Sister of the Bride (15 page)

“Why, Barbara,” said Mrs. MacLane, coming into the living room with a dust cloth in her hand, “that's no way to treat a boy. You weren't very nice to Bill.”

“No, I wasn't,” agreed Barbara, “but I don't think he was very nice to me either.” As soon as she had shut the door between herself and Bill, she did not know whether to giggle or to cry. The Vespa began to putt off down the hill, taking Bill farther and farther away from her, and to her great surprise a feeling of lightness came over her. She discovered she was tired of baking cookies for that—cookie hound. She was tired of trying to win him, and as for her daydreams about getting married someday, she found them so silly she was embarrassed even
thinking about them. Imagine living in an apartment like Rosemary's with Bill Cunningham and washing his socks. Never, never, never!

“I guess you told him,” observed Millie, slipping out of her muumuu and pulling on the bodice of her dress to see if it fit.

Barbara had forgotten all about Millie. “Yes, I guess I did,” she agreed a bit ruefully, thinking perhaps she had been too hard on Bill. After all, she had led him to believe she was such a…a domestic little wren that naturally he would think she would be glad to mend his shirt. Still, she was glad she had refused to do it. For the first time she felt that she had behaved honestly with Bill. She only wished she had been a little less ferocious about it, so she would not be left feeling quite so ridiculous. Oh well, it was all over now. She picked up her needle and thread and began to baste once more. That was that. Now to get on with the wedding.

As Barbara stitched, she reflected that if she did not learn to get along better with boys, Rosemary's wedding might very well be the only one in the family. Tootie and Bill. What a pair. But perhaps, as Rosemary had said of Tootie, they might mature into something, not that she cared if they did. Her thoughts wandered off into another daydream.
Barbara MacLane, career woman. Barbara, a highly paid writer of advertising copy. Barbara, buried in a laboratory. Barbara, city planner. As the afternoon wore on, she began to feel ashamed of herself. If she ever ran into Bill, she would apologize for being so angry. Not apologize
abjectly,
but apologize nevertheless.

The postman brought another package, and shortly after that Rosemary and Greg came in, both wearing the special glow of a couple that has bought a marriage license the day before and has just had a talk with the minister. Greg refused an invitation to dinner—he was painting the bathroom in the apartment and wanted to go back to Berkeley—and Rosemary, smiling absentmindedly, cut the paper tape on the package with an old butcher knife she had kept handy since the packages had begun to arrive.

“What is it this time, dear?” asked Mrs. MacLane.

While Greg waited to see the gift, Rosemary opened the package and pulled out, one piece at a time from a nest of tissue paper, two sets of silver salt-and-pepper shakers.

“How lovely,” said Mrs. MacLane. “Doesn't that make four sets?”

Silver to be polished, thought Barbara. Just what Rosemary doesn't want.

But Rosemary appeared to admire the salt-and-pepper shakers. “Uncle Charlie and Aunt Ruth,” she read from the card. “Mother, promise you won't let Uncle Charlie try to sell Greg a life insurance policy at the reception.”

“Oh, don't mind your relatives,” said Mrs. MacLane. “Everybody has them. Your Uncle Charlie can no more keep from selling insurance than he can stop breathing. That's why he's such a good salesman.”

“I have a fine collection of relatives myself,” said Greg. “I even have a cousin with tattooed ears.”

“Really?” asked Rosemary, fascinated.

“A small anchor on each earlobe,” explained Greg. “He had it done while he was in the navy.”

“You never told me that.” Rosemary was looking at Greg with love in her eyes, marveling that she had not known he had a cousin with tattooed ears.

“Not an easy thing to bring into the conversation,” said Greg.

“And to think that I am going to be related to him,” said Rosemary. “What does he have tattooed on his chest?”

Greg laughed. “I don't know. I was afraid to ask.”
And with that he kissed Rosemary lightly, said good-bye to the MacLanes and Millie, and left to return to his brush and paint can in Berkeley.

Soon after Greg had gone and Rosemary was entering the additional pairs of salt-and-pepper shakers in the bride's book, the doorbell rang. “It can't be the mailman,” said Rosemary. “He has already been here.”

“I'll get it,” said Barbara, who was tired of basting on Millie's dress. When she opened the door a delivery boy handed her a long white box from a florist. Without even thinking, she turned it over to Rosemary.

