slight twang that sounded out of place in an urban bridal party.
“You’re welcome. My pleasure,” I said, valiantly trying to maintain the veneer that I knew how to be a maidservant.
“Beth, hurry up,” called one of the bridesmaids.
Beth clicked away in peach-colored stilettos.
When I first entered the bathroom, my thick-soled black leather shoes had squeaked on the white-tiled floor. The room had vertical pink and white striped wallpaper three quarters of the way up the wall. A thin strip of flowered wallpaper, in a lilac color, separated the stripes from pink paint on the rest of the wall.
Although it was already clean, I wiped the mirror with Windex. I looked in each of the four toilet bowls. Checked the toilet paper. Checked the Kleenex boxes on the counter. Straightened the silver tray on one side of the counter. On the tray were individually wrapped combs in plastic, a can of hair spray, a tube of styling mousse, a small jar of clear nail polish, packages of aspirin and antacid tablets, and a glass jar of mints.
Someone, probably Tom’s efficient assistant Sheila, had shoved white lilies into a crystal vase and placed it between the two sinks. The petals were crushing each other.
Not a good way to begin a marriage, I thought. Crushing prevents the sweet scent.
The lilies had a faint smudge of pink through the center of the aromatic white petals. I pulled a few stalks higher than the others, filling the bathroom with a fresh, sticky smell, which reminded me of my friend Paula’s old-fashioned garden back in Montana. I used one of the linen hand towels to collect the yellow pollen from the pistils of the flowers, which had fallen on the counter. The pollen left yellow blotchy stains on the towel.
My cummerbund adjusted, I re-opened the door a crack. There were about a hundred people in the main room. The bridesmaids in their peach outfits stood at the front of the room. The bride was walking down the aisle. She held her head still. Directly in front of her white satin gown she held, equally still, a bouquet of white roses. There was an intricate lace pattern that scrolled around her tiny waist. Trails of lace with pearls at each end rested on top of the full-length satin gown. A veil of the same lace covered the bride’s face. There was no bridal train and no flower girl. The bride walked alone. Acting as stage floodlights, the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge lighted her way down the aisle. The whizzing headlights of the endless traffic racing through the early winter night were shooting stars.
I wish upon a star, I thought, but the thought trailed off. Where is the bride’s father?
The string quartet had stopped playing. I watched the bride’s back as she faced the altar. The groom did not touch his bride.
“We are gathered today,” said the minister, “for the wedding of Jonathan Atkins, the Third, and Abigail Lili Shepherd.”
I remembered my friend Paula’s wedding down the Bitterroot Valley in Montana just before I received the Montana Dance Arts Association scholarship to the Graham Summer Intensive. I had no idea then that I would audition for the two-year program at Graham and receive a scholarship and move permanently to New York City.
At Paula’s wedding, her father, proudly wearing his Stetson, had walked his daughter down the path by the Bitterroot River, past her old-fashioned garden of lilies, and up the meadow to an arbor covered in honeysuckle. The groom’s best men all wore cowboy hats, and the bridesmaids all had honeysuckle, a tender, delicate flower, woven through their hair. When the husband and wife kissed under the arbor, we had all whistled and clapped and hollered.
I saw a glint of gold, or maybe platinum, as this bride and groom exchanged rings.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” said the minister. He didn’t wear a collar and could just as likely have been a justice of the peace. He could have been a non-denominational something.
“You may kiss the bride,” he said.
The crowd was still and silent. The kiss, short and soundless.
The string quartet started playing Bach’s “Brandenburg Concerto,” I wasn’t sure which one, and the couple turned to face their audience. The groom still appeared more suited to a board meeting than to his own wedding. The bride squeezed her lips together as if she had just applied lipstick.
As they walked down the aisle, the new husband and wife kept their eyes fixated on the back of the room. The groomsmen started shaking hands with the guests while the bridesmaids kissed the guests’ cheeks. I could smell the buffet in the adjacent dining room.
I moved away from the bathroom door and switched on the lights. I sat down on a wrought-iron vanity chair next to the counter and held ready a hand towel for someone to take from my hands.
“I’ll just use the restroom,” said one of the peach-colored bridesmaids as she entered the bathroom. She emptied the contents of her Chanel makeup bag on the counter. She retouched her blue eyes with a Clinique charcoal-colored liner pencil, then brushed a shimmering, silver eye shadow by MAC on her lids. Her makeup had not faded, and when she reapplied it, the colors didn’t look any heavier.
Perhaps good makeup absorbs into the skin, I thought, and bad makeup reapplied just looks embalmed. Many years ago in high school my friend Erika had reapplied makeup at every break so that by the end of the day she looked ready for a chorus part in Don Giovanni. This woman looked ready for the runway. She nodded at me as she left the room.
Gradually, the bathroom became a gathering place. Women chatted to each other while in the stalls or at the counter. “Isn’t Abi a beautiful bride?” asked one bridesmaid. “I’m glad she waited,” answered her friend.
“It’s so special,” said another, directly to me as she picked the towel out of my hands.
“Yes, wonderful,” I said.
“No tip jar?” the woman asked.
“Not necessary, but thank you,” I answered.
“Well, here.” The woman leaned over and tucked a bill right into my pocket. “I used to be an art student. I know.”
For a moment the bathroom was empty. Through the closed door, I could hear that a swing band had replaced the string quartet. Dancing had started. I took the bill out of my pocket. A twenty. That would cover a week of subway rides.
A woman with bobbed hair, wearing a sequined, silver gown, came into the restroom. Even though every hair looked in place, she tore off the plastic around one of the combs and passed it through her hair. It made no difference. Every hair still looked in the same place. She had an enormous diamond ring on her finger. The bathroom lights sparkled off the diamond ring and the sequins on her gown.
“It’s my engagement ring,” she said, looking at me watching her in the mirror. I didn’t realize I’d been staring—ogling her ring, her poise. “My fiancé couldn’t come tonight. Used to date the bride.”
“It’s a beautiful ring,” I said.
“Yes,” said the woman. She threw the comb in the garbage can and walked out. She wasn’t a good shot, though, and the comb missed the can. I got up and threw the comb away.
The manager’s assistant Sheila, wearing a headset to coordinate the timing of the evening, entered the bathroom.
“Holding up?” she asked.
“Thanks. Fine.” I was glad I’d been standing when Sheila walked in rather than sitting. I wanted to be moved out of the bathroom and up to serving hors d’oeuvres. I’d make $15 an hour instead of $10.
“You dancers are always good on your feet. Don’t forget to get food later before you leave. Gratis.” She spoke rapidly.
“Thanks.”
“Perk of a corporate wedding. The raspberry chocolate truffle cake rocks.”
Immediately after