“Magnolias,” I finish.
Foam gurgles from my blood-red Babadook mouth and giddiness overtakes me. It’s the closest to joy I’ve gotten in a long time. I’m going to follow this feeling straight down into hell.
She’s so quiet, I have to check to make sure the line hasn’t gone dead.
“Deb?” I prompt, biting my knuckles to keep from losing it.
“I don’t think Nicky would agree with that choice,” she eventually forces out.
“Nicky told me it’s fine.” I spin my chair again, knees to my chin. The seat is luxurious leather and marvelously comfortable, like sinking into a hot tub. My computer chair is two inches shorter than I’d like and made of wood. I got it from a yard sale. I put a lumpy pillow on it for comfort, but the disparity here is outrageous. This chair is mine now.
“Besides,” I add. “It’s my wedding, isn’t it? I should get what I want.”
“It’s Nicky’s wedding, too.”
What does Nicholas care? He’s going to marry at least three times in his life. When I’m sixty, I’ll bump into him with a comb-over and a twentysomething on his arm, because men are terrible and they can get away with it. “You know what they say,” I reply cheerily. “Happy wife, happy life! He’ll do whatever it takes to make me happy. He’s learned by example, watching how good your husband is to you.”
I’ve never gone against Deborah’s orders, even politely. It’s easier to let her have her way. This is a brand-new experience for Deborah, and probably for her book club who’s listening in. She’s sitting opposite the mayor and her entire sorority, straining to keep a smile pasted on while spiritually strangling the breath of life from me. Her nasty habit of putting people on speakerphone so everyone present can share a laugh has come home to roost.
“That number, Deb?” I goad, crossing my feet on Nicholas’s desk. A stack of files falls off, fanning across the floor like a royal flush.
“Um. Yes. Let me see.” She’s floundering. She can’t give me a fake number, but she can’t give me the real one. This is not a bluff and I will absolutely order a billion magnolias to adorn St. Mary’s. Imagine Harold’s face when he sees the invoice.
Deborah stalls as she riffles through her Rolodex. I hear her teeth clink together. I stay completely silent until she gets back to me and spits out each number.
“Thanks!” I chirp. “While I’ve got you on here, mind giving me the baker’s number as well? I know I’d originally suggested Drury Lane in Hatterson, but I believe you chose to go somewhere else? Is that correct? I’m sure you know best. Anyway, I’d like their contact information, please.”
Acid drips from Deborah’s mouth. “Why would that be necessary, my dear? I’ve already gotten the cake taken care of.”
“I want to thank you for that. You’ve been great! Just so great. With your time, your money. Why don’t I take some of the burden off you? You deserve to relax and enjoy your golden years. They go by so fast. I’m just going to take over a few moving parts here and there, and don’t you worry about a thing, Deb.”
“But—”
“All you’ve got to do is show up for the wedding. I want you to have a good time. Can’t have a good time if you’re busy organizing it all!” If my voice notches up any more octaves it will become a whistle.
“I don’t think Nicky—”
I cut her off. “That number, Deb? Thanks so much.” No one’s ever dared to shorten her name to Deb in her life and I’m abusing the unearned privilege with foam dripping down my chin, soaking the front of my favorite Steelers hoodie.
When Deborah angrily recites the baker’s contact information, each clipped digit is code for I’ll kill you if it’s not vanilla and chocolate marble. It inspires me to change the cake topper from our previously tasteful splash of flower petals. Nicholas’s groom figure will be the knock-off Spider-Man from the dollar store, Tarantula-Boy. I’ll be represented by a half-melted pillar candle with googly eyes, and everyone Deborah knows and loves will have to see. When Nicholas cuts the cake, one of my googly eyes will slide off like an omen. I’ll smile at him with my red horror mouth and wild stare that will make him detest the color of champagne for all time, and his blood will curdle.
“Thaaaanks,” I trill. “Deb, you’re the best.”
“I hope Nicky is all right with this,” she says darkly.
“Don’t you worry about him. I’ve got our Nicky covered. And soon he’ll have his new mother-in-law to fuss over him, too. It’s so cute, he was telling me the other day he’s going to start calling her Mom after the wedding. My mother will lo-o-ove it.”
A phantom hand reaches through the phone and wraps around my throat. “That’s nice,” she rasps.
“Isn’t it? We’re spending Thanksgiving with her. And Christmas. Nothing’s more important than family, you know.”
Deborah’s rattled, but she’s a pro. She reminds me that she mastered The Art Of Being A Bitch decades prior to my birth by replying, “Oh yes, I quite agree. But I’d reconsider those plans, because on Thanksgiving I was going to cut you both the check for the caterer, and Christmas happens to be the very day my seamstress needs to fit you again. If you don’t show up, who knows what might happen? I’d feel just terrible if you walked down the aisle in a dress that couldn’t zip all the way up.”
In my mind’s eye I see the bejeweled candelabra centerpieces at the reception hall detonate in an aerosol mist. I’m replacing them with foil confetti and ten-cent plastic doves. Everyone will think the elegant Mrs. Rose in her Louis Vuitton and Marc Jacobs selected it herself and wonder why the décor looks like Valentine’s Day favors at a nursing home. They’ll gossip that she’s filed for bankruptcy.
I let out a short laugh. “That would be a disaster! Good thing I’ve got a long veil.” I’ve been on my best behavior these past few minutes, but I can’t resist throwing in: “See you for Sunday dinner, D.”
I end the call and admire my chipped, uneven nails. I do another chair spin. A land mine over in Nicholas’s end of the field explodes.
It’s Sunday and Nicholas cannot believe I still haven’t changed out of my best hoodie for dinner at his parents’ house. I give him a disapproving look when he mutters under his breath. I’m a loyal fan of the Steelers. They’re my favorite sportsball team and I would die for them.
He’s still mad about the magnolias. Mrs. Rose tattled on me, crying to him through a sea of sodden handkerchiefs, and he appeased her by promising to keep the carnations and uphold the family name. Magnolias are utterly undignified. I am utterly undignified. He frowns at me to say You’re a disgrace, but I know his real frown is due to the shrapnel in his leg. I’m a motivated soldier now, outfitted in full tactical gear. I’ve weaponized his unwitting mother against him: she’s been calling him nonstop all day for comfort, and every time the phone rings I see him die a little more inside.
“I can’t believe you,” he says.
“I can.” I sound much happier than he does, even though this is usually the part where he puts on his Good Little Boy grin and I mentally check out so that his family’s rude comments have less power over me.