Sister of the Bride (3 page)

“So do I, Dad,” said Barbara. “And the reason there aren't any capitals in
archy and mehitabel
is that it was supposed to be typed by a cockroach, who couldn't jump on the capital key and a letter key at the same time. The author wasn't just being lazy. He had a good reason.”

Mr. MacLane chuckled. “A book written by a cockroach is just about what I would expect this fellow to like.”

Barbara laughed in spite of herself.

Mrs. MacLane had ignored this bit of conversation. “I don't know,” she said with a sigh. “I wish I did.”

Mr. MacLane flicked a little tower of ash from his cigar and smiled. “I wouldn't worry if I were you. Why would anybody want to marry a flighty girl like Rosemary?”

“Dad!” Barbara's exclamation was involuntary. “Is that the way you talk about us behind our backs?”

“All the time,” answered her father comfortably.

Barbara sat in injured silence. It was no wonder Gordy was such an exasperating brother. It was hereditary. He had an exasperating father. She wondered what it was like to be some other girl, one with a meek father who agreed to everything and handed out a nice fat allowance.

“Oh, I don't know that Rosemary is completely scatterbrained,” said Mrs. MacLane seriously. “She just likes to have a good time and, besides, college students have so much to do, I think they sometimes seem to be going in several directions at once. She is really a very well-meaning child.” Child, thought Barbara dismally. Rosemary is practically a married woman, and Mother is calling her a child.

“She has never uttered one word of complaint about having to live in a cooperative house at the university. Washing glassware for a hundred girls after dinner every day as her share of the work can't really be a pleasure. She seems to enjoy her life, and so many girls we know would be unhappy if they couldn't live in a sorority house or at least one of the new dormitories.”

“Well, I wish she would stop scattering her brains and bring her grades up,” said Mr. MacLane. “I think I'll have a talk with her this weekend. Tell her she can't carry fifteen units of studies and another fifteen of this Greg and expect to make the grade.”

If her father had begun to talk about Rosemary's grades and Greg at the same time, the moment had come for Barbara to make the sacrifice and throw Tootie Bodger into the conversation. “Tootie Bodger walked home with me today,” she announced.

“That's nice,” said Mrs. MacLane. “Tootie is such a nice boy.”

“I suppose so,” said Barbara. Tootie was probably kind to animals, too, but that did not make her want to go to the movies with him.

“He'll probably ask to take you out one of these
days.” Mrs. MacLane smiled her approval at her younger daughter.

“Maybe,” murmured Barbara. Harmless old Tootie—kind to animals, trusted by mothers—Barbara would be only too happy to trade him for a best man or an usher.

“What that boy needs is to turn out for basketball,” remarked Mr. MacLane, who not only knew every boy in Bayview High, but had definite opinions about what they should or should not do.

“But he would only fall all over his own feet.” Barbara used the words straight from Tootie's mouth and wondered how she got on this side of the argument. Probably because she was talking to her father. For some reason, the last couple of years, she seemed to argue with her father every time she talked to him whether she intended to argue or not. She had not meant to defend Tootie, although she liked him in an impatient sort of way. She even felt a little sorry for him, since Gordy had pointed out that he was shaped like a trombone.

“If he learned to handle himself on the basketball court he might stop falling over his feet,” Mr. MacLane said.

“But Tootie doesn't want to conform.” Barbara
knew her father felt there was too much conformity among high school students. “He doesn't want to be pressured into playing basketball just because he's tall. He wants to play his trombone.”

“He could do both,” suggested Mr. MacLane, “although not necessarily at the same time.”

“You don't understand,” said Barbara, ruffled at her father's attempt at humor. “Tootie is dedicated to his trombone. He is
serious
about it. He is studying with a man from the San Francisco Symphony. He just plays
The Tiger Rag
and things like that because the students like it.”

“I don't see why he puts up with a nickname like Tootie,” mused Mrs. MacLane.

“He likes it better than his real name,” explained Barbara. “How would you feel if you were six feet four and your real name was Robin?”

“I can't imagine what Nancy Bodger was thinking of when she named him Robin. He must have been a fat, pink baby,” said Mrs. MacLane, and she patted Barbara's hand. “I'm glad you like him, dear.”

Now I've done it, thought Barbara. Just wait until the next Amy meeting.

Mrs. MacLane's club, originally called
L' Ami
,
because this was French for
friend
, had been changed by some irreverent husband, possibly Mr. MacLane, to the Amy Club, and its members were known to their families as the Amys. When the club was formed its purpose had been the raising of funds for worthy causes, but somehow over the years it had gradually become a social club, without officers or dues or even regular meetings, whose chief purpose, as far as Barbara could see, was to be an excuse for its members to get together, eat rich desserts, and talk about their children, usually in a humorous vein. Rosemary and Barbara poked fun at the Amys, and Rosemary said the real trouble with the Amys was that they did not use their minds.

