current issue :: 2008This Sequence of Events Begins Here: 4 Poems by Heather Madden Faking Deafness: 4 Poems
The Wedding Night by Erin Osborne After This, Everything Else is Going Abby's Ambition by Kristan Ginther A Blur with Claws: 3 Poems Poverty Like This by Kirsten Larson |
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The Wedding Nightby Erin Osborne
When I came home from work one night, I found my man married to another woman. It had just happened. The cake was all vanilla crumbs on a gold foil platter sitting on my dinner table. Groups of women stood around my tiny living room, fidgeting with each other’s pearl necklaces, tugging at the bottoms of cream-colored suits, and cupping glasses of pink wine with really excited looks on their faces, like something more was going to happen. As I hung up my coat, the minister slid past me. The reasons I knew he was the minister were a) he had this kind of peaceful look on his face and b) he was dressed like Jesus. He wore Birkenstocks instead of authentic sandals and his toenails were really clean--but other than that, spitting image. “You just missed it,” he said and held out his arms like he was going to give me a hug. He may have been beaming, I can’t really be sure, but he seemed happy to see me and that was nice so I weakly hugged him back. SHE was old. At least, older than me. Her hair was really straight and golden blonde, cut short to her ears, and her bangs were even. She had really even bangs. She wore thick glasses that magnified her blue eyes and she carried a couple of extra pounds around her middle, but she didn’t seem to care. She laughed with her mouth closed at something another lady said; a humming laugh that went up and down, sort of like a muffled aria. She squeezed the other lady’s wrist while the other lady just kept on with her story; squeezing and up, up, up, squeezing and down, down, down. She didn’t notice me. I found my man in the spare bedroom, sorting wedding gift boxes by size and pastel color and sitting on the olive-green velvet footstool my grandma let me have after her toy poodle died. He was my favorite, the poodle, and she knew I would want some reminder of him after he passed even though I’m not allowed to talk about the dog anymore in her presence. The reminder was his little teeth marks all over the dark-brown legs of the footstool. “Uhhh,” was all I said. “Cat got your tongue?” He said, smiling. “So what’s the deal?” I said. “I told you about this.” “No you didn’t,” I said. He really hadn’t. “Yes I did. Jesus, I told you about this so long ago that it was before we even met.” I wanted to yank that footstool right out from underneath him. Not really to see him fall, but because I didn’t want that piece of furniture to have any more to do with the situation. I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorway but he didn’t pay any mind. He just kept putting boxes in stacks. “So, what about the baby?” I asked. “Oh,” he said, and started twisting the strings at the knee of his holey jeans. “I don’t think she wants to bring her with us. You’ll have to keep her…maybe for good.” “No,” I said, “I mean, where is the baby?” He turned at me fast and almost fell off the footstool. “What do mean? What kind of father do you take me for? She’s sleeping, for Christ’s sake, where else would she be?” “Okay,” I said. “Okay.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, let my shoulders relax and shook out my hands at my sides. When I opened my eyes; he sneered at me, maybe, squinty eyes and a mouth frowned in disgust. I looked in on my daughter and she was sleeping, still wearing her superfast silver tennis shoes from that day and snuggling the same striped teddy bear that I told her I would kiss goodnight once I came home from work. I kissed it goodnight, then her pink cheek, and shut the door. “Have a good night,” I said to everyone in my living room. I grabbed my coat and headed out the door without looking back. My car faced our apartment head-on in the parking lot and when I started the car, the lights shone directly into our kitchen. My man opened the apartment door, shielded his eyes with his forearm, and announced that they were leaving for the honeymoon very early in the morning. I went to the only other place where I knew I would know someone; my work. I work at this Mexican restaurant, the kind where a bunch of white people stand around in chili-pepper patterned shirts and pressed black pants. We wear sombreros. I walked straight into the cantina and sat down on a green, red, and white striped padded stool. My friend, Christie, was in the exact same place she was when I left an hour before, except that now she was examining an unopened can of pineapple juice. “I just worry about botulism,” she mumbled to herself. She looked up and saw me, the only person at the bar. I ordered a margarita and she politely reminded me that employees were not allowed to drink in the bar at any time, especially she said, when they’re still in uniform and “that bastard Adolpho was managing.” I asked her if we could talk. “Well, there’s a party tonight. I guess we could talk there. It’s a friend of a friend’s who works over at T.T.F.N.. It’s supposed to be really cool--A bunch of servers and free booze.” I liked the sound of fellow servers and free booze so I told her I would go.
