There’s a red bra hanging on the bathroom doorknob, where Hailey left it a lifetime ago. I pull it off and throw it into a dresser drawer. Then I take everything off the top of her night table; books, catalogs, a perfume bottle, a ponytail holder, and drop them into the top drawer, along with the lipstick I found in my jacket. The strength goes out of my legs and I sit down on the corner of the bed—Hailey’s side—and I can feel the tears forming, but I blink them away. Because even now I can hear the muted slide and bang of Russ’s dresser drawers as he gets ready in his room, and Claire’s high-heeled footsteps tap-dancing across the tiled kitchen floor, and they’re like sounds from beyond the borders of your dream, luring you back to the waking life. So I allow myself just a few more quaking breaths, a few last moments of feeling lost without her, and then I pull myself up off the bed and head downstairs to get Claire to help me with my necktie.
The rehearsal dinner is taking place in one of the club’s smaller banquet rooms, where the caterer has set up an elaborate buffet. There’s a three-piece band up on the bandstand playing soft dinner music, the lights have been dimmed and large standing candelabra have been set up around the perimeter, bathing the room in a warm, gothic glow. In typical fashion, my mother has transformed an intimate dinner into a major event, and by the time we arrive, the room is already teeming with friends of my parents and relatives I’d prefer not to see. Claire points out the two manned bars set up on either side of the buffet, like a flight attendant indicating the emergency exits, and as she and Russ go to find our seats in the cluster of banquet tables set up in the center of the room, I make my way around the edges of the crowd, as inconspicuously as possible, until I’m standing at the bar. Two quick shots for courage, and when that doesn’t work, another two for distance. Then I get a strong Jack and Coke to nurse, and wade reluctantly into the sea of guests.
This is the part I’ve been dreading, the unguarded scrutiny of people who have known me forever, the pointed looks, the wet-eyed hugs, the emotional arm squeezes, the suffocating pity of those who think they know, filling the air I breathe like anthrax. I am a celebrity of sorts, rendered larger than life by the dark things to which I’ve borne witness, and the trick is to keep moving, like a movie star leaving a nightclub, smiling for the cameras without breaking stride. I assume the look of someone on an urgent errand, moving quickly through the crowd, nodding hello without stopping to talk to anyone. All around me, relatives materialize like evil spirits: Uncle Freddy, my father’s much younger brother, who we thought was so cool when we were kids because he wore motorcycle boots and did his hair like Jon Bon Jovi. Now he’s bald and beer gutted, has three kids with two ex-wives, and bags under his eyes with the craggy texture of alligator skin. My cousin Nicole, the reformed lesbian, who came out after college and then came back in to marry Peter, her high school sweetheart. My cousin Nate, a few years older than me, who told me what a rim job was when I was eight, and gave me my first-ever puff of a cigarette at his brother Barry’s bar mitzvah. Barry, who paid Claire twenty dollars to show him her boobs when we were fourteen. Aunt Abby, my mother’s sister, who beat breast cancer and self-published a virtually unreadable memoir about it which she still gives as gifts on every possible occasion. Their gazes cut through the crowd like infrared security beams in a museum, and I am the wily art thief, spinning and dodging my way across the room without setting off any alarms. But of course, a handful of them do manage to stop me, hugging me and shaking their heads, aggressively sincere, telling me how wonderful I look, like I’m the fat guy who lost fifty pounds and suddenly has a neck again. They come at me from all sides, and I’m on the verge of panic, craning my neck to find safe passage, when I see my father pushing his way through the crowd toward me.
“Doug!” he says, coming over to hug me. He looks natty as ever in his midnight blue designer suit and lavender tie. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey, Dad,” I say as he pulls me close, and I’m a little kid breathing in the familiar scents of his dandruff shampoo and aftershave. I just want to bury my head in the crook of his neck and wrap my legs around his torso as he picks me up and carries me upstairs to my bedroom to put me to bed.
“Come on,” he says, leading me through the crowd. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
Debbie is positioned near the buffet speaking animatedly with some of her bridesmaids. She’s dressed to the nines in a slinky black gown, her dark hair up in an intricate French braid. “Hey, Pooh,” I say, leaning in to kiss her. “You look great.”
“Look at your face!” she says.
“You look at it.”
“What happened? Forget it, I don’t want to know,” she says, pressing an exploratory thumb against my shiner.
“Ouch! Jesus, Debbie!”
“It’s going to be in all the pictures.”
“They can Photoshop it out.”
“Can they really do that? Because it looks terrible.”
“That’s funny, because everyone was just telling me how wonderful I look.”
She shrugs and raises a cynical eyebrow at me. “Everyone is drunk.”
Speaking of which, my own drink has mysteriously evaporated in the five minutes since it was poured, so I wander back toward the bar, where I bump into Russ walking off with a drink in hand. “Hey,” I say. “Are we having fun yet?”
