"Mmm, I agree that Eunice's former husband is entitled to be invited to Joan Eunice's wedding, though there has never been a protocol established, that's certain. Dear, the clothes Joe wore in court would be okay for a home wedding. How about yourself, Eunice? Going to be married in white?"
"I think I've been insulted again. Wear white so that somebody can sneak a picture and sell it? ‘Ninety-FiveYear-Old Sex-Change Bride Wears White.' Dear, if I wear white, let's ask Life to send a photographer and cut out the middleman. Jake, I'll wear white if you tell me to. If you don't, I'll pick something but it won't be white. Something."
"‘Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.'
"Erase and correct, Jake. Here is the twenty-first century version:
"The bride is old,
"The license new,
"The body borrowed,
"The groom is blue."
"I am like hell blue, I simply need a shave. Get out now and let me be. Beat it. Go take a bath. Try to smell like a bride."
"Instead of payday at Tillie's? I can take a hint. But you take a bath, too."
"Who notices the groom?"
Cunningham had a busy six hours. But so did everyone in the ugly old mansion. To the old-tradition strains of Mendelssohn's "Processional" the bride walked slowly in hesitation-step through the rotunda. (Twin, ‘Here Comes the Bride' always sounds to me like a cat sneaking up on a bird. Pum... pum.... tee-pum! Appropriate, hmm?) (Eunice, behave!) (Oh, I'll behave. But I prefer ‘John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith—his name is my name, too!') (You can't know that one. It's eighty years old and long forgotten.) (Why wouldn't I know it when you were singing it in your head every second they were dressing us?)
She walked steadily down the center of a long white velvet carpet; through the arch and into the banquet hall, now transformed with flowers and candles and organ into a chapel. (Boss, there's Curt! I'm so glad he made it! That must be Mrs. Hedrick with him. Don't look at them, twin; I'll giggle.) (I'm not looking at them and you stop trying to—I must look straight ahead.) (You do that, Boss darling, and I'll count the house. There's Mrs. Mac—Norma—and Alec's Ruth, with Roberto. Where's Rosy? —oh, there he is beyond Mrs. Mac. My, isn't Della dressed fit to kill?—makes us look shabby.)
The bride wore a severely simple dress of powder blue, opaque, with high neck, matching veil, long sleeves, matching gloves, skirt hem brushing the velvet runner and long train sweeping behind. She carried a bouquet of white cattleya dyed blue to match. (Twin? Why that last-minute decision for panties? They make a line that shows.) (Not through this gown; it's not skin-tight. The ‘bride's knot,' Beloved—for symbolic defloration.) (Coo! Don't make me laugh, Boss.) (Eunice, if you louse up this wedding, I'll—I'll—I won't speak to you for three days!) (Joan twin, I won't spoil it—Jake wants symbols, he shall have them.) (And I want symbols, too!) (And so do I, twin, so do I. It's just that I have never been able to see life as anything but a vast complicated practical joke, and it's better to laugh than cry.)
(Yes, darling—but let's not do either right now. I'm having trouble with tears.) (I thought they were my tears.
Doesn't Thomas Cattus look handsome? I heard you order the ‘Lohengrin recessional'; that one is even funnier than the Mendelssohn—to an Iowa farm girl it sounds exactly like the triumphant cackle of a hen after she lays an egg. I'll laugh then, I know I will.)
(All right to laugh and cry both then, Eunice—and to hang on tight to Jacob's arm. Look, dearest, this is an old-fashioned wedding with all the clichés because Jake and I are old fossils and that's the way it should be.)
(Oh, I approve. Cunningham looks worried—can't see why; he's done a beautiful job. Boss, those panties struck me so darn funny because you ordered the ‘Billtis' and the ‘Graces' to be placed on easels in the drawing room where everyone at the reception can stare at them. Riddle me that.) (Eunice, there is no inconsistency. A bride is supposed to be covered; those paintings are meant to be looked at. With Joe and Gigi here I darn well want them to be looked at!) (They'll be looked at. Stared at. Some wives may look at them with intense interest. Maybe.) (Maybe. Eunice, you know I've never asked a husband not to tell his wife anything; it's not right to ask one member of a married couple to keep secrets from the other. Besides, he will or he won't, no matter what you ask—and he should; he knows her better than we do. But those pix are as harmless as the fruit punch we have for those who turn down the champagne. It's irrelevant that I posed for them, I simply want Joe's genius to be appreciated. Enjoyed.)
Joe Branca had used no small part of his genius in making up the bride. Starting with a bare, clean canvas—fresh out of her tub—he had worked long and hard to make up Joan Eunice from head to toe with such restraint that even close inspection could not detect any trace of his efforts. As in "The Three Graces" it was simply Eunice's own beauty, invisibly enhanced—strongly enhanced, better than life, more natural than nature. He turned down the use of a hair fall and simply fluffed her own hair (still far shorter than Eunice's hair had been) and sprayed it slightly to keep it unmussed under her veil.
The bride's matron of honor was made up with much less restraint. Having seen the miracle wrought on Joan Eunice, Winnie had timidly asked Joan if she thought it would be all right to ask Mr. Branca to improve her a little? Since she was part of the wedding party?—and Joan and Gigi had enthusiastically pushed the idea. Joe had studied Mrs. Garcia, then said, "Forty minutes, Joan Eunice—is time? Okay, Winnie, wash face." The result exploited Winifred's red hair, made visible her transparent eyebrows and lashes, livened her too-white skin—yet looked more natural than the stylized face Winnie usually wore.
The matron of honor wore pastel-green tabard and tights and carried a smaller bouquet of green and brown
cymbidia. She kept in step to the hesitation march thirty paces ahead of the bride, preceded her into the banquet hail toward the improvised altar.
Chief of Security O'Neil was the last one in, then posted himself in the archway at parade-rest and managed to watch events at the far end of the room while giving his attention to his rear. His features were serene but he was uneasy, alert. The big house was empty save for seventy-five to eighty people in this one room; all armor was up, every door, every real window was locked, hand-bolted, and dogged, and the night net of alarms switched on, and O'Neil had personally made sure of all this before releasing his guards to attend the wedding. But be trusted no gadgets and few people; he did not release himself from duty.
The bride approached the far end. Jake Salomon waited there, with Alec Train at his side. Facing down the aisle were the Reverend Hugo White and Judge McCampbell, matching in dignity. Shorty was wearing a black frock coat, white shirt, string tie, and carried his Book; the Judge was in judicial robes.
(Boss, doesn't Jake look beautiful? But what is that getup?) (It's a cutaway, dearest.) (It's a museum piece.) (I suppose so. Jake probably hasn't worn it in thirty, forty years—or perhaps rented it from a theatrical costumer. I feel certain Alec bad to rent his. Doesn't Father Hugo look grand!) (Must be his preachin' clothes, Boss. Joe ought to paint him in this, even, if he never gets the pix he wants.) (Good idea, Eunice; we'll plant it with Gigi—and one thing may lead to another. I have hopes that seeing ‘The Three Graces' will gentle him, too. As Hugo wants to pose... if he can convince himself that it's not sinful. Eunice, my knees are shaking. I'm not sure I can do it!) (Om Mani Padme Hum, baby sister. We had one hell of time getting him off the dime; don't go chicken now.) (Om Mani Padme Hum, Eunice—hold my hand, darling—don't let me faint.)