The Marriage Pact (1) (7 page)

“Okay,”
he said, sadly. “Listen, Marci, I know that whole thing wasn’t really supposed
to be serious, you know. The napkin thing? But I do love you and I think we
both know we’d be great together. What could be better than marrying your best
friend, right?”

She
had swallowed a piece of granite, apparently, the size of an egg. Her lips
moved but no sound would come out. Again, he waited, but not for long. Suzanne
appeared from the restroom hallway thirty feet away and began picking her way
through the crowd toward them.

“Okay,”
he said softly, reaching over her to collect the tab from the bartender. “I’m
here for you if you want to talk about...whatever, okay?”

“Okay,” Marci said,
more ashamed than ever.

By
the time she had left the cab, staggered up her parents’ impossibly long
driveway, stumbled pseudo-quietly up the stairs, brushed her teeth, and fallen
into her childhood bed, it was after 3:00. Her old room still had posters of
R.E.M. and Pink Floyd from her high school days, and her stuffed animal
collection cushioned her drunken collapse.

Across
the hall, Nicole’s room was dark and the door open. For a moment, Marci
experienced a flash of big-sister worry until she remembered that Ellie had arranged
for their whole group to crash in a hotel room downtown. Marci wondered whether
they were all still out, and how Ravi was faring with Nicky’s crazy friends.
She was trying to imagine poor Ravi doing lemon drop shots with the sorority
sisters when blackness overtook her.

#

Not
until
very
bright and not so early the next morning did Marci even think
to check her phone to see whether Doug had called. She woke to this realization
and a vicious hangover, scrambling to reach her purse from the bed as her head
pounded in her ears and her stomach lurched menacingly.

He
had called. Twelve times.
Damn
.

Fighting
the urge to vomit, she sighed and held down the voicemail key on her phone.
Four messages.
Great
.

Saturday,
8:02 p.m. “Hey, Marce, it’s Doug. It’s about seven o’clock here, and I know you
were planning to go out tonight so I just made a quick run to the store, hoping
to catch up with you. Maybe you’re already out? That’s right, the time
difference. Shit. Well, if you’re not out or you can sneak off to the bathroom
in the next few minutes, give me a buzz. Hope you’re having a great time with
your family. Okay, well, hopefully I’ll talk to you soon.”

Saturday,
8:46 p.m. “Marce, hey, just on my way home and wanted to try you again before I
get back to the house. There’s some family coming over tonight to play cards
and stuff. I’ll leave my phone in the car so you can call if you want. Okay,
babe? Love you. Be safe.”

Saturday
11:36 p.m. “Hey, hey, hey, Marcella [a loud crash in the background, possibly a
trash can being knocked over] Shit!

[More
clanging, mumbling] Well, bummer—came all the way out to the car and no message
from you. You must be having a damn good time out there. Forgotten all about
me, I guess. Heh, heh. Alright, girl. Take it easy. Going in for the night.
Talk to you tomorrow.”

Sunday,
9:32 a.m. “Hey party girl. Skipped church with the family so I’m here alone for
the next hour and a half or so. Hope you had fun last night. Call me.”

She
ended the call and looked at the clock on her phone. It was 11:15 Georgia time,
just past the window he had mentioned in the last message. She debated calling
him back anyway, on the chance that his family returned later than expected.
But between the coldness in his voice, the pounding in her head, and the fact
that her mouth seemed filled with fiberglass insulation, she opted to put the
phone back in her purse and go down for breakfast instead. The damage was done,
obviously, and a few more hours wouldn’t make a difference now.

Downstairs,
Nicole slouched over the kitchen table with an ice pack on the back of her neck
and a plate of untouched pancakes and bacon in front of her. She seemed to be
wearing the same jeans from the night before—with rhinestones down the seams,
ridiculous on Sunday morning—and one of Ravi’s Georgetown sweatshirts. Ravi and
their father were visible through the sliding glass door, sitting with coffee
on the back porch and engaged in a conversation lively enough to indicate that
Ravi was clearly not as bad off as his betrothed.

