The People We Hate at the Wedding

by Grant Ginder

  She forces herself to join Henrique, and when she gets there she’s immediately greeted with a limp handshake from Kenny, who smells overpoweringly of Banana Boat sunscreen and grease.

  “Must be Donna, then,” he says and smiles, revealing some basic approximation of teeth. “Lovely.”

  “Yes,” she says, wondering how rude it would be to wipe her hand off against her pants. “Lovely.”

  “Right, then. Mis-sur Lafarge gave us all your information when he phoned this morning, so we won’t be needing you to fill out any forms. Just a few t’s to cross and i’s to dot and we’ll be on our way. If I could just get you to sign here”—she does—“we can get you all squared away with a wet suit.”

  “I’m sorry. A wet suit?”

  “You’ll freeze your knackers off without one!” Kenny laughs, and Donna holds her breath. “Don’t be fooled by the color of the water,” he says. “It may look like you’re in the Caribbean, what with all those greens and blues, but that’s on account of the chalk in the soil. The second you dip a toe in you’ll remember you’re still in England.”

  “I see.” She turns back to glance at Henrique, who’s already taken off his shirt and is spreading zinc oxide across his nose.

  “Now, Mis-sur Lafarge gave us your size—”

  “He did?”

  “So we’ve got a suit all ready for you in our changing room. If you’d just be so kind as to follow me, I’ll show you to it.”

  Kenny directs her past three long benches to the rear of the shack, where a curtain hanging from the ceiling separates a small room into two smaller cubicles. In one of the cubes is Donna’s wet suit, dangling from a rusted nail pounded into the wall. Next to it stands a mirror.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then. Just come on out when you’re ready,” Kenny says, closing the curtain behind him.

  Donna removes the wet suit from the hanger. Inspecting the tiny openings where she’s meant to squeeze her arms, her legs, her neck, she’s sure there’s been some sort of mistake. A Cabbage Patch doll couldn’t be expected to fit into this fistful of neoprene, let alone a sixty-three-year-old woman. How much did Henrique tell them she weighs? Seventy-five pounds? Eighty? My God, she thinks. Two months ago she was standing in a dressing room at Nordstrom’s worried that she looked unpresentable in a purple dress, and now this … this wet suit. What was the salesgirl’s name? The one in the black pants with the terrible tattoo? She can’t remember now, and it’s hardly the point. Briefly she considers calling Kenny over and asking him to bring her a larger size. But then, what if Henrique heard her? What if he saw Kenny rummaging through his bin for a suit that was more appropriate for Donna, something roughly the size of a manatee? Would he suddenly lose interest? Realize that she’s not the nubile young thing he met thirty years ago? Call this dreadful kayaking trip off? The sheer prospect of it has her sweating through her blouse, which is the exact thing she told herself she must not let happen: she must not let him seduce her. Her daughters’ reincarnation of feminism was meant to solve these problems, she thinks. In the sixties women were freed from the home; now, they’re meant to be free from men. And yet, here she is, standing barefoot in a shack in Dorset, wondering if her ex-husband—a man who left her for a Spanish au pair—will think she looks fat. Really, Alice and Eloise must try a little harder.

  “Oh, fuck it,” she says, and rips the wet suit from the hanger.

  To her delight, it slips on easier than she expects. There are a few moments where she’s got to stuff herself into it, where she’s got to pull, and pinch, and stretch, and cajole, but for the most part the suit’s forgiving; it works with her in wondrous and surprising ways.

  “How’s it going, love?” Kenny shouts through the curtain.

  “Just another minute,” she shouts back.

  A long zipper runs down the back of the suit, from the base of her neck to the top of her ass. Reaching around, she takes hold of the frayed lanyard attached to it and tugs. As the suit zips, she feels it compress her body, flattening any lumps into solid, sturdy plateaus. Her body now confined, she ventures a breath, and the fabric expands and contracts against her rib cage. She looks like a seal, of course—this much is confirmed when, breath held, she turns to face the mirror—but then, she suspects (hopes?) that most people do when they’re clad only in black neoprene.

  “Donna!” Henrique bellows once she emerges. “How gorgeous.”

