Father of the Bride Read online

“Hello, Banks,” he said.

  Mr. Banks wished Ralph Dixon wouldn’t call him “Banks.” He considered himself equally successful as a lawyer and they were the same age. He realized that the English all addressed one another this way, but he wasn’t English and when addressed as “Banks” he always felt like a stage butler.

  He should, of course, have said, “Hello, Dixon.” Instead he said, “Hi, Ralph.”

  “Nice wedding,” said Mr. Dixon and apparently considered that he had thereby paid his tribute to the amenities. “Got a minute?”

  “Well, the fact is—” began Mr. Banks with a sinking heart.

  “It’s about that Shatton matter,” said Mr. Dixon. “I don’t like to be on the other side of the fence from you, Banks, and I think in this case you’re all wet. Now just take the facts.”

  Mr. Dixon then took the facts and laid them out in orderly rows for Mr. Banks’ appraisal. A waiter appeared with champagne and as Mr. Banks drank it he suddenly realized that he did not have the slightest idea what Ralph Dixon was talking about. Perhaps this stuff was getting him. He decided to hold his glass quietly and not touch it for a few minutes.

  It was all the same to Mr. Dixon, however, whether Mr. Banks understood him or not. He was marshaling his facts and he would have marshaled them with equal gusto if Mr. Banks had been stretched out insensible on a window seat.

  “Heidee-ho, heidee-ho. This is a party.” A pastyfaced gentleman with jowls like a bloodhound injected himself into the summation. It was Uncle Peter, who had come all the way from Sioux City and was obviously not going back empty. Although Mr. Banks had always privately considered Uncle Peter an old bum, at the moment he was delighted to see him.

  “Peter,” he said. “I want you to meet a friend of mine, Mr. Dixon. Ralph, this is Peter Quackenbush—he’s related to my wife,” he explained parenthetically.

  Mr. Dixon glared silently at Uncle Peter and gave evidence of being about to move away. This would have been merely a transference of evils for Mr. Banks. Danger made him alert. Within the bat of an eye he had disappeared through the French door.

  Judging by the crowd in the living room he had expected to find the marquee half empty. On the contrary, it was also jammed with people. The temperature was midway between that of a Turkish bath and a greenhouse.

  Mrs. Banks had hired a push-and-pull man to circulate among the guests. Mr. Banks discovered him standing unnoted by one of the tent poles, dressed in his interpretation of a Neapolitan costume, obviously bursting his lungs and his instrument in the public weal. The din in the tent was so great, however, that he might have been squeezing a blacksmith’s bellows and gargling his throat. Mr. Banks wondered why, from an economic viewpoint if no other, his wife had considered it necessary to pay someone to add to a confusion which was contributed gratis.

  In spite of the Buckingham boys, who were getting rid of Mr. Banks’ champagne just as eagerly here as in the house, there was a crowd of eager customers in front of the bar table. He shouldered his way in and tried to get the attention of one of the sweating men behind it. They were engrossed in snatching bottles from huge tubs of icewater, uncorking them and dividing their contents between massed glasses and the tablecloth.

  A strange man next to Mr. Banks watched them with the tense concentration of a bird dog. “Lousy service,” he said finally to Mr. Banks in what was obviously meant as a friendly opening.

  “Terrible,” agreed Mr. Banks.

  “About on a par with the champagne,” said the stranger.

  The barman looked at him coldly.

  “I thought the champagne was pretty good,” said Mr. Banks defensively. “For American champagne, of course.”

  “Bilge,” said the genial stranger. “Sparkling bilge. I regard all champagne as bilge, but some comes from a lower part of the hold than others. This comes from just over the keel.” The young man took two dripping glasses and backed away.

  Mr. Banks beckoned to one of the barmen.

  “How is the champagne holding out?” he asked.

  The barman looked at him coldly. “O.K., O.K.,” he said. “Don’t worry, mister. You’ll get plenty.” Mr. Banks found himself blushing, then he remembered the old Chinese proverb and decided to relax and have a look at the garden. It would be interesting to find out if it were also filled with people.

