“Just so we’re clear.” Sarah spoke crisply. “About the terms.”
“Absolutely.” said Marc. He leaned forward, hands on knees. He smeared the sweat dribbles across his forehead and whisked it through his bristly hair.
Sweat pooled on both of them, but they pretended not to notice. The windows were open but lifeless, thick humidity pouring over the sill, asserting itself with drowsy anger without rustling the flimsy, translucent cloth stretched poorly across the window’s girth.
“So you’ll participate fully in the wedding all day. And no Brent.”
“Yes.” He said.
“And by participate fully, that means you’ll help out in whatever capacity is needed that day. You’ll help Lindsey if she needs it. You’ll help Mom if she needs it.”
“Yes.” Marc repeated.
As Marc and Sarah stared each other down, I glanced towards Mom. She sat on one end of the peach couch with both hands gently clasped, eyes downcast as if to suggest she wouldn’t dream of trouble anyone for assistance on Sarah’s wedding day. Maybe she absorbed in self-reflection. After all, she had already said it.
“So if the best man is drunk and I ask you to take him outside…”
“I’ll do it.”
“Turgessons’ can’t deliver all the flowers in time…”
Marc hesitated slightly. “I’ll go pick them up.”
“And Brent’s not showing up at all. Not to the wedding, the reception, the limo – anywhere.”
“Not at all. He’ll stay in Chicago the entire time I’m here for the wedding.”
Without taking here eyes off Marc, Sarah slowly drew out a silver cigarette case from an eggshell box purse. A silver lighter followed. She clicked the pearl latchet without once breaking her careful visual surveillance.
Sarah accessorized well, I could easily give her that.
Snap, the lighter.
Crackle, the cigarette.
Hiss, the first inhalation.
Sarah eyed him carefully. “And no snide remarks to relatives or anybody at the reception.”
“None.” replied Marc.
She broke eye contact to breathe in the smoke deeply, and her eyelids flitted in orgasmic twitter. She exhaled deeply with a “uhhhhhnnnnnnnn” that made me blush.
It seemed small, that single cigarette, but I inwardly groaned at the extra heat it would generate. August sunlight blazed through the south-facing windows without apology, without mercy. Mom never closed the curtains until 6:00 p.m. Not even the translucent scrim could filter or soften the afternoon’s dazzling heat.
Our parents did not believe in air conditioning. It was never quite clear what aspect of air conditioning they “didn’t believe in,” but years ago when our teenager selves complained, she would firmly restate that she had “never believed in it” and publicly expressed her distain by toting a sweater to all public, air-conditioned buildings. During the 1984 Anderson family Fourth of July, Mom vehemently denounced “the waste of energy” before dozens of amazed cousins. Championing this prejudice, our childhood home was subject to the mercies of Summer Breezes, which Mom also submitted were plentiful in Eau Claire.
Of course, all Mom’s children had central air in their homes.
The heat worked almost as a gritty spice throughout the house, bringing every unflattering odor to the fore, including the fermented taste of my own mouth. The glum peach couch where I sat smelled like cheap furniture polish, and the scratched end tables (which really should have smelled like furniture polish) instead stank of musty newspaper. Dad’s mangy brown recliner, which may have once been described as “plush,” indeed smelled like rotting dog. The two guest chairs (rescued from Aunt Donnie and Uncle Jim’s garage) emitted a faint cousin smell.
The colors of the room melted: grungy lemon walls exhausted by the years, a wilted green oriental rug. The peach couch which usually mustered enough self-confidence to seem buoyant if not quite cheerful, was petulant, tired of serving this large family. The ugly farmhouse painting twelve-year-old Ricky proudly gifted Mom looks as though it might sweat off a layer of varnish. That might improve its oily appearance, but to be fair, it’s hideous in any temperature. Even as an adult, Ricky agreed. Theresa dubbed it “The Fugly Farm,” But Mom loved it, warty paint knobs and all. It remains centered behind the exhausted peach couch, right over Marc’s head. Sarah’s cigarette smoke hung right at the farm house foreground like distant fog.
