Made Of Honor. Marilynn Griffith
let me know not to say anything more if I wanted to avoid a scene. For all her ladylikeness, that woman laughed like a farm animal when I got her going. Tracey, who was walking towards us now, was no better.
Ryan, the mysteriously absent groom, intercepted Tracey inches short of my chair. “Give me the garter, babe. The men await.” His voice, the standard Fortune 500-speak, mixed with love talk, gave me the willies. It was like hearing Ralph Nader sing a Barry White song. Just wrong.
So wrong that when they started fumbling with the garter, I tossed back Rochelle’s possibly-riddled-with-E. coli punch and turned to Rochelle. “Why do men get to fight over satin while I have to defend myself against thorns? It just doesn’t seem fair.”
Rochelle didn’t respond, but her cheeks inflated like a blowfish’s. If I didn’t stop, she was going to have an all-out fit, but at this point, I didn’t care. I pressed on. “Throwing lingerie at a bunch of guys from BASIC, who have either never seen a woman’s thigh or at best haven’t seen one in a very long time, is just cruel, don’t you think? Why raise a guy’s hopes?”
I certainly didn’t raise mine at these things. Probably because it was at a wedding that I was crushed, swallowed whole, watching while the love of my life married someone else, someone I’d thought to be a friend. The upside is, when my sister betrayed me with Trevor—minus the marriage, you fill in the blanks—a few years later, I ran into the arms of Jesus once and for all. And Rochelle even got to say, “I told you so.” Or the quasi-Christian version of that—“Jesus told you so.”
While Rochelle scrambled to compose herself, I fingered the scratch below my eye. For such an intelligent person, Tracey had terrible aim. Her judgment, however, was much better than mine. In the last year, my friend had launched a new business, lost 100 pounds and snagged the biggest software developer in the Midwest. In a few days, Tracey would be settling into her gated housing community while I, don’t-need-a-date Dana, would sleep fitfully, in apartment 202, my lifelong residence.
Rochelle went for more punch. Tracey, abandoned again, took her seat. And my hand. “Sorry I didn’t send my devotionals to the list this past week.”
With all our members marrying off at the speed of light, there was only Rochelle, Tracey and I on the Sassy Sistahood e-mail list now, unless you counted my assistant, who read all but never posted so much as a semicolon. She saved her comments for my ears.
I patted Tracey’s hand. “It’s okay, Rochelle had something ready.” She always did. It was easy for Tracey and me to get lazy and just let Rochelle write every day. She liked to expound on the daily need for holiness and modesty instead of enduring my “flippant irreverence” or Tracey’s “greasy grace.” So we let her do her thing and talked about our real stuff at home. Only now, Tracey wouldn’t be home. The thought of my new phone bill made me shiver.
Tracey smiled now, knowing she’d be leaving soon for Hawaii. If she could find the groom again.
“Seriously, Tracey. I’ll take your turn. And mine. I’m sure you’ll be busy for a while.” What she’d be busy doing, I didn’t want to think about. Too bad I couldn’t be like Rochelle and act like I didn’t remember it—I did. Especially today. Why was that?
Pineapple passion fruit punch.
Thank goodness the hurt and anguish that followed such things was as vivid as the pleasure.
Tracey wouldn’t hear of skipping her turn. “I’ll do my spot. And after the, uh, honeymoon, I’ll probably need some extra time in the Word.”
I’ll bet.
I hugged her. “I’ll miss you. I do already. Especially at work. Naomi is all over me. I never realized how much you calmed her.” Or me.
“You guys can be pretty volatile.”
I laughed, loving, as always, the way Tracey can make a word like “volatile” sound so common. Once in an argument, she’d chided me about my vernacular and I couldn’t do anything but laugh. Today though, our laughter was bittersweet. Things had changed forever.
“You looked beautiful today. So skinny. I had to blink a few times to be sure that was you,” I blurted out. To a stranger they might have sounded mean, but Tracey understood. We were tight like that. Big changes are hard for me to get used to, even when I make them. And Tracey’s weight loss, and the butterfly effect that followed it, was a big change. Sometimes, she even looked a little sick compared to the full, sunny face I was used to. The old Tracey, who knew how to pick the best ice cream and crush potato chips to perfection for the tops of her tuna casseroles, seemed to have sunk into the collarbones of this new person. My friend was still in this new body, but her light seemed dimmer.
Tracey ran a hand down her washboard abs, discernible even under her dress. “It’s strange for me. I can imagine it’s hard for you, too.”
I managed a one-sided smile. Hard for me? I couldn’t have her worried about me on her day. Time to stop and act grown up. I could always have a fit later. “You did good, girl. Got slim and got married.” Not that I cared about either anymore. Aside from the somewhat formidable danger of cannoli cream bursting out of my arteries, I’d live. I didn’t care beyond that.
She tilted her head again. “Yes, you do,” her eyes seemed to say.
Maybe I did. A little. Not as much as Tracey, but maybe about two clothes sizes worth. “I’ll probably rejoin Weight Watchers for the umpteenth time, if that woman’s car isn’t in the parking lot.”
Tracey shook her head. “The receptionist? I told you, she still looks at me crazy even though I’m at goal. It’s just her personality. She’s like Naomi. Just overlook her.”
Yeah right. Overlook someone staring at you and saying, “You? Again?” Easy for Tracey. Difficult for me.
Rochelle sat down across from us and slid a full cup of punch toward me—complete with napkin—but her eyes were fastened on her son, talking with a too-old girl in a too-little dress.
Tracey focused the same look on Ryan, the tallest in a circle of tuxedos a few feet away. “Weight Watchers was definitely a big part of my success. But Ryan helped, too. He loved it off me, what can I say?”
Tracey was joking, of course, but it still rubbed me wrong. I gave her my funkiest look. “No loving was allowed until tonight, so you’d better rephrase.” Immediately, I regretted my tone and my “countenance,” as Tracey would say. Being overbearing was Rochelle’s job, wasn’t it? What was wrong with me today?
The bride laughed nervously. “That’s not what I meant, silly. You know, I lost that first bit with the trainer, and then more when we rejoined Weight Watchers. By the time I got to Ryan, well, we just talked and walked and walked and talked…. Somewhere in there, I wasn’t hungry anymore.”
How convenient. “Must be nice. He should open a woman-walking service. I’d sign up. At a discount, of course.”
She laid her hand on mine. “Hush, you.”
I did hush, wishing I’d been silent all along. Ryan was part of us now. An uninvited member of the hush-you club. He was a good guy and Tracey really loved him. Why couldn’t I accept him, too? Sometimes I could be such a bum.
Rochelle’s son, Jericho, sauntered to the table, bringing the eyes of every female from seven to seventy with him. I prayed he’d sit next to his mother today. I’d pay for it later if he didn’t. It was at weddings that Rochelle felt the loss of her own love most. Sometimes I wanted to remind her that at least she’d gotten a kid out of it, that at least she had somebody, but we’d had that conversation once before. It didn’t go well.
Not missing a beat, Jericho dropped wide-legged into the seat beside me, his seventeen-year-old knees and forever legs pressing against my shorter, softer ones. He picked up the remains of my bouquet and sniffed, then dropped it again.
“I don’t know why they always throwing them flowers at you, Aunt Dana. You ain’t never getting married. Mama, neither.”