***
“With or without?” I asked Christie for the third time. We stood outside the door of the party in an apartment complex where every entrance looked the same except for the different numbers and the occasional hand-crafted wreath. Christie had pointed out in the car that I had a severe case of hat head or cabeza de sombrero. That’s what happens when I wear that thing for more than three hours. Not only do I end up smelling like refried beans but I look like Roseanne Roseannadanna from Saturday Night Live. I watched Christie’s face oscillate between confusion and disgust when I adjusted the sombrero on my head. “Jesus, did you condition today?” she asked. She was always more interested in my hair than I was. “With. Definitely with,” she finally decreed. “You can tell people you didn’t plan on coming to this party--that you weren’t prepared. If I had a hair tie with me it would be a different story but I don’t. Don’t worry, though. We’ll get through this together.” I could tell she thought herself to be very brave. So there I was, barely clearing the doorway with my Mexican headpiece. Christie walked in ahead of me and announced promptly to her friend of a friend that I was not prepared for this, that I had just gotten off work, and that I was a bit of an odd egg, anyway. I heard someone yell, “Arriba!” from the direction of the living room which was converted into a carpeted dance floor. The music was loud and throbbing. Men and women groped and thrusted at one another to some song that showcased a thin, whiny voice and bubble-popping sound effects. They really meant it, maybe. I mean that the music really seemed to move them and I could tell because of the pained, blissful look on their faces; that look that Jimi Hendrix had when he would hit a note that all at once broke his heart, amazed him and scared him, perhaps, into believing that there was a god. Then again, maybe not. A really drunk woman with droopy eyes and a sloppy smile asked me if I wanted to do a sex kitten. “Uhhh, no comprendo,” I said. Christie jabbed her sharp little elbow into my ribs. “It’s a shot, you moron,” she said. It was then that I saw the woman had a short little glass in her hand, spilling and sloshing purple liquid in drops all over the beige linoleum floor of the kitchen. She teetered the glass up to my lips and I tasted the syrupy, fruity concoction on the end of my tongue. It reminded me of a candy I used to eat when I was a kid; it used to shock my saliva glands into producing more spit and once that tingling went away, once the saliva flooded the bitterness out of my mouth, I could suck on the sweetness for an hour. “Bottoms up, Jose,” the woman said and I let her pour the alcohol down my throat. I ended up slouched on a tan and brown plaid couch next to Christie, who intermittingly shouted “Hey!” or “What’s up, Girl?” to different people who passed by and tried to regain her concentration to hear my story. The women all wore the same sexy uniform; differing shades of satin halter tops exposing backs and deep necklines and black skirts cut well above the knee. There were some variations; a garter belt here, long black dominatrix boots there, a birth control patch strategically placed on a shoulder blade or two. The men were more varied in dress; khaki pants and a red and white checkered, oversize button down shirt, a wife-beater tank top tucked into striped boxer shorts that more than peeped over the top of baggy, belted jeans. A fat guy in a Led Zeppelin T-shirt wearing a thick leather wristband and silver rings on his thumbs and forefingers manned the pony keg of Bud Light in the kitchen sink. “Hey!” Christie said. “Are you with me?” Her hair, normally golden and light in the darkness of a bar was striped yellow, orange, and brass. The colors bled from root to tip. “Tienes stripos,” I said. “What? How many of those shots did you have?” “Tres o cuatro, señorita. No problemo. Tienes stripos.” I laughed. “Stop that! You’re embarrassing yourself.” “Ohhh, Mija,” I said and frowned, “Lo siento.” I dropped my chin to my chest and twiddled my thumbs. A skinny man with soft red hair and sideburns tucked himself in between us on the couch. He was a literary type. The reasons I knew he was a literary type were a) he had a paperback copy of Magister Ludi in his back pocket and b) the first thing he said to either of us was, “I loathe house parties.” “Hey, I’ve read that book. Magister Ludi,” I said. I pronounced “Ludi” like “lewd eye.” “Actually, it’s pronounced ‘lud-eye’” he said, stretching his arm the length of the couch behind Christie. She smiled and straightened herself up like she was about to take a timed test. “Oh,” I said, “you know he actually won the Nobel Peace Prize for Literature for that one?” “Nobel Peace Prize for Literature?” he questioned. Christie gave me glare from behind him, which wasn’t really necessary because he turned his attention back to her right away. I may have been taken aback; I can’t really remember because I got lost in the pattern on the inside of my sombrero. It was woven. Bamboo? Corn husks? I wasn’t sure, but the weave created a perfect checkered pattern that allowed tiny pinpoint-sized beams of light to freckle the top of my shirt. I could catch a glimpse of a light freckle on my face if I crinkled my nose and crossed my eyes but that got tiresome. Up and over, over, and over again, that’s all it took. By hand or by machine I had to admit that I was pretty impressed. Christie made out with the literary type next to me. He promised to call her after she reminded him to write down her number. She seemed happy with what went on so she decided to take me home. The ride turned sour as soon as I realized that I didn’t know where I would be sleeping that night. But the thought of one day stretching my arms and legs out as far as I needed and no snoring in my ears made the ride sweet again, and I shut Christie’s car door with a spring of my wrist and a pleasant little wave adios. My man was awake and alone pacing the hallway in front of our daughter’s bedroom. I was still wearing the sombrero. “What were you thinking staying out all night?” he demanded more than asked. I walked right past him and flitted him away with my hand like I would a fly or a cockroach. “No hablo Inglés,” I said, throwing my body on the couch face first and knocking my sombrero off of my head. “Here I am, waiting for you to come home. Didn’t get any fuckin’ sleep. I gotta get up early tomorrow, you know…” I heard the rant begin. I heard “attitude” and “smart-ass” come from his general direction but then his shrill little words faded and I was asleep so quickly that I didn’t notice I was dreaming when my sombrero jumped up from the couch onto the coffee table and did a rousing tap number to “La Cucaracha” to my thundering applause.
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This issue is dedicated in loving memory of our fellow classmate and writer, Jackie Mosier. M Review © 2008 Marylhurst University. All rights to material published herein are retained by the individual authors and artists. |
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