Father Knows Best

At the appointed hour, J. made his way to the reception hall and found his seat at the table with all the other unescorted guests and a few familiar faces. It would not be totally unpleasant.

He sampled the hors d’oevres (pedestrian), skipped the salad (always), devoured the crab cake (well above average), and gnawed on a confusing chicken Florentine thing for a while before giving up altogether. He made no mention of red bliss potatoes. There were a few whimsical touches – for instance a Penny Candy table, resplendent with its display of jelly beans, and Dots, and Swedish Fish. But throughout the evening, the overpowering thought slamming into his frontal lobe was “My sister remortgaged their livelihood for this?” It was an ordinary room overlooking Parking Lot C, (again, designated for European flights), mundane décor. Linens, flowers, all unremarkable. The DJ was entertaining. The service was top notch. Everything you would expect, but nothing unexpected.

Em’s father rose to make a toast to his oldest daughter on the biggest occasion of her life. Tim, normally reserved, and never the center of attention, proved most eloquent. In fewer than ten minutes he captured the joys and pains and humor of having been this child’s father for 25 years. Not at all a canned speech, but heartfelt and filled with anecdotal tales of the life that led her to the day. Everyone was openly emotional and dabbing their eyes. Well, almost everyone.

There sat Em. Practiced smile, hair wrestled into an elaborate confection, gown bustled and cinched to her form (Dexatrimmed-to-the-point-of-emaciation as it was), and wholly unaffected by the sentiment. Rolled her eyes. Gave him the “move it along” gesture.

The man who was honored to give her away, who refinanced his future and those of his other children, who quietly wrote myriad checks to all manner of people so that every connubial stone could be turned to pretty, pink, poofy, perfection, was standing there, his heart on his rented tuxedo sleeve, toasting his first born in a most genuine, and sincere manner, with a speech to which he’d clearly devoted considerable thought and dedication, and she could bring herself to make that type of juvenile, disrespectful demonstration of complete disdain and ingratitude? Disgraceful.

J. remarked to his older daughter when they bumped into eachother reaching for the M&Ms at the Penny Candy table. “Oh, Daddy, that’s not all she’s done!” she said in the “you-won’t-believe-it” voice she usually reserves for slutty classmates and drunken prom dates.

She went on to tell the story of the out of town bridesmaid (the one with the baby, we presume) who had not been present for any of Em’s (countless) fittings. When Em put on her gown that morning, the gal became choked up at the sight of her, magnificent in her bridal regalia. She gushed at how beautiful she looked. And Em, either out of conceit (Of course I’m fabulous. What else would I be?) or feigned boredom (Oh you peasants are so funny. It’s just another $5,000 dress!) screwed up her face and openly shamed the gal for her sentimentality.

And there were hours still to go before this particular princess tuned into a pumpkin.