“Flowers? Before the wedding?” Rosemary accepted the box and looked at the name on the card. “But it's for you, Barby.”

“Me?” Barbara did not believe it. “Who would send me flowers? I'm just the sister of the bride.”

“That's what it says. Barbara MacLane.” Rosemary held the box out to her sister.

Still not believing the flowers were for her, Barbara took the box. Sure enough, there was her name on the envelope. “Who on earth?” She tore open the little envelope and pulled out the card. It was not a florist's card. It was a calling card, and it bore the name William Calvert Cunningham.
Above the name was written one word—“Regrets.” It took a moment for it to register with Barbara that William Calvert Cunningham was Bill Cunningham, who naturally would have calling cards, because he had recently sent out announcements of his graduation from high school. But regrets! Bill Cunningham regrets. Regrets what? That she did not mend his shirt? That she was angry with him? That he had been so thoughtless? She ripped the card in two and tossed it into the fireplace. “That's for Bill Cunningham,” she fumed. “Let somebody else mend his old shirts.”

“Aren't you going to look at the flowers?” asked Rosemary.

Oh yes, the flowers. Barbara lifted the lid from the box and laid back the green tissue paper. Flowers!
One
flower. One single solitary flower, a perfect yellow rose. “Oh, that Bill!” sputtered Barbara, positive now that he was laughing at her. “Of all the nerve.” And to think that she had planned to apologize for throwing his shirt at him if she ever happened to run into him again! Apologize! She wouldn't even speak to him. Sending her one yellow rose and his regrets!

“At least it's a rose, not a thistle,” Millie pointed out.

“Yes,” agreed Mrs. MacLane. “Under the circumstances a thistle might be more appropriate.”

“I'd like to send him a thistle,” said Barbara darkly. “One dozen thistles.”

“Don't be silly,” said Millie. “A flower from a boy is a flower from a boy. Look at it that way.” That was Millie—practical, down-to-earth, interested and yet detached about other people's problems.

“Yes,” agreed Rosemary. “And thank him for the beautiful rose the next time you see him. He'll be surprised.” She could afford to be amused by her sister's situation. Rosemary had her man. She was past this sort of thing.

Barbara lifted out the rose and held it to her nose. It was fragrant and perfect, and it was, as Millie had pointed out, a flower from a boy, her first. Perhaps Rosemary was right about thanking Bill. Rosemary had had a lot of experience with boys. She went into the kitchen to find a vase, but none was the right size for a single long-stemmed rose. She finally seized the kitchen shears, chopped the stem in half, and put the rose in a small vase, which she carried back to the living room and set on the coffee table until Buster jumped up to investigate it. Then she moved it to the mantel.

Oh
…thought Barbara, feeling that the rose was
mocking her. Regrets! He is infuriating. She would have moved the rose to some less conspicuous spot, but she refused to attach that much importance to it. It was just a rose. That was all it was. Just a yellow rose. How silly she had been earlier in the day to fancy she had a broken heart. She tested it now to make sure it was all in one piece. Bill. The thought was no longer painful, just infuriating. Resolutely she put Bill out of her mind and got out the ironing board to press seams for Millie.

Barbara put Bill so completely out of her mind that she was entirely unprepared for his telephone call—not that she would have been prepared, even if she had been thinking about him. He had never telephoned her before.

“Hi, Barbara,” he said when she had been called to the phone. “This is Bill. Bill Cunningham.”

“Oh. You,” she said flatly, because she could not think of anything else to say. He had his nerve calling her after all that had happened that day.

“Yes, me,” he said cheerfully. “Still mad?”

“Mad? Why should I be mad?” she asked coldly. Then, remembering Rosemary's advice, she said, “Thank you for the flower. It is very pretty.” She did not sound very grateful, but she had not intended to.

Bill, contrary to Rosemary's prophecy, did not seem surprised. “Look, I am sorry about the shirt,” he said. “How would you like to go bowling tonight?”

Barbara could remember when this question would have filled her with joy. She could not help reflecting that she was much more mature now at five o'clock than she had been at, say, nine o'clock this morning. “No thank you, Bill,” she said politely. “I have to sew on my sister's roommate's bridesmaid dress. We have to finish it in time for the wedding.”

“Some other time,” said Bill, still cheerfully. “I'll call you.”

