Marrying and Sleeping

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Marrying and Sleeping

  by Douglas the Blind

We marry in July of 1970 on such a very predictable (always extreme) summer day, a day so sunny and sweltering the suits and dresses in the pews will all require dry-cleaning. On my walk along the aisle, once the ceremony starts, I notice the wet, dark vees between each pair of shoulder blades. Martha soon appears on the arm of her father. How can so light a foot . . . .
    Earlier, the previous night, Barry and I wait till dark before we drive around town and gather petunias, roses, begonias, nasturtiums, irises and daisies from flower beds on municipal and private properties. We keep the car running even though we’ve scouted out the safest places to collect them without being seen. Back from pillaging, we divide the flowers into enough pint jars to place two bunches as well as two candles on each of twenty-four groupings in the church basement. White cloths cover the long collapsible tables that someone has helpfully already assembled. We place the flowers and candles on them and it looks to me as if everything here is set for tomorrow.
    On the way from the church, to a sort of stag party, I resist opening the twenty-six of Seagrams that we picked up on the way to the flowerbeds. Arriving at Malcolm's house, as I open the door to get out, somehow the bottle rolls off my lap and falls against the curb. Of course, it smashes, the precious liquid mixing with the mud beside the tires. Shit! Damn! Fuck! The lousy luck! The elation of getting all those flowers for free dies in a second. Now we’ll have to settle for a few beers and glasses of wine begged from the others, maybe, if they sympathize. I think to myself without conviction that at least I’ll be clear-headed walking down the aisle tomorrow.
    Martha looks delicious despite the heat. Her white wedding dress seems to float about her, a gossamer train trailing shyly behind as step by step she gains the front of the sanctuary.  Unbearable, shimmering heat. Mirage. Her gait poised, deliberate, the distance unending. Perspiration glistens on her skin, on her overheated cheeks and down the front of her girlish bosom. She appears so tiny to me. I could pick her up under one arm and carry her about. She is the prettiest thing I have ever seen, delicate of body and face, slight as a new aspen, and with a child’s fingers and hands. In them she carries a small bouquet, her eyes kept on mine. Her hair, so patiently brushed and curled by her maids-in-waiting, lies limp and damp against her forehead. We meet by the alter, we smile at each other, we wink, we vow, we sign, we marry. After the presents we make it to the motel where, too tired to do more than lay there in each other's arms, we say a few things about the day and the heat, and sleep.