A feeble protest wafted from Mom’s corner and then evaporated, unheard.
Even the bluish strings of her cigarette smoke could not deter his steady, unsmiling gaze. He usually vehemently opposed Sarah’s smoking anywhere near him. The sweat, the smoke – nothing phased him.
Sarah leaned forward.
“You’re not going to wear a button that says ‘Ask me about my absent lover?’” she asked with a churlish tone.
Marc’s chest indicated the a dry chuckle had passed through him, but his gaze didn’t waver. “No.”
“What about friends of yours? Friends of Brent’s. There’s not going to coincidentally be some sort of gay protest out in front of the church that day, is there?”
Marc seemed bored. “No scene-causing. No attention-getting. No gay-anything. No rainbow flags. No showtunes.” He paused. “Well, except for the Time Warp and the medley from Grease but I can’t control the DJ, can I.”
“No. You’re off the hook.” Sarah didn’t smile.
The heat didn’t seem to bother Sarah, it never seemed to bother her at all. But that was Sarah; she had a certain hardness which could not be softened or made vulnerable by something as transitory as weather. Her face planed in hard, accurate curves. Her eyebrows arched precisely, clipped just right. Her nose was small and straight, efficient usage and beautiful in its functionality. Her brown eyes expressed what they needed to express: her anger, her distaste, her resentment. Like her nose, they seemed models of efficiency. Even her eyelashes were straight and strong. Her mouth didn’t always comply with this rich efficiency standard, and odd noises emerged sometimes. Laughter sometimes came out of her as a bark.
Her body reflected this curved hardness too. Sarah worked out at a gym very regularly, and several times a year encouraged me to take spinning classes with her. At first I was too embarrassed to ask her what the word ’spinning’ meant, so I politely declined after expressing enthusiasm for the invitation. After a while, I was too embarrassed to break my pattern of saying, ‘no,’ even thought I thought it might be fun.
A year ago Sarah and I were shopping at one of Kohl’s two-day clearance sale. She stood in the Men’s Clearance Bin rifling through rugby shirts. I glanced nervously around, not eager to be seen with her digging through the clothes that even men had reviewed and passed over.
She saw my nervousness and glared. “What?”
That’s when I remember her at her most beautiful: clawing a crumpled yellow and blue rugby. Her hair was longer then, and pulled back. She squinted at me and I could see the eye shadow she had applied matched her robin’s egg sweatshirt through which you could still somehow see her thick breasts and hips. Hard planed and scowling, yet somehow still beautiful in her scrubbed, unimpressive features. I got the impression men noticed her the second time they met her.
I could almost see the invisible list as the-bride-to-be checked off her items. “I asked you to introduce some of the dances.”
“I’ll do it.” Mark said, tired in his voice.
“First husband and wife dance.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Smiling?” she prodded.
“Smiling.” he replied grimly.
“Father/daughter dance?”
“Yep.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Chicken dance?”
Marc cocked his head. “You’re pushing it. But I’ll do it.”
Dad leaned forward in the mangy recliner, inadvertently assuming the position of The Thinker. Well, the Aged Thinker. His position hadn’t changed since the last time I glanced his direction, worn, baggy knuckles bracing his softening, wrinkled chin. So still, so attentive. Was Father listening to Sarah and Marc, or just replaying his own exchange, ten minutes ago?
His turn had scorched us all.
I could suddenly imagine our Father sitting this way, this position, a pensive, small boy listening intently to a crackling presentation of something like The Lone Ranger or Dick Tracy. Did I create this image from wistful stories or invented this context for him? Had he told us about The Shadow?
Ricky fidgeted on the peach couch next to Mom, crossed his legs, jerked his left leg impatiently, then shook them both out, and recrossed in the other direction. He sighed heavily, making sure we all understood his impatience. Mom was having a hard time remaining stationary with him bouncing at her side but she did not complain.