“Sure, Bill.” Barbara made certain her tone carried no meaning at all. Bill did not mean it when he said he would call. She replaced the telephone and made sure the thermostat on the iron was set on “Low” before she flattened the seam on Millie's skirt. She ran the iron over the seam and felt a pang of regret. Now why did I act that way? she asked herself. He had offered an apology; she should have accepted it. She discovered, now that it was too late, that she still liked Bill and that she wanted to go bowling with him. She was not in love with him and did not particularly want to be.
She just liked him. She liked his gaiety and his brashness. He was fun, and that, she decided, at her age was a perfectly good reason for wanting to go bowling with a boy.

Oh well, Barbara thought as she disconnected the iron and carried the skirt back into the dining room. Maybe she had done everything wrong, and it was too late to do anything about it. She could always fall back on Tootie. Good old Tootie. As Rosemary had predicted, he was almost sure to mature into something interesting.

The day before the wedding the MacLanes congratulated themselves that the plans were going smoothly. This was due, Barbara was forced to admit, to help from the Amys rather than to efficiency on the part of the MacLanes, who at this stage were inclined to forget what it was they had started to do. The Amys had many talents. One member, who had once been a dress designer, had designed and made the short veil and jacket from the tattered wedding veil, with scarcely a scrap wasted. The member with a green thumb had volunteered to decorate the church with flowers from her garden. The only Amy who owned a large punch bowl was going to make the punch, and
another Amy was giving the rehearsal dinner. Barbara and her mother were most grateful of all to the Amy who dropped in to admire the wedding presents, watched Millie stolidly sewing her way through the sea spray organza, and simply took the whole thing away from her and that morning had returned it, complete and pressed.

But all this help from the Amys left the MacLanes with little to do, and not having anything to do made them as restless as Buster on a windy day when his fur was full of static electricity. Immediately after lunch the bride, glad for somewhere to go, went off to have her hair done, and when she returned she announced, “I am going to sit up all night so I won't muss my hair for the wedding.” She smiled radiantly, showing her teeth from which the bands had been removed only the day before, solving the problem that had worried Barbara ever since Rosemary had announced she was going to get married.

“You're beginning to look like the singers on TV who manage to sing and show their teeth at the same time,” remarked Barbara.

“Here comes the bride,” sang Rosemary toothily. Then she said, “My mouth feels so wonderfully roomy with just teeth and tongue and no bands.”

Shortly after Rosemary returned from the beauty shop, Mrs. MacLane and Millie left to have their hair done. Barbara, feeling a little smug, merely washed her naturally curly hair and arranged it with a few flicks of her comb. When she came out of the bathroom she found that Greg had arrived dressed for the rehearsal dinner and was looking at the wedding presents. Barbara saw him pick up a silver vegetable dish three different times, and each time he looked at it as if he had never seen it before.

Rosemary, who had given up writing thank-you notes until after the wedding, was entering gifts in her bride's book. Barbara picked up a copper mold, which she, too, had examined several times—or perhaps she had examined several identical molds. By now there were many duplications among the wedding presents. “Don't you have several of these fish-shaped copper molds?” she asked Rosemary.

“M-hm,” answered her sister. “It's all right. They all came from the same shop and are practically legal tender. I can exchange them for something else.”

Buster stalked out of Gordy's room and meowed at the front door. “The cat wants out,” said Rosemary, without looking up from her satin-bound book.

“Wants to go out,” corrected Greg, speaking absentmindedly as he glanced at his watch. “The cat wants to
go
out.”

Rosemary turned and looked up at Greg in surprise. “That's what I said.” She looked a little tired, and Barbara hoped she had not been serious about sitting up all night to keep her hair from getting mussed.

“No, you didn't,” contradicted Greg. “You said, ‘The cat wants out.' You are using an adverb as a predicate objective.”

Rosemary raised one eyebrow. “Oh? I am?”

This was ominous. Please, Rosemary, thought Barbara, lower your eyebrow.

“Yes,” said Greg, unaware of the emotion indicated by Rosemary's eyebrow. He had a lot to learn about his bride. “That was one of the first things I noticed about people out here. They said they wanted in or they wanted out, when they meant they wanted to come in or they wanted to go out.”

The white-satin book was slammed shut. “That's very interesting. No doubt people ‘out here,' as you put it, wanted to
go
out or to
come
in to get away from stuffy Easterners like you.”