“Heavy
starch and grease, girls. That’s the hangover cure I swear by.” Their mother
was so bright and perky she could’ve been sharing the secret for perfect
cupcakes on her own cooking show, rather than nursing the hangovers of two
wayward adult daughters. “Pancakes, Marce?”

“Please,”
Marci muttered gratefully. She set her plate across from Nicole’s untouched
breakfast and headed for the medicine cabinet.

“Must’ve
been some night,” Mom continued, smiling.

“Ugh.”
This sound emanated from somewhere in the vicinity of Nicole.

“Well,
you’d better get hydrated and take some Advil, because that shower is happening
today come hell or high water. Aunt Theresa hasn’t talked about anything else
for the last three months.”

Three
hours later, they pulled up in front of Aunt Theresa’s house—a small brick
bungalow off Habersham Road in Buckhead, one of the older and more prestigious
Atlanta neighborhoods. The streets had modest, older homes like Aunt Theresa’s,
with ample yards and very old pine trees, mixed in with enormous mansions. Some
of these were obviously built at the time the neighborhood was growing, while
others were newer, shinier, and disproportionately large for the size of the
property. Every time Marci drove through Buckhead she was amazed at the amount
of money that existed in this part of town—Austin had nothing quite like it.

Inside,
Theresa’s house reflected her own eclectic style more than the pretense of the
neighborhood. The walls were brightly colored and every room dotted with
collectibles from her lifetime of travels—everything from African tribal masks
to a real honest-to-God bear rug from Siberia. Aunt Theresa was a
photojournalist and had been all over the world. Growing up, both Marci and
Nicole had always thought she hung the moon; she was one of the reasons Nicole
had chosen journalism. And perhaps the reason Marci had always… well, wanted to
write, anyway.

Today
Theresa’s warm little house was enhanced by the sound of happy chatter as about
twenty or so of their female relatives and family friends mingled in the
various rooms. The three of them walked in the living room, their mother
pushing Nicole from behind, whispering “big smile, big smile!” They were
greeted with a collective gasp and oohs and ahs and “Here’s the bride!”

Almost
immediately, Marci felt a bony death grip on her arm and caught the smell of
menthol cigarettes.
Dammit
. She could go to no family function, it
seemed, without their decrepit great-aunt Mildred latching on to her immediately
and cornering her for the entire event, demanding to know who she was dating
and why she wasn’t married with kids already. Ever since her baby sister had
gotten engaged first, Marci had been dreading her next meeting with Mildred.

Her
mother glanced back apologetically and mouthed, “Be nice,” as she followed
Nicole into the center of the main living room while Mildred held Marci hostage
in the foyer. For the next twenty minutes, she nodded politely and attempted to
watch what was happening at the shower—there was some kind of game going on in
which everyone had some a secret word taped to her back and the other guests
were trying to get her to guess it. Bursts of giggles were breaking out
periodically, which seemed only to invigorate Mildred’s diatribe for being
interrupted.

“That’s
what I was just saying to the black girl who helps me...” Marci cringed,
knowing that “the black girl” was actually Odessa, a tolerant woman in her 50s
with four adult children of her own. She also knew that Aunt Mildred’s own
children had all chipped in every month for the last six years to pay Odessa a
secret bonus to keep her from quitting, as so many of Mildred’s “girls” had
before her.

“It
used to be girls didn’t worry about their careers, especially good Southern girls.
You served God and your family first and that’s the way it was. Nowadays you
girls are so selfish.” Here she pointed a skeletal finger directly into Marci’s
face. “You think that your happiness matters before anything else. What about
family? Don’t you care about anyone but yourself? I hope your sister intends on
staying home with the children when the time comes, not gallivanting all over
the world like—”

“Like
me?” Theresa appeared out of nowhere, smiling. “Don’t worry, Aunt Mildred,” she
trilled, tossing an arm around Marci’s shoulders and wheeling her toward the
living room, “I can’t get these girls to visit me often enough to be a bad
influence on them. Shall I get you some tea? We’re about to do gifts.”

Marci
heard Mildred mutter some sort of reluctant assent, but she was too grateful
for her freedom to risk looking back and making eye contact again. She quickly
made her way to the punch bowl on the other side of the room and engaged in
hasty conversation with a second cousin up from Valdosta while Theresa tended
to Aunt Mildred. A few minutes later, Marci had just realized she’d left her
cell phone in the car, and that she had not yet spoken to Doug, when Theresa
raised her punch glass for a toast and announced to emphatic applause that it
was time to open gifts.