Ricky was the only of our family of conspirators to agitate physically, almost as if he had stolen all of our natural tendencies to stretch, reposition, or yawn and now was condemned to pantomime all of our fidgeting. The rest of us remained alert and twitched minimally, as deer standing next to a highway. Theresa, Mom, Dad, me. Theresa rhythmically fanned herself with a newspaper section, pretending not to care but keenly alert to each syllable, each movement.
Even Marc and Sarah stared each other down with only limited body movements.
“Ushers smile, you know. You’ll be required to smile at the wedding and through the pictures.”
“I know. I’ll smile. I’ll be cheer–.”
Sarah caught her breath sharply and jabbed a finger at him. “You’re going to ruin the photos.”
“No I won’t. I’ll smile. I’ll pose. I’ll do what you want. It’s your Perfect Day.”
She exhaled deeply to the left side. I assumed she rolled her eyes. If she didn’t, she should have. Her cigarette smoke seemed quite obedient, tailored to enhance her drama. The thick summer air pressed down her cigarette smoke, creating living room smog.
“Yeah,” she said tersely. “All fake smiles.”
“Yes, of course fake.” Marc said dryly. “How could it be anything but fake? As earnest and real as I can muster, but yes, fake.”
“Let’s see.”
Marc broke into a broad grin. His eyes lit up and the laugh lines creased from the corners of his eyes. There seemed to be new wrinkles present. His smile was so infectious that at first, I almost smiled in response. But I remembered this was merely part of the negotiations.
Sarah examined his face carefully. “That’s not bad. Tone it down just a little bit so it’s not damn cheerful. It’s like you’re mocking me.”
“How’s this.”
“Better. That’s good. I’ve seen that grin in vacation photos.”
“This would be acceptable then?”
“Yes. That works.”
Marc smile melted and his face returned to granite. His green eyes didn’t seem to flash as angry as they had a minute ago. Maybe he was growing weary of his game, this test. He just seemed tired. The T-shirt he wore was damp at the collar and chest.
Marc always exuded the smell of coffee. Not the good coffee smell, but the smell of burned coffee. He managed a coffee shop in Chicago and every bit of his clothes smelled like coffee, even the ones he didn’t wear to work.
Ricky always emitted the odor of mildly offensive chemicals, a take-home from Danderson Plastics Factory where he managed the night-shift QA Lab. Ricky’s armpits were soaked and as his arms were often jerked over his head, I had the displeasure of seeing his pit stains. Theresa smelled like dirty laundry, but to be fair, she always smelled like that.
I must have frowned at her during this observation because she shot me her standard glare, lacking any real intensity, just standard animosity.
Perhaps this afternoon’s family meeting was more than Marc bargained for. He palmed his skull as if tugging back his short, bristly hair but it hadn’t gone anywhere. I saw more gray spikes amid the black crop, more gray than I had ever noticed.
“Could you guys just DO THIS already?” Theresa blurted. “This isn’t a fucking legal brief, Sarah! Jesus, just say it.”
“Shut it, T.” Ricky growled softly.
“I’m bored.” Theresa whined.
Mom hadn’t even chastised Theresa for swearing. Sarah was smoking in the house. This was an odd day, indeed.
Sarah stubbed the remainder of her cigarette into a Time magazine featuring presidential candidate Al Gore. I had read it two weekends ago while visiting Mom and Dad. Under it was a newer Time featuring the women from Sex in the City. Really, it would have been more appropriate had she extinguished her cigarette on their singledom.
Marc blinked his green eyes several times. I didn’t think it was the cigarette smoke, though, nor the heat. He smeared the sweat across his forehead again. No, he was weary.
When he was 12, Marc bragged he could ride his bike all the way from Eau Claire to the neighboring town of Altoona. The trip was only 11 miles along Wisconsin back roads, but far enough away he may as well have bragged about riding his bike to all the way to St. Paul; it was just as improbable.
