Four The Wedding
four f
The Wedding
I hid the ring from my parents, waiting until my mother was in a good mood to share my news. What was I thinking? My mother was never in a good mood.
It didn’t take long for my secret to be revealed. My mother heard me on the phone with my friend Laura. The next thing I knew, she was tearing my bedroom apart, looking for the ring.
“Where is it?” she screamed.
“Where is what?” I continued the pretense.
“The damn ring!”
“Here.” I pulled it from my jeans pocket and threw it at her. “I’m marrying Tom and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“There’s plenty I can do about it. Break it off or leave this house.”
“I’m gone.” I finally stood up to my mother. It felt great.
I had an open invitation from Laura to stay in her extra bedroom if things got dicey at home. I packed my things, called Tom for a ride, and was gone in an hour.
It was mid-January. Laura’s apartment lacked decent heat, but my freedom made up for it. Tom spent a few nights with me until he arrived loud and drunk. Laura’s neighbors called the cops.
“I’m sorry, Ava. Either Tom goes or you go. They’ll kick me out if he causes trouble again.”
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I made sure I returned home when my father was there. I begged them to take me back.
“Tom’s a loser,” my father said. “Call off the wedding.”
“If you marry him, he’ll beat you up every day and twice on Sunday,” my mother warned.
“I’ll think about it,” I lied.
I’d seen Tom’s temper but never directed at me. He hadn’t been given love at home. If I showed him love, I was convinced he’d change. Maybe I was mirroring my own life. Maybe I was too hopeful. Maybe I was a fool.
Our wedding was scheduled for April 27, 1963. Two months before the wedding, I learned I was pregnant. My mother continued to pressure me to cancel the ceremony. I couldn’t tell her I had to get married.
Abortion was out of the question. I’d heard horror stories about backroom abortions and the damage inflicted on victims. I couldn’t bring myself to have a baby and give it up for adoption. Tom would never speak to me again.
I foolishly tried hiding my condition. I faked my period by rolling up clean sanitary napkins in the bathroom garbage, thinking my mother would never check. Once again, I was wrong. Did I “glow” from pregnancy, or did my mother hear my morning sickness?
“You’re nothing but a piece of trash. You deserve a bum like Tom.” My mother’s words stung more than ever. Another layer of shame piled itself onto my fragile soul.
Nobody was backing out of the wedding now. But not everyone was attending.
“You can forget about your father walking you down the aisle. We will not be coming to the wedding,” my mother informed me a few days before the ceremony.
“Fine, then we’ll elope,” I said.
“No, you won’t. The chapel’s reserved, and we paid for the reception. I’ve lost you but I’m not losing our money.”
“I want to talk to Dad.”
“He has nothing more to say, and neither do I.”
Looking back, I should’ve gone to my father. I should’ve backed out of the wedding. I should’ve done a lot of things. But I was nineteen, pregnant, naive, and frightened.
Did my father know I was pregnant? Did he know he wasn’t walking me down the aisle? No more words were spoken to me until the evening before my wedding when my mother broke her silence.
“Get out of this house, now !” she said, before we sat down for dinner.
“Where do you expect me to go?” I tried keeping my voice steady, and my tears hidden.
“That’s not our problem. Maybe your future in-laws will take you. You’re no better than they are.”
My wedding dress hung on my bedroom door. Each pearl button sneered at me as I shoved it in a brown paper bag. I wiped my tears with my veil, then stuck it on my head as my final act of defiance. I grabbed the rest of my ensemble and my honeymoon suitcase, purposely slamming my mother’s chair as I pushed my way through the kitchen and out the door.
I called my parents’ friends, Mary and Ed, from a neighbor’s. They were kind enough to open their home to me. I asked them to pick me up in front of our house—anything to humiliate my mother.
Mary and Ed drove me to the chapel the next day. In the parking lot was my mother’s green Thunderbird. I should’ve realized they’d come to save face.
“Mary, thanks for last night. Ava hasn’t been sleeping well. Wedding jitters, you know. I thought it would be better if she had a change of scenery.” My mother was at her fraudulent best.
Mary’s eyes darted in my direction. She knew the truth. I suspected their friendship had abruptly ended.
A wave of nausea came over me as I started down the aisle. Was it morning sickness, doubt, or fear? I held onto my father’s arm for support and stared at my satin shoes. I couldn’t look at my father, the guests, or Tom, who waited for me at the altar.
I knew I was walking into the biggest mistake of my life, yet my feet kept moving.
When I said, “I do,” Tom’s face broke into the biggest grin I’d ever seen. When the minister pronounced us “man and wife,” he crushed me in his embrace.
“Love ya, Ava,” he whispered.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe things would work out for us.
My mother was all smiles as we made our exit. She joined the small crowd on the church steps throwing rice and waving.
We hadn’t hired a limo to take the bridal party to the restaurant. My mother said she wanted to save the money for our reception, giving guests the option of prime rib as well as chicken cordon bleu. What she didn’t tell me was that she had canceled the dinner once she learned I was pregnant. Our guests were served hors d’oeuvres and cocktails in the smallest banquet room at Smitty’s Bar and Grill.
