Odyssey In A Teacup (21 page)

Sylvia tried to inflict Norbert on Vette, but kept him away from Maxi-the-‘nice’-girl. Norbert had other ideas, though. Myron had stashed a copy of the football magazine and he’d shown the centrefold spread to Norbert. After that, Norbert hit on Maxi at every opportunity. And opportunity presented itself many times because the little oily man stayed at our place. Sylvia had insisted (and Maxi and Vette were often over lending moral support. I insisted).

Just after Reuben and I had got engaged, he moved out of his family home and into a poky studio flat. Norbert would have had to sleep on the couch if he’d stayed there. And because Greta and Rudy had sold their home recently and moved to a small apartment, there wasn’t enough room for the boys to stay with them. So Sylvia arranged for Reuben and Norbert to stay with us for all but the night before the wedding, when Reuben, Norbert, Ralph and Myron (who was also a groomsman) planned to share a motel room.

The big day finally arrived and I woke up feeling punch-drunk after a fitful sleep. My bridesmaids, Maxi, Vette and Iris all turned up at ten, at the same time as the hairdresser. By one o’clock, the girls were coiffed, made up and in their bridesmaid regalia—full-length, cobalt blue satin dresses fitted to the waist and flaring out into a full skirt. The dresses had a sweetheart neckline and big puffy sleeves. In place of flowers, they’d carry a short white staff with a big, cobalt blue bow.

As I stood there admiring my beautiful attendants, Maxi started looking around frantically.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I can’t find my flock.’

Iris and I laughed, but Vette, who had been quieter than normal, groaned.

‘Hey ... Bo Peep. What’s up?’ Maxi asked her.

‘Er ... nothing. Nothing.’ She shook her head.

She was paler than normal and I was getting concerned. ‘Vette?’

‘It’s nothing, really.’ She looked stricken.

‘Vette!’

‘Oh, okay. Your mum caught me on the way out last night and told me she’d organised for me to be Norbert’s partner. She said it like it was a good thing, like she was doing me a favour, even!’

‘Oh, I’ve had it! That woman has hijacked my bloody wedding from the start. But this is the last straw.’

‘No, don’t!’ Maxi grabbed my arm as I was about to walk out of the room. ‘Don’t get into an argument with her.
She will spoil your day.
She’ll carry on about the sacrifices she’s made for you, about how much they’ve spent on the wedding, on your education, on your extra-curricular activities, on your medical and dental bills over the years ... you name it. And … how ungrateful you are.’

‘She’s right, Ruthie. It’s okay. I’m sorry I said anything. It’s your day; I don’t want to cause problems.’

‘But I want you to have fun.’

‘Then I say we keep our mouths shut,’ Maxi said. ‘But we take our places at the bridal table as per the original plan: Vette’s with Myron, Iris is with Ralph because of the height thing, and
I’m
with Norbert. I can handle the lizard. I grew up with Uncle Ernie, remember.’

‘But she was at the venue yesterday afternoon to put the place cards out.’

‘So? Vette will sit where mine is and I’ll sit where hers is. Sylvia won’t make a scene. She’ll be too worried about keeping up appearances.’

‘Hmm ... it might spoil her enjoyment.’ I smiled. Maxi smiled. Vette smiled.

‘Well, I’ve got an even better idea,’ Iris said wickedly. ‘Sylvia’s not the only one who’s taken the shine off what should be one of the best days of your life—the lizard has too. How about I pair up with him? “Because of the height thing”. It’s called karma, darlin’.’

Maxi, Vette and I whooped and rubbed our hands with glee. Iris was about four inches taller than Norbert (five, with heels). He didn’t suck in air between his teeth when he saw Iris. He actually avoided her.

The colour came back into Vette’s cheeks and we all now felt light and happy as they helped me into my bridal gown. It was virginal white silk crêpe de Chine with a three-foot train, a scoop neckline and an empire waist. It had chiffon Juliette sleeves that had three rows of small, embroidered daisies on the cuffs. The headpiece also had three rows of small, embroidered daisies with a two-tier veil attached to it. Sylvia had chosen my bridal bouquet of gardenias and baby’s breath with a cobalt blue ribbon. I settled on black suits for the boys. Reuben would wear a white shirt and cobalt blue velvet bowtie, and the groomsmen would wear baby blue shirts with black velvet bowties.

