Brooklyn Wedding
“Isn’t that impressive?” Uncle Billy turns his head and yells straight into my ear. We are driving across the Brooklyn Bridge. The Manhattan skyline looms large ahead, but it does not look real to me. The harbor waters below are drab and dirty.
Sometimes I still feel like I am caught in a bad dream where I want to escape but I’m moving in slow motion. Surely, I will wake up any minute now and be back in Germany, sitting in Cafe Bormuth with my sister, drinking coffee, she daintily partaking of her cake in small bites, and I devouring my slice in big mouthfuls in record time.
But here we are on the Brooklyn Bridge heading for Manhattan, for me to embark on my honeymoon. Uncle Billy’s voice reverberates in my head. If only he wouldn’t insist on turning his head whenever he wants to say something. And he has a lot to communicate, pointing out the sights and wonders of New York as if he had had a hand in building it. And I am too intimidated to ask him to lower his voice. Besides, I do not believe he is capable of speaking in a softer tone. The loud grating voice is apparently a family trademark.
Utterly exhausted from the wedding, all I want now is to get away from everybody, including Uncle Billy, as quickly as possible. I had really wanted to sit in the backseat of the huge Chevy that Uncle Billy—and all the relatives from Pennsylvania—are so proud of. And indeed, I would have preferred to take the subway, but Uncle Billy wouldn’t have it. “I’ll take you two to your hotel,” he had volunteered. And, “There’s plenty of room in front for all three of us.” His voice boomed, “Come sit in the middle. I’d love to have a beautiful girl sit next to me!” He grinned good naturedly at the others. Everyone laughed with that knowing laugh alluding to the pleasures of the honeymoon. It made me nauseous. The whole day, if not the week, had been a disaster, but it seems that I am the only one who noticed.
Everything has gone so fast. I had barely set foot on the ground at the airport when my future in-laws, neighbors, and friends had descended upon me. Wedding plans had apparently been made before I arrived, not that I didn’t know, but I had not been aware of a date having been set, and so soon! They couldn’t be serious about us getting married in less than a week after my arrival, could they? But they were. And I felt too bewildered, too helpless and barraged by too many new things to protest. Half the time I couldn’t even understand them. The English they spoke was a far cry from the British I had learned in high school.
In truth, I hadn’t known exactly what to expect, but in a way I had envisioned getting re-acquainted with this man, the stranger next to me, talking with Uncle Billy. Once, earlier in the week I had timidly asked if we had to get married now, this week, this fast. But Daryl had only given me a surprised look. “What do you want to do?” He asked, “Live together?” His tone clearly indicated that living together was not an option.
For a moment that feeling of complete panic that has beset me so many times in the past few days is washing over me again. I feel trapped. But I will myself to stop, to concentrate on the moment. There is no way out, and I don’t want to start crying again as I had so inappropriately done when my mother called during the reception, “What is it, Darling?” Mother’s voice had sounded deeply troubled. “What’s wrong? Do you want to come home? You know you can come home!” She reassured me. “No, no!” I had sobbed into the receiver, trying to get hold of the panic. “Everything is fine, really!” I had insisted, choking back the flood of tears that threatened to overcome me. God, no! There was no way I could go home, and there is none now! I can’t even consider it. Going home, failing, before even trying to make this work is possibly the only situation worse than this. After all, hadn’t I fallen in love with my husband? Hadn’t I agreed to marry him? No more than that, I had wanted to marry him! I owe him now to at least look happy.
So, I am doing what I have done all week—I am smiling dutifully. Yes, New York is certainly impressive. New York is huge, without warmth, without compassion, and the hammer in my head pounds against my skull without compassion as it had done all week since my arrival. I wish I could cry, but I know that would make it all worse.
I am really married, and my head is about to burst with pain. My stomach is tied up in knots, and all I feel is misery. How can this be my wedding day?
Everything since I’d landed in Idylwild seems to have raced along with the speed of a roller coaster. There was the horrible dingy apartment in the smelly roach-infested tenement house in Brooklyn; then meeting the strange neighbors, Abe and Rose, who seemed to regard me with the curiosity one regards a rare animal at the zoo; the even stranger questions I was asked: were there any radios or televisions or worse: were there any Jews left in my country? I was horrified and embarrassed. Yes, I answered to all of that. “And we do eat with knives and forks.” I finally added rudely. Everyone laughed though it certainly wasn’t funny.
