Lady Oracle (26 page)

All that winter I devoted myself to cheering Arthur up. I took him to movies, I listened to his complaints about the university, I
typed his papers for him, complete with footnotes. We ate hamburgers at Harvey’s Hamburgers and went for walks in Queen’s Park, and on jaunts to the Riverdale Zoo, about the only entertainments, aside from the movies, that we could afford. We slept together, when we could. Arthur was living in residence, and that sort of thing was tolerated only if you did it furtively; my landlady, on the other hand, would tolerate nothing, no matter how furtive.

Sometimes during these nights I would wake up to find Arthur clinging to me as if the bed was an ocean full of sharks and I was a big rubber raft. Asleep he was desperate, he sometimes talked to people who weren’t there and ground his teeth. But awake he was apathetic and unresponsive, or coldly dialectical. Without his political enthusiasms he was quite different from the way he’d been in England. He allowed me to do things for him, but he didn’t participate.

None of this bothered me very much. His aloofness was even intriguing, like a figurative cloak. Heroes were supposed to be aloof. His indifference was feigned, I told myself. Any moment now his hidden depths would heave to the surface; he would be passionate and confess his long-standing devotion. I would then confess mine, and we would be happy. (Later I decided that his indifference at that time was probably not feigned at all. I also decided that passionate revelation scenes were better avoided and that hidden depths should remain hidden; façades were at least as truthful.)

In the spring Arthur proposed. We were sitting on a Queen’s Park bench, eating take-out hamburgers and drinking milk shakes.

“I have a good idea,” Arthur said. “Why don’t we get married?”

I said nothing. I couldn’t think of any reasons why not. Arthur could, though, and he proceeded to analyze them: neither of us had much money, we were probably too young and unsettled to make such a serious commitment, we didn’t know each other very well. But to all these objections he had the answers. He’d been giving it
quite a lot of thought, he said. Marriage itself would settle us down, and through it, too, we would become better acquainted. If it didn’t work out, well, it would be a learning experience. Most importantly, we could live much more cheaply together than we could separately. He’d move out of residence and we’d both move into a larger rented room than the one I had, or even a small flat. I would keep my job, of course; that way he wouldn’t have to accept so much money from his parents. He’d been thinking of switching into political science, which would mean several more years at school, and he wasn’t too sure his parents would support him through that.

I chewed the rest of my hamburger and swallowed it thoughtfully; then I slurped up the rest of my milk shake. Now or never was the time for courage, I thought. I longed to marry Arthur, but I couldn’t do it unless he knew the truth about me and accepted me as I was, past and present. He’d have to be told I’d lied to him, that I’d never been a cheerleader, that I myself was the fat lady in the picture. I would also have to tell him that I’d quit my job as a wig-seller several months before and was currently finishing
Love Defied
, on the proceeds of which I expected to live for at least the next six months.

“Arthur,” I said, “marriage is serious. There are a few things I think you should know about me, in advance.” My voice was trembling: surely he would be horrified, he would find me unethical, he would be disgusted, he would leave.…

“If you mean you were living with another man when you met me,” he said, “I already know that. It doesn’t bother me in the least.”

“How did you find out?” I asked. I thought I’d been very careful.

“You didn’t expect me to believe that story about your fat roommate, did you?” he said indulgently. He smiled and put his arm around me. “Slocum followed you home,” he said. “I asked him to.”

“Arthur,” I said, “you sneaky old spy.” I was delighted that he’d been jealous or curious enough to have done this; I also saw that he was pleased at having penetrated my disguise. But how annoyed he’d
be if he discovered he’d only made it as far as the first layer.… I decided to postpone my revelations to some later date.

The only difficulty with the actual wedding was that Arthur refused to be married in a church, since he disapproved of religion. He also refused to be married in a city hall, because he disapproved of the current government. When I protested that these were the only choices, he said there had to be some other way. I went through the Yellow Pages, under “Bridal” and “Weddings,” but these departments covered only gowns and cakes. Then I looked under “Churches.” There was one division labeled “Interdenominational.”

“Will this do?” I said. “If they’ll marry anyone to anyone else, they can’t have very strict religious convictions.” I talked him into it, and he phoned the first name on the list, a Reverend E. P. Revele.