The photographer arrived around two o’clock. He decided to shoot inside because it was a bit windy outside. It was also a bit windy inside.

Joe Blow shrugged and gave me a what-can-you-do? look. ‘I’m nervous.’ It was the first time he’d ever offered an excuse.

The girls thought it was a hoot; I no longer felt light and happy. It suddenly hit me ...

It was Sunday.
Sunday!

Except for the bride and the mother-of-the-bride, everyone was laughing, which made for happy snaps. The photographer was pleased. With the photo-shoot over, I was at the front door when Sylvia called out to me.

‘Where are your glasses?’

‘In my room, where they are staying.’

If she was giving me a dirty look, I couldn’t see; didn’t care. A bride should not wear glasses. A bride may wear contact lenses, but I couldn’t wear mine anymore. A few years earlier, I’d overworn them and abraded my corneas. Anyway, I didn’t need to see clearly. Joe would lead me to Reuben; Reuben would lead me round the dance floor; for me, it didn’t matter that the photographer was out of focus, I only had to be in focus for him; and nobody needs twenty-twenty vision to eat what’s in front of them or to toss a bridal bouquet backwards.

The vintage Rolls wedding cars had arrived.
Jesus!
I should have insisted on having a say during the planning. Vanilla colour ... and goddamn vanilla smell!

The foundations were shaking.

I reminded myself we were only going from A to B—a purposeful journey. And thankfully, there were a whole lot of distractions between A and B: cheers, jeers, whistling, waving and tooting from spectators.

At point B, we gathered at the entrance to the synagogue for a few more snaps, and then the bridal march began.

‘Where are your glasses?’ I asked Joe.

‘I don’t want to wear them.’

Talk about conceited!

Without his bifocals, Joe couldn’t see far or near very well. Not even twenty seconds inside the synagogue as we turned into the aisle, he knocked his knee on the edge of a pew.

‘Shit!’ He said this out loud.

Foundations shaking harder—framework trembling.

Then, under the chuppah, the very old cantor got carried away, and swinging his arms out on a high note, he hit Sylvia in the head with his prayer book (this was actually a high note for me). Other than that, Reuben and I got hitched without a hitch. The photo session after the ceremony was held in a sheltered section of the Adelaide Park Lands. The session wrapped up earlier than expected.

‘Would you like to drive around for a bit to kill some time?’ the chauffeur asked.

Drive around? What ... purposeless driving, vanilla car deodoriser, windy day, open driver’s window? ... Think again, buddy!
I got a little hysterical and aggressive over this suggestion.
Framework now wobbling badly.

We ended up going straight to the reception venue and just hung around there, waiting. I was bored. Married for two hours and I was already bored. Not a good sign.

The guests arrived and more photos were taken of Reuben and me, of us with the rest of the bridal party, of us with our parents, and us with the extended family—aunts, uncles and cousins (including Zelda, who had kept her distance from me since her wedding). The rest of the evening was a hazy blend of food, music, dancing, speeches, a sea of faces, of saying ‘cheese’ on the dance floor, at the table, during the cake cutting. I was going through the motions, but for the best part, I was absent from my own wedding. Like God.

Some moments stood out, though. Joe taking an antihistamine at my insistence; me telling him he could fart to his heart’s content
only
while the band was playing aloud; the initial panicked look on Norbert’s face when Iris sat next to him at the bridal table; Sylvia’s obvious consternation when she saw Iris paired with Norbert, Maxi paired with Ralph, and Vette paired with Myron; a docile, cowering Norbert (Iris takes no prisoners); and Albie’s toast not being too much of a disaster—I was adamant that all he could say when he raised his glass was, ‘Here’s to Sylvia and Joe, the parents of the bride’. He only got stuck on p-p-p-p-p-parents and b-b-b-b-b-bride. So a four-second toast took eight (I was counting—one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand ... eight). And I didn’t need to worry about the double-act. When Albie got to the podium, Ralph was nowhere to be seen (Myron later found him lying bare-arsed in the back seat of Albie’s car over Maxi-the-centrefold, her hem wrapped around her ears, her legs wrapped around Ralph’s waist. ‘Just for old time’s sake,’ she told me afterwards. ‘He knows how to work the love button now!’). But the most memorable part of the evening was the bouquet toss.

