The Wedding Day
by Rod DiGruttolo

Mickey heard the screen-door open, he thought, “It’ll bang three times if you let it slam.”  It crashed once, paused briefly then thumped twice.  He glanced at the clock beside his bed, the red numerals showed six-thirty A.M.  “It has to be the twins.”    

Moments later, two children with flaming red hair burst into his bedroom.  They streaked toward his bed, Richard in the lead as usual and Roberta but a few inches behind.  Both of them went airborne two feet before reaching the bedside.  Richard crashed landed on the bed, bounced and smashed head-long into Mickey’s groin.  Normally the pain would have been excruciating, but this time the impact only served to divert Mickey’s attention from the agony in his left knee.  Roberta’s full twenty six pounds had landed on his kneecap forcing it to bend in a direction nature had not intended.

The twins chimed in unison, “Good Morning Grandpa!”  Their combined chorus seemed to exceed the decibel level of a blaring bugle.

Mickey fought through the pain and attempted to sound cheerful even though agony precluded good humor.  He croaked, “Good morning kids, did you sleep well?” 

“Mommy-n-Daddy still sleeping.”  Roberta piped.

“We told them, WAKE UP!”  Richard volunteered, “But they said ‘go play with Grandpa.”  

“Thought so.”  Mickey mumbled.  With his teeth clenched, hoping his grimace might pass for a smile, he asked.  “Was Grandma downstairs?”

“Yeah,” Richard said.  He rocked forward and knelt on Mickey’s stomach, compressing a bladder already under a bit of strain.  A grin spread across the boy’s face, his eyes filled with glee, and he shouted, even though he was but an inch from Mickey’s ear, “She say, ‘Go play with Grandpa’ and here we are!”

The throbbing in Mickey’s groin was beginning to subside and his knee had begun to regain some flexibility when Richard launched again, this time straight up.  Unfortunately, Roberta had chosen that instant to lean in and give Grandpa a hug.  Her head was directly in line with Richard’s.  Piercing screams filled the house and brought Grandma, Mommy, and Daddy running at full tilt.

 Mickey and Betsy, his wife of nearly thirty years, were blessed with two grandchildren, so far.  Though nearly a thousand miles separated them, Mickey and Betsy visited as often as they could.  During the Holiday Season, and again around the Fourth of July, they managed to spend a few days with Rex and his family.  The twins had been born on the Fourth of July, an appropriate date for the red-headed firecrackers.  They would celebrate their third birthday next month. 

Debbie, Mickey and Betsy’s youngest child and only daughter, had decided to marry.  She had planned a June wedding.  Today, June twelfth, two o’clock, at Saint Zachary’s.

Debbie’s brothers were home for the wedding.  Steven, unmarried and the middle child, just completed his fifth year at State College.  He hoped to decide on a major soon.  In the meantime, Mickey was called upon each semester to write a check for books and tuition. 

Rex, father of the twins and the older of Mickey’s two sons, had arrived yesterday with his wife Rachel and the kids.  Steven ensconced himself in his old room.  Rex, Rachel occupied a guest room across the hall from Steven while the twins stayed in Rex’s old room.  Debbie had yet to leave home; she still occupied the room at the end of the hall, as she had for the past twenty-two years.

Betsy had planned for this day from the time Debbie was born, but even after Debbie announced her engagement it had taken nearly a year to finalize the arrangements.  Working around Monsignor O’Rourke’s schedule, waiting on the contractor to complete the remodeling of the church, and finding a caterer who could provide a vegetarian menu for Debbie’s latest fixation presented a monumental task.  But even with all the careful planning and meticulous preparation, problems surfaced. 

At yesterday’s flower preview, Betsy was horrified.  It seems the Bridesmaid bouquet’s clashed with the bride’s bouquet.  To Mickey it all looked like a perfectly fine array of posies, leaves and twigs, but Betsy and Debbie were nearly in tears.  As it turned out, the florist solved the problem easily.  She smiled, replaced half the flowers with a blossom that was a subtle shade lighter, they blended perfectly. 

