Spin Doctor (17 page)

I pursed my lips, trying to stifle my anger. “Then draw me a picture.”

 

The phone rang shortly after two
A.M
. and startled me out of a sound sleep. Eli answered it and couldn't seem to make head or tail of the gist of the situation described by the urgent person on the other end of the phone.

“It's one of your clients, Susie,” he said, rolling over and handing me the receiver. I sat up in bed, fearing every therapist's worst nightmare: that one of them has done something horribly self-destructive.

“Hello…?” I said sleepily.

“Susan, it's Claude.” Her voice, usually so calm, sounded panicked.

“Wh-What's the matter? Is everything all right? Are you okay? Is Naomi okay?”

“Yes…and no. Susan, we really need your help and you're the only person we could think of at this late date.”

I wasn't fully comprehending. “Claude, what can I help you with at two in the morning?”

“We just got an e-mail from our caterer—well, it's the Jade Dragon, the local Chinese restaurant up in Seneca Falls. We were all set to have our wedding banquet there after the ceremony on Saturday…and they told us they have to cancel. That they can't be involved. Nay was sure that it had something to do with the fact that they realized they were going to be catering a gay wedding, but didn't want to put that in writing. And
it's the Chinese way to be indirect, anyway. We don't confront things head-on. Think tai-chi, not boxing.”

“I'm still not sure I know what you want me to help you with in the middle of the night.”

“I'm so sorry for calling you now. It's totally inexcusable, I know. We freaked. Chalk it up to prewedding jitters. Planning jitters. We want this to come off so beautifully, and when we read the e-mail, the two of us kind of went into crisis mode. I apologize again for the ridiculous hour. And please tell Eli we're sorry too, for waking him up.”

It had been the first night in a long time that Eli and I had gone to bed at the same hour, even made love, such as it had been, and despite the uncomfortable postcoital conversation. But there was no need to share that information with my client. Number one: it was personal. And number two: if I had, it would have launched her on a galactic guilt trip.

“So…I guess I called you for two reasons: one—to talk us down from the metaphorical ledge; and two—because you might be able to recommend another caterer. Someone who won't lose face by feeding two brides and seventy-five of their closest friends and relatives.”

By now I was fully awake and almost alarmingly alert. “I have an idea,” I told Claude, “but I can't make you any guarantees right this second. At 2:24
A.M
., I mean. How do you feel about curried goat and jerk chicken?”

The weather gods favored Claude and Naomi with a brilliant Indian Summer day for their wedding. Not only was I looking forward to celebrating their nuptials, but the road trip gave the nuclear Lederer family a chance to spend the entire day together, something we hadn't done in weeks. Ian, sketchbook on his lap, wondered if any of the guests would arrive in costume, since it was in fact also Halloween. He didn't feel bad that he was missing a classmate's Halloween party. “Ma, I get dressed in costumes all the time for a living,” he said, sounding terribly serious and grown-up. “Halloween for me is like Saint Patrick's Day for bartenders.”

“What do you know about bartenders?” Molly shot back.

“Not as much as you do!” her kid brother retorted.

“Stop that, both of you! I'm about ready to turn this car around. I left tons of work in the city and I can't drive when you kids act like two-year-olds.”

“Dad, you're
treating
us like two-year-olds,” insisted Molly.

“You've been doing it ever since we left Manhattan.”

“Yeah,” Ian agreed. “That ‘I spy a cow' game? And counting out-of-state license plates? Puh-leese.”

Molly favored us with the indelicate teen snort. “That's
'cause Dad draws comic books for a living. He thinks every-one's, like, twelve.”

“Hey, I
am
twelve. So shut up, Molly.”

“Shut up yourself.”

“Kids!”

“Are we there yet? I need to pee.”

“Ian, we just passed a rest stop five miles ago. Why didn't you say something then?”

“I didn't have to pee then.”

Ahhh, the family car trip. Why had I been remembering them with such fond and rosy nostalgia?

 

Seneca Falls is a quaint little Finger Lakes town, full of Queen Anne gingerbread-style architecture, but it's not a place that's readily accessible unless you have a car. Having made the journey, I realized that Claude and Naomi's guests would really have to want to share their special day in order for them to wake up at dawn and drive several hours upstate. Their presence would be as much of a statement as the wedding itself.

“See, Molly, if you go to Bennington, you'll have more or less the same topography, except of course for the canal. But the trees, even some of the houses, and the little churches…isn't it pretty during the fall? It even
smells
wonderful up here!”

“Can we not talk about this?” she grumbled. “Can we have
one day off
from talking about colleges?” She kicked at a pile of leaves in the parking lot.

“This church is pretty ugly,” Molly whispered to me. “I thought it was going to be one of those New Englandy white clapboard ones with the steeple. Like…well, like Bennington.”