Now Mrs. MacLane and Mrs. Bodger would probably compare notes, conclude that Tootie and Barbara liked one another, and make all sorts of little plans to help them get together. If Barbara did not look out she was going to be stuck with Tootie, all because her father made her feel contrary.

Barbara suppressed a sigh as she rose to clear the table. She could not help feeling noble at the way she had sacrificed herself to help save Rosemary—for the moment. She did not envy her sister the
weekend that lay ahead, because she was not sure her father had been entirely joking in his remarks about Rosemary and Greg. He often spoke lightly of matters that he was most serious about.

Mr. MacLane, who had worked with young people so many years, was never intimidated by them, and he never hesitated to speak his mind. It was a real problem. Barbara sometimes felt that life would be easier for her and Rosemary if they had a father who could be moved by persuasion, tears, or sulky silence. Poor Rosemary. She wondered if she should try to telephone her at the dormitory to warn her of what lay ahead, but she decided against it. There would be plenty of time for warnings when she met Rosemary at the Greyhound station. Let Rosemary have a few more days of happiness.

Mr. MacLane had left the table and had settled himself in the living room to enjoy his cigar and his evening paper. Barbara cleared away the last dessert plate, and as she rinsed them under the faucet she wondered how anything as fluffy as meringue, even beady meringue, could become so gluey when it stuck to the plates. Her mood was no longer crescendo. Since her father's remarks about Greg and Rosemary,
diminuendo
was a better
word. Her excitement was diminished to the point where her secret was going to be easy to keep until Friday. She no longer wanted to tell anybody because, if the dinner table conversation was any indication, there might not be a wedding at all.

Barbara's spirits refused to remain diminished. She spent the next few days alternately imagining the trouble Rosemary was going to have with their father and dreaming about the wedding. She wondered what would happen if her father said flatly that Rosemary could not marry Greg. But he couldn't say that, not really, because Rosemary was eighteen. But if he did, and of course he wouldn't—or would he?—it might make a difference in the wedding plans. Maybe Rosemary and Greg would feel they had to elope, and that would spoil all the fun. There wouldn't be any bride's bouquet to catch.

In a happier mood Barbara read the society pages
in the newspaper. No wedding story escaped her. Brides in satin, brides in faille, brides in organdy, brides with wreaths, Juliet caps, and cathedral trains, brides in suits—Barbara passed quickly over these unimaginative creatures and went on to brides with nosegays, shower bouquets, or prayer books—there seemed to be no end to the delightful possibilities. And the attendants! Bridesmaids in yellow organza with sprays of gladioli, bridesmaids in turquoise taffeta with daffodils, a single attendant in blue chiffon with a nosegay of garnet roses and carnations.

It all made such lovely springtime reading.

Then Barbara happened upon a description of a slipper-satin wedding gown that had been worn almost ten years before by an older sister, who had been married in the same church. During the interval, the story said, the ivory shade of the dress had deepened to soft gold. This made Barbara stop and think. Being careful with his money as he was, insisting on margarine instead of butter, her father would probably expect her to use the same wedding dress when her turn came—that phrase again! She had spent her whole life waiting for her turn to come—and yellow was her most unbecoming color. She would never want to walk down
the aisle in yellow. Somehow she would have to see to it that Rosemary did not choose ivory satin. In fact, if both of them were to wear the same dress, it seemed only fair that they select it together. It would be
their
wedding dress, not just Rosemary's. Our wedding gown, thought Barbara dreamily, and she began to see herself clinging to her father's arm, her eyes lowered, starting down the aisle some hazy day in the far, far distant future.

Friday afternoon at five o'clock Barbara was waiting in front of the Greyhound station when Rosemary got off the bus with a suitcase, an armful of books, and an extra coat over her arm.

“Hi,” said Barbara, taking the suitcase because Rosemary would have difficulty carrying it while she was wearing such high heels. “Why such a big suitcase? You still have a toothbrush at home.” Unexpectedly she felt a little shy with her older sister. Rosemary, who had begun to change when she went away to college, now seemed almost like a stranger. She was engaged to be married and would not have that extra toothbrush at home much longer. She looked thinner and more sophisticated, although perhaps this was due, as her mother was sure to say, to dormitory food and so
much walking on a hilly campus. But whether Rosemary's slim figure was due to sophistication or to diet and exercise, Barbara suddenly felt as if her own skirt was too full and her saddle shoes enormous. She felt like a puppy that had not grown up to its feet.