“Oodles.”
“What do you have there?”
“Some tonic water.”
“Uh huh.”
“With just the tiniest splash of gin.”
It occurs to me that I should not be allowing him to drink, and that this is something we should discuss.
“Russ. Can we be serious for a moment?”
“Doug, if we can’t be serious for a moment, then the terrorists have already won.”
“We don’t have a lot of rules,” I say.
“That’s true.”
“I can’t control what happens when you’re out with your friends. I just have to trust you to make the right decisions. But I don’t want you drinking or doing drugs on my watch.”
He regards me thoughtfully for a moment and then smiles and raises his glass. “Agreed. But surely one celebratory drink under your watchful eye … ”
“Just go easy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So,” I say, throwing my arm around him. “Any women here catch your fancy?”
He looks over to where Debbie is laughing with her girlfriends and sighs. “Just one.”
“I don’t want to sound too negative here … ” I say.
“I know,” he says miserably. “Love sucks.”
“Amen to that.” We bang our glasses together.
The groomsmen congregate at the bar where Mike’s brother Max is rowdily moderating a wide-ranging discussion on the S&P Five Hundred, sports teams, and which actresses they would currently be fucking if they weren’t too busy being fat, bald, and married. I have nothing to contribute, but it’s as good a place as any to hide for a few minutes.
“Doug,” Max says, throwing his arm around me. “I think I’m in love. Three o’clock.”
“What?”
“Over there,” he says, pointing. “The girl in the black dress.”
“She’s very pretty.”
“Are you kidding me? Look at the ass on her.” He licks his lips. “I have got to get me some of that.”
“Her name is Claire.”
“You know her?”
“I do.”
“Well, what’s her deal, anyway?”
“She just left her husband,” I say. “She’s dying to get laid.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I’m telling you. It’s a sure thing.”
“Okay,” he says, releasing me. “Wish me luck.”
“Break a leg.”
I watch him approach her, watch her eyes narrow as he makes his pitch, and then watch her take a deep breath and start to speak, and as much of an asshole as Max is, I actually feel a little sorry fo
r him. He’s back two minutes later, red faced and dejected. “You are such an asshole,” he says.
“You lasted longer than most.”
“That girl has got some major issues.”
“Come on,” I say, patting his back. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Doug,” Mike says, coming up behind us. “You see Potter?”
“No.”
“Neither have I and he’s supposed to give the toast. I hope everything’s okay.”
Dave and Laney. Shit. I forgot they’re going to be here. As if I didn’t have enough to deal with, I’ll have to pretend not to notice Laney staring balefully at me all weekend. “I’m sure they’re fine.”
“Well, I don’t know what could be keeping him, but would you mind stepping in for him tonight if he’s a no-show?”
There is irony, and then there’s my life.
Once everyone has found their seats, and I’m safely sandwiched between Russ and Claire, my buzz having settled down to a nice, insulating hum, I am finally able to relax. My mother, looking radiant in her salmon-colored gown, sips at her wine and surveys the room with a satisfied smile. She leans against my father, who kisses her scalp every few minutes and taps his fingers along with the band, happily greeting all the well-wishers who stop by to greet him. “Stan!” they say. “Great to see you!” And he says, “Great to be seen, Phil, great to be seen.”
They are positively beaming, my parents, vibrating together in their happiness, and I love them like never before. The rest of us talk about nothing in particular, cracking jokes and gossiping about our assembled relatives, and it’s all moving along swimmingly until Mike starts tapping his water glass with a knife, and a hush falls over the room as he stands up to speak.
“Debbie and I are so happy that you could all be here to celebrate with us. All I can say is that I never believed someone this beautiful would ever be willing to marry someone like me.”
“You and me both, buddy!” Max shouts out, and everybody laughs.
“Anyway, I just wanted to ask my good friend Doug, who, coincidentally happens to be the brother of the bride, to offer a toast.”
I look up, horrified, as the room breaks into applause. I seem to recall Mike asking me to fill in for Dave, but I figured he’d give me some warning before I had to go on, and that’s when I’d planned to worm my way out of it. So when the clapping dies down, I’m still slouched in my seat, wondering what the hell to do.
“Doug?” Debbie whispers across the table nervously.
“You’re up, dude,” Russ says.
I stand up slowly, turning to face the fifty or so expectant gazes, and it occurs to me that I’m somewhat drunker than I intended to be. They all seem far away, which is good, but so do I, which could be a problem. “You need a drink,” Claire says.
“You have no idea,” I say, and the room erupts into spontaneous laughter.
“I meant for the toast.” She hands me somebody’s wineglass.