The final guest-list, based on RSVP’s, increased the number of guests by twelve.  The caterer smiled, and explained.  Passing a plateau of seventy-five added a dollar per meal, required an extra server, and inflated the bar-stock by an additional twenty percent. 

The final fitting of the wedding gown, an hour before last-night’s rehearsal, revealed that Debbie had lost weight.  Stress, excitement, and a diet of dehydrated fruit, had caused her to lose nearly five pounds.  The seamstress smiled, took a few quick measurements, and added a pair of flesh-toned, formed, foam pads inside the brassiere integrated into the strapless gown.  A dab of rubber cement held them in place.

During the rehearsal, Richard, the ring bearer, and Roberta, the flower girl, performed flawlessly.  Richard’s rented tux fit perfectly.  Their mother had taken great pains to be sure the twins were dressed in time for a photo session.  The dry-cleaners smiled, and assured Rachel the tux would be ready in time for the ceremony, the grass stain had come out of the pants completely and Roberta’s dress was undamaged by the chocolate.

Mrs. Mumford, the organist, had come down with the flu, but the young man who replaced her was very good.  He had played keyboard with a group called Crushed Emotion for nearly a year before the lead singer overdosed.  He had a winning smile.

Mickey headed for the shower as Rachel and Betsy ushered the children downstairs for breakfast.  He glanced toward the closet at his tuxedo, covered by a thin plastic bag.  He had picked it up from the tailor yesterday; the pants had to be let out a little.  A shoebox on the closet floor held a brand-new pair of patent leather shoes.  He’d purchased them just for this occasion.

Standing in the steaming shower, Mickey worked up an unusually thick lather in his freshly trimmed hair.  As of late, in a hot shower or when he was outdoors was about the only time he felt warm.  Betsy insisted the thermostat in the house remain around sixty-eight degrees; at seventy degrees she threatened to expire with heat stroke, at sixty-six she donned a sweater.  He leaned his head toward the stream of deliciously hot water intending to rinse away the lather.  But, with diabolical timing, the water-stream sputtered, slacked to little more than a trickle, and turned ice cold.  Somebody must have started a load of laundry using the hot water. 

Showered and shaved, with only a tiny nick on his chin where he sliced off a goose-bump, he padded out of the bathroom into the sanctum of his bedroom.  He strolled toward the five-drawer dresser on the far side of the room that contained his clean underwear.  He had chosen not to wear his robe.  Midway in his trek across the room, Rachel popped through the door.  Her arms were laden with a bundle of freshly laundered towels.  Imagine her surprise.

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Mickey donned his boxers, shirt, shorts and sandals, plucked the scattered towels from the floor, refolded, and deposited them in the bathroom linen closet then headed downstairs for breakfast.  It took fifteen seconds to traverse the hallway and arrive at the head of the stairway.  That was long enough for Richard to mount the steps and round the corner at a dead run.  His head slammed into Mickey’s groin for the second time in less than an hour.

The rest of the morning passed with relative calm.  Mickey supervised the final backyard cleanup, swept the driveway, and installed signs bearing parking directions.  A vacant lot, two doors down would hold nearly forty cars if the valet was careful.  That should be enough parking, but if more was needed, additional cars could park on the street.  Sergeant Flannery, a member of Mickey’s lodge, assured him parking enforcement would be relaxed for the event.

By one-o’clock Mickey had taken his second shower and was at the church.  He found a comfortable chair and waited.  Fifteen minutes before the ceremony was to begin, he received a summons to the small room where Betsy and his daughter waited.  Debbie suffered from butterflies and paced the floor restlessly.  The near-eighty-degree temperature of the small room had taken its toll.  Betsy alternately dabbed at Debbie’s face then patted her own with a tissue, so that make-up might remain undisturbed.  Debbie locked her arms around Mickey the moment he walked in; she hugged him tight.  Ten minutes later Betsy repaired Debbie’s eyeliner and patted a fresh layer of “Amber Mist” on her cheeks.  She scolded Mickey for smudging his jacket and scrubbed it furiously with a damp towel.  With two minutes to spare, she accepted Steven’s arm and permitted him to escort her to her seat.

