Slightly Married. Wendy Markham
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You’d think he might at least have asked me if everything is okay.
No, you wouldn’t think that. Not if you knew Billy, anyway.
Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that I can’t stand him—although sometimes I really can’t. But that’s just because he can be an arrogant, prejudiced, elitist prick.
When he’s not being an arrogant, prejudiced, elitist prick, he’s fine. More or less. He’s just not my kind of person. We simply have nothing in common other than his being married to my best girlfriend.
Anyway, I really should be glad he didn’t inquire about the urgent nature of my call, because I might have been tempted to blurt it out.
And I really don’t want Billy, of all people, to be the first to hear the big news.
I consider calling Buckley O’Hanlon, my best straight guy friend. Then I remember that after Raphael’s wedding, he and his fiancée, Sonja, were heading out to spend the remainder of Valentine’s Day weekend at some romantic inn in the Hamptons. They won’t be back until tomorrow.
I could call Brenda, Latisha or Yvonne, but I’ll see them at the office first thing in the morning. It will be much more satisfying to stick out my hand and show them.
But I have to tell someone, and soon.
I’ll just wait for Kate to call back. I’m sure it won’t be long. How long does it take to barf, brush your teeth and dial the phone?
In the kitchen, I brew a big pot of coffee, throw on a Frank Sinatra CD—and promptly find myself homesick.
Between the fragrant hazelnut grounds and Frankie baby singing “My Kinda Town,” I could close my eyes and imagine I’m sitting at a vinyl-covered chair in my parents’ kitchen. No, it’s not in Frankie baby’s Chicago.
It’s in Brookside, New York, just south and west of Buffalo—which might as well be in the Midwest. My father frequently plays Frank Sinatra on Sunday mornings as we lounge around in our robes with coffee. The only thing that’s missing is the aroma of something frying. Bacon or pork sausage, pancakes or eggs in butter, onions and hash browns in olive oil—there’s always something frying in my parents’ house.
Suddenly, I’m desperate to share my big news with them—the news I told Jack just last night should wait until we see our families in person.
Since my future mother-in-law lives a short train ride away, in Westchester County, we can tell her anytime. Wilma is the one who gave Jack the heirloom diamond in the first place, so she’s not likely to be very surprised.
My parents, on the other hand, gave up any hope of my getting married the day I moved in with Jack. That’s because, as everybody knows, people—namely, men—don’t buy cows who give milk for free. At least, everyone in Brookside knows that. Probably because Connie Spadolini told them.
What my mother never did understand is that in Manhattan, where cows are as scarce as affordable apartments and a gallon of milk is as expensive as a gallon of gasoline, living together is a prelude to marriage, not an alternative.
I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees my ring and witnesses the end of the shameful era she refers to as Tracey Lives In Sin. It was only slightly less traumatic for my family than the previous eras known as Tracey Turns Her Back on Her Family (i.e., Relocates to New York) and Tracey Falls in Love With a Flaming Homosexual.
Not that Will actually was. Gay, I mean.
But as far as my father and brothers are concerned, if you’re going to wear black turtlenecks and expensive cologne and have an affinity for show tunes and fresh herbs, you’d damn well better be a middle-aged Italian man. Or have a vagina.
Poor Waspy Will, sans vagina, obviously had to be closeted, according to the macho macho men in my family.
Anyhoo, the only thing Team Spadolini would find more disturbing than my living with—and not marrying—Jack, would be my marrying Will McCraw.
No danger of that. Will never was the marrying type. He told me that right from the start. I just chose not to hear him. I didn’t stick my fingers into my ears and sing “Love and Marriage” at the top of my lungs whenever he opened his mouth, but I might as well have.
If Jack had told me from the start that he wasn’t the marrying type, I wouldn’t have believed him, either…but not because I was delusional. I’ve just never had any real doubt that Jack loved me and would marry me sooner or later.
Okay, I may have had some doubt.
And all right, at one point, I may have suspected him of having a secret girlfriend in Brooklyn to whom he was planning to give the ring.
But like I said, that’s all behind me now.
The diamond is on my finger. Mine.
I’m a fiancée, tra la!
Amazing what a difference a day makes.
You know, if I thought there was any chance I’d find my mother at home right now, I’d call her and tell her my news if for no other reason than to ease her worries about my eternal salvation.
But a glance at the clock ensures me that my parents are currently at their regular Sunday-morning mass at Most Precious Mother. My mother is probably praying for me and my sins at this very moment. I know she does that every week because she likes to keep me apprised of her religious intentions.
The sooner I tell my mother the news, the sooner she can resume praying for something more relevant, like world peace, or a price break in imported almond paste.
Last night, I suggested to Jack that we try to get a cheap Jet Blue flight to Buffalo for next weekend, and he agreed.
What I strategically neglected to tell him is that while we’re up there, we can also find a caterer, talk to the priest, choose a band or DJ and start the paperwork with the florist, videographer and photographer.
Over the next few days, I’m positive Jack will come to realize that we should absolutely get married in Brookside, in which case firming up our plans while we’re there will be an added bonus of the trip.
I pour my coffee, grab a notepad and sit down on the couch to get the basics on paper.
Fortunately, I’m really good at organizing details.
Or maybe a better way to put it is, A control freak.
Whatever. The important thing is to approach this wedding with a cohesive plan of action.
That’s why I immediately decide to use a technique I learned back in junior high when I started writing for the school paper. As I recall, the key to researching a solid article is answering the five W’s: Who, What, When, Where and Why.
Can the same formula be applied to a wedding plan?
Why, I believe it can.
In this case, Who would be the guest list.
Oh, and the bridal party—though I’ve already picked out my eight attendants. Yes, eight. You don’t expect me to leave anyone out after the way they’ve all stood by me, do you?
My sister, Mary Beth, will be my matron of honor, of course. Then there’s my sister-in-law, Sara; Jack’s sister Rachel, and my friends Raphael, Kate, Brenda, Latisha and Yvonne. I’ve even matched them up with the guys Jack will be having. Not that he’s ever said who his groomsmen would be, but I have a good idea. So I jot down their names on the list, opposite each of my bridesmaids—or bridesman, as the case may be.
I’m careful not to match up Raphael with any of my homophobic brothers or Jack’s old frat brother, Jeff, whom Raphael once insisted is a closeted gay man. I shudder, remembering how he attempted to give Jeff a lap dance in an effort to prove the point.
I strategically link Raphael with Buckley, who is as comfortable with his sexuality as he is with Raphael’s. The only possible hitch would