“It’s all set,” he told me, coming out of the pay phone. “He says we can have it at his house, he’ll supply the witnesses, and it’ll only take ten minutes. He says they like to do a little ceremony, nothing religious.”

That was fine with me. I didn’t want to be done out of a ceremony, I wouldn’t feel married without one. “What did you say?”

“As long as he keeps it short.”

Arthur also told me that it would only cost fifteen dollars, which was lucky since we didn’t have very much money. I was torn between asking him to postpone the wedding – I’d think of some excuse, but really so I could finish
Love Defied
and buy a good wedding dress – and rushing to the Interdenominationalists right away, before Arthur found out the truth. Fear prevailed over vanity, and I bought a white cotton dress with nylon daisies on it at Eaton’s Budget Floor. It would be a little disappointing, but I could stand the disappointment of a cheap cotton wedding a lot better than I could stand the thought of no wedding at all. I was terrified that I’d be exposed at the last minute as a fraud, liar and impostor. Under the strain I started to eat extra helpings of English muffins covered with butter,
loaves of bread and honey, banana splits, doughnuts, and secondhand cookies from Kresge’s. Though these indulgences were not obvious to Arthur, I was gaining weight; the only thing that saved me from bloating up like a drowned corpse was the wedding date itself, and even so, I’d gained thirteen pounds by the time it arrived. I could just barely get my zipper done up.

No one we knew came to our wedding, for the simple reason that we knew no one. Arthur’s parents were out of the question: Arthur had written them an aggressively frank letter saying that we’d been sleeping together for a year, so they needn’t think his marriage was a capitulation to convention. They, of course, denounced both of us and cut off Arthur’s funds. I thought of inviting my father but he might reveal more of my past than I wanted Arthur to know. I sent him a postcard afterward, and he sent me a waffle iron. Arthur didn’t like any of the philosophy students, and I hadn’t become friends with any of my fellow wig demonstrators, so we wouldn’t even get any wedding presents. I went out and bought myself a soup kettle, a pair of oven mitts and, on impulse, a gadget for taking the stones out of cherries and the pits out of olives, to make myself feel more like a bride.

On the day itself, Arthur picked me up at my rooming house and we got on the northbound subway together. We sat on the black leatherette seats and watched the pastel tiles flash by; we held hands. Arthur seemed apprehensive. He’d lost weight and was skinny as a funeral brass; our reflections in the subway-car windows had deep hollows under the eyes. I didn’t see how he was possibly going to be able to carry me over the threshold. We didn’t even have a threshold: we hadn’t rented an apartment yet, because I still had two paid-in-advance weeks left at my rented room, and Arthur said there was no point wasting money.

We got off the subway and transferred to a bus. It wasn’t till after it had started that the name on the front of it registered. “Where
did you say this man lives?” I said. Arthur handed me the piece of paper on which he’d scribbled the address and told me. It was in Braeside Park.

I began to sweat. The bus went past the stop where I used to get off; up a side street I glimpsed my mother’s house. My face must have been white, for when Arthur glanced at me, squeezing my hand to reassure me or for reassurance, he said, “Are you all right?”

“Just a little nervous, I guess,” I said, with a ducklike laugh.

We got off the bus and walked along the sidewalk, into the dank interior of upper Braeside Park, past the trim, respectable, haunted fake-Tudor dwellings of my obese adolescence. My terror was growing. Surely the minister would be someone I knew, someone whose daughter I’d gone to school with, someone who would recognize me despite my change of shape. He wouldn’t be able to contain himself, he would exclaim at my transformation and tell humorous stories about my former size and weight, and Arthur would know – on our very wedding day! – how deeply I’d deceived him. He’d know I hadn’t gone steady with a basketball player, or been third runner-up in the Rainbow Romp queen-of-the-prom contest. The maple trees were heavy with drooping green leaves, the air was humid as soup, laden with car fumes which had drifted in from the nearest thoroughfare. Moisture beaded our upper lips; I could feel the sweat spreading under my arms, staining the purity of my white dress.

“I think I’m having a sunstroke,” I said, leaning against him.

“But you haven’t been in the sun,” Arthur said reasonably. “That’s the house, right up there, we’ll get inside and you can have a drink of water.” He was pleased in a way that I was reacting with such distress; it camouflaged his own.

