Here comes the bride, all dressed in white,
Radiant and lovely she shines in his sight
Gently she glides, graceful as a dove
Meeting her bridegroom, eyes full of love.
Long have they waited, long have they planned
Life goes before them, opening its hand.
I could only smile. Long have we planned? Try forty-five minutes.
I would have loved my family to be there, to be holding Daddy’s arm, to see Frank maybe at the altar as best man. But I had been on my own long enough that walking alone seemed as right as Charlie being my destination. I held a few posies Mrs. Morris had snipped from her garden, and the simplicity of it all felt beautiful.
Her playing was not bad either. I couldn’t help noticing—heavy-handed, but accurate. But what struck me was that she was smiling as she played. It was the first time I’d seen her happy.
By the second verse her hands were confident. She and the reverend made eye contact, and the look between them was as poignant as anything I’d seen before. He stood tall and calm, no sign of his tic.
Asking God’s blessing as they begin
Life with new meaning, life shared as one.
Entering God’s union, bowed before his throne
Promise each other to have and to hold.
Charlie gave me that hundred-watt smile, which calmed every butterfly in my belly. He took his hands out of his pockets and from halfway up the aisle I could see their tremor. But I was not afraid. I remembered the things my mother had said about men damaged by war, and I believed in Charlie, I believed in his ability to overcome whatever had horrified him.
In a few more steps it did not matter anymore, because I reached him. I have never stood taller.
Mrs. Morris hurried over to serve as witness, right at my elbow. The reverend smiled at me, at Charlie, and then took a long fond gaze at his wife.
At last he cleared his throat. “Given that one of you has already attended worship once today, and the rest of us twice, I’ll get right to business.” He took my flowers, handing them to Mrs. Morris, then instructed Charlie and me to join hands. We did, and I felt full to the brim. This was the boy whose strong fingers had opened the box of sheet music, back in Chicago a lifetime ago. This was the man who had slept beside me, against me, and for whom I had felt desire in every cell.
Reverend Morris recited the vows, and Charlie repeated them first. Then it was my turn. I barely remember. But I do recall feeling my feet on the floor, my shoes on the hard stone of the church, and everything about the moment was solid and real.
I don’t know at what point Mrs. Morris started holding her husband’s hand. But I noticed when we reached the part with the ring, and it turned out she had loaned Charlie one for the day, a gold band, simple as can be. He slid it onto my finger to tell the whole world that I was his now, and he was mine. Somehow the preacher and his wife holding hands made the moment even sweeter.
He told us to kiss, and as we did, in my heart I made a long speech about my commitment, while I received from Charlie the promise of lasting pleasure. Then it was all done but the blessing. Reverend Morris raised both arms over us. “Let us pray.”
We bowed our heads.
“To the mystery of the universe that brought us and all creation into being,” he said, “we dare to beseech the heavens and the Almighty. The world has been a dark and violent place for too much of the lives of these beautiful people. May the war end before their youth does, while their love is green and young. May their efforts and energies turn away from rations, coping, and loss, and instead create a generous future of family, community, and abundance. May they keep music at the center of their happiness, too, whether they are fixing instruments or playing them. Wherever they may journey in the years ahead, may they make a joyful noise.”
Amen. Then Mrs. Morris scurried back to the organ and struck up Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” while Charlie and I kissed again, and started up the aisle. Reverend Morris, robes trailing, ran down the side so that he would be waiting for us at the church doorway. Once Mrs. Morris finished the song, she dashed out the side door. He shook Charlie’s hand, and gave me a warm embrace. We stepped out into a sunny New Mexico afternoon in July, and were greeted by a cascade of rice.
“What in the world?” Charlie said.
There was Mrs. Morris, by herself, holding a burlap bag of rice, digging into it, and throwing a heaping handful into the air.
As a wedding gift, Reverend and Mrs. Morris let us use their car, an ancient black Hudson with a full tank of gas. They’d also called a member of the congregation who owned a small adobe in Taos, who said yes, we could stay there for a honeymoon. Mrs. Morris produced a camera, and ordered Charlie and me to pose in front of the Hudson. I have that photo on my dresser to this day. Me and my husband of five minutes.
Then hugs all around, everything smelling of Mrs. Morris’s lily of the valley perfume, and we climbed into the Hudson. Sunshine had made the seats scalding. The car started right up, and with me at the wheel because Charlie preferred it, I eased away from the curb. A glance in the rearview mirror lifted my heart even higher: Reverend Morris with his arm over Mrs. Morris’s shoulders, and her arm around his waist, and both of them waving with their free hands. Taking a deep breath, I pulled away as Charlie reached over and took my hand, and off we drove into the rest of our lives.
The adobe was small, two rooms with a kiva fireplace and a stack of split wood. The place smelled of ashes. When I slipped off my shoes, the red-tile floor was cold.
“No lights please,” I said, and dug in the drawers till I found matches for the candle in the center of the breakfast table. I was surprised by how much light it gave.
I had never said I loved him. Maybe it was because of how rarely those words were spoken in my family. Maybe it was the way Chris had declared his love as a way of possessing me. Maybe I was plain scared. But Charlie had never said it to me either. I thought this was the time, we smiled at each other, I breathed in.
Charlie kissed my cheek and turned and got busy building a fire, and the moment was gone. In no time the kiva crackled and snapped as the wood caught. It took him one trip to bring my small bag of things, and he had nothing to carry for himself.
He tossed the bag on the bed, then returned to me in the kitchen. We spent a minute admiring the fire, enjoying it, before we turned to look at each other, perfectly aware of what came next, modest, shy, but utterly ready. Charlie started to undo the buttons of my dress—there were so many, so small, and his fingers slipped. I could feel his impatience, and it thrilled me.
He’d managed to undo five buttons, perhaps six, when he drew back and examined the dress more closely.
“Buttons, buttons,” he said, laughing, grabbing my hips. “Too many buttons.”
It was a rough kind of contact. But his urgency pleased me, showed me the depth of his desire. Though I was nervous, I found myself relaxing. As if a knot within me chose that moment to untie. I brought his hands up below my collarbone. “Rip it.”
“What?” he said. “I don’t want to ruin your dress.”
I shook my head. “Just rip it off.”
He put his mouth on mine and I arched up to meet him, as he gave a strong pull and the fabric gave way, and I heard the most wonderful sound—better, more glorious than any organ or choir: dozens of buttons skittering away on a red-tile floor.