Father of the Bride Read online

  “That fellow has no judgment,” said Mr. Banks.

  “Yes indeed,” said Miss Bellamy soothingly. “Now I have everything ready in this envelope. Here’s a list of all the ushers and bridesmaids and where they’re staying and their telephone numbers. And then here’s a full set of church seating lists. There’s one for each usher with his name typed on it and special instructions for those who have special jobs. I’ve put in some extra copies just in case. Oh, yes, and I’ve phoned all the papers just to make sure they remember and—well—I guess that’s all till I see you in church.”

  Miss Bellamy looked suddenly deflated and wistful. Mr. Banks had never seen her like that before. For one terrible moment he thought she was going to cry.

  “You’ve been wonderful,” he said awkwardly. “Wonderful. I’ll never forget it.” He left quickly as the phone started to ring.

  • • •

  Several days earlier Miss Bellamy had sent crisp little notes to all the ushers and bridesmaids, attempting to impress upon their scattered minds that the rehearsal would be at five-thirty at St. George’s Church and the importance of being prompt.

  Mr. Banks had insisted on being there fifteen minutes ahead of time. He wanted this wedding well rehearsed—no sloppy business—and he felt somehow that if he and Mrs. Banks were early it would expedite things. To his dismay he found the church in complete darkness. The Reverend Mr. Galsworthy and the organist were nowhere about. The smoothly functioning machinery of St. George’s was at dead center and the self-starter was missing.

  He finally located Mr. Tringle in the cellar.

  Mr. Banks had pictured the organist busily warming up his instrument with a burst of arpeggios and Mr. Galsworthy nervously pacing the aisle, measuring distances, putting markers in his book and making a few final notes. Not even Mr. Tringle, the sexton, was puttering around.

  He finally located Mr. Tringle in the cellar of the rectory gluing the back of a broken chair. “Good gracious,” he exclaimed. “That late a’ready? Maybe we best go up an’ put on the lights.”

  The first bridesmaid turned up at a quarter to six. She was a wispy little number who seemed to have been left out of everything to date and was obviously terrified at the thought of what lay ahead. The organist strolled in several minutes later.

  “Are you sure,” asked Mrs. Banks anxiously, “that you know what you are going to play at the wedding?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the organist. He was an earnest-looking young man with heavy horn spectacles. “Oh, quite. This is the Broadhurst wedding, isn’t it?”

  The knuckles of Mr. Banks’ hand grew white as he clutched the end of the pew. “No,” he said gently. “This is the Banks wedding—and it’s tomorrow,” he added with subtle sarcasm.

  “Surely,” agreed the organist and disappeared through the gloom of the side aisle.

  By six-thirty Kay and all but four of the bridal party had appeared. The minister was still absent. The groom was still absent. The ushers and bridesmaids who had made the great sacrifice stood in small groups glaring at Mr. Banks with unconcealed hostility. It was evident that each and all had torn them selves away from agreeable situations for what they clearly considered to be an old-fashioned whim of Mr. Banks’. By their attitude they said, “You got us here. You ruined our fun. Now what are you going to do about it?”

  It made Mr. Banks nervous. He distributed the seating lists to the ushers and made a little talk about overall strategy. Somehow it didn’t go very well. They listened to him with the detached boredom of tourists harangued by a Grand Canyon guide. Their aspirations were obviously elsewhere.

  “I wonder where Mr. Galsworthy is?” asked Mr. Banks for the tenth time.

  “Oh, he’s somewhere. He’s always late,” said Mr. Tringle amiably. “I run the rehearsal.”

  “But some of the bridal party aren’t here yet,” protested Mr. Banks. “The groom isn’t here. Nobody’s here.”

  “Some of the bridal party is never here,” said Mr. Tringle. “The groom don’t do nothing in weddings. Everything goes all right. You see. Don’t worry. Now if you young ladies will line up in pairs outside that there door—”

  They lined up, tittering and unwilling, as people line up for a group photograph which nobody wants taken. Once in place they unlined immediately. Mr. Tringle pushed them back like errant cattle. “O.K., Fritz,” he yelled irreligiously. The organ suddenly gave a series of bumps and broke into the wedding march. Mrs. Banks watched nervously from a pew.

