It was one of those times when life stops short and allows you to catch up to it, to prod and poke and pinch it, to edge toward its significance. As he rode the rolling glider, D.T. realized that of late his life had become sugared, had been made a tolerable bonbon instead of a bitter fruit. He tried to account for it but couldn’t. It was just the cycle, the flow of fortune and forgetfulness that combined to make existence a prize to covet. The glider sang its song. He wondered how long his peace would last.
At his back, Michele and Heather were about to begin their brand new lives within the framework of a brand new family: happy, secure, and whole. That was the important thing. That was the thing for which he thanked the God to whom the little garden was dedicated, by whom the marriage would be blessed, for whom the church had been erected, from whom D.T. had hidden for years.
“Daddy, Daddy. Hi, Daddy.”
“Heather. How are you? That sure is a pretty dress.”
She whirled to show it off. “It cost a hundred dollars. I’m not supposed to get it dirty.”
“You look beautiful, honey. So does your mother, have you seen her? It’s going to be a lovely ceremony.”
“I’m the flowergirl.”
“Great.”
“I go first.”
“The best is always first.”
“Are you sad today, Daddy?”
“No, honey. Why?”
“Because Michele will be living with another man. For ever and ever, if they don’t get divorced.”
“I’m happy for her, honey. For you, too. You still like George, don’t you?”
“He’s kind of old.”
“But he’s nice, isn’t he?”
“He’s okay. They’re not going to sleep in the same room, Daddy.”
“No?”
“George snores.”
“How do you know?”
“Michele told me.”
“Then I guess it’s good they have separate rooms.”
“Did you and Michele have different rooms?”
“No.”
“Different beds?”
“No, but that’s ’cause I don’t snore.” He patted her silken head. “You didn’t tell me how I look in my tuxedo.”
“You look funny. Do real people wear tuxedos?”
“No. Real people definitely do not wear tuxedos.” He looked at his watch. “What time do you have to get ready?”
“Ten to ten.”
“Well, it’s about that now. You know where to go?”
“Uh huh.”
“Okay. I’ll see you in the church. Then afterward at the reception, okay? If you’re good I’ll let you have some champagne.”
“I have champagne all the time.”
“Oh.”
“Will I have to change my name tomorrow, Daddy? Will I have to use George’s name?”
“No, honey. You can keep your name. Our name, I mean.”
“See you, Daddy.”
“See you.”
Heather ran off, carrying her dress above the dirt, her shoes as white as plaster hooves.
D.T. started the glider again, listened to the organ begin to play something soft and soothing, wished he wasn’t a member of the wedding so he could curl up and go to sleep.
Michele and George. A mismatch, but no more so than many. George would not resist, the way he had, would play the social games, accept the lavish gifts, see the marriage as his due or at least his obligation. D.T. thought he wished them well.
Separate bedrooms.
Good.
He smiled, then looked at his watch, then left the garden and wandered around inside the church until he found a phone.
“Dick? D.T. What’s the latest on Lucinda Finders?”
“I just sprung her.”
“Really? Great.”
“Well, I heard social services was about to go out looking for the kid, so I thought the little mother ought to beat them to it.”
“Thanks, Dick. Where’d the bail money come from?”
“My own pocket, of course. An obligation which I hereby transfer to you. Payable on demand. My demand.”
“She’ll be good for it. Or I will.”
“I know you will, D.T. I don’t know what went on between you two but I know it was more than the attorney-client relationship we learned about in law school.”
“More than that, but less than you think.”
“Sure. Anyway, last I saw she was headed for your ex-wife’s place to reclaim her child.”
“Good. My ex-wife is about to remarry, by the way. I’m giving her away.”
“Shit, I was hoping maybe you’d be giving her to me.”
“Maybe next time.”
“Yeah. Hey. You know what?”
“What?”
“Your client. Lucinda. She got the curse just as I was posting her bail. I had a medico hustle down to check it out and she was right on schedule. Pre-menstrual syndrome, battered wife syndrome, a syndrome for every sin. This one will put me in the law reviews, D.T. I’ve already got an associate lining up the research.”
“Good for you.”
“It may not be good but it’s gravy, as they say.”
“Well, just make sure it’s good for Lucinda.”
“Hey. Have no fear; Dick Gardner’s here.”
D.T. hung up. A surge of happiness floated him toward delirium. Lucinda. She would be okay, she and her baby. Mareth Stone was okay, too, thanks to his lawlessness. And Esther Preston was as okay as money could make her. And Michele was okay, and Heather was okay, and Barbara was, well, Barbara. And Bobby E. Lee had been offered jobs by at least two law firms that were as good as law firms get. All was right with the world, or at least his share of it. D.T. sauntered down the hall and tapped on the door to the vestry.
Michele was alone in the room, from head to toe a vision, her gown as seamless as a sheet, her hair a lace of flowers and jewels, her lips enamelled and erogenous. “I shooed everyone away,” she said. “Did you see Heather?”
He nodded. “She’ll be the epitome of flowergirldom. She’ll steal the show.”
“I know.” Michele’s voice was reedy, haunting. “D.T.?”
“Hmmm?”
“Am I doing the right thing? Marrying George?”
He looked at her eyes and found them frightened. “You know that’s not for me to say, Michele. But I’ll say it anyway. Yes. You’re doing the right thing. I think you’ll be very happy.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m not sure. But if I’m wrong, hey, at least you know a good divorce lawyer. I’ll give you a rate.”
She squeezed his hand. “Thanks, D.T. Time?”
“Time.”
“Shall we?”
“I think we shall.”
He offered his arm and she took it and they walked in grandeur from the vestry. Mirabelle stood in the hallway crying. “Bless you, Miz Conway,” she said through burbling sniffles.
