Slightly Married Page 14

  The drive over to the church rectory literally takes two minutes. Ma sits in the front with Jack and I sit in back trying to figure out whether I’d rather A) postpone the wedding for a year or B) have the reception at Most Precious Mother church hall or—God help me—the Beaver Club, after all.

  None of the above, I think glumly as we pull into the empty parking lot.

  I really had my heart set on that Saturday at Shorewood. I was so sure it was meant to be, especially when they had that last-minute cancellation and the date opened up again after all. I took that as a positive sign.

  What if it’s a bad omen that the date is booked again?

  I don’t know, maybe it’s for the best. After all, how were we going to pay for it even if it wasn’t booked?

  I mean, it’s not like I expected my parents to hand over a check for thousands to put toward a deposit.

  I guess I just figured the problem would somehow work itself out if I ignored it. We’d head over to Shorewood to book the date and poof! A bundle of cash would materialize.

  Very realistic, I know.

  But a girl can believe in miracles, can’t she?

  A girl can dream.

  A girl can completely delude herself into thinking that she won’t be forced to begin married life on the same basketball-court-slash-dance-floor where she once threw up after too much zau-zage and birch beer at a CYO mixer.

  Jack parks behind the rectory and comes around to open the passenger’s-side door for Ma, then the rear door for me.

  “Whatever happens in there,” I whisper to him as we hurry through the chill toward the door, “don’t let them talk you into converting.”

  “Are they going to lash me to a pew and brainwash me?” he asks dryly.

  That’s one of the things I love about Jack. It takes a lot to throw him.

  Unlike me. I get thrown by the slightest bump in the road.

  Not that Shorewood being booked is a slight bump. More like a major pothole. But for now, I need to sidestep it and move on, because Father Stefan is opening the door.

  He’s pretty young for a priest—early forties—but he’s been here at our parish since before I left Brookside. Naturally, we’re on hugging terms; he’s spent many a Sunday afternoon at the Spadolini dining-room table eating spaghetti and playing Michigan rummy.

  He’s got less hair and more face than he did the last time I saw him, and he smells kind of sacred yet musty: incense. Now that we’re out of my mother’s house, I can smell the garlic-and-meatball smell wafting strongly from the three of us.

  Mental note: do not let Ma cook anything on wedding day, lest people smell fried onions when they kiss the bride.

  “Tracey! I hear we’ve got cause to celebrate,” Father Stefan says warmly. “And this must be Jack.”

  “Nice to meet you, Father.” Jack politely shakes his hand.

  Father Stefan invites us into his study to chat. The three of us sit on the nubby maroon couch facing him. On the wall behind him is the biggest, most grisly crucifix I’ve ever seen; I can’t seem to drag my gaze away from the plaster blood and gore.

  “When did you want to get married?” The priest is flipping through the pages of a big leather-bound desk calendar.

  “Around the third weekend in October.” Finally, I turn away from the bloody pulp that is Christ’s left hand and watch Father Stefan flip to the right page.

  “Let’s see, I’ve got a twelve o’clock wedding that Saturday. You can have the two-thirty slot. Oh, and I’ll put you in touch with the noon bride so you can make arrangements to share flowers.”

  “Share flowers?” I echo.

  “You would split the cost,” he says. “It’s more economical that way.”

  Economical? He says it in his pious way, insinuating—at least to me—that being economical is my Christian duty.

  “But…” What does one say to such a bizarre suggestion? “Wouldn’t that be kind of…bizarre?”

  “Not at all. That’s how it’s usually done these days.”

  Maybe in Brookside. But I’d be willing to bet that nowhere else on the planet do brides form floral teams with complete strangers.

  My mother is nodding vigorously as she echoes the priest very reverently, “It’s so economical.”

  Call me a selfish spendthrift infidel, but…“What if the noon bride doesn’t want the same flowers or color scheme that I want?”

  Father Stefan assures me, “I’m sure you can come to an agreement together.”