“The suitcase is full of dirty clothes. Too many to wash by hand and not enough for a load at the Laundromat,” explained Rosemary. “I brought the coat home for Mother to shorten. It's so long it practically flaps around my ankles.”

Barbara felt better. This sounded more like the old Rosemary. She wondered how her mother would feel about the laundry and the coat to shorten when she had papers to correct and lessons to plan, but she did not say anything.

“How's everybody?” Rosemary asked, avoiding the topic on both their minds.

“Fine. Gordy's still a pain in the neck, but otherwise we're all fine.”

Rosemary laughed. “You and Gordy are just suffering from sibling rivalry.” Since Rosemary had gone away to college and roomed with a psychology major her conversations were sprinkled with psychology-book phrases.

“You mean we are quibbling siblings?” asked Barbara.

“Something like that.” The girls walked in silence until finally Rosemary spoke the question that was on both their minds. “What do you think Dad is going to say when I tell him?”

Barbara became cautious. She did not feel it was her place to repeat the conversation she had heard between her parents about Rosemary and Greg, particularly since she was not sure to what extent her father had been joking. Still, she wanted somehow to warn her sister that he might object. “Shouldn't Greg ask Dad for your hand?” she asked, taking refuge behind a half-joking manner.

“That went out with fans and bustles,” said Rosemary. “Greg is coming over tomorrow night to talk to Dad, but I thought I should break it to him first. What do you think?”

“Well,” began Barbara, choosing her words with care, “Mother did wonder if maybe you and Greg were getting serious.”

“That's good. Then they shouldn't be too surprised.” Rosemary seemed relieved. “What about Dad? What did he say?”

“Oh, you know Dad,” answered Barbara as airily as she could under the circumstances.

“That's the trouble,” said Rosemary. “He must have said something. Come on, what was it?”

“I…I don't remember exactly,” lied Barbara. “Some silly remark about your cooking or something. And he did mention your grades.”

“Oh.” Rosemary put a lot of expression into that one syllable. Comprehension, disappointment, apprehension. She laughed nervously. “Well, I guess it was a good thing I had to give a debate in high school. Maybe it will help now.”

“Did you win?” asked Barbara tactlessly.

“No,” Rosemary said with a sigh, “but I was trying to prove that a twelve-month school year would be better than a nine-month year. It was pretty hopeless.”

Barbara shifted the suitcase from her right hand to her left hand and back again. The pecking of Rosemary's heels on the sidewalk was the only sound until she said, “Maybe things really were better back in the days when a man had to ask a girl's father for her hand in marriage.”

At home Rosemary spent the time before dinner at her desk, alternately staring into space and trying to concentrate on her French with her fingers
in her ears while Gordy sang, “I've got twenty-nine links of chain around my leg” in the next room. Dinner at the MacLanes' that evening was pleasant enough, even though Barbara and Rosemary tried to conceal their nervousness. Rosemary appreciated a change from dormitory diet and said so. Fresh peas! How absolutely heavenly! And whole fresh strawberries, not mushy frozen berries spread thin in vanilla ice cream the way they were served at school. Mrs. MacLane smiled with pleasure at her daughter's praise.

When Barbara had cleared the dishes from the table, Mr. MacLane peeled the cellophane from his cigar, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Don't you think you should have stayed in Berkeley to study when you have midterms coming up?” he asked.

Rosemary rolled the edge of her place mat back and forth between her fingers. “I brought my books with me.”

“Come on, Gordy, help me with the dishes,” said Barbara hastily, although she longed to stay in the dining room. But Rosemary had a right to a little privacy in her own house. Anyway, if her father acted the way she thought he would, they would be able to hear every word he said in the kitchen. Gordy, somewhat to her surprise, actually followed
Barbara into the kitchen, and he closed the swinging door behind him.

“I don't have to help with the dishes,” Gordy said. “I just don't want to be around when Dad starts preaching to Rosemary about her grades. He might start in on me next.”

“Oh, come on, Gordy,” coaxed Barbara. “It won't hurt you for once. You can give the scraps to your cat.” Buster was underfoot, as he always was when someone was in the kitchen.

While Barbara scraped the plates, Gordy presented a pea to Buster on the tip of his finger. He found a bit of meat also, and then to Barbara's surprise he actually picked up a dish towel. Gordy was so unpredictable. He could just as easily have gone into his room, shut the door, and started plinking on his guitar.

Barbara was torn between making a normal amount of noise in the kitchen and trying to be quiet enough to hear the conversation in the dining room. She was suddenly aware of a long silence on the other side of the swinging door. Then her mother said in such a sad voice, “Oh, Rosemary, you are so young,” that it sent an unexpected pang through Barbara. It hurt to know her mother was sad.

