Bride & Groom

have to have known Steve to spot the subtle signs of restlessness. His eyes were only slightly glazed. He swallowed a yawn.
    “Thank you for the CDs,” I said. "We enjoyed meeting Ian.”
    “He’s so modest,” Olivia said. “He doesn’t promote himself. Obviously, Daddy’s gene didn’t triumph there. Ian is so much like Mommy. He practically models himself on her, including her dog thing. Uli just worships Ian. Dogs do. But when it comes to people... But his music is incredible. You’ll love it.”
    Having outstayed her welcome, Olivia finally left—and left us convinced that far from loving Ian McCloud’s music, we’d detest it. The main reason we decided to put on one of his homemade CDs right away was, as Steve remarked, “to get this over with.”
    As Steve loaded the coffee mugs into the dishwasher, I shuffled through the discs. “Country and bluegrass? Or jazz? Or early music.”
    “Country,” Steve said.
    We shared the unspoken assumption that Ian’s music would serve as the background for the nightly routine of letting the dogs into the yard to relieve themselves. We also shared, I confess, the expectation that the music would be all too appropriate to the activity. I popped a CD into the boom box, and within seconds, Steve and I were wide-eyed. The tune was "Wabash Cannonball,” a standard I’d heard thousands of times in hundreds of versions, none of which, including Doc Watson’s, was better than this instrumental on guitar, banjo, mandolin, and bass. For the duration of the song, we stood there grinning and tapping our feet and feeling like fools to have judged Ian’s music by his faded appearance and his sister’s oversell. Poring over the CD cases, Steve said, “That’s Ian on guitar. He’s another Doc Watson. He’s another Norman Blake.”
    And Ian could sing. He sang one of the best versions of “You Win Again” that I’d ever heard, different from the Ray Charles classic, but extraordinary and heartbreaking. Steve made a quick phone call to Ian, who was free on the twenty-ninth and agreed to play. We were so elated that we took the boom box and all five dogs out to the yard, where we just about couldn’t stop listening and exclaiming about what a genius Ian was and how incredible his groups were and how lucky we were that he’d do the music for our wedding. Rowdy, the most melodious of our five dogs, contributed accompaniments, and Kimi danced around with Sammy, whom she liked, instead of provoking India or bullying poor Lady.
    Except for the mild tediousness of Olivia’s visit—I’d now forgiven her—the evening was perfect: harmony in our pack and music that somehow made the wedding real for us as nothing else had done. With Steve’s dogs in the third-floor apartment and my two crated in my guest room, Steve and I had the bedroom to ourselves and took long, satisfying advantage of our privacy.
    As I often do as I fall asleep, I silently counted my blessings. I took nothing for granted, or so I imagined. I was grateful to be well fed and healthy. Nearby, in and around Harvard Square, homeless people slept in doorways and parks; I was in my own house. Millions of daughters were cursed with hostile, unloving, or boring stepmothers; in marrying Gabrielle, my father had blessed me. Judith Esterhazys literary fiction sold poorly, and Ian’s talent hadn’t yet brought him the success he deserved; by comparison, my career was thriving. Judith had only one dog, Uli, a wonderful old dog, but a dog horribly close to the end of his life; I had Rowdy and Kimi as well as Steve’s Lady, India, and Sammy. Sammy! Rowdy’s son! God receives odd thanks from fonciers of purebred dogs: All three malamutes had dark brown, almond-shaped eyes, warm expressions, blocky muzzles, heavy bone, and correct coats. As to my cat, Tracker, I was fortunate to have the resources and, yes, damn it, the moral fiber to give a good home to an animal no one else would want. I had dozens of friends. My cousin Leah went to college right down the street. Upstairs slept Rita, the best of friends, who was almost certainly being deceived and betrayed; next to me slept Steve, my love, my husband-to-be.
    Oh, yes, I was alive. It was a blessing I neglected to count.
     

CHAPTER 18
     
    “Amitriptyline,” Steve informed Ceci. “Elavil. It’s a tricyclic antidepressant.”
    "That," Ceci said, “explains everything!”
    Althea said, “My sister is flirtatiously requesting explication.”
    It was Friday