  He is? Because I’m really not feeling it.

  “The savings are significant,” he adds.

  I look at Jack, who shrugs. I look at my mother, who is smiling happily.

  Well, of course. Who doesn’t love economical savings and God?

  She’s probably wondering if Noon Bride and I are the same size, and how long Noon Bride plans on wearing her gown after the ceremony, in case we can share that, too.

  “She’s away on a eucharistic ministers’ retreat this weekend and won’t be back until Monday morning,” Father Stefan is saying cryptically.

  “Who’s away?” I ask, wondering what I missed and afraid of the answer.

  “Mary. The bride who will be sharing the flowers with you.”

  Noon Bride again. Don’t you hate her? Especially now that we know her name is Mary and she’s a eucharistic minister spending her entire weekend at a religious retreat. She’s making me look bad.

  “I don’t know,” I say with a slightly defiant lift of my chin. “I think I’ll just do my own flowers.”

  “Tracey!” my mother exclaims, as though I’ve just announced I don’t believe in the Immaculate Conception.

  “It’s all right, Connie.” Father Stefan writes something on the page.

  Probably Bride is Uncooperative and Extravagant.

  As he closes the calendar and swivels his chair to open a file cabinet, I sneak another peek at Jack, who probably wouldn’t care if we festooned the altar in wilted dandelions.

  He smiles encouragingly, though, and I feel a little better.

  Father Stefan attaches a form to a clipboard and picks up a pen. “All right, I need to take down some information. Bride’s name…we know that.” He writes it down. “Bride’s phone number?”

  I give him my cell, since I’m rarely home these days. Not that I expect to be in regular hands-on communication with my home parish over the next seven months….

  Or should I?

  “Bride’s address?”

  I tell him, wondering if he’s planning to visit, too. Who knows, maybe he’s envisioning Sunday spaghetti and Michigan Rummy at my apartment. In which case I would definitely have to keep Raphael and Donatello and their gold lamé G-strings far, far away.

  Father Stefan asks, re: my address, “Now is that in downtown Manhattan?” May-an-hay-ayat-an. That’s how everyone in Brookside pronounces it. All those flat A’s.

  “It’s actually uptown,” Jack puts in.

  Father Stefan looks a little blank.

  “I think he meant, is it in the city,” I translate. When people around here say downtown, they don’t mean lower Manhattan. They aren’t at all familiar with New York City geography. To them, “downtown” just means right in the heart of the action.

  “Oh, right,” Jack says, nodding. “Yeah, we live in the—”

  I kick Jack. Hard enough to shut him up.

  He looks at me in shock, wincing as if to ask, Why’d you do that?

  I raise my eyebrows to say, You can’t tell him we live together! He’s a priest!

  Jack frowns cluelessly to indicate, As usual, I have absolutely no idea what you’re trying to tell me and you might as well be speaking Swahili.

  “Groom’s name?” Father Stefan has moved on.

  Uh-oh. Is he going to ask for all the same information about Jack?

  “Jack R. Candell,” my unwitting fiancé says.

  Father Stefan pauses with his pen poised on the page. “Is that your given name?”

&n
bsp; “No, my given name is John R. Candell.”

  “Middle name?”

  “Rufus.”

  “How…interesting,” my mother murmurs. “Are you named after someone? Your middle name, I mean.”

  “No. My mom just liked it.”

  “Rufus?” Ma asks in disbelief.

  “Right.”

  “Oh,” says Concetta Josephina Sarafina Abondanza Spadolini, who was named after many people, all of them long dead. She knows her parents were helpless; they were just following Italian tradition.

  Jack’s family is a different story, though. I can see that Ma is wondering what kind of woman would willingly name her son Rufus. Yes, she’s deciding, right before my very eyes, that there’s something seriously wrong with Jack’s mother.

  Terrific.

  “Groom’s phone number?” Father Stefan asks, and Jack provides our home number.

  I try to catch his eye but as usual, he either pretends not to notice, or he really doesn’t see me.