Sarah, his twin, barked a laugh and a few dares later had escalated into called him a liar. Ricky had stopped building a parking garage in the sand box and watched attentively. Marc had glared back at her. His pride was at stake. He looked to me. I said nothing, but glanced nervously at his used, red Schwin with neon blue spoke covers (last used by Cousin Russell). Seconds later Marc sped down the driveway, weight shifting from side to side as he pedaled furiously. Ricky began to cry. He always used to do that when Marc went away.
A half hour after we watched Marc disappear, Mom poked her head from the screen door and asked sharply why he wasn’t in the backyard. Sarah and I shrugged. How could we possibly know? If Sarah did not reveal her complicity in his disappearance; why should I? Ricky had forgotten already and was re-parking every car in sand. Mom had been inside most of the time with Theresa who had colic or some related, fussy ailment.
After an hour pacing the yard and standing staring angrily down the street, Mom muttered to herself crossly and went into the house. It wasn’t long before an older cousin, (I think it was Mary Elizabeth of Ruby’s brood) showed up to watch Theresa.
Mom hurriedly corralled us into our midnight blue station wagon and drove throughout Eau Claire, hunched forward and scrutinizing haunts where Sarah and I knew she would not find him. Not in playgrounds, Boyle Construction’s dirt hills, three strip mall parking lots, or behind the high school. We didn’t even bother to tell her she was looking in all the wrong places. We did happen upon four high schoolers smoking behind a TJ Maxx. Sarah and I shrunk into the backseat, mortified at Mom’s scowling drive-by.
Brief stops to other cousins’ homes revealed nothing new. Aunt Donnie, Aunt Pearl, and Aunt Nadine met Mom in the driveway, having heard of her impending arrival from Mary Elizabeth’s mother. Marc had disappeared. News traveled fast in our Anderson clan.
Mom endured the silent, tentative judgments of Marc’s friends’ mothers with a casual wave goodbye and expressed confidence that ‘he was probably already home.’ I suppose Sarah and I figured it would be worse for Marc (and certainly worse for us) should we disclose our information.
At last Mom slowly navigated our driveway with deliberate precision and gently rolled the car to a stop. She crisply ordered us to get out of the car. We reluctantly obliged, slowly dragging ourselves across the sweaty vinyl seats and gingerly extricating our legs. Ricky was gabbing, excited to have spent so much time riding in the car. He had even babbled about Marc on his bike, but Mom hadn’t caught it and I had gotten him to stop by encouraging him to start singing instead.
After gently closing the rusty, paneled doors, Sarah and I shifted our feet uncomfortably in the crunchy gravel. I think Mom had meant for us to go further away, but we stood outside the drivers’ side window a few feet away, motionless, limply, while she wept over the steering wheel.
She called Dad at work.
They agreed to call the police.
An hour later, the police picked up Marc along a cornfield near Otter Creek. He was on his shiny red bike headed towards Eau Claire. Back from Altoona. The police informed our parents that Marc was pedaling so slowly he almost could have walked the bike faster. As the police hauled Marc’s bicycle out of their trunk, Mom swatted his bottom while crying and shouting incomprehensible words.
Marc stood before her dazed and unblinking.
Ricky danced around the police car and made up a song.
Sarah and I didn’t say anything, nor dared to look at each other.
Marc didn’t say anything.
This is how it is with siblings.
That evening, Marc shuffled around the house awkwardly. The next morning, he couldn’t walk.
Marc sometimes doesn’t think things through.
***
“What about in the weeks before the wedding. Are you going to be totally unreachable? Difficult?” Sarah asked evenly.
“What do you mean by ‘reachable?’ What kind of turn-around-time for wedding-related news?”
“A day or two, depending on the situation. I’m flexible. I just don’t want you to ignore all of us for the next two months.”
Marc considered this. “A day or two works for me. But I won’t promise to call you back within a half hour or anything.”
“I can live with that.” Sarah conceded. She snapped the pearl and dug eased forward the silver case.