“Perhaps I am being a little stuffy,” admitted Greg, but it was too late.

“For your information,” said Rosemary, fuming, “I am not a student in English 1A. And it might interest you to know that when I entered Cal I passed my Subject-A examination with flying colors and did not have to take bonehead English. An adverb as a predicate objective, for Pete's sake! How stuffy can you get?”

Rosemary, please, just once let one member of this family suffer in silence, thought Barbara. Don't have a civil war, East against West, bride against groom, just before the wedding.

“Okay, okay, I admitted I was stuffy. I am sorry. What more do you want?” Greg scowled. “And for your information, you may have passed your Subject A, but you did not pass with flying colors as you put it. Students either pass or fail. No grades are given.”

Buster twitched his tail. Barbara wanted to open the door for him, but Rosemary and Greg had apparently forgotten her, and she did not want to remind them of her presence while they were quarreling. Besides, she wanted to see what happened.

Rosemary, irritated because Greg was right, pursed her lips and entered another present in her bride's book. Buster meowed again. “The cat still
wants out,” Rosemary said, with icy emphasis on each syllable.

“Then why don't you let him go out?” Greg's syllables were equally icy.

Barbara was about to open the door for the cat when Rosemary said, “I shall,” and went to the door and opened it. Buster walked out regally, all but his tail. He paused to reconnoiter before allowing the door to be shut behind him. Rosemary gave him a shove with her toe and closed the door unnecessarily hard. “I am interested to learn that you are not only stuffy, you are also inflexible,” she said to her fiancé, as she sat down once more to her bride's book.

“I am not inflexible,” said Greg. “I am correct.”

“I don't know about Eastern cats, but out West the cats want out,” Rosemary informed him. She was silent a moment, and then she added in an exaggerated drawl. “Out West we all keep cats that want out, podner. We all speak in the vernacular.”

“Now you are being childish as well as ridiculous,” said Greg.

“Very interesting.” Rosemary closed the book with a bang.

I've got to stop this somehow, Barbara thought desperately. She glanced at her watch. It was after
six. Where were her mother and Millie? “What difference does it make?” she asked at last. “The cat is out.”

Both Greg and Rosemary turned on Barbara. “You keep out of this,” said Rosemary. “It involves something far more important than the cat, and I am glad I found it out before it was too late.”

Barbara hunched her shoulders in embarrassment. What was she supposed to do? Pretend she was deaf? Slink out of the room? She could feel the tension mounting until she could stand it no longer. She rose and said, “I don't know about you, but I am going to dress for the rehearsal dinner. Rehearsal for your wedding. Remember?” With that she left them alone.

That cat, thought Barbara bitterly when she was in her room. She always thought he looked like the spirit of evil, and now she knew this was what he was. He had jinxed the whole wedding. This very minute Rosemary and Greg were probably agreeing the whole thing was a terrible mistake. They were probably deciding to call the wedding off. But
how
? How could they call it off? How could they notify all the people on such short notice?

All those wedding presents that were hard to
pack—glassware, the electric mixer, the waffle iron—where would they ever find enough cartons and excelsior to return all those things? And the wedding cake that was probably being baked this very minute. Who would eat it? The family, probably. How ghastly to have to eat their way through the entire cake of a wedding that was called off. It would take at least two weeks. And Millie…how awkward to have a stray bridesmaid around the house, but perhaps she could exchange her ticket and leave sooner. And the apartment in Berkeley, already filled with phonograph records and shower presents. Who would move those things out? And that picture by Paul Klee? How could Rosemary return a present that had come from several girls, who had all gone home for the summer? And all those cans without labels. Rosemary could not possibly return those. The MacLanes would probably have to eat them up along with the wedding cake.

Barbara felt like crying as she thought of all those beautiful wedding presents, and she wondered where they would start. Aunt Josie could be called in to help. She could get cartons from the store where she worked…. And all those invitations that had gone out. It would be dreadful to let
the guests arrive at a cold, empty church, but perhaps the Amys could help. They could organize and telephone everyone. Barbara's heart was flooded with gratitude for the Amys, who could always be counted on to help one another out. Bless them all. No wonder they ate rich desserts. They needed quick energy to keep up with their families' problems.