Mr. MacLane did not sound sad at all as he said, “Married? At your age? Marriage isn't a date for a prom, you know.”

Mrs. MacLane said, “I'm sure Greg must be a nice boy if you want to marry him, but we don't know a thing about his family.”

Rosemary was trying to be patient. “I'm eighteen, Mother, and Greg is twenty-four. He isn't a boy. And I am not marrying his family. I am marrying Greg.”

There was a snort from Mr. MacLane. “You may think you aren't marrying his family, but—”

Barbara had to start running the dishwater or have her family wonder why she was being so quiet. She turned the faucet on full force to fill the pan as quickly as possible. When she turned off the water she strained to hear.

“But Dad, we
love
each other,” Rosemary was saying. “
That's
why we want to get married.”

So the debate was on.

Gordy looked incredulous. “Did you hear that?” he asked hoarsely.

Barbara tried to wave him into silence with a soapy hand, but he was not to be silenced. “What does she want to go and get married for?” he asked in a whisper.

“You heard her,” said Barbara.

“A-ah, love. That stuff,” muttered Gordy, as he closely examined the saucers that had been cleared from the table. Those that looked clean he shelved in the cupboard.

“Gordy, you stop that.” Barbara was even more impatient with her brother than usual. “You aren't supposed to put dishes back in the cupboard without washing them.”

“Why not?” asked Gordy. “They look clean to me.”

“Yes, but they have been handled,” Barbara answered in a whisper, trying at the same time to catch what was being said in the dining room.

“But Dad, what do you have against Greg?” Rosemary was demanding to know.

“I don't have anything against Greg,” said Mr. MacLane. “I think you are too young and too impractical for marriage.”

“Yes, Rosemary,” said Mrs. MacLane. “We have nothing against Greg. We just think you should wait until you are older.”

“But I told you. Greg isn't eighteen,” Rosemary was saying. “He's twenty-four, and he has his degree and is working for his teaching credential.”

“And what about
your
education?” Mr. MacLane demanded.

Gordy dropped a handful of silverware on the floor, gathered it up, and returned it with a splash to Barbara's dishwater. Barbara glared at him.

“Well, I didn't do it on purpose,” he said defensively.

The voices in the dining room were rising.

“But I
told
you. I am going back to school while he gets his general secondary credential. That's why we're going to summer school—so we won't have to carry so many courses next fall. Greg wants me to finish college. He believes women should use their minds.”

“You're only making a C average now. How do you think you'll manage when you have to keep house? Be practical for once in your life.”

“I am being practical. Don't you see? We'll be settled then. It will be easier to study.”

“Settled!” Mr. MacLane fairly snorted. “Keeping house in some two-room apartment. You call that settled?”

“Yes.” Rosemary was stubborn.

“Well, I don't.” Mr. MacLane was equally stubborn.

“Didn't Mother trail you around from one army camp to another when you were first married?” demanded Rosemary. “She didn't even have two
rooms. I've heard her tell about that place in Texas where you had one room and shared a kitchen with eight other wives. Did you call that any way to start a marriage?”

That's a good point, thought Barbara. It must have been effective, because her father did not answer immediately.

“Boy,” said Gordy. “They're sure going at it.”

“Be quiet.” Barbara rubbed a scouring pad around the inside of a pan to relieve her feelings. Her happy dream of a beautiful wedding for Rosemary was fading away. It was all so serious now. And that was right, of course. Marriage was serious. But couldn't they be serious and happy at the same time? Couldn't they agree about a few things? If only her mother did not sound so sad. And if only her father would stop raising his voice. Of course he was concerned about Rosemary's future, but he did not have to shout, did he? Barbara felt as if she could not bear it any longer. She wanted to weep into the dishwater, not only for her sister but for her mother and father, too.

“I told you Greg has a job,” Rosemary was saying. “A perfectly good job in the Radiation Laboratory. He files things and looks up things at the library for the physicists, and he's good at it.
The university raised his pay. We aren't going to starve.”

“And can he afford to pay the orthodontist twenty-five dollars a month?” Mr. MacLane demanded. “Have you thought of that little expense?”

“No…I haven't.” Crestfallen, Rosemary faltered.

How awful, thought Barbara as she poured out the dishwater. To want to get married when you are still having your teeth straightened. It must be humiliating to have part of your childhood left over. And she could not help wondering if Greg really could afford to pay Rosemary's orthodontist. If she stopped wearing retainers now, her teeth might go crooked again, and she would have to start all over. That would be expensive. She was sure Greg could not afford it. Not and pay rent and buy groceries and a lot of other things Barbara had not thought about until now.