It was hard to believe that here we were, more than three decades later, sitting with our daughter discussing her upcoming wedding.
Anna’s surprise request for a simple, quick wedding was met with utter silence. At first Jane seemed thunderstruck, but then, regaining her senses, she began to shake her head, whispering with mounting urgency, “No, no, no . . .”
In retrospect, her reaction was hardly unexpected. I suppose that one of the moments a mother looks most forward to in life is when a daughter gets married. An entire industry has been built up around weddings, and it’s only natural that most mothers have expectations about the way it’s supposed to be. Anna’s ideas presented a sharp contrast to what Jane had always wanted for her daughters, and though it was Anna’s wedding, Jane could no more escape her beliefs than she could her own past.
Jane didn’t have a problem with Anna and Keith marrying on our anniversary—she of all people knew the state of Noah’s health, and Anna and Keith were, in fact, moving in a couple of weeks—but she didn’t like the idea of them getting married by a justice of the peace. Nor was she pleased that there were only eight days to make the arrangements and that Anna intended to keep the celebration small.
I sat in silence as the negotiations began in earnest. Jane would say, “What about the Sloans? They would be heartbroken if you didn’t invite them. Or John Peterson? He taught you piano for years, and I know how much you liked him.”
“But it’s no big deal,” Anna would repeat. “Keith and I already live together. Most people act like we’re already married anyway.”
“But what about a photographer? Surely you want some pictures.”
“I’m sure lots of people will bring cameras,” Anna would counter. “Or you could do it. You’ve taken thousands of pictures over the years.”
At that, Jane would shake her head and launch into an impassioned speech about how it was going to be the most important day in her life, to which Anna would respond that it would still be a marriage even without all the trimmings. It wasn’t hostile, but it was clear they had reached an impasse.
I am in the habit of deferring to Jane in most matters of this sort, especially when they involve the girls, but I realized that I had something to add in this instance, and I sat up straighter on the couch.
“Maybe there’s a compromise,” I interjected.
Anna and Jane turned to look at me.
“I know your heart is set on next weekend,” I said to Anna, “but would you mind if we invited a few extra people, in addition to the family? If we help with all the arrangements?”
“I don’t know that we have enough time for something like that . . . ,” Anna began.
“Would it be all right if we try?”
The negotiations continued for an hour after that, but in the end, a few compromises resulted. Anna, it seemed, was surprisingly agreeable once I’d spoken up. She knew a pastor, she said, and she was sure he would agree to do the ceremony next weekend. Jane appeared happy and relieved as the initial plans began to take form.
Meanwhile, I was thinking about not only my daughter’s wedding, but also our thirtieth anniversary. Now, our anniversary—which I’d hoped to make memorable—and a wedding were going to occur on the same day, and of the two, I knew which event suddenly loomed largest.
The home that Jane and I share borders the Trent River, and it’s nearly half a mile wide behind our yard. At night, I sometimes sit on the deck and watch the gentle ripples as they catch the moonlight. Depending on the weather, there are moments when the water seems like a living thing.
Unlike Noah’s home, ours doesn’t have a wraparound porch. It was constructed in an era when air-conditioning and the steady pull of television kept people indoors. When we first walked through the house, Jane had taken one look out the back windows and decided that if she couldn’t have a porch, she would at least have a deck. It was the first of many minor construction projects that eventually transformed the house into something we could comfortably call our home.
After Anna left, Jane sat on the couch, staring toward the sliding glass doors. I wasn’t able to read her expression, but before I could ask what she was thinking, she suddenly rose and went outside. Recognizing that the evening had been a shock, I went to the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine. Jane had never been a big drinker, but she enjoyed a glass of wine from time to time, and I thought that tonight might be one of them.
Glass in hand, I made my way to the deck. Outside, the night was buzzing with the sounds of frogs and crickets. The moon had not yet risen, and across the river I could see yellow lights glowing from country homes. A breeze had picked up, and I could hear the faint tings of the wind chime Leslie had bought us for Christmas last year.