Barbara was thankful to hear her mother drive up beside the house. She slipped out of her room and out the back door to meet her. “Mother,” she whispered, “something terrible has happened. Rosemary and Greg have had an awful quarrel. She said he was stuffy and inflexible, and he said she was ridiculous and childish, and she said she was glad she found it out before it was too late and—oh, it was awful. Mother, what are we going to do?”

Mrs. MacLane began to laugh.

“But, Mother, it's
serious
,” protested Barbara.

“Serious or not, it's still funny,” said Mrs. MacLane.

“It's probably just wedding jitters,” said Millie.

“But, Mother, you should hear them,” persisted Barbara, trying to make her mother understand the gravity of the situation. Her mother waved her
aside. It was time to dress. She could not be bothered listening to the details of a silly squabble between the bride and groom. All brides and grooms were tired and nervous before the wedding, and Rosemary and Greg must be especially tired because of the strain of final examinations. But they
would
insist on getting married between finals and summer session….

Filled with trepidation, Barbara followed her mother and Millie into the house. She was shocked at the glimpse she caught, of Rosemary with the butcher knife in her hand. “Rosemary!” she cried out.

Rosemary whirled around, the knife still in her hand. She was smiling. “More presents! Whee!” With the butcher knife she began to saw at the cord on a large carton while Greg watched her with amusement. They no longer looked tired and strained. They looked positively refreshed.

“But—” began Barbara, and stopped. She decided she could not keep still. “But you were quarreling just a few minutes ago. I thought you were going to call off the wedding.”

“Oh that. Just a lovers' quarrel.” Rosemary airily waved the butcher knife and laughed. “Besides, we couldn't possibly call off the wedding. How would
we ever get all those wedding presents returned?”

“But to quarrel just before the wedding,” persisted Barbara, baffled by her sister's flippancy. “A wedding is supposed to be perfect.”

Rosemary laughed. “How can a wedding be perfect?” she asked. “It involves people. Besides, I don't mind quarreling. Not when it's so heavenly to make up.” She bestowed upon the groom a dazzling smile, which he returned with a look filled with love and amusement.

“My child bride,” he teased.

They will have other quarrels, too, just like ordinary married people, thought Barbara, disillusioned. The emotions of the afternoon, which seemed to stimulate the bride and groom, were tiring to Barbara, and she did not feel that she was at her best when she arrived at the Lessings' house with her family for the rehearsal dinner. The first person she saw above the other heads when she entered the house was Tootie Bodger.

“Mother,” whispered Barbara while they were in the bedroom removing their wraps, “what is Tootie doing here?”

“Angie Lessing felt you wouldn't have any fun unless there was a boy here for you,” her mother explained.

Barbara was indignant. “But the best man is mine.”

“Only coming out of the church,” her mother told her with a smile. “Now be a good sport and be nice to Tootie. There aren't enough men to go around as it is.”

“I'm always nice to Tootie,” Barbara told her mother. “That's the trouble. I'm nice to him, so he likes me more than I want to be liked.”

“These things are like bread and marmalade,” said Mrs. MacLane. “They rarely come out even.”

Except with Rosemary and Greg, thought Barbara. It comes out even for them. Maybe that was how they knew they were in love. She stepped into the living room to greet the people she knew and to be introduced to those she did not know. Everyone seemed gay and happy, even Mrs. Aldredge, who was now resigned to the simplicity of the whole affair. George and Craig, the ushers, were both attractive, and Barbara could not help feeling it was too bad they were married. Greg's brother, Bob, was a taller, huskier version of his older brother, and meeting him gave Barbara a feeling of martyrdom—she must renounce this good-looking man for Tootie. Greg's sister, Anne, was a surprise. Barbara had assumed a physical-
education major would be a large, athletic girl, but Anne was small, with a beautiful figure, a smooth tan, and sleek, short hair, which was no doubt convenient for swimming.

Barbara kissed her grandmother and her aunt Josie and dutifully went to Tootie, who was standing at one end of the room studying an arrangement of white roses in front of a copper tray as if it was the most interesting bouquet he had ever seen. He had a handful of nuts and tossed one into his mouth with the regularity of a metronome. “Hi, Tootie,” she said.

“Hi, Barbara.” Tootie interrupted his peanut tossing to smile at her. He looked uncomfortable and uncertain, and Barbara realized that she was feeling the same way. College students in a group always made her feel younger than she actually was.