MARY AND O'NEIL (17 page)

“What about the weather?” she asks.

O’Neil rubs his eyes. He is exhausted by the question, and doesn’t want to make any more decisions. Guests are beginning to come downstairs. He really needs to go get ready. He tells his sister he doesn’t know.

“Well, it’s raining over here. It
was
raining, anyway. I don’t see how the old folks are going to make it up the path.” There is a scratching noise on the line, and O’Neil’s sister’s voice drifts away. “Stop it, Noah. Here, play with this.” Then she returns. “O’Neil? Sorry, he’s fussing. The caterer is here too. I think she wants to talk to you about the chairs. If it’s raining we’ll need to put some under the tent.”

“That’s all right.” O’Neil thinks for a minute. What is it he needs? He looks up to see their friends, Russell and Laurie and their young son, Adam, coming down the stairs, the three of them wearing rubber boots and Russell swinging a folded umbrella like a putter. They laugh when they see him still in his running shorts with his wedding an hour away, as if this is typical in some way, which O’Neil knows is certainly true. He is late for almost everything: the last one dressed, the last car in the drive, the last to turn in his grades; except for Stephen, he is the last to marry. “Listen, Kay,” he says.

“Jack, can you do something with him,
please
?” There is a shuffle as Kay hands his youngest nephew off. “What’s that, hon?”

“I’m stumped. I can’t think anymore. I’m not even dressed.” O’Neil knows she understands what he is really asking; just to let things slide until he gets there, and if there’s anything left to decide, he’ll do it then, or let the momentum of the day force the last pieces into place. “I think I need some ad hoc parenting here,” O’Neil says.

“Steady, kid,” Kay says. Several moments pass. More guests are coming down the stairs, waving to him and shaking their heads at his dishevelment, and O’Neil wants to leave the lobby very badly.

“Okay, how about this,” Kay says at last. “No comment on the weather, the caterer can do whatever she wants with the chairs, and anybody who wants to mess with the groom has to go through me. All right?”

Relief washes over him. “I love you. I mean, you’re my only living relative, but even so.”

“Ditto. Don’t go bugging Mary. I know that’s what you want to do, but that bad-luck stuff is nothing to fool with. Jack didn’t see me, and so far so good.”

O’Neil hangs up, asks the hotel manager please not to give him any more calls, and heads to the kitchen to see if he can scare up a tray of tea and rolls for Mary. His plan is to place it beside her door, knock, and quickly retreat. He believes he has forgotten something, some detail like the caterer’s chairs, but he cannot recall what it might be, and he is just as glad to bring Mary some breakfast and let things take care of themselves. The kitchen is empty, but O’Neil looks around and finds Alice, the woman who tended bar the night before, reading the newspaper in the crowded pantry. Breakfast is over, she says, but she is sure she can put something together.

“So, are you nervous?” she asks, pouring Mary’s tea. She has a pleasant face, with the soft, butterscotchy tan of someone who spends a great deal of time outdoors in all weather. Her blond hair is tied in a thick Teutonic braid that falls the length of her back, the end just touching the top of her jeans. “You don’t look nervous.” She laughs, showing the lines of her eyes. It is a laugh that says that she, too, is married, that it happens to everyone.

“I don’t know,” O’Neil says. “I think maybe I’m just getting used to it.”

“Well, don’t be.” She hands him the tray. On it she has placed, beside the basket of muffins and the mug of tea, a thin glass vase holding a single yellow rose. She wipes her hands on her apron. “Take my word for it. It’s the happiest day of your life. You’ll see.”

“Is it?” O’Neil, holding the tray against his stomach and looking at the rose, feels a tightness in his cheeks and suddenly knows he is about to fall apart. He cannot account for this, because as far as he knows he isn’t nervous, or sad, or even especially happy, though what he feels seems related to happiness. It is as if he is suddenly inside his own emotions, so far inside them that he may have neglected to breathe, and he rests the tray on the counter and inhales deeply through his nose. He notices Alice has left the room. Then she returns, dragging a wooden chair from the pantry.

“Here,” she says, and slides the chair under him. “You rest a minute.”