The reception was winding up and all the single women were invited onto the dance floor. I was only interested in where Maxi and Vette positioned themselves—at the front of the group, a little to my left as I faced them. I turned around and slowly lobbed the posy backwards over my right shoulder, then whipped around to watch its trajectory. Not a bad aim, although a bit too light on the thrust. Both Maxi and Vette had their arms extended up, but then dropped them down and leaned forward because it looked like the bouquet was going to land a little short. Just then, Tammy, who was standing about one and a half metres to their left, took a low dive across them. It began as a full-stretch horizontal move that you’d likely see on a cricket infield, and though it was quick, it seemed to unfold in slow motion. She then extended her right hand and twisted her body ever so slightly, which made her body pointier (it was what Superman did to reduce air resistance). Tammy flew through the air, caught the flowers and, a couple of metres beyond Maxi and Vette, landed like a pro with her body weight evenly distributed so that no one part bore the brunt. She slid three metres across the shiny dance floor, came to a stop on the carpeted area, grimaced a little (probably from carpet burn), then slowly sat upright and laughed as she triumphantly held up the bouquet.

‘A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!’

Everybody who’d witnessed this was floored. At first. Then they gave Tammy a hearty round of applause. The dive was equal parts spectacular and bewildering. Spectacular because of its execution—who
was
this person recently engaged to my brother? No dumb bunny; hers was one hell of a tactical move that demonstrated an understanding of the science of aerodynamics.
Maybe I was right about her.
And bewildering because she was already engaged, which meant she was taken. Unavailable. Not single.
Maybe Ralph was right about her.

And ... who were these everybodies? It wasn’t that I couldn’t see them clearly; I just didn’t know most of them. Had they crashed my wedding? They were now being shepherded into a farewell circle, and as Reuben and I slowly made our way around saying our goodbyes, the everybodies kissed me, looked me in the eye, even wished me well. Sylvia introduced me to the woman standing next to her—Christine was the checkout chick from Target. After I got engaged, Sylvia had bought stuff for my trousseau from Target. She and Christine used to chat about the upcoming wedding. This was a reason to invite her?

It had been a long day that ironically was over just like that. There was much to think about and a lot to digest. And that would take some time. But as we were chauffeured to our hotel for the night, it occurred to me that I’d been spared. This Sunday hadn’t been my judgement day.
The foundation and framework had stopped shimmying.
For now. So, if not my wedding day, then which Sunday would it be?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
REAL ESTATE LOW-DOWN

I was now Mrs Ruth Gold. Not Goldberg, Goldman or Goldstein. No. I had to find someone with a single syllable surname. And I wasn’t happy. Not about the name—I just wasn’t happy in myself. I wasn’t unhappy either. I was glad to have left the war zone of my childhood home, but married life was not all it was cracked up to be. I had read in
Cosmopolitan
magazine that the first year of marriage is the hardest—lots of adjustments to make. But when I still felt unsettled halfway through the second year, I foolishly told Sylvia.

‘What’s to be unhappy about? Reuben is a good man.
Oeuf!
You’re never happy!’

What she said about Reuben was true. I didn’t argue with her about the other part because my mirror had also been cavilling about my ingratitude, and maybe they were right. Maybe my expectations were unrealistic. Years earlier, I’d accused Vette of being too invested in happily-ever-after (it only existed in books, movies and magazines). Yet, here I was just as lost in the fantasy. What a waste of time. I vowed I would give it up, try to be realistic, try to be happy with my lot and try to be a good person. Like Reuben. It meant not rocking the boat, which suited me fine because I was tired of too often ending up in hot water. So, I blended into suburbia. I drove a ho-hum colour car, wore ho-hum clothes, and had my long, wild tresses streaked and lopped into a neat and sensible, ho-hum bob. I couldn’t see that I was systematically becoming a Stepford wife, because I wasn’t. Steeped and simmering in tepidness, I was becoming a Stepford
frog
. I couldn’t see this either. But hell, lukewarm was an easy-peasy mode of existence.

After we’d come back from our honeymoon in Surfers, Reuben and I moved into a two-bedroom flat, which we rented from his uncle. Reuben shared his dream of one day owning a nice little cottage on a nice little tree-lined street. It became my dream. Now, on a rainy Saturday two years on, we were discussing our finances over lunch, and he told me that we finally had enough money for a deposit on a house.