More Wild West

The Visitor Has Company (Visitor #7)-8

No more sickness for a while, please, the agnostic Lea prayed.

Andy began openly to cry.

“Take hands, gentlemen,” said Ms. Carter, and they did. “For as much as Sean and Andy have consented together in wedlock and have witnessed the same before this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth, each to the other, and have declared the same by joining hands.”

Tears were dribbling down Sean’s cheek too. He and Andy gripped their huge hands together as if they were getting ready to arm wrestle.

“Now, by the authority vested in me by the State of Georgia and the Office of Mayor of the City of Atlanta, I pronounce you to be married and extend to you my best wishes for a successful and happy married life together.”

Oh. Damn. Now Lea was crying. Why do people cry at weddings?

“A personal thanks for granting me the honor and privilege of extending the marriage rites to you on this wonderful day. Ladies and gentlemen… may I present Misters Sean and Andy… Krakowicz.”

Already weeping, Lea felt her jaw and stomach drop. They’d taken her name?

“You may kiss.”

The audience cheered.

As they drove to Sean’s childhood home, Lea laughed, “Mr. and Mr. Krakowicz?”

“Thought you’d like that,” said Andy, still sniffling.

“Didn’t want to leave you out,” said Sean, tears dry, nose still pink, but crooked grin firmly in place.

“Yeah,” laughed Kirsten, who was driving, “like the two of y’all would ever leave Leelee out.”

Sean tugged on his sister’s carefully coifed hair. “No making fun of me, my husband, and the woman we love.”

Andy blew his nose and said, “Actually, we’re thinking about kids. So’s there’s never any question.”

“Oh.” Lea hadn’t even gotten that far in her brain. “Thank you, guys.”

“Hey. It’s your name,” laughed Sean. “Thank you.”

They pulled up in front of the O’Connells’. Kirsten chuckled. “Y’all ready for act two?”

As they walked through into the back yard, Lea fought down what she recognized as stage fright. Silly. She knew how this turned out. She took off the grey jacket she’d worn to the boys’ wedding, leaving her in the strapless white dress that Kirsten had helped her buy — that Kirsten insisted on calling her Marilyn Monroe dress, though Lea was very aware she was no Marilyn Monroe, and, anyway, there weren’t any subway gratings nearby to push the skirts of the dress up.

The whole crowd was streaming into the back yard: everyone from the roof-top wedding, plus a couple of Lea’s and Kirsten’s friends from college, a couple of Lea’s cousins, and a few family friends of the O’Connells. Kirsten whispered into Lea’s ear, “Ready?”

When Lea nodded, Kirsten kissed her on the cheek and waved at Lea’s mother, pointing at the chuppah that they’d set up on the back lawn.

Lea’s mother started clapping rhythmically, and many in the crowd took it up, gathering around the ceremonial canopy.

Then Sean stepped into the chuppah next to Lea’s mom, wearing a white yarmulke and prayer shawl, and Lea’s breath left her body completely.

Lea’s father chuckled into her ear, “No passing out. You don’t want to keep Sean waiting.”

Lea shook her head. Also, she thought, grass stains would be a b***h to get out of this dress. “Daddy?” she whispered, “you’re okay with this?”

“Sweetheart,” her father sighed, placing a kiss on her brow, “I’ve never seen you so happy. How could I not be okay with that?”

And then a solo flute — played by a former girlfriend of Kirsten’s — played the wedding march, and Lea’s father walked her up the aisle toward Sean.

As she walked around him seven times under the chuppah, what Lea was thinking about was how many times she’d dreamed about this bit — how many times, after one of Sean’s visits to California (once she’d diddled away the s****l tension) she’d day-dreamed about marrying him. Sometimes she’d visualize a city hall wedding (though nothing as beautiful as Andy and Sean’s), sometimes in a vaguely imagined church service, but usually under the sky. Under a canopy.

Lea’s mom, the tantric JewBu, had begged to officiate, since a rabbi isn’t required in a Jewish wedding. Most of what she did was — at Lea’s insistence — traditional: the seven blessings, mostly. She’d insisted on reading the racier bits from the Song of Songs and singing “Sunrise, Sunset.” Mostly on-key.

At least she’d kept her clothes on. Lea still shuddered, thinking of her mother’s version of a coming-of-age ceremony, which had been part bat mitzvah, part Native American spirit quest, a lot of talking about the Goddess and the power of the feminine divine, and all of them — Lea and a bunch of middle-aged women — running around the woods naked.

Lea looked up into Sean’s deep, deep, pale blue eyes. Oh, yes, she found herself thinking. I could look into those for the rest of my life.

Another sexy bit from the Song of Songs (Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!/For your love is better than wine./Your name is like ointment poured forth;/Therefore the virgins love you) and suddenly Lea’s father was kneeling, placing a knapkin-wrapped wine glass at her and Sean’s feet.

Holding her hand, Sean grinned at her and mouthed, One, two, three!

They stomped on the glass and the crowd — the Jewish ones, at least — cried “Mozel tov!”

Sean pulled Lea off her feet and gave her a kiss that left her breathless and made her wish everyone would just go away for a half an hour.

Everyone but Andy, who was cheering on Sean’s far side as Kirsten cheered on Lea’s. Andy she wanted to stay.

