Of course they were all happy for him—for us. But gobsmacked didn’t even begin to cover it. And then, as if to verify that they’d heard what they thought they heard, all three dumfounded relatives turned to me.
I stared back stupidly for a heartbeat…then I nodded. Smooth. “That’s the plan. Tie the knot. At the altar. Once the cast comes off, anyhow, and I can jam a ring on.”
I’d figured Shirley might cry, but no, it was Leon. And those tears nearly set off a chain reaction. But he hurried off to the bathroom to save face—old-school Midwesterners like to think they’re a stoic bunch—leaving Shirley to grill us while pretending not to pry.
“Why so soon? Don’t you need more time to plan?”
No doubt, but Jacob didn’t handle frustration well. The notebook situation had become so unbearable, and tempers so short, that pretty soon one of us was gonna start sleeping in the car. I said, “We’re going for small and simple. There’s really no need to make a big fuss.”
“I suppose you’ve talked to Pastor Jill? No? She’ll be real glad to see you again.” Though, apparently, planning a June wedding from the middle of May was no mean feat. As Shirley rattled off a list of things a church wedding would involve—with the caveat that she was sure we had everything under control—I wondered how obvious I’d look if I took a few deep breaths from a paper bag.
Ideally, so we could have a chance to talk in private and re-strategize on the way to Clayton’s thing, Jacob and I would meet everyone else over by the middle school. But his mother insisted on riding with us. And we couldn’t just leave her at the curb.
Shirley was brimming with excitement, and as I listened from the back seat, she filled the car with breezy chatter about guest lists and banquet halls and honeymoons. There was an edge to her tone I couldn’t help but notice. A thread of anxiety running through the monologue. I could think of at least a dozen valid reasons she might be anxious, so I was relieved that when we pulled up to the parking lot—within spitting distance of an actual cornfield—she said to Jacob, “This is your good news, but…maybe I should be the one to tell your sister about your big plans.”
Jacob was about to climb out of the car, but his mother’s suggestion gave him pause.
Shirley hastened to add, “I’m sure she’ll be very happy for you—especially that you’re having it at church. You know how devout she’s always been. But even though it’s nearly a dozen years since her divorce, her knee-jerk reaction to these sorts of things can be a little…harsh.”
Jacob didn’t seem particularly convinced. “She’s better off without Derrick.”
“Even so, being left alone with a baby like that when you were planning on being a family—that’s not something you just bounce back from.”
Not surprising. Barbara is plenty of things—resilient is not one of them. I’m not one to jump to her defense, either. But even I would admit that the life she’d been stuck with wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.
We caught up with Jerry and Uncle Leon and headed in. Clayton’s middle school was small by Chicago standards, and there wasn’t even a metal detector inside the front doors. A hand-lettered poster in a rack beside the gymnasium doors clued me in on which specific tortures awaited me. Band concert. But if we were supposed to be listening, at least we’d be spared the discomfort of talking…once the music started, anyhow.
The gym was half-full of people milling around, either catching up with old friends or finding somewhere to sit. I spotted Barbara right away, standing over a cluster of seats she’d saved for us with her hands on her hips and a “don’t even think about moving my purse” look on her face. I personally wouldn’t have cared where I sat. But since we’d driven all morning to be there, the family was hell bent on all six of us sticking together like glue.
Between the fact that we’d left at the last minute and the walk from the edge of the cornfield, we’d shown up with no time to spare. This was good. We couldn’t exactly have a lengthy conversation during the concert.
Jacob’s sister was forty, like me, though she acted like she’d never been anything but middle-aged. Maybe it was her divorce, or maybe raising a kid on her own. Or maybe the stars had aligned to give her a naturally bitchy disposition. Whatever the reason, for as much as Barbara grumbled about never seeing us, she sure went out of her way to make us regret showing up.
As we filed in and took our seats, Barbara said, “Took you long enough,” and then glared at Jacob and me as if we must be the cause.
Normally, at this point, Leon would attempt to lighten the mood with a silly remark, or Jerry would minimize the situation, or Shirley, if well enough provoked, would flat-out tell Barbara to stop being such a sourpuss. The fact that all three of them just stood there and smiled at her set off her internal alarms.
“What?” Barbara demanded of them. “What is it?” She looked at Jacob and me again. It was the same look Jacob got when a bunch of evidence that would let him bring down a bad guy was sliding into place. Genetics. Crazy. Barbara hadn’t just inherited the same dark eyes, though. Mentally, she was just as quick as her brother. “Well?”
“We’ll talk after the concert,” Jacob said.
Barbara leveled him a look. “And how am I supposed to concentrate on the music if I’m sitting here wondering why everybody’s being so weird?”
Her voice wasn’t exactly raised. But it was starting to take on an edge, and the people from the row in front of us were glancing over their shoulders in hopes of getting a more interesting show than they’d bargained for. I wasn’t gonna volunteer any information. If push came to shove, I’d take a bullet for Jacob—or at least crush my own hand to provide a distraction. But Barbara was his sister, not mine.
Not yet, anyhow.
Jacob’s practiced cop-veneer slid into place. “It’s fine, Barb. It’s good news.”
Barbara took in the whole group of us—the over-60 crowd had zero practice in schooling their facial expressions—and again, just like Jacob, she managed to fit a bunch of random looks and a vague reassurance into a cohesive conclusion. “Oh my God. You’re getting married.” And before I could wonder if she was an undocumented telepath, she glared at her brother and said, “Isn’t that just great?”
I never thought I’d be glad for a middle-school band concert. I’m no maestro, but even I could tell that whatever the kids were struggling through was off-tempo, and sour notes pummeled us with surprising regularity. It saved me from having to avoid saying anything, though, and by the time the band squeaked and squawked its way to a “grand” finale, Barbara had calmed down enough to offer Jacob a sincere congratulations, and he’d chilled out enough to accept it. And if I’d been expecting a big reaction from Clayton, I was sorely disappointed. He’d received the latest iPhone for his thirteenth birthday, and he only looked up from the thing long enough to avoid walking into traffic.
Dinner was hardly awkward at all. And on our way back to Chicago, I couldn’t help but point out to Jacob, “We both expected your sister to say that fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, but she managed to resist.”