  Father Stefan asks, “Groom’s address?”

  I kick Jack.

  He jerks his head toward me. What? his eyebrows demand.

  Don’t—

  Too late.

  There he goes, rattling off our home address.

  Cue theme from Psycho.

  Well, what did I expect, you may ask?

  I expected Jack to know enough to lie to the nice priest, dammit.

  That’s what I expected.

  What in God’s name is wrong with him?

  Him? you may ask. What’s wrong with you?

  To which I would say…

  Help me, Jesus.

  Father Stefan’s pen seems to have stalled on the paper. He looks up slowly at Jack, then at me.

  “You live together.”

  “It’s very economical,” I say, very Christian-like. “The savings are significant.”

  He can’t very well argue with his own words, now, can he?

  He sets the pen down ominously, and I’m thinking he very well can.

  My mother mutters “Madonna” under her breath.

  Jack, who was just moments ago spouting his home address like there was no tomorrow, says nothing at all.

  “Tracey, do you go to mass?”

  Huh? Has Father Stefan merely gone back to the questioning process? Is he going to let me off without an admonishment for my sinful lifestyle?

  “Yes, I go to mass.” I nod vigorously, relieved. “Absolutely.”

  Which is true. I do go to mass…every chance I get.

  Not every week…but that’s not what he asked.

  I wait for him to write down my answer.

  He doesn’t. He just moves on to the next question, and he doesn’t seem to be reading off the form. “When you go to mass, do you take communion?”

  “Definitely. I always take communion. Every single time I go to mass.” See, Father? I’m a stellar Catholic even if I am living in sin.

  I’m starting to relax a little more, though I am wondering why he’s not filling in my answers.

  Then he starts shaking his head.

  I say starts because he doesn’t stop.

  “You can’t take communion, Tracey.”

  I know I’m going to regret asking, but…“Why not?”

  “Because you’re breaking God’s law and disrespecting the sacrament of marriage and your own human dignity by having sexual relations out of wedlock.”

  Wow.

  “I…” don’t know what to say.

  Maybe I should point out that almost everyone I know has sexual relations out of wedlock. We just got caught because we’re living together.

  Or maybe I should claim that we don’t have sexual relations at all, because really, how is anyone going to prove it?

  Sexual relations.

  The icky phrase alone makes me feel shameful, especially with my mother sitting right here. I feel my face flaming.

  “This is very serious indeed, Tracey.”

  I nod at Father Stefan; I can tell by the look on his face that it’s very serious indeed.

  He seems angry, but more than that, he’s disappointed and…I guess sorrowful is the right word. It’s like he’s really sad for us, going around having sexual relations, heedless of our human dignity.

  Maybe a speedy Act of Contrition will help.

  Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee….

  And Father Stefan, I insert for good measure.

  And my mother, Connie Spadolini….

  “Tracey?” he interrupts my prayer. “Do you have anything to say about this?”

  “I’m sorry,” I pretty much whisper.

  “So am I,” he says heavily. “So am I.”

  I should point out that Father Stefan is still shaking his head continuously and Jack is still silent and my mother is now weeping into a handkerchief.

  I should also point out that Father Stefan is directing all of this solely at me. He hasn’t looked at Jack since he asked him his address. My lucky Protestant fiancé is obviously off the hook.

  “Most couples who live together before marriage don’t stay married,” Father Stefan announces dispiritedly.

  He’s right. It’s true. I read that somewhere. Oh, God.

  Are we doomed, Father?

  Why did I let Jack lead me into temptation? Why?

  I sneak a peek at Jack, who offers an encouraging smile and reaches out to squeeze my hand.

  I love him so much.

  “Does this mean we can’t get married in the church?” I ask Father Stefan in a small voice…because of course we’re still getting married, even if our chances for survival are grim.

  “No, it doesn’t mean that,” he says to my relief.

  “Oh, good.” I was starting to think we’d have to turn to Reverend Devern and Bedford Presbyterian after all.