They reached the entry to the sanctuary. A robust woman gave the organist the high sign. Ushers hustled stragglers toward their seats. The videotape crew hit the lights and cameras, the hairstylist and cosmetician and couturier rushed to Michele and applied finishing touches while they voiced dismayed disclaimers. Joyce Tuttle clasped her friend’s hand and whispered something D.T. couldn’t hear. The florist handed Michele a baby’s breath bouquet and pinned a boutonniere to D.T.’s lapel. With a blast from the organ, Heather gathered her basket of flowers and walked off toward the altar as if she owned it. The single bridesmaid, the mother of Heather’s best friend, blew Michele a kiss and followed after. D.T. and Michele took their places in the doorway.
The organ became Wagnerian. As promised by the piece, the bride soon came, on the arm of her former groom. A hundred grinning cretins turned their faces toward them, peculiar, but rather nice. Ahead, the minister waited with a sappy smile, doubtlessly calculating the extent of Michele’s next tithe.
They marched in step, soldiers of matrimony, obeying thei
r societal mores, disciplined, reverent, each suppressing giggles. Michele squeezed his arm and he nudged her with his elbow. They glanced at each other and smiled. Up ahead, George and the man from Akron patiently gauged the progress. D.T. remembered a dance craze called the Stroll.
Up two steps, nodding at the pastor, delivering Michele to George, doing his duty, bowing, retiring to a seat on the aisle, quickly obsolescent. He glanced at Heather, caught her eye, waved surreptitiously, made her blush. George snuggled closer to his betrothed. They eyed each other gravely. The preacher cleared his throat, the organ softened, to pianissimo, then to silence.
“Dearly beloved …”
The words fell into place as though the air bore slots to hold them. The last time he’d seen Michele, D.T. had asked if she and George had composed their own vows, as was the vogue. Michele had allowed as how she’d give the traditional expression one more chance, to see if she could get it right this time, sort of like climbing back on the horse after you’d first been thrown. D.T. had shared her laugh. Now he shared again her vows, this time an auditor and witness, not as joint and several obligor.
“Who giveth this woman to this man?”
D.T. almost missed it, almost blew his cue. He stood up. “Her daughter and I do,” he said, then sat back down, wondering why he was as nervous as he was, dismayed at his comic croak.
“If there be anyone present who …”
Heather was so cute. So mature. So squared away. They’d done a good job. Michele had done a good job. He couldn’t imagine Heather taking dope or getting drunk, dropping out or turning surly. Sex, yes. He could imagine sex getting out of hand, with Heather or with anyone. But that wasn’t such a problem these days. The pill. The foam. The sponge, the loop, the cap. With abortion as a convenient backup, at least for the ones with both child and money.
What the hell was going on?
The minister had stopped speaking. Michele and George faced not the altar but each other. Michele seemed to be speaking, though D.T. couldn’t hear her words. George was motionless, his hands clasped behind his back. His brother was discomfited, his hands already seeking out his pockets, his weight shifting from wing-tip to wing-tip, his brow splashed suddenly with sweat.
George spoke then, a low rumble. “Are you certain?” was what D.T. thought he heard. Michele whispered an answer, George spoke back, the minister asked a question that went unanswered. George and his brother left the chancel, silently, proudly, as though ordered on a mission that they knew was suicidal.
The audience buzzed and shuffled. Michele turned toward them, started to speak, then cast her eyes for a certain face. The face she sought was his. When she found him she asked him wordlessly to join her. D.T. slid into the aisle and trotted up the steps, his mind beyond clear thought.
“I couldn’t do it,” she whispered when he reached her side. “I just couldn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Could you explain to everyone? We’ll have the reception anyway. Tell everyone to get plastered on me.”
“Okay.”
“Be sure to tell them it’s all my fault, that George is a wonderful man, that I just don’t deserve him.”
“I will. Whatever you want. Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“No. You stay. Heather and Mirabelle can help me.”
“Do you want to marry me?”
“No, I’ll be all … what?”
“Do you want to marry me? I mean, since we’re dressed for it and everything?”
“Are you serious?”
“I think so.” He looked at the preacher, at the bemused bridesmaid, at his lovely daughter, then back to the preacher. “Is it all right?”
“I’m afraid not.” The preacher reeked of vainglory. “The license. The blood tests. It’s quite impossible.”
“We’ve been married before, Reverend. To each other. Maybe you only have to do those things once.”
The preacher looked doubtful. “It’s exceedingly irregular. And of doubtful validity.”
“Well, we could have the ceremony now, then check the legalities on Monday and if it didn’t take we can get the license and have a civil ceremony later. What’s wrong with that?”
“That may satisfy the laws of man, but I’m afraid you’ve left out the laws of God.”
D.T. looked at Michele. “God blessed us once. I think He’d be happy if we gave Him a second chance at being right.”
The preacher began to smile, despite himself, despite his calling. “There are a great many people here.”
“Yes.”
“And a great deal of champagne as well.”
“Yes, indeed.”
The minister looked down at his notes. “Michele Conway and … What is your name, sir?”
“D. T. Jones.”
“And what does the D.T. stand for?”
Divorced Twice, leaped quickly to his mind.
He looked at Michele, then took her hand. He looked at Heather, and took her hand as well.
“Definitely Thrilled,” he said instead.
About the Author
Stephen Greenleaf (b. 1942), a former lawyer and an alumnus of the prestigious Iowa Writer’s Workshop, is a mystery and thriller writer best known for his series of novels starring PI John Marshall Tanner. Recognized for being both literate and highly entertaining, Greenleaf’s novels often deal with contemporary social and political issues.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1985 by Stephen Greenleaf
Cover design by Drew Padrutt
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2762-5
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