  His progress through the tent was slow. Near the entrance he spotted Miss Bellamy talking to a group from the office. She detached herself and came toward him balancing a glass of champagne without too great success. He had never seen Miss Bellamy dressed like this before and it rather startled him. He didn’t know just what to say, but she was obviously quite at ease.

  “Boss, we certainly put on a wonderful wedding. Yes, sir. If I do say so, it was beautiful. I want to drink a toast. I want to drink a couple of toasts. First, to the bride. Say, you were swell coming down the aisle. No one would ever have known you were scared.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Banks. Somehow or other this was not the self-effacing Miss Bellamy he had left at the office yesterday afternoon. They drank solemnly.

  “And now I want to drink to the best boss in the world. Yes, sir, the finest boss in the world.” She had certainly never looked at him quite like that before.

  “And I’ll drink to the finest secretary,” said Mr. Banks, embarrassed.

  “Oh, you’re just saying that,” said Miss Bellamy, her large brown eyes searching his face intently. “You’re just making that up, I know you are. Got a cigarette?” As he lit her cigarette he wondered if the world could ever again be forced back into its comfortable old normalcy.

  “You got to watch this stuff,” said Miss Bellamy, gazing thoughtfully into her glass. “You got to watch it every minute. If you don’t—it’ll get you. No question about it. Want to know something?” She leaned toward Mr. Banks’ ear. “That Miss Didrickson’s plastered. She’s the new one with the dyed hair. Come on over. The bunch will want to see you. She’s a silly ass, though. I didn’t like her from the start. She was saying—”

  A young man in a cutaway approached. “Mrs. Banks is looking for you, sir. She sounds as if she wants to see you right away.”

  Relieved to have some objective, Mr. Banks began to fight his way back to the house. He had almost made the exit from the marquee when an enormous woman blocked his way. She was accompanied by a gangling young girl with a mouthful of braces.

  “Oh, Mr. Banks, it was such a heavenly wedding. I want you to meet my daughter Betsy. This is Kay’s father, dear.” Betsy tittered as if she found the idea grotesque. “Humphrey couldn’t come.” Mr. Banks cast vainly about in his mind for anyone by the name of Humphrey. “He wanted me to tell you how sorry he was. You were so nice to ask us. I said to Humphrey, ‘That was so nice of the Bankses to include us. And to the reception too.’ I brought Betsy. I didn’t think you’d mind. She adores Kay so and she’s been so excited about the wedding. Haven’t you, dear?”

  Betsy’s excitement seemed to have died down since the ceremony. At the moment she looked like a captured German prisoner brought to headquarters for questioning. “Kay looked perfectly beautiful,” continued the large woman. “Simply ravishing. And the bridesmaids’ dresses—Well, my dear, they were out of another world. I think the whole thing—”

  A second young man in a cutaway approached. “Mrs. Banks is sort of tearing her hair out, sir. She said for me to tell you that Kay and Buckley are getting ready to go and where are you.”

  Mr. Banks made a mumbling noise and forced a passage between the stout woman and Betsy. Mrs. Banks pushed toward him through the crowded room. “Stanley Banks, where have you been? I’m almost crazy. I suppose you’ve been in that tent telling stories. Now come. Kay and Buckley will be coming down any minute.”

  Again there was a dense crowd in the front of the house. Mr. Massoula’s henchmen moved through it bearing salad bowls filled with confetti. At least they were distributing something inexpensive for the moment. People were self-consciously gr
abbing handfuls, most of which they immediately let slip through their fingers to the floor. Everyone was watching the stairs tensely as if they expected a couple of whippets to come streaking down and out the door before they could get rid of the balls of damp paper in their clenched fists.

  This was the scene that Mr. Banks had visualized so often during the last twenty-five years; the moment when his first-born would come running down a broad staircase on the arm of a muscle-bound stranger, to disappear from his life forever—at least in the role of his little daughter.

