William and I drove home, gripping each other’s hands, and went to the courthouse downtown and applied for the license. I’d decided we were a perfect match—each of us devoted to our art and each understanding what a life as an artist meant—hours of every day spent working, and then a late dinner, and talk about unrelated things, the secret of our projects kept close. I vowed that as his wife I wouldn’t pry—that I’d accept his need to remain quiet about his work. When he was ready he would share his new images with me.
The next afternoon, about the time that Mary Rae’s body was lowered into the frozen ground in the Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow’s cemetery, we were married by a registered leader of a church I’d never heard of before. He was also an accountant with an office in his house on Cascadilla Street, within walking distance of my apartment. The man was short, round, with wire-framed glasses and wisps of long hair. Ben Franklin, William whispered, his mouth by my ear. We were nearly giddy. The officiant had a few children we saw scatter as we were led down a dim hall to the office. The house smelled of the meal cooking for dinner—a roast seasoned with sage and rosemary, and the strong scent of pine from the Christmas tree I spotted in a room we passed. I superimposed, fleetingly, the abandoned cottage in the woods on this happy scene.
The accountant’s wife, tiny, with dark, bobbed hair, was our witness. On the shelves in the office were heavy books with moldering spines, the gilt of their titles indecipherable, and I was reminded of my grandfather’s books that lined the shelves of the old house, and of Sister’s missal hidden away in my bedroom there, and then, in a crushing way, of all the childhood dreams of dashing, potential suitors I was giving up, as if in marrying William I was entering an entirely different type of abbey. I had a moment of indecision in which it seemed I’d agreed to marriage to prevent Del from taking him away—as if the rings, and the vows, and the “till death do us parts” really meant something. At the same time I believed this was all a game, and that once tired of it, I could simply undo what I’d done with another trip to the courthouse and more paperwork. I regretted agreeing with William not to tell Del what I was doing, not inviting her to be present. She would have tried to talk me out of it; I suspected William knew this as well. In my confusion, I began to cry.
The notary’s eyes widened in alarm, but the wife stepped alongside me and looped her arm in mine and gave it a squeeze. When I looked down at her, she smiled up at me warmly, her eyes filled with her own tears. She might have been fearful we would call it all off and they would lose the honorarium we were expected to provide, but at the time I felt she understood my sadness and my loss as something universal to all brides. The man said the few words required by law, and I verbally agreed, and William did the same, our voices sounding strange and foreign in the little office. William slid the rings we purchased that morning, plain gold bands, onto our respective fingers, and kissed me gently on the lips, embarrassed maybe, in front of these strangers. My signature on the required documents looked like my second-grade cursive, and I fought the urge to cross through it and try again.
*
DEL CAME UP to the apartment the next morning. She never came by in the morning. It was as if she knew about the ceremony and wanted to verify it for herself. She still had on the black dress and black tights she’d worn to the funeral. William had gone out—kissing me on the mouth before he left, a quick press of his lips.
“That’s a married person’s kiss,” I said, and he laughed but offered nothing more.
“I’m late,” he said. “If I kiss you I won’t make the meeting.”
Del came in after he’d gone and sat in the duck-carved chair. “Oh, so sad,” she said. “Anne was there. She looked so frail and weak.”
“You didn’t have to go,” I said. “It’s not like you knew her.”
Would Del see anything out of place in the apartment, some evidence of the marriage? Laundry lay piled on the bed, and I pulled out one of William’s shirts to fold. I felt strung tight with my news, unsure how to share it.
“Her mother asked about William,” Del said. “She asked how he was doing. I don’t think she likes him much.”
“You talked to the mother?”
“We went to the house after—to Mary Rae’s mother’s house. Just us, Alice and everyone.”
“Why wouldn’t she like him?” I said. “Because they broke up years ago?”
Del seemed thoughtful. “I don’t know,” she said. “Where is he?”
I buttoned William’s shirt up the front and folded it like a shirt in a department store display. “He had to go out. A meeting or something.”