“And my enthusiasm extends only to the actual wedding. I’m not faking anything while it’s just the family. I’ll help planning and preparation, but don’t expect me to get creative or inventive.”
“Ooookay.” Sarah said slowly. She seemed reluctant to end the word, as if removing her hand from a knight or rook. “But wait a sec. Wait. No, not okay. Everyone expects you to do something…unique. Butterflies at the church or a balloon-animal clown at the reception hall. Some crazy stunt involving a live chicken or something. You wouldn’t do something like an Anderson wedding straight.”
Marc’s eyes flickered angrily for a second and his lips parted.
“Sorry. Seriously, no pun intended. Believe me. I didn’t mean to make fun of you or anything; it just slipped out. This is too important for a bad joke.”
He measured the sincerity of her apology and jerked his head into a nod.
“Seriously, Marc, all of Mom’s family and anyone who knows you from high school will notice if you don’t do something crazy or goofy.”
Marc sometimes paid for singing telegrams. At one of our Memorial Day picnics he spray-painted a hundred nickels and led the younger cousins on a treasure hunt. He brought bubbles and wands to Grandma Anderson’s funeral.
Of course, he was drinking back then.
“You’re right.” He said somberly. “People might expect something…goofy. And yet, tough shit. That’s completely beyond what you could normally expect under these circumstances.”
The second cigarette emerged from Sarah’s silver case.
Snap, the lighter.
“This is a deal-breaker, Marc.” Though Sarah’s voice had an edge, she spoke uniformly, an odd contradiction.
Crackle, the flame ignited.
Hiss, Sarah’s first inhalation.
“If you don’t have something silly prepared – some prank – everyone will notice right away. And if that’s the case, everyone on our side is going to know something’s wrong. At least tie something crazy to the back of the limo.”
Marc spoke slowly. “I will take orders and smile about it. I will help problem-solve anything that goes wrong with the cake or flowers. I will be helpful. I will play along. But you cannot legislate that I do something creative. You have already decided that you don’t want that part of me at your wedding.”
Sarah groaned and rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. So to be creative, you have to be gay? Gays have cornered the market on creativity?”
Marc cocked his head. “You can’t randomly select what parts of me get to show up and then demand I act a certain way. I can fake a smile, I can fake a belly laugh, and I can fake enthusiasm. I cannot fake a creative expression of joy. There is no joy here.”
“No joy.” Sarah repeated softly, smoke twisting out her nostrils. “Your sister’s wedding. And all you can say is ‘no joy.’”
Marc’s gazed sharpened and flashed angrily. “None whatsoever, Sarah. Not a single moment of joy. Tell me, Sarah. What part of this wedding planning has been ‘joyful’ to you and Dirk?
“Since your engagement last November, we’ve bickered in person, through email, over the phone, in letters, and even through other family members about whether Brent could attend your wedding. For ten months everyone’s had opinions or tried to suggest ways to compromise. Dad argues this. Lindsey suggests that. Ricky tries not to take sides. But there ARE sides and you keep pulling out your trump card: ‘the Bride’s Perfect Day.’ Each bride deserves her single perfect day. We suffered through an awkward flurry of winter emails – a tense Easter, a painful summer. So let’s look at how much ‘joy’ has been present, sis.”
She dismissed him with a wave. “You keep –”
“Hey,” he continued sharply, “I don’t just mean our little family gatherings. Has any of it – has one fucking minute – been utterly ‘joyful’ for your and Dirk? Really joyful? ‘Cause all I’ve heard from Mom was you stressing over desserts, the DJ, cringing over Dirk’s demanding parents, you and Dirk fighting for a whole fucking week over carrots, losing sleep over the cost of an open bar, which flowers won’t droop if it rains, and every other stupid goddam detail you think is going to make or break this day.
“Not once have I heard these words from anyone in this family: “Sarah is absolutely joyful…”
“Yes, it’s a deal-breaker.” He continued, but anyone could see he was winding down. “You cannot ask me to fake something that I could only provide willingly and joyfully. The live chicken thing was only because Lindsey’s birthday party was outside at a park. This is formal. Nobody will expect me to do something.”
