Read Online A Bigamist's Daughter by Alice McDermott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alice McDermott
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six-course Italian dinner, a Viennese dessert table. Tommy’s family sang German and Irish songs, Joanne’s sang Italian, all of them did the hora and sang Hava Nagila.
“You should see the hem of my dress,” she tells Joanne now. “Ripped to shreds.”
Joanne looks concerned. They’d spent a year finding those blue Qiana dresses and another six months deciding what to wear in their hair and what flowers to carry. “Is it ruined?”
“No,” Elizabeth says. “I can fix it. Don’t you remember? I showed you at the wedding.”
She shakes her head. “They say the bride never remembersanything.” “Are you on drugs?” Elizabeth had asked her at one point during the reception, she was smiling so, her eyes were so bright. Joanne had just smiled back at her, lights snapping around them.
“How did the pictures come out?”
Joanne pushes her glass to the end of the table and pulls the new one to her. The small red napkin beneath it is soggy and she lifts the glass a few times, blotting it. “I don’t know,” she says, watching the glass. “I haven’t looked at them.”
“What?” Elizabeth laughs a little. “After all the posing we did? How could you not look at them?” She suspects Joanne is joking.
She takes a sip of her drink. “I don’t like thinking about the wedding,” she says solemnly. “I don’t even like to talk about it.”
Elizabeth puts her hand on Joanne’s wrist. A reflex. Like when they used to play lightning tag when they were young: If I’m touching home and you touch me, you’re safe, I’m safe. If I’m touching you and you’re out, I’m out too. They always tried to be near each other when they played.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, touching Joanne’s wrist, trying to absorb what she feels. “Is something wrong between you and Tommy?” She wonders briefly if she’s prying.
Joanne laughs a little, shaking her head. “No,” she says. “It has nothing to do with Tommy. It’s just me. My mother says it happens to everyone. Tommy’s great. I love him.”
“Then what is it?”
She sucks her bottom lip. Twelve years old again. The two of them sitting on the curb outside Elizabeth’s house, knees and thighs touching. Joanne sucking her lip, eyes filled with tears, Elizabeth watching her, thinking death, divorce, she’s moving, whatever we fear most for our friends at twelve. “My father threw a cup at me,” Joanne had finally said.
She says now, in the same tone, “I just can’t stand that it’s over.”
“What’s over?” And already she’s searching for some antidote, some sad part of her own life to hold up beside Joanne’s. If you’re out, I’m out. “At least your father’s home to throw a cup at you,” she had said that day on the curb. “My father’s never even here.” Just what her mother would say to their neighbors when she sat with them in the kitchen, drinking beer or coffee. “At least your husband’s always home.” Not that either Elizabeth or her mother would have changed places with any of them—replaced their sometime father/husband with any of their friends’ permanent tyrants. But neither would they have said the others were right, that they had a right to complain, that their husbands/fathers were bastards, oafs. No, only the subtle lie: At least he’s home, at least you have that.
“The wedding,” Joanne says. She breathes once, a laugh, a sob, and puts the back of her hand to her mouth. “I know it’s stupid, but, God, I just can’t stand it.” She swallows, shakes her head. “It was the biggest day of my life and it went so fast. And now it’s over. Forever.” She looks directly at Elizabeth. “I waited all my life for that day.”
“And it was beautiful.” At least you have that. “Perfect.”
“Yeah,” she says, stirring her drink. “So now I’m back and my parents are yelling at each other again and Mr. Havers is bitchy again and work is the same and I don’t even have flowers on my desk any
“You should see the hem of my dress,” she tells Joanne now. “Ripped to shreds.”
Joanne looks concerned. They’d spent a year finding those blue Qiana dresses and another six months deciding what to wear in their hair and what flowers to carry. “Is it ruined?”
“No,” Elizabeth says. “I can fix it. Don’t you remember? I showed you at the wedding.”
She shakes her head. “They say the bride never remembersanything.” “Are you on drugs?” Elizabeth had asked her at one point during the reception, she was smiling so, her eyes were so bright. Joanne had just smiled back at her, lights snapping around them.
“How did the pictures come out?”
Joanne pushes her glass to the end of the table and pulls the new one to her. The small red napkin beneath it is soggy and she lifts the glass a few times, blotting it. “I don’t know,” she says, watching the glass. “I haven’t looked at them.”
“What?” Elizabeth laughs a little. “After all the posing we did? How could you not look at them?” She suspects Joanne is joking.
She takes a sip of her drink. “I don’t like thinking about the wedding,” she says solemnly. “I don’t even like to talk about it.”
Elizabeth puts her hand on Joanne’s wrist. A reflex. Like when they used to play lightning tag when they were young: If I’m touching home and you touch me, you’re safe, I’m safe. If I’m touching you and you’re out, I’m out too. They always tried to be near each other when they played.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, touching Joanne’s wrist, trying to absorb what she feels. “Is something wrong between you and Tommy?” She wonders briefly if she’s prying.
Joanne laughs a little, shaking her head. “No,” she says. “It has nothing to do with Tommy. It’s just me. My mother says it happens to everyone. Tommy’s great. I love him.”
“Then what is it?”
She sucks her bottom lip. Twelve years old again. The two of them sitting on the curb outside Elizabeth’s house, knees and thighs touching. Joanne sucking her lip, eyes filled with tears, Elizabeth watching her, thinking death, divorce, she’s moving, whatever we fear most for our friends at twelve. “My father threw a cup at me,” Joanne had finally said.
She says now, in the same tone, “I just can’t stand that it’s over.”
“What’s over?” And already she’s searching for some antidote, some sad part of her own life to hold up beside Joanne’s. If you’re out, I’m out. “At least your father’s home to throw a cup at you,” she had said that day on the curb. “My father’s never even here.” Just what her mother would say to their neighbors when she sat with them in the kitchen, drinking beer or coffee. “At least your husband’s always home.” Not that either Elizabeth or her mother would have changed places with any of them—replaced their sometime father/husband with any of their friends’ permanent tyrants. But neither would they have said the others were right, that they had a right to complain, that their husbands/fathers were bastards, oafs. No, only the subtle lie: At least he’s home, at least you have that.
“The wedding,” Joanne says. She breathes once, a laugh, a sob, and puts the back of her hand to her mouth. “I know it’s stupid, but, God, I just can’t stand it.” She swallows, shakes her head. “It was the biggest day of my life and it went so fast. And now it’s over. Forever.” She looks directly at Elizabeth. “I waited all my life for that day.”
“And it was beautiful.” At least you have that. “Perfect.”
“Yeah,” she says, stirring her drink. “So now I’m back and my parents are yelling at each other again and Mr. Havers is bitchy again and work is the same and I don’t even have flowers on my desk any
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