  “Oh, shut up, Henrique.”

  He, to Donna’s dismay, looks fantastic. Whereas Donna’s suit merely contains her body, Henrique’s accentuates his. The brand name stenciled across the suit’s front stretches across his chest, giving the impression of muscles that she suspects disappeared decades ago. Long, ropy legs suddenly seem taut, athletic. Even the suit’s color—black, with off-white streaks on each side of the torso—teases out the gray in his hair in irksome and flattering ways. The brief, elusive confidence she felt moments ago fades.

  She stands by and watches as Henrique helps Kenny load the kayaks onto two rolling trolleys, which the three of them then begin to guide down a steep pedestrian walkway toward the beach. The tourists around whom she helps Henrique maneuver the boat seem conspicuously undisturbed by her presence, and she wavers back and forth between wanting to thank them for being polite and hating them for not joining in on the joke with her. She wants them to confirm the craziness of all this. To laugh with her and at her, and to agree with her that, above all else, this is absurd. They don’t, though. They just go on buying towels, and beach balls, and ice cream, and rubbing suntan lotion on their pink arms.

  The beach to which Kenny directs them sits on the south end of a large, oval-shaped cove. A few sunbathers have ventured out onto the sand, which is more a field of pebbles than a proper beach. For the most part, though, people stand at the end of the small road down which Donna has just trekked, staring at the shore like it’s a circus act that they sense should excite them, but that, in reality, just confuses them. Kenny and Henrique haul the kayaks off the trolleys and drag them past a rotting skiff and a few knots of seaweed, right up to the water’s edge. Donna pads after them, dodging a toddler in diapers making failed castles out of rocks.

  “Right,” Kenny says. He’s slipped on a life jacket, and he tosses two others to Donna and Henrique. “A few quick safety announcements, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  She struggles to get the life jacket around her shoulders, then gets her arms caught in its nylon straps. Once she’s finally figured it out, she clips it across her chest.

  “Water’s typically pretty calm,” Kenny continues. “So won’t do much good to be worried about waves and such.” He cracks his neck and puts his hands on his hips. “In the event that you do get tossed around a bit, don’t panic. Just stay calm and ride it out. And if you capsize—”

  “That could happen?” Donna asks.

  Kenny raises both of his palms, like he’s pleading the fifth on the ocean’s behalf. “The sea can be a mighty mistress, Donna.”

  “But, like, how many times has that happened? Has someone … flipped over?”

  “Oh, just a handful per week.”

  “Per week.”

  Kenny laughs and grabs hold of her shoulder. “Don’t worry, love! The water won’t kill you. If you flip over, you just climb back on. Like this.” He belly flops on to the kayak and wiggles his way toward one of the seats. “Then, you just flip around. Like you’re a pancake.”

  “Like you’re a pancake,” she says back to him.

  From behind her, she feels Henrique wrap a hand around her waist. “I’ll help you.”

  The water bites her toes, and she gasps. Gently, Henrique pushes the kayak into the surf, and she wades out with it, guiding it, steadying it, holding her breath as the ocean seeps and swirls in the space between her skin and the neoprene.

  “You get in first,” he says, “and I’ll keep it upright.”

  “Okay,” she tells him. But how? Should she throw one leg up first, then the oth
er? That seems like the most graceful way to go about it, but she doubts her flexibility. What, though, are the other options? She turns to look for Kenny, to see if she might glean some tips from watching him, but he’s already twenty yards offshore, paddling in lazy circles.

  Pressed and at a loss, she throws herself across the boat’s bow, lying there for a moment like a felled pterodactyl.

  “Bon,” Henrique says. “Bon, now just roll over. Yes—yes, that’s it. Right. Now … oops, don’t fall out. Okay. Yes. Now, here’s your oar. Hold on to it tightly! I’m getting in.”

  And he does. And they’re off. It’s slow going at first; they can’t quite seem to find a rhythm, and because Henrique is stronger than Donna, it’s hard for them to keep to a steady, straight course behind Kenny. He’s got to readjust their trajectory constantly, paddling twice on the left side, then on the right, which elicits in Donna a great and untiring guilt. She wishes, desperately, to be a better kayaker.

