It wasn’t a rushed affair. They planned it for months. But deciding to get married in one week produced some unusual results. For instance, invitations weren’t sent on handmade artisanal cotton paper, with embossed envelopes. They were emailed.
They skipped the flowery prose, too. “The Parents of Reba Zinman Request the Exquisite Pleasure of Your Esteemed Company” was replaced with “Marriage Today, 1 pm, Reba’s studio.”
With one hour to go, Reba sipped lemon water and tried to catch her breath. “It’s too tight!” she complained, as her Maid of Honor, Catherine Baker, tied the back. Reba wore a white maternity wedding dress. (Maternity wedding dress? Did such a thing exist?) Catherine had been afraid they’d never find one. Instead, the bridal store had dozens and dozens. How the world had changed. Catherine insisted Reba choose the body-hugging Alberta Ferretti, strapless, with bows across the back.
Reba was aghast. “I’ll look like a carnival balloon! This dress doesn’t hide anything.”
“Exactly. You ain’t fooling people, honey.”
On her wedding day the bride and Catherine stood behind a rack of pottery. Through gaps in shelves they could see guests finding fold out chairs against the wall and sitting. Li-Li, Reba’s assistant, trotted past with programs. She had just come from the copy machine. They were cutting it close. “Li-Li!” Reba called. “More water!”
“What’s wrong with you?” Catherine asked, standing behind, tying bows. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
“I’m not nervous. I just feel… weird.”
“Of course you do. You’re getting married. On my wedding day, I wanted to jump out the window.”
“Is that an option?”
“No.” Catherine spied Walt standing before seated guests, chatting and smiling. He wore a tux over his squat, burley frame. For some reason he looked like P.T. Barnum. Catherine finished with Reba’s dress and nodded at Li-Li. She pushed a button on a boom box, and strains of Schubert’s Serenade filled the studio.
“I think we’re ready,” Catherine said.
“I think I’m not,” Reba said.
“Nonsense. I’ll be right beside you.” She handed Reba a bridal bouquet of tiny, pink roses.
Collen Gaddis, the aromatherapist, would serve as Justice of the Peace. Beaming, she stood next to Walt, and wore a floor-length tie-dyed dress. It seemed appropriate. Reba walked between chairs and took her place in front, before their parents and a handful of friends. She handed the bouquet to Catherine, who turned and found a chair. Colleen cleared her throat.
“Dearly beloved,” she intoned. She preferred a conventional liturgy. Reba breathed deeply. And quickly. Halfway through Catherine made the “speed it up” motion to Colleen, who amended her rather flowery delivery, and cut to the chase.
“Do you, Walt O’Conner, take Reba as your wife, to have and to hold, from this…” Again the motion from Catherine, who was watching Reba. Colleen smiled sweetly. “So, do you…”
“I do!” Walt said, not waiting.
Colleen cleared her throat. “And do you, Reba Zinman, take Walt as your husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward?”
Reba’s face was red, her breathing fast. “I… I…”
There was an uncomfortable pause. “Reba?” Colleen Gaddis said, helpfully.
Reba stared hopelessly at the assembly, her parents and friends, Li-Li standing by doors, John Schatz, seated and smiling. She put hands on her great belly.
“I…” Reba said, gasping. “I… I’m going to have a baby!”
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com