When the music began, a slightly “rock-n-roll” version of the traditional processional filled the church.  Monsignor O’Rourke appeared on cue and strolled into position.  The groom stood at attention.  The bridesmaids and groomsmen did well keeping time with the music, though their procession did bear some resemblance to a ballroom quickstep.  Richard, his cummerbund askew, ran down the aisle.  He would have passed the best man and maid of honor except he dropped the pillow holding the rings; twice!  Roberta skipped along, slinging white rose petals into the air.  Approaching the end of the aisle, she turned the basket upside down and dumped the remaining petals in a heap on the gleaming marble floor. 

The music transitioned to the traditional Bridal Chorus and all eyes turned toward the rear of the church. 

Mickey stepped out with Debbie on his left arm, his tux immaculate, and his new shoes gleaming in the subtle light filtering through stained glass.  Gracefully, with practiced elegance, they strolled down the aisle.  Debbie smiled nervously in answer to the watching eyes. 

Five steps short of the alter Mickey stepped on the pile of petals Roberta had poured from her basket.  Slick new marble… slick new shoes… slick rose-petals…  His foot shot forward, he pitched backward, and his arms wind-milled in an attempt to maintain balance.  Debbie had a firm grip on her father’s arm, afraid her wobbling knees might fail her.  A collective gasp rose from the audience as Father and Bride crashed to the floor in an inglorious heap. 

Mickey regained his feet with catlike quickness, even before the groom or groomsmen could react.  He grabbed his daughter and snatched her upward with superhuman effort.  Unfortunately, he was standing on the hem of her gown. 

Debbie stood in the center of the aisle with the bodice of the dress encircling her waist.  She shoved Mickey away, grasped the gown, and tugged it upward.  In her haste, she grabbed the foam rubber cups the seamstress had glued in place.   She was in the center of the church, bare-breasted with a chunk of foam-rubber in each hand.  She tossed the cups aside and snatched the dress into place with a single motion. 

One of the foam appliances sailed into the audience and landed in the hands of Timmy Frazier, a thirteen-year-old cousin who exclaimed loudly, “I caught her boob!”

The Monsignor had switched on his wireless microphone and watched incredulously.  He murmured, “Holy Shit!”  The words reverberated throughout the church.

The organist held the same note for at least five seconds.

But the final straw came when a guffaw issued from the Groom.

Debbie bolted.  She turned, sprinted up the aisle, and burst through the double doors into the afternoon sun.  Betsy broke ranks and almost caught her at the top of the steps but high heels were too much of a handicap as Debbie’s shoes remained in the middle of the church, shed in flight.

***

Mickey sprawled on a chair beneath the oak tree.  A huge, white, nylon tent covered a third of his backyard.  Trays of uneaten food cooled on serving tables.  He watched as the caterers packed unused dinner services into their trailer.  The four-tiered wedding cake stood in solitary, uncut splendor.  Rex was playing with the twins across the lawn, staying as far-away as he could from Mickey.  Steven sprawled on a chaise beside the pool; his flowered swimsuit looked very similar to the flowers that adorned empty tables under the tent. 

Betsy, who had spent the better part of two hours with Debbie in her bedroom, and acting as a go-between for the groom, who attempted to beg forgiveness, was talking to the band-leader as the group loaded up their instruments.  Mickey took another long pull on his second tall drink.  He refused to let the bartender go just yet, after all, these drinks were costing him sixteen thousand dollars. 

A chill ran down his spine when he heard Betsy say, “Yes, we hope to reschedule for August 14th.

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