“The restoration is pretty uninspiring,” I agreed. “But look over there. Kind of stuffed in the middle. I guess that's what's left of the original nineteenth-century church.”

“Taste, people,
taste!
” Molly moaned.

“Well, we're not here to critique the architecture. We're here to celebrate our friends' wedding. Do you see Meriel and William anywhere around?”

Whirling on her heels, Molly made a three sixty. “Wait, I think that's her.”

Sure enough, Meriel was coming toward us, waving her arms and looking exceptionally striking in a print dress and matching head scarf. “I don't know where we supposed to set up de tent! And de woman with de flowers was here ahsking me questions about where to put dem because she tink I'm de caterer, and she cahn't find de brides, but I tell her I'm just pinch-hitting and I'm as much in de dark as she is.” She pointed to an SUV. “William want to unload everyting, but he don't know where to put it.”

By now Ian had wandered over and had two cents to offer as well. “I think they need a stage manager, Mom.”

“And I have a feeling that's where you come in,” Molly concurred.

I sent Ian to potter around with his father, while Molly trailed me into the chapel. The vestry was a scene of utter chaos. Both brides were running around in their bras and panties, acting like the proverbial decapitated chicken. “I can't find my other shoe!” Naomi exclaimed, limping around. “How far could it have gone?!”

“Oh, thank God you're here,” Claude said, embracing me. “I think the chamber musicians got lost. They were supposed to be here a half hour ago. Did we invite anyone who knows how to play the organ? That seems to be the only thing we've got around here. Alice and Izzy are supposed to sing; Alice's boyfriend is bringing his guitar—he's a folksinger as well as a carpenter, you know—but I don't know if Dan knows anything
classical. Nay, don't let all that bending over mess up your hair.” Naomi's thick dark hair had been gathered into an elaborate French twist, with ringlets framing her face. It was the first time I'd seen her in full makeup.

“Okay, I need to start getting dressed,” Claude muttered, half to herself. “Fuck!” she shrieked suddenly. “I just ripped my panty hose.” She rummaged through the pockets of her garment bag.

“Nay, do you have an extra pair? I knew I forgot something!”

“I do, but they wouldn't fit you,” she replied, from halfway under a bench. “Hah! Got it!” She slid out, butt first, triumphantly clutching her white satin pump.

“I need a pair of hose,” Claude said frantically. “I can't go bare-legged under a cheongsam. Granny's having enough fits as it is. This will kill her, and I won't be able to live with the guilt.”

“Is there a drugstore or something around here?” I asked them.

“We passed one about two blocks away, around the corner to your left when you exit the chapel.”

“Thanks, Naomi. Molly, make yourself useful.” I opened my purse and handed her a five dollar bill from my wallet. “Pick up another pair of panty hose for Claude.”

“Tall! Size tall. You're a lifesaver,” Claude said gratefully, exhaling for the first time since we'd entered the vestry.

Molly shot out the door and I proceeded to ascertain where the food was supposed to be set up, then left the chapel in order to tell Meriel and William where to pitch the tent. While I was getting them on track, the photographer arrived, asked me if I was the mother of one of the brides—
I know I'm gray, but do I look that old?
—and I ushered him inside, first checking that Claude and Naomi were more or less fully dressed. They insisted that I stay to be part of the wedding photos.

“We couldn't have done this without you,” Claude insisted.

When I stepped outside again, I noticed that the guests had started to arrive. Naomi and Claude, though somewhat calmer knowing that someone was in charge and that the caterer, florist, and photographer were aware of their marching orders—although the string quartet was still AWOL—were unsure whether they should greet their guests or follow tradition and remain out of sight until the walk down the aisle. Regardless of sexual orientation, when it comes to some things—the planning and execution of a wedding among them—life's little vicissitudes are just plain universal.

Alice and Izzy had arrived with Dan Carpenter, his acoustic guitar case in hand. “You don't have to feel sorry for me; I brought a date too,” Izzy kidded, patting her swollen belly.

“Don't freak out, now, but you're a keeper,” Alice told Dan, affectionately squeezing his arm.

“Why? Because I agreed to come to a wedding with you even though we've only been dating for a few weeks?” He winked at me as he set down the guitar and took Alice into his arms.

“Exactly!”

“You're right, he's a keeper,” I agreed.

“You are a wonderful boyfriend and a very good sport,” Alice murmured lovingly to Dan. “Just keep being this terrific and I'll never have to cry about you in front of Susan!”

“Threats! See, she's threatening me already,” Dan teased.

“Ah, but that's a
good
thing. It means she's very comfortable around you,” I assured him. I excused myself to assist a middle-aged Asian couple who were struggling to extricate an elderly woman from the backseat of their car and get her settled into a wheelchair.

“You must be Claude's family,” I said, shaking the man's hand. “I'm Susan. A friend of theirs from the apartment build
ing.” Claude's parents, Lily and Stewart, greeted me graciously, but her grandmother scowled.