Then came the trip to the florist, the only time I was consulted about my preferences; but when I shyly asked for red roses, eyebrows went up, and the red roses, the symbol of love, were abandoned for greenish white lilies, the symbol of death. Was it an omen?
Next was the trip to the photographer, and, as if my panic wasn’t complete, the visit at the church. The priest was a tall vaguely friendly Italian, who seemed preoccupied and walked us through the proceedings in an absentminded sort of way. I doubted he would remember our names at the actual wedding. It did not matter anyway; I could not understand him at our appointment or later at the wedding. His accent was different from the New York or Filipino ones I had heard so far. I did mention to him that I was not Catholic as I thought that might affect the ceremony. It did. He had forgotten.
Finally, the day before the wedding. “You will stay with our friends, Kenny and Yuki,” my future mother-in-law informs me. “They will bring you to the church tomorrow. It’s the proper way.”
As it turned out, the night at Kenny’s and Yuki’s house was the first pleasant experience in my new country. They were a sweet couple, their two young boys and teenage girl delightful. They had a lovely house, and they were bent on making me feel welcome.
But, inevitably, the next morning arrives. Another hot sunny day and my head pounds from the moment I awake though I had slept well enough.
“Do you like pancakes?” my hostess sticks her pretty head in the door. “Kenny is cooking. Are you hungry?” “Yes.” I answer. The aroma of cooking had already wafted into the room and I love pancakes. Everything I have eaten so far has tasted salty but pancakes won’t. Why do Americans put salt into everything? Further I hope that eating something might abate the headache that seems to get worse by the minute. We sit at the round table in our pajamas and Kenny serves up bacon and pancakes. My plate is stacked with three pancakes swimming in syrup and topped with a pat of salted butter. I drink orange juice. No salt.
And then it’s time to get ready. I shower, carefully apply make-up, get dressed, and try on the veil. Little Kenny gives a wolf whistle when he sees me. I had designed and sewn my elegant wedding dress. The long slim skirt is a little shorter in the front showing the tips of the satin shoes. The back is longer, touching the floor, simulating a short train. The sleeveless bodice is made of rows of lace with a modest neckline and topped by a short jacket with tiny satin buttons. The jacket is shorter in the front and allows the lace to show. It is smashing.
We have to wait in front of the church for the couple before us to get married. When they come out happily laughing, I begin to hope that everything might still turn out all right. All we have to do is get through this day, this week, and we’re off to Virginia where Daryl is stationed. We will begin our life together, and everything will fall into place.
The ceremony is mercifully short. Since I cannot understand the priest, I focus strenuously on his demeanor, and when it looks like he is waiting for an answer from me, I quickly say yes. It is apparently the right moment because nobody laughs and we are married.
Everyone takes off to my in-laws’ dingy apartment where the reception takes place. An unbelievable number of tall, noisy people crowds in, laughing, eating, drinking beer out of cans. Beer in cans? There are children running about playing, and a snotty nose boy finds and finishes off nearly empty beer cans. No one pays attention until he complains of feeling sick and throws up.
Now everyone just feels sorry for him. There is also a young man perhaps in his twenties. Everyone jokes with him though he appears not to understand. They tell him to sit on my lap. “Here, Henry,” they coax him. “Sit on this beautiful girl’s lap. Flirt with her. You can kiss her.” He follows their instructions, sits on my lap not really knowing why, smiles and drools on my wedding dress while everyone laughs uproariously. “Kiss her, kiss her,” they cajole him. He kisses me, giggling in embarrassment. I try to smile at him, praying for the pounding in my head to stop.
Just then the call from my mother interrupts. After her call, I change my wedding dress for the elegant Chanel suit I had designed and made to go away in, and now we are here. I need to communicate my feelings to my husband, ask him for forgiveness for feeling this way. He would understand; perhaps laugh and say something sweet like: “Don’t worry, Honey. You are just homesick. All this is very new for you. We’ll get through this together.” Then he will hug me and my fears and confusion will be a thing of the past.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. What if I didn’t really love him? What if it was all a big mistake?! We arrive in front of the Plaza Hotel. Uncle Billy offers to carry the bags for us, but thankfully Daryl declines. Daryl signs us in as Mr. and Mrs. We take the elevator to our floor, and Daryl carries me across the threshold of our room. “Finally, we’re alone,” he smiles.
I have started my period.