  When he had stood at the foot of other people’s staircases waiting to throw damp paper at their daughters, his heart had been warm with sympathy for the fathers of the brides, who strolled with such brave nonchalance among their guests. He had hoped that he would have equal courage when his time came.

  Now that it was here he only felt numbness. He had rehearsed it all so often in his mind—he had hugged his private sadness to his bosom so many times—that its fulfillment was less real than its anticipation.

  A bridesmaid peered around the corner of the stair landing, grinned sheepishly and disappeared. Someone cried, “Here they come,” as if it were a horse race. Then Kay and Buckley, conspicuously new in every detail, were tearing across the landing and down the final flight of stairs with that hunched, headlong look of charging moose that Mr. Banks had observed in all brides and grooms coming downstairs.

  A bridesmaid peered around the corner . . . grinned sheepishly and disappeared.

  They were on the front walk now, their shoulders covered with confetti, their heads still lowered between their shoulders. Mr. Banks was right behind them, running in form, the ushers and bridesmaids bringing up the rear in full cry. Buckley’s car stood at the end of the walk. It was amazing how these details fell into place against all odds. They were in. Kay leaned through the open window while Buckley fought off ushers on the other side.

  “Good-by, Pops. You’ve been wonderful. I love you.”

  The car lurched forward. Mr. Banks revolved off the rear mudguard into the arms of a bridesmaid. “Good-by, good luck.” They were already half a block away. A few ushers, who had gone through the usual routine of almost being run over in the getaway, were brushing the dirt from their trousers.

  When Mr. Banks returned to the house he realized that the reception had entered a new and final phase. Its connection with the bride and groom had already been forgotten. For all practical purposes the bride and groom themselves had been forgotten. The Reception had become a Party and only a few cutaways and bridesmaids’ dresses recalled the event that had brought it into being.

  The more conservative element began to leave. A few said good-by. The majority took advantage of the confusion and merely walked away. Officer Mullins, who had undertaken to act as parking attendant, had long since left his post and retired to the kitchen, where one or two other members of the force were already at work on material furnished by the ever-thoughtful Mr. Massoula.

  Officer Mullins had packed the parking field efficiently and solidly before he left. This had been quite satisfactory during the parking, but unfortunately the guests were not departing on the modern accounting basis of last in first out. If there were any order to their leaving, it appeared to be just the opposite.

  And so it came about that, while Officer Mullins exchanged views on wine and women with his fellow craftsmen, the more prominent citizens of Fairview Manor locked bumpers and cursed in the scarred field behind the house.

  Mr. Banks felt restless. A sudden desire seized him to speed his parting guests. He wandered out of the house and across the lawn in the direction of the parking field, carefully balancing a glass of champagne as he walked. The scene which burst upon him as he rounded the lilac hedge reminded him of a picture in an old geography of sampans milling on a Chinese river front.

  For the next half hour, disregarding the dangerous snugness of his cutaway, he leaped up and down on entwined bumpers, directed backing cars into other backing cars and helped angry citizens to pull their bashed mudguards free from their tires.

  The more prominent citizens of Fairview Manor locked bumpers and cursed.

  Then, retrieving his glass, which he had left on a fence post, he returned to the house, dirty but satisfied, feeling that for the first time in many hours he had been of some practical use in the world.

  The bitter-enders were in full swing. The Neapolitan push-and-pull artist was hard and soundlessly at work in the living room, which was jammed with people, all of them obviously prepared to see the thing through to the final bottle.

  16

  ALL OVER

  The last guest had gone. The last damp hand had been wrung. The bridal party had disappeared noisily to seek bigger and newer adventure. The Dunstans had left. The relatives had returned to the oblivion from which they had emerged. Mr. and Mrs. Banks were alone with the wreckage.

  They sat limply in two armchairs which Mr. Banks had dragged down from upstairs. The rug was covered with confetti. The few casual tables which Mr. Massoula had left in the living room were garnished with gray rings. Here and there on the white paint of the sills were the dark signatures of cigarettes. The floral background of the reception line obliterated the fireplace. They stared at it in silence.