Arthur helped me up the cement front steps of Number 52 and rang the bell. There was a small, ornately lettered sign on the door that said “Paradise Manor”; I read it without comprehension. I was trying to decide whether or not to faint. Then, even if there was a
revelation, I could exit with dignity, in an ambulance. The aluminum screen door had the silhouette of a flamingo on it.

The door was opened by a tiny old woman in pink gloves, pink high-heeled shoes, a pink silk dress and a pink hat decorated with blue cloth carnations and forget-me-nots. There was a round circle of rouge on each of her cheeks, and her eyebrows were two thinly penciled arcs of surprise.

“We’re looking for the Reverend E. R Revele,” Arthur said.

“Oh, what a lovely dress!” the old woman chirped. “I love weddings; I’m the witness, you know, my name is Mrs. Symons. They always have me for the witness. Here comes the bride,” she called to the house in general.

We went in. I was recovering; surely this was no one I knew. Thankfully I breathed in the smell of upholstery and warm furniture polish.

“The Reverend does the ceremonies in the parlor,” said Mrs. Symons. “It’s such a lovely ceremony, I’m sure you’ll like it.” We followed her, and found ourselves in a grotto.

It was the standard Braeside living room, poorer section, with a dining room opening onto it, which in turn opened into the kitchen; however, the walls contained, not the traditional soothing landscapes (Brook in Winter, Country Lane in Fall), but several peacock fans, some framed pieces of embroidery, a picture of a ballet dancer that lit up from behind ornamented with sprays of dried leaves, a painting of a North American Indian woman smiling winsomely, a shellwork picture – flowers in a vase, the petals of each made from a different kind of shell – and a number of fading photographs, also in frames, with signatures across the bottom. The chesterfield and matching easy chairs were of plum-colored velvet and each easy chair had a matching footstool; all were smothered in many-colored doilies crocheted in wool. The mantel of the fireplace was crowded
with objects: little Buddhas, Indian gods, a china dog, several brass cigarette cases and a stuffed owl under a glass bell.

“Here comes the Reverend,” said Mrs. Symons in an excited whisper. There was shuffling noise behind us. I turned, then collapsed into a plum-colored armchair; for there, standing in the doorway in her long white gown with the purple bookmark, leaning now on a silver-headed cane and surrounded by a nimbus of Scotch whiskey, was Leda Sprott.

She looked me straight in the face, and I could tell she knew exactly who I was. I moaned and closed my eyes.

“Wedding nerves,” shrilled Mrs. Symons. She grabbed my hand and began chafing my wrist. “I fainted three times during my own wedding. Get the smelling salts!”

“I’m all right,” I said, opening my eyes. Leda Sprott hadn’t said anything: maybe she’d keep my secret.

“Are you all right?” Arthur said to me. I nodded. “We were looking for a minister named E. P. Revele,” he said to Leda Sprott.

“I am E. R Revele,” she said. “Eunice R Revele.” She smiled, as if she was used to incredulity.

“Are you qualified?” Arthur asked.

“Of course,” said Leda. She waved at an official-looking framed certificate on the wall. “They wouldn’t let me perform weddings if I weren’t. Now, what will you have? I specialize in mixed marriages. I can do Jewish, Hindu, Catholic, five kinds of Protestant, Buddhist, Christian Scientist, agnostic, Supreme Being, any combination of these, or my own specialty.”

“Maybe we should take the specialty,” I said to Arthur. I wanted it over and done with as soon as possible, so I could get away.

“That is the one I myself prefer,” said Leda. “But first, the picture.” She went to the hall, where she called, “Harry!” I took this chance to look at the certificate. “Eunice P. Revele,” it said, right
enough. I was confused: either she was really Leda Sprott, in which case the ceremony would be invalid, or she was really Eunice P. Revele; if so, why had she used another name at the Jordan Chapel? But then, I thought, men who changed their names were likely to be con-men, criminals, undercover agents or magicians, whereas women who changed their names were probably just married. Beside the certificate was a photo of Leda, much younger, shaking hands with Mackenzie King. It was signed, I noticed.

Mrs. Symons was trying to get Arthur to put a plastic wreath of flowers around his neck, with no success. She put one on me, though, and a man in a gray suit came in with a Polaroid camera. It was Mr. Stewart, the visiting medium. “Smile,” he said, squinting through the viewfinder. He himself smiled broadly.