Other than that, there was silence. In the gentle light of the porch, Jane’s profile reminded me of a Greek statue, and once again, I was struck by how much she resembled the woman I first saw long ago. Eyeing her high cheekbones and full lips, I was thankful that our daughters look more like her than me, and now that one was getting married, I suppose I expected her expression to be almost radiant. As I drew near, however, I was startled to see that Jane was crying.
I hesitated at the edge of the deck, wondering whether I’d made a mistake in trying to join her. Before I could turn, however, Jane seemed to sense my presence and glanced over her shoulder.
“Oh, hey,” she said, sniffing.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes.” She paused, then shook her head. “I mean, no. Actually, I’m not sure how I feel.”
I moved to her side and set the glass of wine on the railing. In the darkness, the wine looked like oil.
“Thank you,” she said. After taking a sip, she let out a long breath before gazing out over the water.
“This is so like Anna,” she finally said. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but still . . .”
She trailed off, setting the wine aside.
“I thought you liked Keith,” I said.
“I do.” She nodded. “But a week? I don’t know where she gets these ideas. If she was going to do something like this, I don’t understand why she didn’t just elope and get it over with.”
“Would you rather she had done that?”
“No. I would have been furious with her.”
I smiled. Jane had always been honest.
“It’s just that there’s so much to do,” she went on, “and I have no idea how we’re going to pull it all together. I’m not saying the wedding has to be at the ballroom of the Plaza, but still, you’d think she would want a photographer there. Or some of her friends.”
“Didn’t she agree to all that?”
Jane hesitated, choosing her words carefully.
“I just don’t think she realizes how often she’ll think back to her wedding day. She acted like it’s no big deal.”
“She’ll always remember it no matter how it turns out,” I countered gently.
Jane closed her eyes for a long moment. “You don’t understand,” she said.
Though she said no more on the subject, I knew exactly what she meant.
Quite simply, Jane didn’t want Anna to make the same mistake that she had.
My wife has always regretted the way we got married. We had the kind of wedding I’d insisted on, and though I accept responsibility for this, my parents played a significant role in my decision.
My parents, unlike the vast majority of the country, were atheists, and I was raised accordingly. Growing up, I remember being curious about church and the mysterious rituals I sometimes read about, but religion was something we never discussed. It never came up over dinner, and though there were times when I realized that I was different from other children in the neighborhood, it wasn’t something that I dwelled upon.
I know differently now. I regard my Christian faith as the greatest gift I’ve ever been given, and I will dwell no more on this except to say that in retrospect, I think I always knew there was something missing in my life. The years I spent with Jane have proved that. Like her parents, Jane was devout in her beliefs, and it was she who started bringing me to church. She also purchased the Bible we read in the evenings, and it was she who answered the initial questions I had.
This did not happen, however, until after we were married.
If there was a source of tension in the years we were dating, it was my lack of faith, and there were times I’m sure she questioned whether we were compatible. She has told me that if she hadn’t been sure that I would eventually accept Jesus Christ as my Savior, then she wouldn’t have married me. I knew that Anna’s comment had brought back a painful memory for her, for it was this same lack of faith that led us to be married on the courthouse steps. At the time, I felt strongly that marrying in the church would make me a hypocrite.
There was an additional reason we were married by a judge instead of a minister, one that had to do with pride. I didn’t want Jane’s parents to pay for a traditional church wedding, even though they could have afforded it. As a parent myself, I now view such a duty as the gift that it is, but at the time, I believed that I alone should be responsible for the cost. If I wasn’t able to pay for a proper reception, my reasoning went, then I wouldn’t have one.
At the time, I could not afford a gala affair. I was new at the firm and making a reasonable salary, but I was doing my best to save for a down payment on a home. Though we were able to purchase our first house nine months after we were married, I no longer think such a sacrifice worthwhile. Frugality, I’ve learned, has its own cost, one that sometimes lasts forever.