  . . . Stood in small groups glaring at Mr. Banks.

  “It’s too fast,” she cried hopelessly as the skeleton procession dashed past her. “You’re running. It’s awful.”

  “You want to do it again?” asked Mr. Tringle, rubbing his hands with the air of one who has staged a great dramatic spectacle. “It comes O.K. next time. Take it easy. Line up now. Hey, you. Big girl. You get in back row this time so’s they can see the other bridesmaids. O.K., Fritz, shoot,” he bawled.

  They were off again. It wasn’t the way Mr. Banks had pictured it. In fact, it reminded him more of the mob scene in the Vagabond King than a wedding rehearsal. He gave a sigh of relief as he saw the Reverend Galsworthy enter the church, trotting like a pony and exuding geniality. Now they would get the situation in hand.

  “Well, well, well,” said Mr. Galsworthy. “All over, I see. That means I’m just in time. So sorry. Had a meeting. Mr. Tringle’s an old hand, though.” He put his arm around Mr. Tringle’s shoulder and squeezed him with impersonal affection. “Do they know their stuff, Mr. Tringle? Good. Well, I’m sure it will all go off very smoothly and that it will be a beautiful wedding.”

  Mr. Banks could hardly believe what he heard. “But they haven’t really begun to rehearse. Four of the bridal party aren’t even here yet and the groom isn’t here either. They tried it a couple of times and it was awful.”

  Mr. Galsworthy looked at his watch and clucked.

  “O.K., Fritz,” he yelled.

  “They do all right,” said Mr. Tringle. “O.K. tomorrow.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Galsworthy. “Good. I have a meeting now. As for the groom—well, the groom is not very important at weddings, is he, my dear?” He smiled benignly at the wispy bridesmaid under the impression that she was the bride-to-be.

  “You’re not nervous, are you, dear?” he continued, taking the wispy girl’s hand in his. “No, of course not. Have your young man call me in the morning. I’ll put him through his paces. I hate to rush, but I must. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

  Mr. Banks opened his mouth. “But—” A secretarial-looking person bustled down the aisle. “Mrs. Banks? There’s a phone call for you in the Rector’s office. I believe it’s the groom’s father and mother. They’re at your house and they want to know if the rehearsal’s over. I think the groom is with them.”

  “Sure,” said Mr. Tringle cheerily. “Rehearsal’s all over. Tell ’em to take it easy. Everybody’ll be right home.”

  “Don’t forget to have the groom call me in the morning,” said Mr. Galsworthy. “Now don’t worry. It will go beautifully tomorrow. I know. You see I’ve done this before.”

  “But—” began Mr. Banks. Then he looked around. The bridal party had disappeared, bearing Kay and the wispy girl with them. Mr. and Mrs. Banks shook hands cordially with Mr. Galsworthy and followed them.

  On the way out Mr. Banks noted that most of Miss Bellamy’s beautifully typed seating lists had been laid on the seats of pews and abandoned. He gathered them up. With the extras there might be enough for a redistribution.

  “I do hope—” said Mrs. Banks.

  “So do I,” agreed her husband.

  They went home to dress for the party at the Club.

  13

  THEY’RE COMING INTO THE STRETCH

  Mr. Banks awoke early the following morning, conscious that many things were wrong. The first to register positively was his body, which felt as if it had been run over. He moved his head on the pillow. For
a moment he was convinced that his skull had been fractured.

  Gradually he became aware that there was something particularly unusual about this day that was beginning so inauspiciously. Then his slowly awakening mind grasped the fact that he had come home rather late from the Country Club and that in a few hours his oldest child was going to be married.

  Instinctively he turned to look out the window. The sun was shining. A cool breeze stirred the leaves of the maple tree outside. His eyes traveled lower and encountered those of the mother of the bride. They were appraising him with an expression that struck him as being on the cold side.

  “Nice day,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, “thank God. And now we’re getting up. There’s work to be done.”

