hell was Caleb? Lincoln was just about to pull out his cell phone when he heard his son’s voice—“Dad! Over here!”—hailing him from a few feet away. Finally!

  “So sorry I kept you waiting!” Caleb said.

  Lincoln’s annoyance dissolved as he drank Caleb in. He was deeply, unnaturally tan and wearing an expensive-looking blue-and-white-striped shirt—Lincoln knew he shopped at places like Paul Stuart and Thomas Pink—and a pair of artfully weathered jeans. Keds so white they must have been bleached, no socks, hair slicked back from his high forehead with some kind of gel. Lincoln had once stayed at his Chelsea apartment, and in the small but well-appointed bathroom, with its stack of thick folded towels and glass canister of bergamot-scented soaps, he found enough hair-care products to stock a small salon. Caleb took his appearance very seriously. He always had. His predilection in boyhood for pressed khakis worn with neat leather belts, three-button polo shirts, and argyle sweater-vests had worried Betsy. That and his interest in baking; by the age of eleven, the kid was turning out coconut layer cakes, Key lime tarts, and butterscotch blondies by the panful. But what the hell? If the kid was gay, the kid was gay. Or at least that’s the way Lincoln saw it.

  “Hey, Dad,” Caleb said now, simultaneously smiling at his father and reaching for the bag still wedged uncomfortably under Lincoln’s arm. He examined it before tucking it under his own. “Little mishap in transit?”

  “The strap broke,” Lincoln said, falling into step beside him.

  “There’s a place in town that repairs shoes and luggage. We could stop.”

  “Not worth it,” said Lincoln.

  “How about getting you a new bag?”

  “Caleb.” Lincoln put a hand on his boy’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Really.”

  “If you say so,” Caleb said, and smiled again.

  When they reached Caleb’s car, parked at the far end of the lot, Lincoln stowed his bag in the trunk and laid the garment across the backseat. Then he turned to envelop Caleb in a big, crushing hug. “I missed you,” he muttered against Caleb’s tightly muscled back. He knew his son was serious about his weight training. “I missed you all.”

  “Missed you too,” Caleb said, gracefully extricating himself from the embrace. Lincoln felt tears—sudden, hot, wholly embarrassing—welling in his eyes. Jesus, it was hours before the wedding was even scheduled to start, he hadn’t touched a drop, but here he was, weepy as a five-year-old on his first day of kindergarten. He didn’t want Caleb to see him like this, didn’t want to burden him with his own rush of feeling. Abruptly he yanked open the car door and slid inside.

  “How are things back at the ranch?” he asked, hoping the hale-fellow-well-met tone would mask any lingering traces of emotion. For the twentieth time he ran his tongue over the surface of the broken tooth but resisted sticking his finger in to further the probe.

  “Well, let’s see,” Caleb said, hands on the wheel, not looking at Lincoln. “I haven’t seen Angelica; she’s been sequestered. But that’s all right: Grandma has taken over her role as family diva at least for the day.”

  “Really?” Lincoln had not seen Betsy’s mother, Lenore, in years, but he remembered her self-dramatizing flair quite well.

  “Last night she was in a state because Tess Kornblatt and Bunny Epstein won’t be there.”

  “That’s old news; Angelica showed her the guest list months ago.” Lincoln took advantage of the opportunity to observe his son in profile: the familiar curve of his forehead; the full, almost girlish lower lip; the tiny, blurred scar, a faint reminder of his childhood bout with chicken pox, at the corner of one eye.

  “That’s what Mom—and Angelica—kept pointing out. But you know Grandma.”

  Lincoln let that one slide. “So, what else is going on?” he asked brightly. “Work all right?” Caleb was in retail; he had job in the men’s department at Barneys. “And weren’t you talking about moving? With—with…that guy—” Damn, why couldn’t he remember the name of his son’s new boyfriend?

  “Bobby,” Caleb supplied. “And, no, we haven’t moved yet. We’re still looking for a place.” He kept his eyes fixed on the road, as if he was intentionally avoiding Lincoln’s gaze. “Work’s fine.” Clearly, it was an afterthought.

  “Bobby,” Lincoln repeated. “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby.”

  “That’s okay, Dad,” said Caleb, finally turning to face Lincoln. “You’ll meet him today, actually. He’s back at the house now, sound asleep.” His expression relaxed into a smile. “I think you’ll like him.”

  “As long as you like him,” Lincoln said. “That’s what counts.”

  “I love him,” said Caleb. He sounded serious, even grave. “I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my entire life.”

  Your entire life? Lincoln wanted to say. And how long has that been? You’re a babe, a pup. A pisher, as Lenore would have said. Still wet behind the ears. Something cautioned him against speaking, though, and he was grateful for the slender thread—Of self-control? Of respect for his son’s admission?—that kept him from blurting out that first thing that came into his head.

  The car slowed, and Caleb turned in to the entrance to the motel. It was outside Great Neck proper, and with its gamely planted circle of weed-choked grass, empty, flaking swimming pool, and hideous pus green façade, every bit as seedy and derelict as Lincoln had envisioned.

