Summer Reading: The Wedding Dance

Ready for some summer reading? Scarsdale mother of four, lawyer and writer Jackie Berkell Friedland sent us this short story she recently wrote. Share your thoughts about it in the comments section below:

If she had been alone in the bridal room like this with Wesley, they would have surely gone for a quickie. Somehow he would have convinced her not to worry about the gown or the tiara, and then afterwards, they'd have downed their champagne and emerged, resplendent, into the cocktail hour. Aaron was not Wesley. Aaron was fixated on the Peking duck. "You should try this," he told her, glancing quickly across the pink carpet and pink sofa that were crowding the room. "Tell Mary when they're divvying up the leftovers later that we want lots of duck."

"I better pee. Come help me with my dress," she answered, turning her slender back to him to provide access to the many buttons of her gown. Her dark hair, which usually hung long and loose, was held up in a French twist with countless bobby pins that had turned invisible against her hair.

When they opened the door of the room, the only one waiting in the small vestibule outside was a busboy, a handsome teenager with a gold nameplate pinned to his uniform. It read, "Javier."

"I can clean up the mess?" He asked with a heavy accent, as he lifted his black plastic tray.

Meredith had at first thought the Jewish tradition of yichud sounded very romantic, a stolen moment for the bride and groom to be alone after the ceremony before joining their friends and family in celebration. Traditionally, the goal had actually been consummation of the marriage. Nowadays, it was just a token ten minutes that the couple could have to themselves in the middle of their whirlwind black-tie affair. Meredith was in a hurry to step into the adjacent room of the synagogue where the guests would be enjoying passed hors d'oeuvres. She was prepared to be fawned over. The first person she made out among the nearly 300-person crowd was her mother, who was sandwiched between the vodka luge and the fajita station, nodding at something Aaron's elderly aunt was saying. Their eyes met, and Meredith was unsure whether her mother's smile was one of pride or relief. The youngest of three children, Meredith had managed to reach the wedding canopy a meager four months before her thirtieth birthday. Had it worked out with Wesley, she would have been the first of her friends married instead of the last. She and her mother had spoken at length about the bride's etiquette at this affair. She was not to let her backside touch a single chair until she'd walked herself to each table in the ballroom and greeted every last guest, like a proper young woman.

                                                                          *****
The six tiers of the wedding cake were not making it easy, but perched on a step stool, and her tip toes, Mary was almost finished arranging the fresh red roses on each layer. This was her seventh year working as a wedding coordinator at Woodbury Jewish Center, and she was damn good at her job. It didn't matter that she had grown up in a two-family coop in the Bronx. She was attractive and neurotic, so she got on just fine with her clients. Mary had chosen to work at this conservative synagogue rather than the reform temple down the street because she hoped it would be a place where people took things seriously. When she and Nick relocated with the boys from the old neighborhood, he had suggested that she apply to a catering hall, not keep following the Jews around like some kind of groupie. She could do something more part-time, take the kids to their games after school, dial it down. Catering hall. Ha. She had cringed just thinking of the taffeta dresses and big hair she knew would fill those kind of banquet halls. Like at her sister-in-law Connie's wedding, and even her own (though at least she could blame some of the faux pas of that affair on the 1980s). Mary had started as an intern at Abigail Kirsch, who was now probably the most prominent caterer in all of Manhattan. Work at a banquet hall. Serving lasagna and mozzarella sticks family style. Not her.

Of course there were other ways to participate in refined affairs, but Mary was confident that she had found her perfect niche of elegance. With her dark hair and olive complexion, she blended in easily at the temple affairs, and she could perform any number of seamless last minute saves while leaving the impression that she was just another guest. She liked to consider herself a wedding "artist," though she rarely said so out loud. She couldn't promise that her couples would be happy forever, but they'd damn sure be delighted at their weddings.