Our ceremony was over in less than ten minutes; not a single prayer was uttered. I wore a dark gray suit; Jane was dressed in a yellow sundress with a gladiola pinned in her hair. Her parents watched from the steps below us and sent us off with a kiss and a handshake. We spent our honeymoon at a quaint inn in Beaufort, and though she adored the antique canopy bed where we first made love, we stayed for less than a weekend, since I had to be back in the office on Monday.
This is not the sort of wedding that Jane had dreamed about as a young girl. I know that now. What she wanted was what I suppose she was now urging on Anna. A beaming bride escorted down the aisle by her father, a wedding performed by a minister, with family and friends in attendance. A reception with food and cake and flowers on every table, where the bride and groom can receive congratulations from those dearest to them. Maybe even music, to which the bride could dance with her new husband, and with the father who had raised her, while others looked on with joy in their eyes.
That’s what Jane would have wanted.
Chapter Four
On Saturday morning, the day after Anna’s announcement, the sun was already stifling as I parked in the lot at Creekside. As in most southern towns, August slows the pace of life in New Bern. People drive more cautiously, traffic lights seem to stay red longer than usual, and those who walk use just enough energy to move their bodies forward, as if engaging in slow-motion shuffle contests.
Jane and Anna were already gone for the day. After coming in from the deck last night, Jane sat at the kitchen table and started making notes of all that she had to do. Though she was under no illusions that she would be able to accomplish everything, her notes covered three pages, with goals outlined for each day of the following week.
Jane had always been good with projects. Whether it was running a fund-raiser for the Boy Scouts or organizing a church raffle, my wife was usually the person tapped to volunteer. While it left her feeling overwhelmed at times—she did, after all, have three children engaged in other activities—she never refused. Recalling how frazzled she often became, I made a mental note to keep any requests of her time to a minimum in the week to come.
The courtyard behind Creekside was landscaped with square hedges and clustered azaleas. After passing through the building—I was certain Noah wasn’t in his room—I followed the curving gravel pathway toward the pond. Spotting Noah, I shook my head when I noticed that he was wearing his favorite blue cardigan despite the heat. Only Noah could be chilled on a day like today.
He’d just finished feeding the swan, and it still swam in small circles before him. As I approached, I heard him speaking to it, though I couldn’t make out his words. The swan seemed to trust him completely. Noah once told me that the swan sometimes rested at his feet, though I had never actually seen this.
“Hello, Noah,” I said.
It was an effort for him to turn his head. “Hello, Wilson.” He raised a hand. “Thanks for dropping by.”
“You doing okay?”
“Could be better,” he replied. “Could be worse, though, too.”
Though I came here often, Creekside sometimes depressed me, for it seemed to be full of people who’d been left behind in life. The doctors and nurses told us that Noah was lucky since he had frequent visitors, but too many of the others spent their days watching television to escape the loneliness of their final years. Noah still spent his evenings reciting poetry to the people who live here. He’s fond of the poems of Walt Whitman, and Leaves of Grass was on the bench beside him. He seldom went anywhere without it, and though both Jane and I have read it in the past, I must admit that I don’t understand why he finds the poems so meaningful.
Studying him, I was struck anew by how sad it was to watch a man like Noah grow old. For most of my life, I’d never thought of him in those terms, but nowadays, when I heard his breath, it reminded me of air moving through an old accordion. He didn’t move his left hand, a consequence of the stroke he’d suffered in the spring. Noah was winding down, and while I’d long known this was coming, it seemed that he finally realized it as well.
He was watching the swan, and following his gaze, I recognized the bird by the black spot on its chest. It reminded me of a mole or birthmark, or coal in the snow, nature’s attempt to mute perfection. At certain times of the year, a dozen swans could be found on the water, but this was the only one that never left. I’ve seen it floating on the pond even when the temperature plunged in the winter and the other swans had long migrated farther south. Noah once told me why the swan never left, and his explanation was one of the reasons the doctors thought him delusional.