  “She did look lovely in that going-away suit,” said Mrs. Banks dreamily. “Didn’t you think it was good-looking?”

  Mr. Banks couldn’t remember it very well. He knew she had had on something tan. There his detail stopped. But her face was etched forever on his memory as she stood on the landing waiting to throw the bride’s bouquet.

  “She’s a darling,” he said.

  “Queer the Griswolds didn’t come,” mused Mrs. Banks. “They accepted and Jane told me they were coming.”

  “I don’t see how you know whether they came or not.”

  “I know everybody that was here and everybody that wasn’t,” said Mrs. Banks complacently.

  Mr. Banks did not question it. This woman who couldn’t remember the details of the most elementary problem for five minutes would remember now and forever everyone who came, everyone who didn’t—and also those who crashed the gate.

  “My God,” exclaimed Mrs. Banks, pressing her hand over her face. “We forgot to ask the Storers.”

  “We couldn’t have,” said Mr. Banks.

  “We did, though.”

  “That’s terrible. Couldn’t we pretend we sent them an invitation? You could call Esther tomorrow and ask her why she didn’t come.”

  “I might at that,” said Mrs. Banks.

  There was a brief silence. “What are we going to do with all those presents?” asked Mr. Banks.

  “I don’t know. Somebody’s got to pack them, I suppose. I think I’ll just leave them as they are for a while.”

  “I guess that’s the best thing,” said Mr. Banks.

  They lapsed into exhausted silence. In the brain of each a projector was unreeling the film of the day’s events. It would have amazed them if they could have known how different the films were.

  In another compartment of Mr. Banks’ brain an adding machine was relentlessly at work. The figures came pouring out and each time they were greater than before.

  “Didn’t the decorations in the church look too lovely?” asked Mrs. Banks.

  Mr. Banks was startled to discover that he had not even noticed if there were any decorations in the church. It was a relief to know that someone had checked on that dog-robber Tim.

  “They were beautiful,” he said simply.

  “Mr. Tim did a wonderful job considering how little money we gave him to work with,” said Mrs. Banks. Her husband started, then pressed his lips together and made no comment.

  “I suppose,” said Mrs. Banks, “we ought to get out the vacuum cleaner and not leave this whole mess for Delilah tomorrow. I’ll go up and change my dress.”

  Mr. Banks followed her upstairs glumly. Like a fog blowing in from the sea, he could feel the first wisps of depression fing
ering into his soul.

  Here was the place where she had stood. He paused and looked over the rail at the confetti-strewn hall. Queer about places and houses. They remained the same yet they were never the same. By no stretch of the imagination was this the spot from which Kay had tossed her flowers to the waving arms below.

  He continued up the stairs, thinking of all the money and energy that was wasted each year visiting the scenes of great events under the impression that they were still the same places.

  At the door of the spare room where the presents were on display, he paused, then lit the light and went in. This morning it had been a gay, exciting place, full of anticipation and promise of things to come. The animating spirit was gone. Now it was just a bare room with card tables along the walls covered with china and glassware. It was as impersonal as a store.

  He tried to shake off the cloud that was settling over him. In the bathroom a single bottle of champagne rested quietly in the washbasin. It had been put there by someone just before Mr. Massoula ran out. Heaven knew what for. It was still cold. For a moment he debated whether to open it. Then he turned, went downstairs and got out the vacuum cleaner.

  An hour later the last particle of confetti had been transferred to the bulging bag of the machine. They sat once more in their chairs in the living room gazing with exhausted faces at the banked greens in front of the fireplace.

  He paused and looked over the rail at the confetti-strewn hall.

  On the floor near the edge of the rug Mr. Banks spied a few bits of confetti that the cleaner had overlooked. He rose to pick them up. There seemed to be more just under the edge. He turned back the corner and disclosed a solid mat of multicolored paper.

  Without comment he dropped the rug back into place. Mrs. Banks was watching, but said nothing. He went quietly up to the bathroom and drew the cork in the last remaining bottle. From the spare room he selected two of Kay’s new champagne glasses and returned to his wife.