  “However—”

  Don’t you hate howevers? They never herald anything good. You rarely hear people saying things like, “However, you have won five million dollars,” or, “However, I’m giving you this miracle pill that will allow you to eat all the deep fried Oreos you want and lose a pound a day.”

  “—it’s my responsibility to share the church’s views with you,” Father Stefan goes on, “and to set you on the right path to salvation.”

  Salvation? My ears prick up at that. Salvation sounds good to me.

  “You’ll need to make your confession, of course—”

  “Of course,” I insert almost giddily.

  “And then you’ll need to separate for some Christian reflection.”

  “Separate?”

  “Move out,” he clarifies, “until the wedding.”

  My jaw drops. Move out? As in move out of my apartment? Separate from Jack?

  “You’ll spend that time engaged in virtuous activity.”

  I nod as though I know exactly what Father Stefan means, but I’m thinking virtuous activity? What is that? Is it just not having sexual relations? Because it’s not like Jack and I are rabbits, humping every chance we get. In the grand scheme of your average twenty-four-hour day, I’m basically virtuous, so why go to all the trouble and expense of moving out?

  Father Stefan feels the need to clarify: “By this I mean you’ll be praying for guidance and reading scripture to prepare for marriage.”

  I nod as if I knew that all along. Of course. Totally logical. Yup.

  I try to envision myself moving to some run-down apartment and spending every virtuous celibate day between now reading Scripture instead of Modern Bride.

  “Frankly, Father, the chances of my doing that are about the same as your moonlighting as a Chippendale dancer.”

  No, I didn’t really say that. But man, I want to.

  What I say is…

  Are you ready for this?

  I say, “Okay.”

  Yes, friends, I have just agreed to move out of the apartment I share with Jack and live a virtuous, prayerful, scripture-reading life for the next seven months.
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  I don’t dare look at Jack, whom I know well enough to know that he knows I don’t mean it.

  Nor do I dare look at my mother, whom I know well enough to know she thinks that I do mean it.

  I keep my focus on Father Stefan, who seems satisfied with my bold-faced lie because he’s finally stopped shaking his head. He’s not exactly beaming at me, but he definitely has hope for my salvation. I can tell.

  He asks a few more random questions on the form and writes down the answers, all of which apply to both of us but are answered by me because Jack obviously took a sacred vow of silence when I wasn’t looking.

  “Finally,” Father Stefan says, steepling his hands, “you’ll need to enroll in Pre Cana. That’s a required course on marriage taught by the Catholic church,” he adds, presumably for Jack’s benefit, or maybe for mine, assuming I’m a fallen Catholic.

  “Can we do Pre Cana in New York?” I ask, and Father Stefan nods agreeably, back in our corner now that we’re no longer roommates.

  I’m starting to feel sick, and not from too much zau-zage. Am I going to burn in Hades for lying to Father Stefan?

  Maybe I really should move out and start reading scripture.

  At the very least, I probably should have crossed my fingers when I said okay to Father Stefan’s holy commands.

  But Satan doesn’t care about crossed fingers. Crossed fingers don’t save souls from the fires of hell.

  My gaze settles once again on Christ, hanging gruesomely on that crucifix behind Father Stefan.

  Please, please, Jesus…please don’t let me burn in hell. Please send me some kind of sign that you understand why I did what I did. That you forgive me like you forgave Simon Peter and Judas Iscariot.

  But Simon Peter and Judas Iscariot didn’t falsely promise a priest that they’d abstain from sex for seven months. Did apostles even have sex? I mean, sexual relations? They were probably chaste in the first place.

  “I think we’re all set for today.” Father Stefan sets the form aside, incognizant of my inner tug-of-war.

  “One more thing.” That’s my mother, speaking up at last.

  Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what could she possibly want?

  “We need to book the church hall for the reception.”

  But of course.

  “I’m so sorry, Connie,” Father Stefan says seamlessly, “but it’s not available.”