Father of the Bride Page 5

  Someone had to take the helm. Someone had to tie up this disintegrating situation before it fell apart completely. For three seventy-two a unit he would undertake to tie up a wounded lion.

  “I’ll tell you one thing, Ellie,” he announced as he rubbed in the shaving soap vigorously. “Only a hundred and fifty people are coming to this reception. You’ve got to cut down the list. I don’t care who you leave out. I don’t care how many just get asked to the church. Pack ’em in. Build a grandstand in the chancel if you want. All I say is that the hundred and fifty-first person to enter this house gets thrown out on his ear even if it’s your own mother.”

  He had reduced everything to neat figures.

  Mrs. Banks looked at him with an astonishment that experience never seemed to dim. “Why, Stanley, that’s what I said at the very beginning. And you said it was an insult to ask anybody to the church and not the reception. I’m willing enough to cut and have been right along. Now people like the Sparkmans can just as well—”

  Mr. Banks winced. “It’s not a question now of insulting people. It’s a matter of survival. What’s the world going to say when we land in the gutter just because we insisted on giving a wedding reception like a Roman emperor? No sir. It’s no use arguing with me now, Ellie. I’ve made up my mind. One fifty is the limit.”

  Things looked better after he had had his breakfast, but he didn’t weaken. “Now, Ellie,” he said, as he left the house, “I want you to take that list today and slash it down to a realistic basis. I leave it all to you.”

  • • •

  He felt masterful and composed that evening as he entered 24 Maple Drive. Next to achieving sudden riches, acquiring financial equilibrium is almost equally gratifying.

  “Got everything fixed up, Ellie?” he called into the living room.

  “Yes, only—”

  “Pops.” Kay came out and threw a slim arm around his neck. “Pops, you big stupid. Do you know what you did? You forgot Buckley’s list. It just came today.”

  Mr. Banks’ psyche collapsed like an abandoned bathrobe. He walked slowly to the big wing chair and sat down heavily. “How many?” he asked. His voice sounded choked.

  Mrs. Banks came boiling into action beside her daughter. “He couldn’t have been cuter,” she declared. “He only wants a hundred and twenty-five including everybody. And I mean that’s everybody. And he’s marked those that he doesn’t think will come—like the officers in his squadron and so on.”

  “Oh, they’ve got to come.” Kay clasped her hands ecstatically.

  Mrs. Banks hurried on. “There are about fifty ‘P.N.C.s’ on the list. So that really cuts it down to seventy-five. And if you figure only two thirds of those will show up—”

  “O.K.,” interrupted Mr. Banks firmly. “That just means cutting seventy-five more from our list. If I haven’t got a friend left when this thing is over—why, I haven’t got a friend left—and that’s that.”

  All evening the list was slashed. Everyone finally got into the spirit of the thing until bosom friends were thrown out with a whoop of joy. By eleven-thirty it was reduced to two hundred and four. If a third of those didn’t come there would be one hundred and fifty-three at the house. Beyond that point they could not go.

  • • •

  Two nights later Kay came into the living room and sat on the arm of her father’s chair. She ran her fingers through his thinning hair.

  “Pops darling, are you going to miss me?”

  He swallowed quickly and patted her knee. “Don’t let’s talk about it, Kitten. If you’re happy, I’m happy. That’s straight.”

  “You’re so sweet, Pops.” She kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Do you know something? I hate to tell you—but I’ve done the stupidest thing.”

  “Now what have you done? Mislaid Buckley?”

  “No, Pops, but for the last few days I’ve been thinking of people I forgot. I mean important people. People that I’d have simply died if they hadn’t been at the reception.”

  Mr. Banks sat up suddenly, his warm mood evaporated. “How many people?”

  “Oh, I knew you’d be cross, Pops. I know it was very dumb. I’m afraid there are quite a lot.”

  “How many is that?”

  “Well, maybe forty.”