She pulled her phone from the pocket of her black pantsuit to check timing. Once she directed the band to start the music, the staff would pull away the temporary wall that had partitioned the back of the room for the preceding cocktails. Then she would find the bride and groom so she could supervise their grand entrance into the party. Her iPhone showed that it was 6:24, meaning she had six minutes left to fuss about the room. It was a luxurious well of time remaining, as every last detail seemed already in place. There was also a text message from Nick waiting on the phone. He generally knew better than to bother her when she was at work. Hopefully it wasn't about Frankie again. Their younger son only just left for SUNY Albany three weeks before, and he was already begging to come back home. She clicked on the message.

Running late. Will be there by 715 latest. But Mary's out late so there's still plenty of time. Sorry babe. Keys at front desk.

She had to read the message three times before she realized that it wasn't meant for her. She turned her phone over and looked at the back of it, as though trying to make sense of the device itself. Then it hit her with a force that made her suck in her breath.

Not this. He couldn't be. No. She read the message again.

Were there any signs of something like this? She immediately wondered and tried to think back. Nothing had seemed amiss. He hadn't alienated himself from her recently. Nor had he been overly attentive. Everything felt the same as always. Regular. He still asked her for sex periodically. Every now and then, she relented. There were no unexplained hang ups on their answering machine, no stories about where he'd been that didn't seem plausible. He didn't smell like anyone else's perfume or tell her things that didn't make sense. On the other hand, she did work late nights, and her weekends were often double or triple booked with joyful couples at the temple. She didn't think she could have missed something like this though. Nick had such a crappy poker face.

She re-read the text again. She triple checked that the sender was indeed her Nick. "Mary?" A voice called from across the room. She looked up and saw the band leader, who seemed too shaggy and rotund to lead anything, waiting on the platform at the end of the dance floor. He pointed to his watch and raised his eyebrows.

"Now," she called back to him in answer, noticing that her voice still retained an air of authority. Then she greeted her anger, conditionally. If this was as bad as it looked, what an asshole he was. Ass. Hole. She never imagined that he'd have an affair. They weren't all hot and heavy anymore, but they were happy, she thought. This, after she'd given him the last twenty years. Raised his children. She stared at the text message. Who was the other woman, then? If this was true. If, if, if. There was no one who came to mind. The auto body shop he ran with his dullard brother didn't have any female employees. Maybe it was one of the women whose car he fixed. Meeting him somewhere while she was out working her butt off for them? That was her Goddamn husband, Goddamnit!

She wasn't going to take this sitting down, if it was really an affair, and she sure as hell was not going to let that lying sack of shit mess with her work. If. The wedding must go on. She was a professional. The servers deftly removed the temporary partition and the band began playing some bass-heavy party song that guests in their 20s always seemed to like. She had to find her feet. She could do this wedding in her sleep, and she would. Fuck Nick. How could he do this? To her! She found the bride and groom and shepherded them to the door of the ballroom where they waited outside until that peppy song stopped. Then the band leader announced, "Mr. and Mrs. Aaron Newman!" The couple entered the room with triumph, the groom trailing slightly behind the bride, despite the fact they held hands. The obligatory applause was soon swallowed by the beginning of Harry Conick Jr.'s It Had to be You, and Mary started toward the kitchen. She would go check the progress of the food, take a second to regroup. She had to keep her mind in the game. Personal problems were meant to be dealt with on personal time.
In the dark hallway near the kitchen, she saw one of the younger busboys. He was walking with an empty tray toward the reception. He looked like a nice kid. Two could play at Nick's ridiculous game. The busboy nodded at her and turned slightly sideways so as not bump her as they passed in the narrow corridor.

"Wait," she said, unsure of what she would do next. He looked at her with a genial expression. It was possible he didn't speak any English.