Eventually, Sean put her down and grinned down at her, his yarmulke tipped far to one side. “Mrs. Krakowicz.”

She grinned up at him, panting. “Mr. Krakowicz.”

Violet came up and kissed Lea only a little less fiercely than her son. Kirsten settled for a kiss on the cheek, but her wink let Lea know that Kirsten had been thinking of kissing Lea every bit as fiercely as Sean.

Andy, however, pulled Lea up into a fiery — though brief — smooch that raised a couple of the guests’ eyebrows. The ones who weren’t aware of just how complex a wedding this was.

Lea’s parents, who were both beaming, had provided a light kosher lunch — none of that pickled fish crap, Lea had insisted and gotten: felafel, hummus, tabouleh, and pita chips; chicken and egg salad finger sandwiches; baklava for dessert. The crowd milled happily, eating, chatting, and wishing Sean and Lea well. She decided that mazel tov should always be spoken in a Georgian drawl.

The whole fire house contingent were very boisterous, sipping California wine (and passing around a flask or two, Lea was pretty sure), slapping both Sean and Andy on the back, telling them they were very lucky men.

Joanie, in a lovely dress — the only firefighter not in a Class A dress uniform — gave Lea a hug and whispered to her that she was a lucky b***h.

Lea could only laugh and agree.

Even Jack Miller, the asshole, made a point of congratulating the three of them. Sean whispered to her as Miller walked away that Miller’s wife had left him the previous, and he was a wounded puppy.

“No one deserves it more,” muttered Andy, and Lea couldn’t in good conscience disagree.

Lea’s parents circulated, but a knot of the older crowd eventually congregated around them: Violet, the Harrises, Gus, and Sassy, who Lea could swear was just about to break out in something like a smile at any moment.

The only person who didn’t seem to be having a good time was Jessie, Andy’s middle sister, who picked glumly at her hummus, standing behind the chuppah.

“You okay?” Lea asked.

Jessie shrugged and then gave Lea a smirk that reminded Lea very much of her brother. “Weddings,” she sighed. “Since I left Booger, they make me feel all… funny.”

“Oh. I bet.” Lea pointed surreptitiously at Andy and Sean, who were talking to their fellow firefighters, and then to herself. “Are you okay with this?”

The smirk soured, but then Jessie shook her head as if to straighten it again. “Would it matter if I wasn’t? Andrew’s… happy.” Now she began to sniffle. “Like Pa said, a blind man could see he loves the both of y’all… and that y’all love him.”

“Yeah,” agreed Lea, and then handed her one tissue after another as Jessie began to cry.

Wish I could help, Lea thought. Wish I could make you as happy as I am.

Eventually, the crowd started to thin. Most of Sean’s childhood friends and Lea’s classmates gave them hugs and kisses. A couple of her own distant cousins handed Lea envelopes that she would later discover had checks in them.

Once the only remaining guests were those who had been at the morning’s wedding as well, Prior tapped his glass. “As the best man for the next wedding, could I ask all of y’all who are coming to the last stop in this progressive weddin’ party to get going?”

In the car on the way up to Andy’s Blue Ridge Mountain home, Lea noticed that Sean was pensive. “Something wrong?”

Andy laughed. “Wrong? What could possibly be wrong? He’s married our asses!”

Lea and Kirsten laughed with him, but Sean just smiled. “Just wish… I know it’s stupid, but I wish Papa could at least have come to one of the ceremonies.”

Lea expected Kirsten to mutter “son of a b***h” again — but instead she drew an envelope from her bag.

Sean snorted. “A check?”

“Hey,” said Kirsten, somber for her, “it’s a bigger one than I got for graduation. But there’s a letter too.”

Sean gawked. “You’re shitting me. I thought that was against his religion.”

“Apparently not. He asked me to give it to you after you’d married them both,” Kirsten said, and held it out to her brother, even though he was driving.

Shaking his head, Sean said, “Read it.”

“You sure?”

When he nodded, she unfolded the letter, handing the check to Lea. “Dear Sean,” she read:

Thank you so much for inviting me to your wedding services. I hope you understand that I cannot in good conscience attend, not because I disapprove of you or of the choices that you have made, or because I disapprove either of Lea or of Andy (who both seem lovely and clearly love you very much), or that I do not care about you or your happiness, but because as a man who has done his best to follow those precepts laid out by his faith as good, proper, and moral, I know that I could not attend without blackening a day that I hope will be the brightest of your life. I cannot do that to you, any more than I can endure myself the moral distress.

The day of my wedding to your mother was the third happiest day of my life, after the days of your and your sister’s births. I know that this may not seem possible to you, but I love your mother still. I left because as angry as I was (and am) with her for turning her back on her vows to me and to God, I did not want to abuse her, either by venting my fury, or by forcing her to continue to live in a manner that she assured me was nothing but a lie.

When I came to the hospital after you were hurt, your sister, who seems to have my temper rather than your mother’s, told me in no uncertain terms that I should have been more present in your lives. I can see that that is true. Please, Sean, forgive me. As I said, I stayed away not because I did not care, but because, in a way, I cared too much. For me, my absence from your lives has felt like a form of penance. Nonetheless, I have been thinking about this, and have come to realize staying away from you is one of the more shameful things I have ever done.