  Miraculously, though, once they break free of the cove and the breakwater, Donna hits a stride and they begin gliding through the water with an acceptable, if not graceful, ease. To their right, chalky cliffs plunge toward jagged spits of beach, their white faces reflecting off the still sea with blinding clarity. A few yards ahead of them, Kenny babbles something about prehistoric history and the Jurassic period, about fossils wedged for eternity into the cliffs’ soft walls. Donna does her best to ignore him; she doesn’t care about brachiopods or ammonites. She wants only to enjoy the warmth of the sun against her neck and the blissful sound of her paddle cutting through the water. She wants to watch the light ripple across the surface as she flirts, however guardedly, with the idea that Henrique might still love her.

  They round a rocky point and find themselves in a small, isolated cove. Overhead, gulls circle, rising and falling on the wind’s currents. With his paddle, Kenny points to a spot on the cliff where emerald grass forms a stark contrast to the white chalk.

  “We’ve got a peregrine falcon nest up there,” he says.

  “Oh?” She’s surprised by her interest. “Where?”

  “A bit hidden. But if you look closely, you can make out a small indent in the cliff wall, right under that patch of grass. They’ve stowed themselves away in there.”

  “I can’t see it. Are there a lot of them around here?”

  “One of the few in the area, I’m afraid. Almost completely killed off during the First World War.”

  Henrique says, “It’s always the Germans.”

  “Matter of fact, in this case it was the English.” With two deft strokes he spins the kayak around so he’s facing them. “Little buggers were killing too many carrier pigeons coming over with messages from the Continent. The war ministry started paying farmers a pretty penny to poach them.”

  “You’re kidding,” Donna says.

  “Afraid not,” Kenny says, and shrugs. He adds, “Sort of makes you wonder about how shortsighted we can be.”

  Donna squints at the wall in search of the nest, suddenly skeptical. Soon, though, she gives up. Kenny’s story has caused her to lose interest in the falcons; she’s never been comfortable with allegories.

  They thread their way out of the cove and continue their westward route, hugging the coast. In front of them, miles ahead, the cliffs begin to merge with the turquoise sea, and the sky dips to meet the impenetrable green of the land. The view’s so clear, and the colors so lush, that it’s hard to believe that they’re in gray, dreary England, rather than on some far-flung Mediterranean island. It’s hard to believe that this—that all of this—is on account of chalk in the cliffs’ soil. It’s a fascinating thought, she thinks, just how deceptive beauty can be, and she’s proud of herself for having it. Dipping her paddle into the water, she’s tempted to turn around and share her notion with Henrique. That moment passes, though, and she doesn’t. She’s worried that if she speaks out loud, the idea might then become ludicrous, and that the magnificence of the moment will turn dull. Yes, she’ll keep it to herself. She’ll stare forward instead, keeping her gaze fixed on the point where the colors collide, as she imagines Henrique smiling behind her.

  Ten minutes later, just as Donna’s triceps begin to burn and she worries her arms might fall off, they round another craggy point and come face-to-face with a giant limestone arch, running parallel to the coast. Easily one hundred feet high, one of its ends plunges into the water of a shallow bay while the other connects to the shoreline. As they paddle through it toward the beach, shadows darken the water beneath them.

  “Durdle Door,” Kenny says.

  “Sounds like something out of Harry Potter.”

  He ignores her. “Constant erosion of the limestone band that stretches there—at the western end—is what caused the arch. UNESCO’s named it a World Heritage Site. To the east there, that giant beach we’re looking at is Man o’ War Bay. ‘Durdle’ comes from the Old English ‘thirl,’ which means ‘bore’ or ‘drill.’” He adds, “Did a report on it back in the fourth form. Got myself an A.”

  Donna’s not really listening. She’s staring up at the striated layers of limestone, wondering how the English could give something so beautiful such an absurd and mockable name.

  Once they’ve passed through the arch and they’re closer to the beach, Kenny spins around to face them. “Who’s up for a little surfing, then?”

  Donna twists around to look at Henrique, who shrugs.

  Kenny laughs.