“Don't mind my mother-in-law; she doesn't hear so well,” Mr. Chan told me quietly. “And when she heard that the food was not going to be Chinese, she was very upset with Claude.”

It wasn't my place to divulge why the original caterer had backed out, so I simply smiled and acknowledged that life is indeed full of little disappointments, but they become unimportant in the long run when there is something to celebrate.

When I heard an argument about hardware, I assumed that it was being enacted by the battling Sciorras. Apparently Naomi's father had decided that some sort of elaborate tool set would be an appropriate wedding gift for his daughter and her life partner. “And what am I supposed to put on the card?” grumbled Mr. Sciorra. “To the bride and groom? Which one is which? To the bride and bride? To lesbo and lesbo?”

“Stop it, Silvio!” Mrs. Sciorra dug her manicured nails into her husband's dinner jacket. “I told you, you're gonna have to behave like a person today. Naomi's our
daughter,
for chrissakes. Get with the twenty-first century, will you! You act like you stepped off the boat at Ellis Island last week. No wonder our daughter ran away from this lifestyle. Gimme the card!” she said, grabbing it out of Silvio's hand. “You know what we're gonna write? Watch me, so you don't forget it and say something that's gonna embarrass the whole family this afternoon. See this?” She bent over the hood of the car, took a pen from her purse, and began to inscribe the greeting card. “‘To Naomi and Claude'…got that Silvio? They have names. You're gonna use 'em.
Naomi and Claude.
‘With prayers for their continued health and happiness and may they one day get God's blessing.'” She clicked the ballpoint and returned it to her handbag, then licked the envelope closed with a flourish. “Now gimme
the present so I can stick the card under the ribbon so it don't fall out and get lost—though if it does, I'm sure they'll have no trouble figuring out who gave them a Skil set.”

 

The ceremony itself, when all was said and done, went off without a hitch. The minister was a remarkable woman who gave a touching sermon about personal freedoms and choice and the resonance of the Wesleyan Chapel to this ceremony. I have to say that it was the most heartfelt wedding I'd ever attended. For Claude and Naomi's chosen lifestyle, marriage was not a rite of passage that was expected of them, or of course legally recognized throughout most of the country. Even in New York State their gesture was largely symbolic. My friends chose to stand up for their beliefs and make a public commitment to one another; and their guests, by their very presence (not to mention several hours on the highway) made the choice to support that decision. I was teary-eyed. Claude and Naomi walked down the aisle together, bearing matching bouquets of white roses and red carnations. White roses represented pure and spiritual love, said the minister, and the red carnations, an exceptionally hardy flower, symbolized the blood of Christ—and by extension referred to the fact that Claude and Naomi, by taking this very public step, were martyrs to the issue of same-sex marriage. Personally I found that a bit too militant for the occasion. Ruminating further on the bouquet subject, I figured that the women just liked the idea of having blooms that matched their gowns, and they hadn't a clue about the arcane language of flowers. I mean, who does?

The chamber musicians, a quartet of students from the Mannes School of Music in Upper Manhattan, did in fact arrive in the nick of time (they'd taken a wrong turn somewhere in the vicinity of Ithaca), and they were just terrific. Accompa
nied by Dan's richly melodious guitar, Alice and Izzy harmonized beautifully on a touching duet from the Broadway musical
Shenandoah,
called “We Make a Beautiful Pair.” Ian became a hit with his clever caricatures of the guests—including Claude's grandmother—and earned the much-yearned-for approbation of his artist father. And Molly's last minute panty hose purchase had helped Claude save face with her grandmother, who sat through the ceremony with a look of complete bewilderment on her face. Claude had told me that her grandmother speaks only a few words of English, even after living all these years in America, so I doubt the old woman understood much of what was going on. She did gaze approvingly, however, at her granddaughter's traditional dress.

Alice, who was sitting just in front of me, was also visibly moved by the ceremony. At one point she fumbled in her purse, evidently looking for a tissue. I opened my bag, took out a packet, tapped her on the shoulder and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she whispered, stifling a sniffle. She held up three fingers. “That's the third time you've rescued me this way.” I gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze as she withdrew the top tissue from the pack—and handed it to Izzy, who was even more emotionally affected. Alice leaned her head to rest it on Dan's shoulder, while Izzy rested hers on Alice's. Upon Izzy's audible sob, Alice, saving one tissue for herself, gave her friend the entire package, pressing it into her hand. Izzy availed herself of a couple, then stuck the packet in her purse. When she pulled out her hand, she was clutching her cell phone.

“Excuse me, please,” she whispered through a loud sniffle, then tried to squeeze past Alice and Dan to get to the aisle, where she did her best to unobtrusively leave the chapel.

“Is she going to be okay?” I whispered to Alice.