  From this point on morale tended to disintegrate. So did the list. Each evening Mr. Banks thumbed through the “Church Only” cards with sad eyes.

  “Bob and Liz!” he murmured. “If anybody’d told me Bob and Liz wouldn’t be at my daughter’s wedding reception I’d have said they were crazy. Remember the week ends we used to spend at their camp. Those were—”

  “Why don’t you ask them, Stan? I agree with you. It just isn’t right not to have Bob and Liz. Why not make an exception?”

  “Guess we should.” Mr. Banks tore up the pink card venomously and carefully made out a white one. “Maybe a third of them won’t come.”

  Or again: “Len and Louise Warner! Imagine what they’re going to say. Our best friends. Three seventy-two a head. What price lifelong friends?”

  “I know, dear. It’s so cold and calculating when you put it that way. I should think lifelong friends were very cheap at three seventy-two a pair.”

  “A head,” corrected Mr. Banks, transferring the Warners to a white card.

  The pink cards gradually shrank. The white ones increased daily. Mrs. Banks’ apprehensive look returned.

  “I just don’t see what’s going to happen if all these people come,” she said.

  “They can go out on the back lawn,” said Mr. Banks.

  “Suppose it rains.”

  “It won’t,” said Mr. Banks.

  • • •

  The day came when the list must be sent to the lady who spent her life addressing wedding invitations in a copperplate handwriting. There was a last futile attempt to get it under control.

  “Who are all these clucks?” fumed Mr. Banks, pawing through the cards. “I’ve never heard of half of them. Here I am throwing an Irish picnic for a lot of fuddyduds I never heard of.”

  “Well, they certainly aren’t my friends,” wailed Kay. “You all know I wanted a small wedding with just my friends. Now we seem to be putting on a convention or something.”

  “I know, dear,” Mrs. Banks soothed. “It’s a shame we don’t have a bigger house. There are a lot of people I’d like to ask, I’ll admit. For instance, it seems to me we’ve left out all of Mother’s friends.”

  “Whoever these people may be,” announced Mr. Banks quickly, “they are the Wedding Guests. The books are closed.”

  7

  YOU CAN’T WIN

  It was Mr. Banks’ last decisive act for many days. He and Ben and Tommy continued to live at home, outwardly just as usual, but actually more like three harmless family ghosts than active participants.

  The clothes carnival was on.

  Although Mrs. Banks had always contended that she never had a minute to spare from morning until night, she and Kay now rushed to town each day immediately after breakfast. Mr. Banks’ socks lay undarned in the sewing bag. His buttonless shirts were stacked in neat piles in his dresser.

  Each evening he and the two boys ate their dinner in glum silence while they listened to discussions of the dresses which were not there, the dresses which would have been becoming if they had been different and the dresses which would have been ravishing if Kay and her mother had been consulted about their design.

  Mr. Banks gathered that the nation’s dress manufacturers had suddenly gone haywire and that nothing which they had produced during the last few months would be used by a self-respecting charwoman for work clothes. He had supposed that the principal worries connected with weddings revolved around things like champagne and caterers. Now he discovered that these were small beer.

  Although Kay’s closet was bulging with clothes, he learned to his surprise that, for her money (or perhaps for his), it was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Had she been Venus rising from the
sea her outfitting problem could not have been more basic.

  Because no one would pay any attention to him he was forced to resort to indirect methods. He would open the door of the closet and make playful remarks about the rows of dresses and shoes. He drew subtle comparisons with the children of Europe. He told anecdotes about his grandmother’s frugal girlhood in a parsonage. The only recognition he received was when Kay occasionally pushed him aside with “Please, Pops. Can’t you see you’re right in the way? Why don’t you go downstairs and read? You just don’t understand.”

  At those moments he would be in full agreement with his daughter for the first time in days.

  Mrs. Banks’ own costume seemed to be giving her a perplexing amount of trouble. She had interminable and costly telephone conversations with Mrs. Dunstan on the subject.