  “This is it,” Caleb said. He pulled up in front of a sign that read CHECK IN HERE and parked. “Hey, are you all right?” he asked, swiveling around to look at Lincoln.

  “Me? I’m fine,” Lincoln lied, though the Advil did not seem to be doing the trick, and he felt the refrain of the earlier pain begin a faint chorus in his mouth.

  “You don’t look fine,” Caleb said. He was staring. “You look kind of gray, in fact. And you’re sweating, Dad. There’s sweat all over your forehead.”

  “People sweat,” Lincoln said. However dismal the room was going to be, he longed for Caleb to leave so he could be alone in it, alone with his pain.

  “I feel kind of bad leaving you here,” Caleb said, shifting his gaze from Lincoln to the cruddy motel. “Why don’t you let me drive you back to the house? You could stay there—Mom said it was okay.”

  “No!” Lincoln said, and when Caleb looked taken aback, he tried to soften it. “I just wouldn’t be comfortable staying there. But I appreciate your concern.”

  “Dad, I don’t think you’re making a good choice, and I am not leaving you here.” Caleb leaned back in his seat and cr
ossed his arms over his chest. “Either I take you to Mom’s, so I can keep an eye on you, or to a doctor. Your call.”

  Lincoln debated whether to tell Caleb the truth and finally decided it would be easier than continuing this standoff. “It’s not a doctor I need,” he said. “It’s a dentist. Only I’ll wait until I get back to the West Coast to see one.”

  “You have a toothache?”

  “I have the mother of all toothaches,” Lincoln said. “I was ambushed by a stale granola bar, and I broke a molar.”

  “Ouch,” Caleb said. “That must hurt. But we can find you a dentist; Mom must know someone who’ll squeeze you in for an emergency visit.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Lincoln said. “I’ve got Advil.”

  “Dad, you broke your tooth and you look terrible. Why don’t you want to see a dentist? It’s no big deal; I’ll drive you.”

  “No dentists, no driving,” Lincoln said firmly. Now that the cat was out of the bag, he was free to dig around in his bag and pop another couple of Advil. So what if he’d taken the last ones only an hour or so earlier. Clearly he needed reinforcements.

  “You take those things dry?” Caleb said. “Jesus.” He shook his head. “Anyway, why are you being so stubborn? I don’t get it.”

  “Because this is Angelica’s day, and I don’t want to add any, and I mean any, stress to what is already a very stressed-out situation.”

  “Ah—so this is about Angelica the princess,” Caleb said. He uncrossed his arms and raked his fingers through his hair. “What else is new?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Lincoln said. The car was hot and stuffy, but he made no move to get out; he did not want to bring Caleb into the motel room.

  “Just that some things never change. Angelica was always your favorite.”

  “Not true,” Lincoln said, though of course it was, it was. But he thought he had hidden it better. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  “Dad, who are you trying to kid? Of course she was your favorite. She still is.”

  “I love all of you,” Lincoln said. God, he was practically croaking. “Very much.” Guilt snaked through the pain, lacing in and out of it like a braid. Had he really been so transparent, so obvious? Everyone knows everything all the time, his mother had been fond of saying. Well, it looked like she had been right.

  “I know you do,” Caleb said and leaned over to give Lincoln a kiss on his clammy, ashen cheek. “Only you love her more.” He started the car up again. “Why don’t you go and lie down for a while?” he added kindly.

  “Will I see you before the wedding?” Lincoln said, confused but moved by the sequence of events these past few minutes: the accusation followed by the unexpected gentleness.

  “Of course. I’ll check in with you later,” Caleb said.

  Lincoln nodded. Clutching his meager baggage, he got out of the car. The broken tooth throbbed, almost musical in its iteration of pain. Watching Caleb as he pulled away, Lincoln remained where he stood long after the car had disappeared down the road.

  Five

  A wedding in Great Neck, fumed Justine. A Great Neck wedding. Nuptials in the Neck. The bride wore green. Justine imagined many thousand-dollar bills pasted to the had-to-have-cost-a-fortune wedding gown that no one, not the bride’s mother, not her stepfather—who had paid for the damn thing—not her husband-to-be had been allowed to see. How predictable, how lame, how wasteful. And to think it was her aunt Angelica—formerly so hip, so cool, so smart—who had not only consented to but was actively embracing this whole over-the-top, show-offy business. Justine was awash in righteous revulsion. She’d agreed to be in the wedding party only because Portia had pitched a small fit when she had expressed her disgust at the idea.

  Yesterday when they had arrived, Don, Grandma Betsy’s husband, had insisted on going into town for a walk along the main drag. In one shopwindow Justine saw watches so big they must have weighed half a pound, their bulbous faces crammed with so many dials, needles, and numbers that telling the time would be impossible. In another window was a monstrous choker with a cluster of jewels the size of a golf ball in the center; a third featured a leather-trimmed canvas tote that cost 945 dollars; the price tag looped around the handle faced outward, toward the street.