  “No, no,” he says. “I just mean on the kayaks. You can stand up and paddle it like it’s a surfboard.” Leaping to his feet, he demonstrates, performing a few loose circles. “See? Perfectly safe. Could do a bit of yoga while you’re at it, if you’d like.”

  “No, thank you.” Donna rests her paddle across her lap.

  “Donna’s an excellent surfer,” she hears Henrique say.

  She turns to him again, this time knocking the paddle into the water. Leaning over, she snatches it up.

  “I’ve never surfed a day in my life.”

  “Nonsense,” he says. “I bought you those lessons in Biarritz.”

  “No, Henrique, you didn’t.”

  “I did so! With that Australian instructor with the terrible accent. Afterward we had sangria by the casino.”

  Thinking of Maria Elena, she can feel her lips starting to curl. “You’re confusing me with someone else.”

  “Surely you’re mistaken.”

  Donna whips her head around and faces Kenny. “All right,” she says. “Tell me what I have to do.”

  “’Atta girl! So, first you’re going to want to—”

  She doesn’t wait for him to finish. Inspired by rage, and jealousy, and defiance, she plants both of her feet on the kayak’s floor and stands straight up.

  This is a mistake, she realizes. The kayak sways violently beneath her uneven weight, and as Henrique reaches out to steady her, she topples over and plunges into the water. The cold knocks the wind from her, and seawater floods her ears and nose. Kicking and flailing, she resurfaces and spits out a mouthful of salt.

  “DONNA!” Henrique is shouting. “HANG ON!”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she says. The life jacket lifts and presses against her ears. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m coming in after you,” he says, swinging his legs over the kayak’s edge.

  “That’s really not necessary,” she says.

  It’s too late, though. Henrique throws himself from the kayak, and the splash from his impact crests over Donna, reclogging her ears, nose, and throat with brine.

  “Really,” she says as he doggy-paddles over to her. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re certain?” His hair hangs in his face.

  If she stretches out her legs long enough when she kicks, she can feel her toes scratch against the sea floor. “Yes.”

  She wants to sink, to disappear, to bury herself in heaps of wet, rocky sand.

  Their abandoned kayak floats back toward the arch, and Kenny instructs them t
o retrieve it before it drifts away on some strong current.

  “Just drag it on over to the beach,” he yells, still standing. “We were going to stop there, anyway.”

  Henrique swims out toward the boat. Now used to the cold, Donna dunks her head beneath the surface one final time before paddling toward the shore. After a few meters, she risks planting her feet on the floor. Rocks—some smooth, some not—press against the pads of her feet, and the incline up the beach is so steep that she has to lean forward as she walks, lest she tumble backward back into the surf. On two separate occasions, a wave knocks into the back of her knees and nearly sends her flying face-first into the rocks; both times she manages to steady herself. She thinks: small blessings.

  She finds a spot on the beach where the slope begins to flatten out, and she plops down on the rocks. The wet suit clings uncomfortably to her thighs and armpits; she regrets ever letting Kenny convince her to put the damn thing on—she would’ve preferred to just freeze. Pulling the neoprene away from her skin, she lets whatever water was trapped beneath it flood down her ankles and across her toes. Henrique schleps the kayak halfway up the slope and collapses next to her. Sweat mixes with the seawater on his cheeks.

  “You know damned well that I never went surfing in Biarritz,” she says.

  Kenny picks through the smooth, wave-worn rocks in search of fossils. Next to him, on a blue, oversized towel, a mother prepares sandwiches for her two screaming children.

  Henrique says, “Really, I didn’t. I’m sorry if I’ve forgotten and I somehow hurt you.”

  She studies him, trying to uncover some twitch that might betray his sincerity—a smile, a sideways glance. There’s nothing, though; his face is clear, blank.

  “Of course you hurt me,” she says.

  “We were kids.”

  “What—kids can’t hurt each other?”

  “What do you want, Donna?”

  “An apology would be a start.”

  He chews on this and flexes his jaw. His face, she thinks, still looks like it’s composed of a series of interlocking triangles—a combination of sharp, definite lines that, even now, she finds infuriatingly attractive.