  “What in the world has her dress got to do with yours?” asked Mr. Banks. “Are you two going as Tweedledum and Tweedledee?”

  She had interminable and costly telephone conversations with Mrs. Dunstan.

  Buckley never lost confidence during these trying times. He appeared each evening like a faithful sheep dog, to spend it staring at Mr. Banks. Neither of them could think of much to say to one another so they usually listened moodily to the radio and to the undertone of women’s voices from the floor above—a never-ending dialogue occasionally punctuated by screams of pleasure. At each scream Mr. Banks winced, for he knew from experience that such female ecstasy is purchased at a high price.

  As time went on, however, Buckley began to show signs of alarm. He would revert occasionally to his old theme of simple weddings in little country churches. Mr. Banks said that given his choice he would pick a desert island. Once Buckley asked how much a girl—say a girl like Kay for instance—spent on clothes in the course of a year. Mr. Banks muttered something about millions. The bond of sympathy between them grew stronger daily.

  • • •

  Ignoring the fact that Kay and Buckley were going to live in a tiny house where Kay, at least, would spend a large part of her time with her head in the oven, she was finally outfitted for every social and sporting event that could conceivably take place between Sun Valley and Hobe Sound.

  Mysterious boxes began to arrive. They appeared to be from women who did not have any last names—“Annette,” “Estelle,” “Helene,” “Babette.”

  “They sound like a bunch of madams,” said Mr. Banks to no one in particular.

  The force of example, however, is like a mighty glacier. Mr. Banks suddenly became clothes-conscious himself. Fortunately, and unlike so many of his friends, he did not have to depend on his wedding cutaway. During those fine, flush days of the twenties he had bought a new one in order to act as best man for some backsliding old bachelor. The twenties were a long way off, however, and although Mr. Banks was proud of his figure, even he was conscious that subtle changes had taken place.

  When he had last seen the suit it had been a splendid thing—a badge of old-world aristocracy. Now it lay in an attic trunk under a hailstorm of moth balls. When Mrs. Banks finally dug it out it reminded him of something out of a sailor’s slop chest.

  For a long time it lay dejectedly across the chair beside Mr. Banks’ bed. Each day he could think of good reasons for postponing the try-on. In the morning he was too rushed. At night he was too tired. Finally, choosing a moment when no one was around, he slipped out of his business suit and stuck a foot gingerly into a trouser leg like a bather testing the water.

  Well, his legs were through at least. A bit snug, perhaps, but it might not be noticeable if he sat on the edge of things. Inhaling deeply, he sucked in his stomach as far as possible and buttoned the trousers. The effect was like squeezing the lower half of a sausage balloon.

  Mysterious boxes began to arrive.

  “If any of these buttons give way they’ll put somebody’s eye out,” he muttered, walking stiffly to the long mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Not bad for fifty, though. It was going to be a strain, of course, to keep his chest blown out like a pouter pigeon and his stomach wrapped around his back bone, but the general effect was good—like a well-preserved old oarsman.

  He put on the vest carefully. The cloth around the buttons had the strained look of a sail in a heavy blow, but if it held there was nothing to worry about.

  Now for the coat. This was the crucial garment—the one which must withstand the hostile eye of the general public. Nobody looked at a man’s pants. He wished the sleeves didn’t fit like a freshly laundered union suit and that the back didn’t make him feel as if he had been taped up by a surgeon. But these were minor inconveniences. The coat was on and holding at every seam.

  Lifting his diaphragm as high as possible, he buttoned it quickly under his ribs. Mrs. Banks came in and surveyed him admiringly. “It’s really wonderful, Stan. I’m proud of you.”

  Mr. Banks made a deprecating grimace and undid the single button of the coat. The edges parted as if they were on springs. “I think I like these coats better unbuttoned,” he said thoughtfully. “You really think it fits, then?”

  “Perfectly,” said Mrs. Banks. “It might be a trifle snug, but that’s all.”