O’Neil does as she says, and Alice hands him Mary’s tea. He takes a small sip, letting the cup hang under his face to feel the sweet steam on his cheeks. The cup is like a warm, smooth stone in his hand, and he realizes he is shivering.

“The same thing happened to my husband. It’s all right. You can stay in here as long as you need. Your family is probably driving you crazy.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have gone running,” O’Neil says. “I hardly slept at all.”

“You’re just tired.” Alice is crouched on her heels in front of O’Neil, looking into his face. Behind O’Neil the kitchen door swings open and without averting her glance Alice says, “Just a minute in here,” and the door swings closed again. “When’s the ceremony? Noon?” O’Neil nods. “Well, then, in a couple of hours it will all be over, and the two of you will be together. That’s the nicest part, I think.”

“This is the day you always remember,” O’Neil says, inexplicably.

Alice smiles and takes his free hand. Hers, like the cup, is smooth and warm, and covered with flour dust. “That’s right,” she says.

“My parents aren’t here,” O’Neil explains. “They died a long time ago. Maybe that’s what’s bothering me.”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Alice says. “That’s very hard, at a time like this. You must be missing them.”

“I have my sister, though,” O’Neil says. “She was in the bar last night, with her husband. We’re getting married at her house.”

“Well, that’s something. That’s a lot.”

“And Mary, of course. I have her.”

“So that’s your family,” Alice says. She gives O’Neil’s hand an encouraging shake. “Sounds like a nice one. That’s all a family is, in my experience, is people who look after you.”

For a while they stay like this, their hands knitted together, O’Neil drinking the tea. His shivering has stopped, and what he feels now is a languorous contentment that rises from his feet to his legs and chest and arms, and he knows that he could just as easily go to sleep as do anything at all. He would like to go to sleep with Alice watching him, there in the warm kitchen where she works.

“I truly appreciate this,” O’Neil says. “I’m in your debt.”

“It’s nothing.” Alice shrugs, the long rope of her hair swinging.
“De nada.”

O’Neil rises and takes the tray. He has finished the tea, but the muffins are still there in a wicker basket covered with a blue napkin. The clock above the stove says that it is just past eleven, and guests will be arriving at the house now. Probably Mary is already there. He puts his hand over the napkin, feeling the radiant moistness of the muffins rising through the cloth, and then Alice lifts her face to him and kisses his cheek. It is the nicest thing he has ever felt in his life, and he instantly wants to tell Mary all about it.

“For the groom,” she says.

Upstairs, his friends are waiting for him: Stephen, wearing his blue suit, and Connor, dressed improbably in seersucker and a pink bow tie. It is a surprising scene; both men, lying on the twin beds of O’Neil’s room, are fast asleep, their hands folded at their waists like pharaohs. The room is dark behind closed shades.

Stephen’s eyes open when O’Neil sits beside him on the bed. He nods hopefully at the tray on O’Neil’s lap. “Breakfast?”

O’Neil hands him the basket of muffins. “Did Mary leave yet?”

Stephen bites into a muffin and nods. “A few minutes ago. I saw them from the window.” He reaches across the space between the beds and lightly slaps Connor’s shoulder. “All hands on deck. Our boy is here.”

“What time is it?” Connor is instantly awake. He has driven up alone from Boston because his wife, an intern at the same hospital where he is a surgical resident, couldn’t get time off from work. “There you are,” he says to O’Neil. “So?”

“I don’t know,” O’Neil says. “It’s late.”

“That’s the beauty of it.” Connor brushes a hand over his coarse hair and grins. His hangover, O’Neil knows, is probably terrible. “No groom, no wedding.”

O’Neil takes a beer from the cooler and heads to the bathroom to shower. The pressure is wonderfully strong, and he takes his time, letting the hot needles run over him, thinking only of the weather, how he hopes it won’t rain, and of his good, loyal friends in the next room. He has known them since high school, seventeen years; soon he will know them longer than he knew his own parents. When he is done he wraps himself with a rough towel and stands in front of the mirror and drinks the beer, which tastes good to him as it always does after a run. He fills the basin to shave, but when he takes the razor in his hand he sees that he is shaking; not shivering, as before, but his hand won’t be still. He finishes the beer and opens the door. Stephen is standing at the window now, smoking a cigarette, and Connor is sitting in the room’s one upholstered chair. For an instant they seem not to notice him. Then Stephen turns and smiles.