Sarah considered this as her eyes wandered our family’s living room. Mom visually pleaded with Sarah, though it wasn’t clear what she wanted Sarah to do. Dad now stared down at the wilted rug. Theresa had started flipping through the Time magazine with Sex in the City on the cover The pages made rasping clicky noises as she flipped them, expressing her impatience. Ricky bounced his feet up and down while looking at me, also pleading.
For what? To do what?
It’s too late, Ricky, I tried to communicate with my eyes.
Sarah was the last to go.
It’s too late.
Sarah was not the first in our immediate family to wed, but she was the first to have an Eau Clair church wedding with all the trimmings. Catholic marrying Catholic. No previous cohabitation for either party. And as far as we knew, she wasn’t pregnant. Dirk had a decent job doing something with computers. He had braved a few Anderson family gatherings, demonstrating a willingness to participate in the ridiculously-large Anderson clan. So Sarah had decided the wedding would be magnificent. Colossal. Awe-inspiring. A page out of Bride magazine.
Sarah nodded slightly. “Okay. Yeah, okay fine. No pranks. No silliness.”
She leaned forward. “If there’s a catch, some sort of loophole, you’d be a real asshole in my book.”
He shook his head and wiped the sweat through his hair again, leaving a bristling, gleaming shine. “There is none. No loopholes.”
“Well actually,” Sarah cocked her head, her hard curves bending sharply. “It’s not really fair on my part to suggest that. You’re already an asshole in my book. You’re doing a horrible, horrible thing putting us all through this stupidity, this game. But really, no loophole? No finger-crossing or trick wording?”
“Game?” Marc whispered softly arching his eyebrows. “Does this seem like a game?”
“What would you call it, then?”
“Survival.”
Sarah rolled her eyes slumped backwards. “Oh God. What a drama queen.”
I bristled. We were so close to whatever ending was coming, and she went ahead and used the word ‘queen’ and there would be more explosions. She should have just used her cigarette smoke.
“And during the actual dancing - you’re not going to mope around and make mooney faces to show there’s somewhere else you’d rather be? You’ll stay until the end?”
“Full participation. Smiling participation.”
“And all I have to do is say this one sentence.”
“Say it.” Marc said, his voice soft.
“And I just have to say it this one time.”
“Say it.”
“Lindsey,” Ricky whispered across the couch.
I looked at Ricky. His broad face was tight, dark eyebrows furrowed with fearful expectation.
“What?” I asked him softly.
“Lindsey.” Ricky repeated evenly.
When did Ricky stop singing?
“And you won’t have this sentence written on the cake at the reception or make a toast using these words or something like that?”
Now, she was just being redundant.
“No.” Marc stated firmly. “We’ve been over all this.”
“Chriiiiist on a platter!” Theresa gasped. “Just fucking say – “
“THERESA!” Mom yelped. “Quiet.”
Sarah exhaled deeply and broke her poker face. The negotiations were over. She rolled her head to the left and then to the right and then shook a chill from the back of her neck. “I was sure that this was too good to be true. But it’s really true, huh?”
Marc stared at her, but his eyes were glazed. The negotiations were over.
She popped another cigarette from its casing.
Snap, the lighter.
“Appearances,” she said, leaning forward with cheerful confidence.
Crackle, the flame ignited.
“are more important…”
Hiss, Sarah’s first inhalation.
“…than family.”
I’m sure that if Sarah was the first to go we might have gasped. But our Nanners went last. Each of us had already uttered the same single sentence looking into Marc’s eyes.
Barely looking at her fingers, she flicked the cigarette over the magazine. “I can say it again, if you’d like. Appearances are more important than family. If I didn’t emphasize the right words, say it clear enough, look you in the eye enough — Appearances are more important –”
Marc wiped the sweat through his hair and smiled faintly. “That’s fine. We’re done.”