  Mr. Banks continued to study himself appraisingly. “Perhaps I might manage to lose a pound or two before the wedding.” He turned on her sternly. “Remember, now. From here in no more butter or potatoes or dessert.”

  He buttoned it quickly under his ribs.

  He would switch on the light and write “confetti” or “bride’s bouquet—who pays?”

  “All right, dear. All right. But you don’t need to be so cross about it.”

  “Well, people insist on offering them to me,” said Mr. Banks.

  • • •

  For some time Mr. Banks had been keeping a notebook handy for ideas about the wedding. During the day he would stop in unlikely places and jot down new items. When he went to bed he placed it on the table beside him. In the middle of the night he would suddenly switch on the light and write “confetti” or “bride’s bouquet—who pays?”

  The book was getting filled up now. Many of the notations were illegible. There were also numerous unexplained names and addresses which had been pressed on him by experienced friends. They were the names of people who were indispensable to weddings in one way or another, but who they were or what they were supposed to do Mr. Banks did not know.

  One of the first notations in the book was the word “Champagne.” It seemed a long time ago since he had written it. Life had seemed so simple and straightforward in those days. During the ensuing weeks he had received so much conflicting advice on this subject alone that he had become thoroughly confused and done nothing at all about it.

  He finally stopped on his way up from the station to discuss the matter with that bon vivant and connoisseur of good living, Sam Locuzos, owner of the Fairview Manor Wines and Liquor Company, whom he had been patronizing, illegally and legally, for many years.

  Champagne, to Mr. Banks, was a commodity which was kept on the top shelf of the hall closet in two-bottle lots and used only on very special occasions. Sam, however, didn’t have the same reverence for the stuff.

  “Sure,” he said. “Got plenty champagne. What kind you want? All the same. No good. Here’s some. Good enough. Make it forty-five dollars a case.”

  Mr. Banks turned pale. “How many cases do I need?”

  “How many come?”

  “Oh, let’s say a hundred and fifty.”

  “Six cases, eh?”

  “Sure,” said Sam. “Got plenty champagne. All the same. No good.”

  “Six cases! Good God, Sam, that’s almost three hundred dollars.”

  “Sure. Got something cheaper. Forty-two dollars. No good,” said Sam impassively. He was used to scenes like this. There had been other weddings in Fairview Manor.

  “Tell you what,” he said, and his voice was full of sympathy. “You been a good customer. I give you three bottles. Three different kinds, see. Present. You ta
ke home an’ try. Then you tell me which one.”

  Mr. Banks watched Sam’s skillful fingers as they wrapped the bottles. “There,” he said. “Don’t drop. An’ don’t forget to freeze cold. Then nobody don’t taste.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Banks.

  • • •

  On Sunday afternoon he invited two carefully selected couples to help him make the test. None of them knew anything about champagne, but Mr. Banks did not know anyone who did. He had chosen them on the theory that people who drank as enthusiastically as this group must have judgment on anything alcoholic.

  They consumed the three bottles with the casual dispatch of people at a public drinking fountain. Each couple had a favorite brand of their own which they considered necessary to the success of any wedding—and it was not one of the three Mr. Locuzos had selected. They became so heated about it that everyone forgot the three empty bottles and Mr. Banks went out and made old-fashioneds. When they had gone Mr. and Mrs. Banks selected the bottle with the most impressive-looking label and let it go at that.

  • • •

  “Got the champagne this afternoon,” remarked Mr. Banks casually to his wife that evening.

  “How much did you get?”

  He immediately went on the defensive. “Well, I wanted to be sure there was enough. Nothing’s worse than running out the way George Evans did. Then if there’s a little left over we can always—”

  “But how much did you get?”

  “Ten cases. But when you think—”

  “Ten cases! How much did you have to pay?”

  “Sam made me a special price. Forty-five dollars. Very reasonable.”

  “Forty-five dollars? For what?”

  “For a case, of course. Now—”