She looked at his dark red lips and then back at his eyes, and then back to his lips again. Without giving herself time to change her mind, she leaned into him and kissed his mouth. She meant to do it in a way that was rash and aggressive, but realized she was moving slowly, maybe even tenderly. The busboy at first stepped back, though not far enough to separate their mouths, as if he was trying to get out of her way. Then he stilled and slowly began to kiss her back. Their tongues touched for the briefest second and Mary wondered if this tongue felt different than Nick's. When was the last time she and Nick had kissed like this? This was not helping. She pulled back from the busboy with the abruptness that she had meant to achieve for the start of the kiss. Instead of meeting his eyes, she focused on his gold nameplate. "Sorry... Javier." She added his name as an afterthought, as though she had known it all along.

                                                                          *****
"Reese, I love this song." Lana knew she sounded too happy as she shouted over the music, like she was trying too hard. Meredith had gotten a great band, but man, were they loud. Lana counted fourteen band members up on stage. It must have cost her parents an outright fortune to bankroll this wedding, but after everything that happened with Wesley, no one wanted to say no to Meredith about anything. Aunt Edith and Uncle Mal had granted their daughter's every request, lest they be held responsible for another plane crashing, another engagement falling apart.

Lana looked at Reese, so handsome in his black tuxedo, the same one he had worn to their own wedding the year before. She wondered if the sound of her voice had betrayed her. Best case scenario at this point, maybe he'd just think she was wasted.

"Since when do you like Harry Conick Jr.?" Reese asked, lifting his dark eyebrows.

"Since long before I married you. For a long time. I don't know." Music had never been something she cared about.

Reese laughed and moved her long blonde hair off her shoulders.

"You look very pretty tonight," he told her. Lana had thought she looked well tonight too. Her tan from Labor Day weekend in the Hamptons had not yet faded, and the pale blue sequins on her dress were a solid match to her eyes. She studied Reese's face, his smooth cheeks, the three small freckles on his square jaw. She could tell he knew what was bothering her, and he was just trying to distract her before she brought it up.

She didn't want to let her anger get the better of her tonight. She was here to celebrate for her cousin, and she wasn't going to let Reese's misgivings about being a dad get in her way. She pulled on Reese's hand and led his bulky frame to the dance floor. Lana tried to relax with Reese. She tried to focus on his broad chest, on how well the tuxedo pants fit him. As she danced, her eyes kept returning to Meredith across the floor. There was her bride-cousin, six years her senior, flitting around from table to table, without a care in the world. Granted, it had been a long eight years since she broke her engagement to Wesley, but now, she was settling down with another catch. Aaron wasn't the perpetual party that Wes had been, but he'd probably make a better husband for it anyway. Knowing Aaron, he'd probably be ready to start trying for a baby as soon as Meredith asked. Reese and his childish avoidance tactics were making Lana feel like her blood was ready to boil out of her ears.

As the band switched again to a new song, Lana danced closer to Reese and put her mouth against his ear.

"Can't we try to make a baby?" She asked him, wondering if he could hear her over the music. She looked at him, trying her best to be seductive, and added, "I promise it'll be fun to try."

Reese stopped dancing and took off his jacket, revealing wet circles in the armpits of his otherwise crisp white tuxedo shirt. Rather than detract from his appearance, the soggy arms just made him appear more masculine, rugged. So irritating, thought Lana, knowing perfectly well how sweat stains would look on her dress.

"I'm hot," he said, folding his jacket over his arm. "Let's go sit."

"Go sit by yourself." Lana snapped at him. She knew it was the wrong approach, but so be it. She never imagined that he wouldn't be ready to have children as soon as she was. Or possibly ever. She had assumed he was just being immature or posturing for the guys when he said he wasn't into babies. Once he became a married man, his attitude was supposed to change. But nothing at all had changed. Instead of dinner parties and jigsaw puzzles, Reese still wanted to watch Monday night football at Ryan's, to spend Wednesday nights at that stupid cigar bar in SoHo, and to pass the weekends clubbing with Lana.

