“What do you think?” J asks.
Early on, V would have told him it was wonderful, or requested he play it again to cover for her own lapse of attention.
Now, she says, “I’m sorry. I drifted off. How did it sound to you?”
“It needs work,” he says. “Can I play it again?”
That’s the thing with these wedding songs, V knows: He doesn’t just want them to be good for him. He wants them to be good for the couple, too. She likes him better for it, but also feels she can help him less. They’re strangers to her. She has no idea what they’ll like.
This time, she keeps her ears above water.
When he’s done, she tells him what she thinks. Whatever that’s worth.
The first thing J notices about the wedding is that it’s about half the size he expected.
He’s come early to make sure the sound system at the banquet hall works. Now he’s standing beside the table with the place cards, chatting with Tom, who looks as nervous as he had in high school when the hot girl from the swim team asked him out to a concert two hours away, assuming he had an idea of how to get there when he didn’t.
Tom notices J doing a mental count and says, “A lot of people didn’t want to come. One ‘friend’ of Mom’s wrote backI’m tired of this, Lisbeton her response card. George’s daughter lives in South Africa now and wasn’t going to bring her family all that way, which I kind of understand. But George’s son lives in London—he could’ve come. He said he was busy. I told Mom if she’d really wanted them to come, they should have combined it with George’s birthday. The kids couldn’t have said no to that. It’s a big birthday. They can be real pains, but I don’t think—”
Tom looks over J’s shoulder and stops abruptly. Two seconds later, a hand lands on that shoulder, and a rough voice says, “Well, if it isn’t our wedding singer!”
“George!” J says, turning. Then he, too, stops abruptly. It is indeed George, but it’s a gaunt, old version of George. His hair is gray and his complexion is almost the same color. Everything he’s wearing looks a little too big, but it has a worn quality that makes it clear it’s his usual size. His hand remains on J’s shoulder, either for camaraderie or support—J can’t tell which. He stays steady, just in case it’s the latter.
“I’m looking forward to your song, kid!” George says, and it’s like hearing a pop song coming out of a haunted house, because even if his body language is beleaguered, there’s a brightness to his voice that J clings to.
“It took you two long enough to ask me,” J replies, keeping his own voice bright.
George lets out a laugh that’s half cough and takes his hand off J’s shoulder—but only so he can punch him in the arm.
“Such a kidder. You were always such a kidder.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Well, you got me there.”
They make small talk for a few minutes, until the planner comes over to say the guests will soon be arriving, so they should move into the room where the ceremony will be taking place.
George allows himself to be ushered off. Tom instinctively holds back with J.
“I know,” Tom says before J can ask anything. “I know what you’re thinking. And here’s the thing—we’re not talking about it, okay? George doesn’t want to talk about it. Mom doesn’t. We’re doing this like nothing’s wrong. He hasn’t been well, but it’s all under control for now, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. She told me I couldn’t.”
J finds himself asking, “Do his kids know?”
Tom shakes his head. “When I say they’re not talking about it, I mean it. They’rereallynot talking about it. They’ve got each other. They don’t want anyone else. Mom didn’t even tell me at first. I had to force it out of her. Eventually she let me take him to chemo, so she could get a break...but I couldn’t tell anyone. I had to say we were going shopping.”
J doesn’t know what to say. He feels ridiculous because now it’s Tom squeezing his arm when he should be the one giving the support.
Someone comes over and tells Tom his mother needs him for a second. J goes out to where the guests are starting to gather and finds V, looking splendid in a floral suit. One look at him and she can tell something’s wrong.
“What is it?” she asks.
The other guests are too close, chatting away. J is afraid of being overheard.
“I’ll tell you later,” he says.
She’s curious, but she is willing to carry her curiosity for a while, which J appreciates.
Instead she whispers, “Do you realize that we’re the youngest people here?”