“How’s it going in there, tiger?”

“Not so good.” O’Neil holds out his quavering hand to demonstrate. “You were right. I don’t think I can shave.”

“Ah.” Stephen nods. “Connor? This is your department, am I right?”

Connor moves swiftly to the ice chest and removes another Ballantine, wiping the glass on a towel. He hands it to O’Neil. “As your doctor, I advise you to drink this. Now, then—” Connor pulls the desk chair into the bathroom and O’Neil sits, sipping his second beer, which he knows he shouldn’t have. Connor spreads the cream on O’Neil’s cheeks, then moves behind him and gently takes O’Neil’s chin in his hands. His face close to O’Neil’s, he begins to shave him, his eyes following the path of the razor.

“Are you sure you know how to do this?”

“No.”

O’Neil closes his eyes and lets himself feel the scrape of the blade over his chin, where he usually cuts himself. In his ear, Connor’s breathing is a thin whistle, and smells a little of beer. O’Neil can’t believe how late he is, but there doesn’t seem to be anything he can do to hurry himself up.

“There you go, champ.”

O’Neil looks at his reflection in the mirror, Connor standing beside him with the razor in his hand. He rubs his hands over his cheeks and neck, the firm point of his Adam’s apple.

“Nice,” he says.

“I can do the rest too,” Connor offers, rinsing the blade. “I had to do that in medical school.”

“I’m feeling a little queasy,” O’Neil says. He looks up at his friend, in his hilarious seersucker suit. “How about an appendectomy?”

“Only,” Connor says, “if you promise to hold very,
very
still.”

Stephen has laid out O’Neil’s clothes on the bed, and while he dresses, Connor and Stephen drink the rest of the beer and talk about Connor’s wedding, which was the summer before, up in Montreal.

“You’re really lucky,” Connor says. He is hunched over in his chair, absently swinging his empty beer between his knees. “A wedding should be small. I look at the pictures now and think, Did I really go to that party? Though you should see them.” He rolls his eyes and clucks his tongue happily. “Like something from a magazine.”

At the mirror O’Neil struggles with his tie. It’s new, with bright swirls of yellow and blue to set off the threads of his suit, and he can’t seem to get the lengths right. He ties it first with a Windsor, then with a double Windsor, and each time the skinny end comes out too long. Then, without thinking, he somehow gets it right; he yanks the ends and a tight dimple appears below the knot. He slides into his jacket, shaking his shoulders to pull loose the shape. He is looking at his reflection, taking it in, when suddenly he remembers: the boutonniere. He was supposed to pick it up that morning at the florist’s across from the hotel. But there is no time now. He takes the rose from Alice’s tray, squeezes off the stem with his fingernail, and pushes it through the buttonhole of his lapel.

O’Neil turns from the mirror to tell his friends he’s ready, and finds them standing at the far window, their broad backs toward him. His eyes follow their gaze; it is Simone, once again crossing the lot to her car. O’Neil’s first thought is that he isn’t so late after all, that not all the guests have left. But then this thought is pushed aside, he sees Simone through his friends’ eyes, and he knows he is looking at a beautiful woman, maybe the most beautiful woman he has ever seen in his life, crossing the lot below them. Her steps are slow, graceful, without calculation; she seems almost to float. O’Neil is filled with a reverent awe, traveling the length of his body like a beam of light.

“Unbe
liev
able,” Stephen says.

“They’re different from us.” Connor, his hands buried in his pockets, shakes his head in amazement. “It’s really very simple. I speak not as a married man but as a scientist.”

The three men watch while she opens the driver’s door, removes her hat, and, balanced on her slender heels, lowers herself sideways onto the driver’s seat, her legs dangling out of the car so that she can smooth the front of her dress. She pulls the door shut behind her, places the hat on the seat beside her, and arches her back to examine herself in the rearview mirror, pushing a hand through her long hair. The engine purrs to life and she backs out of the drive.