She was tired of it. She had just finished journalism school, she'd gotten married as planned, and she was ready to be an adult. Yet Reese insisted on being a juvenile guy's guy at every opportunity. On the rare occasions that he actually did something mature, Lana would provide a mock headline. Investment Banker Shocks Wife by Declining Ninth Beer or maybe, Husband Applauded by Neighborhood for Keeping Straight Face. She was trying to make a point, but he didn't seem to get it. Granted they were young, but not too young to start a family. If he said he wanted to wait a few months so they could travel or bolster their savings, that would have been one thing. Simply rejecting the idea, and doing it indefinitely, that was not okay. Lana tried to fix Reese with one last cold look so he would know he'd really made a mess by blowing off the baby conversation again. He was standing by their table with his back to her though, so instead she just turned and walked away. She crossed the dance floor and kept walking, straight out of the ballroom and then out the front door of the synagogue into the dark parking lot.

The heavy rain of that September evening had stopped now, but it had cooled the air. Lana tried to avoid the lingering puddles as she walked into the night wondering what to do with herself. The parking lot was lit well enough, with tall flood lights illuminating all the shiny cars crowding the lot. Even so, it felt a little unsafe to be out alone in her skimpy dress. It would serve Reese right she thought, if something should happen to her, if she got raped or strangled by a band of crazies out here. Disgruntled Wife Beaten to Death by Invisible Homeless Man. Not that she expected any such thing in the heart of Long Island's Gold Coast.

She had quit smoking before her wedding to Reese, but this felt like the perfect moment for a quick cigarette. He would hate it if she smoked, which was another good reason to find a cigarette. She noticed the valet parking shed to the side of the entrance and thought maybe she could bum one off the parking guys.

She walked toward the dark shed, her silver-heeled sandals clacking away conspicuously on the pavement. As she approached, she realized that the shed was empty. It wasn't even really a shed, just a bench covered by a wood roof and a wall with hooks for hanging people's car keys. Defeated, she turned back toward the entrance of the temple but she was then surprised by the sound of someone behind her. She turned and saw a waiter walking from behind the parking structure. It was too dark to see his face, but it was easy to make out his amber cigarette butt as he threw it to the ground, crushing the light with his shoe.

"Oh," she said, surprised by his presence.

"Excuse me," he answered with a heavy Spanish accent.

"Do you happen to have another? A cigarette?" She asked.

"Sorry, was my last." He started toward the back of the temple, away from her, probably to the kitchen door, she figured.

"Do you think any of the others might have?" She was suddenly desperate for just one cigarette.

"Sorry, I don't know." He shrugged and kept walking.

"I'll come. I'll check." She scurried after him.

"This is not the way for you," he told her. "Go to the front. Front door." They had gotten closer to one of the lamps in the parking lot and now she could make out his features. Even though he was short and slender, she had assumed he was a grown man. In the light, he appeared to be only a teenager, maybe seventeen. He was probably worried she would get him in trouble.

"No, it's okay, I want to come to the back. To the waiters." She was embarrassed to notice her volume increasing in response to their language barrier, just like in the movies. Lowering her voice she explained, "I'm looking for cigarettes. Marlboros?"

"Nobody else have. The waiters are not allowed to smoke. No smoking."

"Aren't you a waiter?"

"No. Busboy."

"So busboys can smoke? Are there other busboys I can ask?"

"No, busboys cannot smoke. I sneak."

"You shouldn't do that," she told him with oddly placed concern. "You could get fired."

"No, not today."

She didn't understand what he meant, but she was realizing there were no cigarettes to be had from the encounter, and she was starting to get bored. She thought of Reese inside the party and felt deflated.

"Ok, you come," he told her. "What's your name?"
"Lana."

"My name is Javier."

They walked around the side of the building, and again Lana had a quick flash of fear about the dark lot, the isolated location, the total stranger. Psycho Busboy Kills Banker's Vengeful Wife.

"Up there is the kitchen," Javier pointed to a partially open door that was emitting a yellow light into the night. They still had almost a hundred feet to walk before reaching it. As they passed by a dumpster adjacent to the building he stopped.

"They do not have cigarette for you," he told her, "but I have what you need."