  She turned away, disgusted. Had she a rock, she would have pitched it through the glass. Her own clothes were gleaned from stores like the Salvation Army or Goodwill. She told Don she wasn’t feeling well—not a lie, actually—and so was able to beg off the trip to Häagen-Dazs in favor of driving right back to the house.

  Justine looked over at Portia, who was still asleep in the room that they had shared last night. With its massive television screen and series of serpentine leather couches (several of which opened into beds), it seemed like the perfect place to stage an orgy: just dim the lights and break out the Ecstasy. But Justine highly doubted that the room had ever been put to that particular purpose. Her grandmother, Betsy, and her husband were way too old. And it was clear her grandmother was more besotted with her dopey dog than with any being possessing a mere two legs.

  Justine wandered into the bathroom and back out again. Portia slumbered on. Ordinarily Justine would have woken her twin, and together they would have found a way to make this day bearable. But right now Justine was actually glad of the time alone. She had a few things she had to work out before the wedding of the century unfolded tonight, and for once she was not letting Portia in on her plans.

  This was a departure from form, and a radical one. Portia had always been her partner in everything. When they were little, they had their own language, which they called twinspeak. It had driven everyone within earshot crazy—much to their mutual delight. More recently they had had to deal with their parents’ stupid and messy separation, and try not to take sides, which was pretty impossible. They pooled their intellectual resources to do their schoolwork (Portia was better in math and science, while Justine was the literature/history/politics maven) and they resolutely defended each other against mean girls, bumbling administrators, boring teachers, jerk-off guys—in short, the world as they knew it.

  But lately Justine had felt subtle tremors, the sort of occurrences that might signal an earthquake or a tsunami, beneath the tectonic plates of her bond with Portia—this was exactly the sort of metaphor Portia would have employed. Justine could not really put a name to it; every time she tried to analyze it—What exactly were signposts of the change? What between them was actually different?—she failed.

  Maybe the problem was not Portia at all, but Justine herself. She was the one who had changed. That was the nasty little secret she’d been trying to push away or ignore. Lately she had been prone to these—What to call them? Moods? Trances?—that descended on her out of nowhere. She was powerless to predict when they would arrive or with what intensity, but when they came, they ruled. The dread reds made her seethe with a low-level but deadly kind of anger: at her parents, at her circle of friends and their petty concerns, at her teachers, who encouraged their asinine ruminations. If, in the throes of this thing, she could have banished them all permanently with a blink to some unseen parallel universe, she would have done it.

  Then there were the moody blues, when the smallest thing—a news account of someone shot and killed in a holdup, the sight of a dead pigeon in the street—could make her eyes flood and her chest heave with hiccupy sobs so that she could not catch her breath; she’d have to curl up alone in the dark (light was intolerable when she felt like this) until the sensation passed. The mean greens were similar though not identical to the dread reds; when she was in the grip of them, she was compelled to commit small, spiteful deeds, ones that she hoped would go unnoticed. She’d yank a button off a coat that someone at school had left hanging over a chair; she’d steal something dumb, something she didn’t even want—dental floss, a gross wad of beef jerky—from a store as her pulse roared in her ears at the possibility of being caught. Afterwards she’d feel sick with shame, which in no way prevented h
er from doing it again when the urge seized her.

  She looked over at Portia, still sleeping, oblivious to her sister’s turmoil, and she felt simultaneously furious and bereft. Better to get out of here now, before she was tempted to wake Portia and tell her everything after all.

  Justine emerged from the media room and went quietly up the stairs. She could hear the activity coming from the kitchen. They had all been instructed to take their breakfast in the breakfast room, where food would be laid out for them, but Justine wanted to do a little scouting around first.

  A television—tuned in to a weather channel—was announcing the possibility of a thundershower this afternoon. Could she detect the sound of someone—her grandmother, possibly—moaning, or was she imagining this? There was a tent, of course; two tents, in fact—one for the ceremony, the other for the dinner. Justine had heard all about them, with their laminate flooring, chandeliers, and cathedral-style “windows,” several times. But she got the feeling that, even with the tents, Angelica would consider it a personal affront from God if the sky opened and it poured on her wedding day.

  Neatly skirting the activity, Justine continued up the stairs to the second floor. The hallway was wide and long, and the floor covered in a deep, plush carpet that did feel nice on her bare toes. The carpet, chosen by her grandmother, Betsy, no doubt, made her feel guilty. Grandma B. was not a bad person; she was amazingly generous to Justine, Portia, and plenty of other people besides. Justine was fully aware that what she planned to do today was going to hurt Grandma Betsy. But knowing this did not change anything; she was going to do it anyway. Collateral damage, isn’t that what they called it?

  The way Justine saw it, she was rescuing Angelica from marriage to a man who was an oppressor, a colonizer, and even a murderer. Angelica was too blinded—by love, by lust—to see him for what he was, but Justine was not. So it was up to her to unmask him and show Angelica—along with everyone else—just what kind of a person he really was. No one would thank her for it—not immediately, anyway. But years from now Angelica—and everyone else—would see that Justine had been a hero, the only one in the family with the vision to see the truth and the courage to do something about it.