The Greatest Show On Earth

My day went on as planned. Boy Scout pancake breakfast. Arranging temporary housing in my mixing bowl for the fish my daughter won at the firehouse carnival. My brother fixing my lawnmower. All part of a countdown to our departure time for the weekend I’d planned.

Along the way, I got a call from J. It was finally here – and finally hitting home how terribly unnatural all of this felt. I had to agree. He was attending a huge family event without a vital part. Perhaps his heart.

I lamented again that this was not what I would have chosen, but could not have made a different decision. He agreed that he would not have done differently had the shoe been on the other foot. (It never would be…my sister would never do something this socially retarded.) J. couldn’t hang this on his sister entirely though. She was not in control. Em was.

But I can fault her for not reeling in the runaway bride. “J. she let her daughter send them completely into debt. Debt they don’t have enough life left to recover from! She spent what equates to Timmy’s entire college education."

And then the most incredulous thing of all came out of J.’s mouth. “Oh, they don’t pay for college. The kids have to pay for college themselves.”

Say WHAT?

“You mean to tell me that they will not pay for the most important investment of a parent’s life, but have willingly gone into Ivy League debt for a 5 hour party? Now that you’ve said this out loud, does it make any sense to you at all? 'I won't contribute one cent to the development of your mind, but I will shell out a king's ransome for canapes and calla lillies.' How do they actually form those words without hanging their heads in shame? And think about it. Timmy gets screwed twice.”

It didn’t matter. The deed was done. I hope the other two daughters didn’t have any high falutin' wedding plans swirling around in their little up-do heads.

We changed the subject. I asked if he had Brill Creamed his hair and donned the peach man-blouse. No, but he’d ditched his original navy suit idea in favor of a stylish, fashion forward look with a knocked out tie and high end shoes. The missing critical accessory was me on his arm.

I was hating this.

We were still on the phone when he pulled into the church parking lot. The scene of so many events. Christenings. First Holy Communions. Confirmations. My wedding. My father’s funeral. And now this.

A moment later he recognized another car in the lot and let fly with a couple of hand picked expletives. Sandy’s car. Oh goody. Something else to show restraint about. It just kept getting better.

And then a second after that, the groom and his groomsmen arrived – in a trolley bus that looked suspiciously like the Drunk Bus favored by high-risk DUI candidates at a nearby beach town. And then as if on cue, the girls circled the lot in a similar trolley. No stretch limousine for Em. No, a limo's smoked glass was intended to conceal the identities of the passengers, protect them from the leering eyes of other drivers. No, Em was like a Hollywood newcomer, craving the attention, putting on a show, pretending she was not.

I am not sure why the trolleys came as a surprise to me and J. Every party Sheila had ever thrown featured the Trolley caterer – complete with choking fumes, overcooked green beans, sticky baked ziti with bland sauce, and of course the obligatory red bliss potatoes. Why break with tradition now? We’ll have to explore Sheila’s fascination with choo-choos from a more Freudian point of view later.

The girls circled Em’s elementary school yard and came to rest near the guys. There was music playing and all seemed to be in good spirits. Chuck was shaking his considerable groove thing to a song playing on his trolley when suddenly Em showed the first observable sign of ball-and-chain-dom. She furrowed her perfectly waxed brows and pursed her glossy pink lips and made an “Oh no you won’t!” gesture surely meant only for Chuck to see. He continued to smile, but immediately stopped busting a move. Another groomsman razzed him loudly enough for J. to hear. “You can’t see it, man, but that chain is getting shorter and shorter, pal!”

J. and I ended our call so he could go in and walk his mother down the aisle. I told him I loved him and to be careful not to get poked in the eye with his mother’s little pointed hat. He called me a smart a** and promised to call when the knot had been tied.

By all accounts, the ceremony was lovely. The bridesmaids were regal, especially J.’s girls. The groomsmen, handsome and gentlemanly. J. read his intercessions sincerely in his meant-for-radio voice, all of them personal and meaningful to the families. Not a dry eye in the house. Except for Em’s. She had the practiced smile of a supermodel. All teeth. No gums. Dead eyes. It was after all, a performance.

If you listen carefully, you can hear the calliope music.