"I thought you said that was your last." Perhaps he really was getting ready to do something scary, whip out a machete or his privates.

"That's all right," she retreated. "I'll just go back then."

"Wait," he grabbed her hand and in her surprise, she simply waited to see what he would do next. He gently placed a hand on her cheek and turned her face toward his. She noticed they were the same height. "You are too sad," he told her.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small. Taking her hand, he placed the item inside. It felt like a hand rolled cigarette. She looked down and realized it was a joint, overstuffed with fresh marijuana, the likes of which she hadn't seen since college.

"For that," he smiled, "I get fired. You take it. There is a bathroom downstairs, near the classrooms. No one smell nothing from upstairs."

She looked at the joint lying in her hand. Maybe it was because she'd already had two glasses of wine, or because she was ovulating and hormonal, and dejected and rejected and really just floundering, but getting high suddenly seemed like the most wonderful idea, like Javier was exactly right. It was what she needed. Just the thing, in fact. It was what she and Reese both needed, actually, what their couplehood needed. Once upon a time, she had actually been a little bit of a bad ass, hadn't she.

"Really?" She asked mainly to be polite.

"Take it and smile. Your face, you must have a pretty smile."

She smiled, and she felt radiantly beautiful. "Thank you so much. Okay." She put the joint into her small sequins purse.

He nodded at her and started back toward the kitchen, his hands in his pockets and a swagger that she thought he was too young for. Though it seemed like he'd earned the right to it.

She turned toward the synagogue's main entrance and click-clacked her way back inside. Upon reentering the ballroom, she found Reese doing vodka shots at the bar with her father.

"Really Dad?" She asked as she walked over to the pair, mock disapproval on her face. He balding father smiled sheepishly at her.

"Don't be such an old fart," her father looked from her to Reese and laughed good naturedly. "It wouldn't hurt you to try to have a little fun now and then too you know."

"Okay, Dad," she smiled back. "If you say so."

She reached for Reese's hand. "Come with me," she said. "I'll show you where I studied Torah as a kid. It's very enlightening down there."

                                                                         *****
Meredith was trying to focus as her great-uncle Mort persisted in telling a very long story about some cousin she had never met. Her eyes wandered to the wedding cake being rolled onto the dance floor. She couldn't believe dinner was already over. She never even had a chance to taste any of the dishes that she had so painstakingly chosen with her mother. Aaron and his parents had been totally uninterested in wedding details, which had made things easier.

It was very different than the experience they'd had planning Meredith's wedding to Wesley eight years before. There had been so many arguments about the particulars, the guest list, the attire, the table linens. Wesley's parents had needed to take a vacation just to decompress before the wedding. Then their small plane crashed near Dallas. Meredith still winced remembering how Wesley had blamed her. She imagined that she was the only one in the room thinking about Wesley today. Eight years is a long time.

She noticed her cousin Lana leading Reese toward the exit, and she watched them with envy. Reese reminded Meredith so much of Wesley. He had the same magnetism and well-spring of youth that people had seen in Wesley. Reese was Mr. Popularity wherever he went. Lana and Reese had also been high school sweethearts and had gotten engaged early. Meredith wondered if Reese would turn out to be a good husband in the long-run. Wesley probably wouldn't have.

"Excuse me, Meredith," a voice mercifully interrupted her Uncle Mort, "It's time to cut the cake."

Meredith turned to find her wedding coordinator, Mary, waiting for her. She noticed that Mary's eye makeup was running a bit, as though she might have been crying.

Sweet, Meredith thought, that she sees so many weddings and doesn't get jaded. She's still moved by every happy couple.

Author Jackie Berkell Friedland lives in Scarsdale, where she and her husband are raising their four young children. A graduate of NYU Law School and former attorney and law school professor, she left her positions in the legal field to pursue a career in writing. She returned to school to earn a Master of Fine Arts at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, and she will complete the program this year. She has also spent the past few years writing book reviews for Kirkus.com and other websites, and especially, working on her own fiction.

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