It
was amazing how many things the world suddenly thought you needed when you were
getting married. Marci knew for a fact that Nicole could barely put together a
grilled cheese sandwich, and yet out of countless wrapped boxes she pulled cooking
devices and serving trays that looked foreign even to Marci. A deviled egg
platter. A crème brûlée torch. Espresso maker. Panini press. Waffle iron. She
tried to picture Nicole and Ravi, who both worked at least sixty hours a week
and knew the Chinese takeout man on a first-name basis, sitting to an elegant
brunch of fresh-squeezed orange juice, cappuccino, and waffles...

Marci,
who
did
know her way around the kitchen a little bit, couldn’t help but
feel a twinge of resentment knowing that most of these items would be returned
for store credit, or kept in garage storage while Nicole ate frozen waffles and
delivery pizza. Next, she opened an oversized Dutch oven roasting pan,
beautiful and expensive, and gushed, “Oh, I can’t wait to cook a Thanksgiving bird
in here!”

Marci
snorted involuntarily, and had to fake a coughing fit when the whole room
turned to look at her. Her mother shot her a warning glare, so she took the
opportunity to step out the back door, on the pretense of being unable to stop
coughing.

While
Nicole opened a monogrammed crystal punch bowl, Marci crept around the side of
the house and realized that her mom’s Buick was in full view of the front
window where the shower was. What excuse could she make for running out to the
car? Cough drops? Allergy pills?

Marci,
stop. This is ridiculous. You are thirty years old and are allowed to leave a
party for five minutes to check your phone
.
What if you had an important business call or
something?

Just
to be safe, however, she ducked behind some bushes and skittered in a hunch to
the far side of the car as though she were in a shoot-out, flattening herself
against the hump in the floorboard to retrieve her purse from the other side.
She settled back onto the hidden side of the floor of the car with her feet
hanging out the open door while she pulled out her phone. No missed calls—Doug
was either completely pissed or had given up on reaching her.

Almost
3:45
. She tried
to think what time he might be leaving to head back to Austin, and decided that
if he wasn’t already in the car, he certainly would have his phone off or
hidden as usual. She dialed the number, trying to think how to explain last
night’s phone neglect.

“Hello?”
Cathy’s upbeat voice hit Marci like sharp steel in the chest. Her breath caught
in her throat.

“Hello?”
Cathy repeated.

“Um—hi,
may I speak with,” she searched her brain, panicked, “Nicole, please?”

A
pause. Or did Marci imagine it? Cathy’s voice was polite, however: “I’m sorry,
you have the wrong number.”

“Oh,
sorry. Um, thanks,” Marci stuttered. The call had ended before she’d finished.

Shit,
shit, shit.
Why
had she called him? Why hadn’t she checked her phone last night and called when
he had told her it was okay? He was going to kill her. What was going on there now?
Were they together in the car? An absurd jealousy began to mingle with her
panic.
Why would Cathy be answering his cell phone?

 “You,
too, huh?” The voice startled her out of her miserable spiral, and she looked
up to see Melissa, the cousin from Valdosta, sucking hard on a cigarette near
the bushes. “I keep trying to quit, but damn I hate bridal showers.”

Marci
laughed weakly. “Uh, yeah, me, too,” she muttered, and pushed herself back
toward the house. Forgetting the clandestine nature of her trip to the car, she
walked directly past the window and through the front door in a daze.

Inside,
the gift-opening portion of the festivities had finally drawn to a close, and
everyone seemed to be giving the bride advice about marriage. Marci hovered in
the entryway.

“Try
to live near family if you can; it makes things so much easier, especially once
you have kids.”

“Don’t
have kids too soon. You need time to enjoy being together.”

“But
don’t wait too long, either; those eggs of yours won’t be young forever!”

“Never
go to bed angry. Even if you have to fight it out until three in the morning.”

“Don’t
fight about the little things. Don’t get mad because he doesn’t pick up his
socks.”