Faces swim and merge kaleidoscopically in front of me, and a cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. “As many of you know, I’m not very good at this,” I say. “In fact, I think the last time I did this was at Claire’s wedding, and if you were there, you know how well that turned out.” Strained laughter flutters around the room like a trapped bird looking for a window, and Claire shoots me a wide-eyed look of alarm. “I meant the toast, not the marriage. Oh … shit.” Claire shakes her head and buries her face in her hands. “That toast didn’t go over so well, is all I meant. And neither, apparently, will this one, so I think I’d better quit while I’m ahead.”
“You’re doing great, man!” Max shouts, laughing his ass off.
“Hey,” Russ hisses up at me. “You’re stinking up the room.”
“Feel free to take over at any time,” I snap back at him.
And to my utter amazement, Russ pushes his chair back and gets to his feet.
“What are you doing?” I say through clenched teeth.
“Just go with it,” he says and then, clapping demonstratively, “Thank you, Doug,” and there’s nothing to do but collapse back into my chair.
“Excellent,” Claire whispers to me, still shaking her head incredulously.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just … sorry.”
She nods up at Russ. “Our boy is wasted, by the way.”
“He only had one drink.”
“The waiters have been refilling his wineglass all night.”
“Oh,” I say. “Shit.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who don’t know me, my name is Russ Klein. And I know you’re all wondering what I could possibly have to say on this momentous occasion.” Russ turns to face Debbie, who smiles nervously. “You see, I’ve only known Debbie for a few years, but from the first day I met her … ” He stops to take a deep breath. “From the first day I met her I’ve been madly in love with her.” Debbie’s jaw falls open, and there’s a small, collective gasp from the crowd. “I know I’m just a kid,” Russ continues, “but I always imagined what I would say to you if I ever got the chance, and what I would say is that you are hands down the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known. You’re kind and smart and funny and sexy, and so pretty, really, so perfectly pretty, and I would have happily given up the next ten years of my life to be old enough to be your boyfriend. And even though you’re way out of my league, I know you’re going to be the standard that I will measure every girl I ever meet against, and I already know they will all fall way short. But at least you’ve given me something to strive for, right? Anyway, now you’re getting married and so I’ll have to get over you, and I just figured I’d have an easier time doing that if I said these things out loud. So, Mike, I just want to say no disrespect intended, you’re a solid guy and I just hope you never stop realizing how lucky you are. And, Debbie, I just want to wish you the best, you deserve it, and tell you that thinking about you got me through a very shitty time in my life—excuse me, everyone—and I will always, always love you for that.” He looks around at the crowd, suddenly self-conscious, and raises his glass sheepishly. “Bottoms up, everybody.”
There is a smattering of shocked applause and nervous laughter as Russ sits down, a commotion of fast conversation, and then Debbie stands up, red-eyed and blushing profusely, and the room falls silent again. “Russ, I don’t even know what to say. That was the sweetest thing I ever … ” She pauses for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. “Well, all I can say is that if things don’t work out with Mike, you’ll be the first to know.” The crowd laughs and Russ looks like he’s seriously considering slitting his wrists.
“Fuck me,” he says.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “That took a lot of guts.”
“I made a fool out of myself.”
“You were very sweet,” Claire says, leaning over to kiss him. “There isn’t a woman in this room who didn’t just fall in love with you.”
Debbie clears her throat. “There’s something I’d like to say,” she says, and I don’t like the way her eyes find mine and then quickly dart away. I don’t like it at all. After a while, you develop a sixth sense about these things.
“This family has been through a lot over the last few years,” Debbie says, and you can feel the room holding its breath, mesmerized, waiting for the next plot twist. “And I just want to take a moment to mention my sister-in-law, Hailey. She was my sister and my friend, and now, on the eve of my wedding day, it’s just unimaginable to me that she isn’t here. We love you, Hailey, and we will never stop missing you.”
And now my mother is crying, and Claire is crying, and Russ is shaking, and people at other tables are wiping their eyes and blowing their noses, and the only one who isn’t crying is my father, who looks singularly perturbed, like he’s trying to work something out. Every eye in the room is on me, like the nominated actor who hasn’t won the award, and I can feel them all looking, waiting for my reaction, and my skin is crawling and my heart is pounding like a war drum a
nd it’s like a sauna in here, I’m sweating through my shirt. And then Debbie’s voice fades away, all sound fades away, the room is reduced to a narrow black corridor, and there is nothing except the soft whisper of my soles against the plush floral carpet, the slide of the fibers under my shoe with each hurried step. And I know they’re coming after me, Claire or Russ or my mother, I can sense the movement behind me, but I can’t look at anyone right now, so I barrel through the heavy fire doors and start moving quickly down the hallway, through the lobby and out the front doors into the cool night air. I stand in the driveway, underneath the fluorescent lighting of the club’s awning, leaning against the wall, just breathing, in and out, waiting for my racing heart to slow down.
There are footsteps behind me, and then my father steps out into the driveway. “Doug,” he says, walking over to stand in front of me.
How to Talk to a Widower Page 23