  Mr. Banks would have given a year of life to lie quite still, indefinitely, but he felt the moment was a poor one for advancing whimsical ideas. As unostentatiously as possible he went to the bathroom cabinet and poured a large spoonful of Bromo Seltzer into a glass of water. It fizzed delightfully against his dry palate. The world looked better, although his sensations were still those of a sleeping leg. Perhaps this was a day when a bit of numbness might be helpful.

  Downstairs the house was unrecognizable. The furniture had disappeared. The whole place smelled, not too faintly, of floor wax and soap suds. Delilah met him at the foot of the stairs.

  “Mis’ Banks, yo’s goin’ t’have yo’ breakfas’ in th’ kitchen this mo’nin’,” she announced. The idea seemed to strike her as high comedy. She disappeared into the pantry doubled up with laughter.

  Mr. Banks ate his eggs self-consciously at Delilah’s white-enameled table. It seemed to him that women used poor judgment about such matters. Why couldn’t he have had his breakfast in the usual way and in the usual place? There was plenty of time to get things ready. No need for all this jitter.

  After a second cup of black coffee he wandered aimlessly through the bare rooms. A truck pulled into the driveway followed by a black sedan from which a bald-headed man alighted. The front door was open. The bald-headed man walked in without ceremony. “I’m Tim’s man,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Banks, pleasantly, but with reserve.

  “I guess we’ll be settin’ up th’ flowers an’ stuff,” said Tim’s man.

  “Yes indeed,” said Mr. Banks.

  Mr. Tim’s man stuck his head out the front door. “Lug ’em in, boys.”

  A few minutes later the floor of the living room was covered with potted plants, ferns and lumps of damp earth. Mr. Banks strolled restlessly through the debris and out the French door into the back garden. There he found three strangers unrolling a huge bundle of canvas.

  “Is that the marquee?” he asked.

  “It’s the tent for the Banks weddin’,” corrected one of the men.

  Mr. Banks squinted at the cloudless sky. A brilliant idea flashed across his thrifty mind. “You know,” he said casually, “on a day like this I don’t think we’ll need a tent. I think it would be pleasanter to walk through that door right onto the open lawn. Don’t you think so yourselves?”

  The bald-headed man walked in without ceremony.

  The men stopped unrolling the tent and stared at him in silent amazement. One of them finally recovered his voice. “Don’t need a tent!” he exclaimed. “Listen, Jack, this here tent is contracted for three weeks ago. There’s people yellin’ for it all over th’ place. You’re just lucky, that’s all.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Banks. “I only thought—Yes, of course.”

  He stepped around the bulky pile and walked down the driveway. Maple Drive was quiet. Several houses away his new neighbor, Mr. Hoggson, was cutting his front lawn. It seemed incredible to Mr. Banks that anyone could be engaged in such trivial work at a time like this. He strolled aimlessly toward him.

  “Hi,” said Mr. Hoggson, pausing. “Going to be a nice week end.”

  “I certainly hope so,” said Mr. Banks. “My daughter’s getting married this afternoon.”

  “Well, you don’t say so!” Mr. Hoggson relinquished his moist grip on the handles of the lawn mower and shook Mr. Banks’ hand warmly. “That’s your first child to go, isn’t it? Quite a wrench, all right. You bring ’em up to the best you got and spend a lot of money educatin’ ’em an’ then they run off with some football player an’ that’s the last you hear of ’em till you get a post card from Reno. Well, I certainly wish her all the happiness in the world. You won’t come in and have a spot, perhaps? You got a hard day ahead of you.”

  “Sorry,” said Mr. Banks. “We’re kind of busy at the house this morning. I’m just doing an errand for my wife.”

  He walked briskly away without the slightest notion where he was going. It was the same everywhere. The world was proceeding quietly about its weekend tasks, heedless of what was happening at 24 Maple Drive. After about a mile he cut through a patch of woods and came back through the village in order to avoid Mr. Hoggson.

  By the time he returned to the house the artisans had given way to relatives. The place was swarming with them. They had all made a great effort to be present. Now that they were here they wanted attention.

