we’re going to—?”
“Stand up!”
“...What for?”
“So I can kick your beautiful tail.”
“You mean I have to get married?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
We got to Rockville at five of two, and the others were waiting for us, out on the courthouse lawn, Mother in dark red, the color she likes best, Mrs. Lang in gray, Mr. Lang in a dark suit. When I got out of the car, I carried three boxes, two of the ladies’ corsages, one of Mr. Lang’s carnation. I was wearing mine, and Sonya was wearing her corsage of orange blossoms they dug up in Salisbury. We all stood around for a minute, helping each other pin up, and then went inside, where they were ready for us. The lady who had sold us our license was nicely turned out in pink, and the two girls in the office, who stood up with us as witnesses, were in pretty summer dresses, but I don’t recollect which color. Mr. Lucas, the deputy clerk who read the service, had on a mixed gray summer suit, very dignified.
Mr. Lang gave the bride away, and of course I fumbled the ring. I knew where I’d put it, where I thought I’d put it, in my coat pocket, but when I reached for it it wasn’t there.
“Take your time,” said Mr. Lucas soothingly. “It really wouldn’t be legal if the groom didn’t lose the ring.”
Then I found it, in the other coat pocket. Then we were all sitting down, while the girls signed the certificate, and Mother said: “Sonya, Gramie has everything to make music with, in that living room of his, every mechanical thing, to work when a button is pushed—except something you work yourself. Would you like a piano from me? As a wedding present I mean.”
“Oh, Mrs. Stu! Oh!”
Sonya started to cry, then kissed Mother. Mrs. Lang said: “We have something in mind, Sonya. We’ll give you a present too.”
“We don’t aim to be skunked.”
At Mr. Lang’s remark we laughed, as usual.
Then at last, around four, we were home, Sonya with the veil pinned up, but without her corsage, as she tossed it to one of the girls, the one who came up with a handful of rice to throw at us, as we sailed down the courthouse steps. I unlocked the door, put the bags inside, and picked Sonya up in my arms. Mrs. Persoff, who lives next door, was cutting peonies in her garden, and suddenly stopped and stared. “Yes!” I called to her. “It’s what you think! Congratulate me!”
She dropped her shears and clapped her hands, and Sonya blew her a kiss. I carried her in. “Okay,” I said, still not putting her down. “Frog turned into a prince—three wishes coming to you, say what they’re going to be!”
“I want to be carried upstairs.”
I carried her up. “What next?”
“I want to be flopped on that bed.”
I flopped her. “One more?”
“I want it turned into Cloud Nine.”
I turned it, for the rest of the afternoon.
Chapter 15
N EXT MORNING, LIFE WENT on as before, and yet was entirely different. When I went into the office, they all gave three cheers. Elsie the switchboard girl, the three salesmen, Jack Kefore, Mel Schachtman, and Gordon Carter, and Helen Musick, my secretary, and five minutes later, from the way they acted, you’d have thought I’d always been married—except for Mrs. Musick. She followed me into my private office, wanting to know the “details,” especially who the bride was, whether she knew her, and so on. I cut back to the Christmas speech, said I “fell for her then, pretty hard, and began taking her out,” then pretended I’d hesitated a bit, on account of the bride-to-be’s age, and then “suddenly made up my mind—and that’s about all.”
At least some of it was true.
I added: “You’re coming to dinner tonight.”
“Oh no! She doesn’t have to do that!”
“She’ll be calling you.”
“Well I certainly look forward to meeting her!”
Then I got to the things that were waiting for me, mainly interviews with people who’d called in in response to our Sunday ad, about houses they
“Stand up!”
“...What for?”
“So I can kick your beautiful tail.”
“You mean I have to get married?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
We got to Rockville at five of two, and the others were waiting for us, out on the courthouse lawn, Mother in dark red, the color she likes best, Mrs. Lang in gray, Mr. Lang in a dark suit. When I got out of the car, I carried three boxes, two of the ladies’ corsages, one of Mr. Lang’s carnation. I was wearing mine, and Sonya was wearing her corsage of orange blossoms they dug up in Salisbury. We all stood around for a minute, helping each other pin up, and then went inside, where they were ready for us. The lady who had sold us our license was nicely turned out in pink, and the two girls in the office, who stood up with us as witnesses, were in pretty summer dresses, but I don’t recollect which color. Mr. Lucas, the deputy clerk who read the service, had on a mixed gray summer suit, very dignified.
Mr. Lang gave the bride away, and of course I fumbled the ring. I knew where I’d put it, where I thought I’d put it, in my coat pocket, but when I reached for it it wasn’t there.
“Take your time,” said Mr. Lucas soothingly. “It really wouldn’t be legal if the groom didn’t lose the ring.”
Then I found it, in the other coat pocket. Then we were all sitting down, while the girls signed the certificate, and Mother said: “Sonya, Gramie has everything to make music with, in that living room of his, every mechanical thing, to work when a button is pushed—except something you work yourself. Would you like a piano from me? As a wedding present I mean.”
“Oh, Mrs. Stu! Oh!”
Sonya started to cry, then kissed Mother. Mrs. Lang said: “We have something in mind, Sonya. We’ll give you a present too.”
“We don’t aim to be skunked.”
At Mr. Lang’s remark we laughed, as usual.
Then at last, around four, we were home, Sonya with the veil pinned up, but without her corsage, as she tossed it to one of the girls, the one who came up with a handful of rice to throw at us, as we sailed down the courthouse steps. I unlocked the door, put the bags inside, and picked Sonya up in my arms. Mrs. Persoff, who lives next door, was cutting peonies in her garden, and suddenly stopped and stared. “Yes!” I called to her. “It’s what you think! Congratulate me!”
She dropped her shears and clapped her hands, and Sonya blew her a kiss. I carried her in. “Okay,” I said, still not putting her down. “Frog turned into a prince—three wishes coming to you, say what they’re going to be!”
“I want to be carried upstairs.”
I carried her up. “What next?”
“I want to be flopped on that bed.”
I flopped her. “One more?”
“I want it turned into Cloud Nine.”
I turned it, for the rest of the afternoon.
Chapter 15
N EXT MORNING, LIFE WENT on as before, and yet was entirely different. When I went into the office, they all gave three cheers. Elsie the switchboard girl, the three salesmen, Jack Kefore, Mel Schachtman, and Gordon Carter, and Helen Musick, my secretary, and five minutes later, from the way they acted, you’d have thought I’d always been married—except for Mrs. Musick. She followed me into my private office, wanting to know the “details,” especially who the bride was, whether she knew her, and so on. I cut back to the Christmas speech, said I “fell for her then, pretty hard, and began taking her out,” then pretended I’d hesitated a bit, on account of the bride-to-be’s age, and then “suddenly made up my mind—and that’s about all.”
At least some of it was true.
I added: “You’re coming to dinner tonight.”
“Oh no! She doesn’t have to do that!”
“She’ll be calling you.”
“Well I certainly look forward to meeting her!”
Then I got to the things that were waiting for me, mainly interviews with people who’d called in in response to our Sunday ad, about houses they
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