  The phone was ringing continuously. He took charge of it. Anything was better than making conversation. The phone at least demanded concrete answers. Uncle Joe was in town and wanted detailed instructions on how to get out to Fairview Manor. Cousin Bertha was at the station. Would someone come down and get her? Aunt Harriet had lost her suitcase with her best dress in it. Would someone look around the house and see if she had left it there by any chance?

  Mr. Banks said he would find it for her and tiptoed up the back stairs. But he was not looking for Aunt Harriet’s suitcase. He was looking for Kay. He had suddenly noticed that she was not around.

  Her door was closed. When there was no answer to his knock he opened it and looked in. Kay was lying on the bed, her face buried in the pillow, her shoulders shaking.

  “Kitten,” he said, “what’s the trouble?”

  She motioned him away violently, but he came over and sat on the side of her bed, running his fingers up and down her spine as he used to do when she was going to sleep.

  “Tell me about it. What’s hurt you? You shouldn’t cry today, Kitten. This is your wedding day.”

  “Oh, I know it, Pops. That’s just the trouble. It’s my wedding day, but it isn’t. It’s everybody else’s wedding day but it just isn’t mine.” She let her face down into the pillow again, but now she was quieter.

  Mr. Banks rubbed her back for a few minutes without answering. “I know,” he said finally. “I know. Mine either.”

  • • •

  The Bill Harcourts gave a luncheon before the wedding. It was to have been a small affair: just the bride and groom, the bridal party and the immediate family. Nothing about this wedding, however, seemed capable of remaining small.

  The house was crowded with people when Mr. and Mrs. Banks arrived. The bridesmaids, made confident by the conspicuous newness of their clothes, exuded vitality and youth. The ushers, on the other hand, had the drawn, haggard look of men who have just completed a dangerous bombing mission. They grabbed the cocktails from the passing trays as the occupants of a life raft would seize a wounded albatross as it floated by.

  The place was alive with relatives whose names Mr. Banks could not remember. It was obvious that they were all out for a field day and expected him to meet their mood.

  As he entered the room a barge of a woman, wearing pince-nez, bore down on him like a tugboat, backed him neatly between some bookcases and the piano and began a detailed account of Buckley’s early childhood. She was up to his fifth year with nineteen years to go, and no sign of faltering, when someone spilled a plate of lobster salad on one of her ample hips. In the confusion Mr. Banks managed to escape, only to be recaptured by a man with a walrus mustache.

  This character appeared to regard the gathering as a kind of public forum. He drew Mr. Banks to a window seat. This was the f
irst opportunity he had had for a quiet chat, owing to the unaccountable confusion which seemed to pervade this whole affair. His primary interest was in world politics and his mind would not be at rest until he had Mr. Banks’ opinion of the international situation. When Mr. Banks disclosed the fact that he had no opinions on the international or any other situation, the floor passed to the stranger, who obviously had a direct wire to God.

  Athletic young men kept coming up with plates heaped to the gunwales with lobster and chicken salad, to which buttered rolls clung precariously. Mr. Banks felt slightly bilious and compromised on a cup of soup and a highball.

  Kay approached them. “Mother’s looking for you. She thinks we’d better be getting home.” He gazed at her with awe. An hour ago she had been sobbing on her bed. Now she looked radiant—like a goddess of spring—serene and beautiful.

  Mrs. Pulitzski, who had made over Mrs. Banks’ wedding dress for Kay, had insisted on coming to the house that afternoon to be sure that all was in order.

  His primary interest was in world politics.

  “Good God,” said Mr. Banks to the world at large, “this is a swell time to find out if it fits her. What’s the woman going to do? Start making alterations now? Do you people realize it’s a quarter to three and that there’s a wedding in an hour and forty-five minutes?”

  Any allusion to the passage of time always called forth a protest from Ben and Tommy.

  “Gee, Pops, you might think it took us an hour to dress.”

  “Why, I can be dressed in ten minutes.” Tommy stretched out languidly on his bed. “It won’t take me ten minutes to get into that old fool suit.”

  Mr. Banks pushed down his temper with an effort. This was no time for a test of strength. “You two boys have a big responsibility this afternoon,” he said with feigned calm. “You’re the only two ushers who know our family. You’re taking our car and you’re to get there by four o’clock.”