Fifty people squeezed into a space meant for twenty. Piped-in music replaced the band I had expected. With nowhere else to stand, everyone crowded onto the miniature dance floor.
After an hour of bumping and jostling, the crowd dissipated. I asked myself who was more embarrassed: me or our guests? It certainly wasn’t my mother.
My parents left without saying goodbye. I saw my father’s pained expression as he looked back at me. He had to go home with my mother. I was free.
Before leaving for our honeymoon in Virginia Beach, we changed our clothes in Smitty’s restrooms and stayed for a few drinks at the main bar. Tom’s parents promised to pick up our wedding gear and return Tom’s rented tuxedo.
If only I could have rented my gown, too .
Waves of nausea hit me once we left the bar. Tom’s cigarettes, champagne, too little food, and broken shocks on his 1956 Chevy Bel Air didn’t mix well with pregnancy. I left a trail of vomit along the New Jersey Turnpike. Tom’s temper escalated with each stop.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“I’m pregnant, or did you forget?”
We said nothing more until we got close to Washington, DC. “Tom, we need to stop for the night. We should’ve left tomorrow morning.”
“Bitch. I wanted us to wake up in Virginia Beach. You better not ruin anything else on this honeymoon.”
He pulled into the parking lot of the first motel we came to. What Tom saw was a blinking VACANCY sign. What I saw was what was known as a “motor court” in the 1930s. The room smelled of mold. Long black hairs peeked out from under the sink. I pulled the tattered bedspread down and collapsed. All I wanted to do was sleep.
Tom had other ideas.
When I turned away from him, he rolled me toward him.
“Not tonight, please? Maybe in the morning,” I said.
“No, now!”
His breath reeked of stale cigarettes and too much alcohol. Another round of nausea hit me. I ran to the bathroom.
“Get out here, Ava Harrison. You’re my fucking wife!”
I locked the door, sat on the toilet, and wept.
Bang! Slam! Tom pounded on the bathroom door. I knew if I didn’t come out, we’d be thrown out of the motel. Cautiously I opened the door.
“That’s better,” Tom said.
I knew I had no choice. I took a deep breath, clenched my teeth, and let my mind drift to the days before Tom entered my life.
Is rape possible between husband and wife? My entire body ached.
We arrived in Virginia Beach early the next afternoon. I wanted to see the sights. Tom wanted to find the closest liquor store.
“C’mon, honey, let’s fool around.” Tom pushed me back on the bed.
Sex was out of the question. I felt bruised inside and out. Nausea overpowered me.
“Not now, Tom. I feel miserable.”
“Nobody says no to me!” Tom raised his arm and slapped me across the face.
I screamed.
“Shut up and do what you’re told!”
I rolled into a fetal position and cried into the pillow.
Tom lit a cigarette and poured another shot of whiskey.
“How ’bout I put this cigarette out on your tits?”
“Get away from me!”
He tried a kinder approach. I fell for it. It was over in a flash. Tom rolled off me and passed out.
The next day was more of the same. Tom had no interest in anything but whiskey and sex. My wrists were bruised from where he’d held me down. I was afraid he’d cause me to lose the baby.
Tom snuggled up to me after another round of morning sickness.
“How d’ya like bein’ married to me?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell him the truth. “It’s nice,” I whispered.
“Show me how nice.”
He pulled me closer. My body recoiled in discomfort.
“Wassa matter? Too rough for ya?”
“Please, Tom. Leave me alone.”
Before I knew what had happened, he backhanded me and sent me flying across the room. I landed on the floor, inches away from the corner of the dresser. I couldn’t move.
The room was filled with Tom’s ragged breath and my muffled sobs. Neither of us moved for what seemed like an hour.
Then he said, “Oh my God, Ava. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I promise it’ll never happen again.”
I didn’t believe him for a second. I thought about my mother’s silence and how I thought a slap would hurt less. I was so wrong.
Eventually, my morning sickness passed, and I was a human being again. Tom was in a good mood and wanted to see the sights. People smiled at us and a few asked if we were newlyweds. I fantasized about us settling into an idyllic life, but I knew it would remain a fantasy. I’d move back with my parents when we got home.
As an act of respect, I rang my parents’ doorbell rather than let myself in with my key. My mother glared at me through the screen door.
“What are you doing here, Mrs. Harrison?”
“Can I come in and talk to you?”
“We have nothing to talk about,” she said.
“Please—” I held onto the door to steady myself.
She opened the door, turned her back to me, and busied herself at the kitchen sink.
“Can we talk?” I asked.
“About what?” Her back was still toward me.
I sat at the kitchen table facing her. “I made a terrible mistake. Tom beat me on our honeymoon. You were right about everything. I’m so sorry.”
“I told you he was a bum. I warned you, Miss Smarty-pants.”
“I can’t stay with him. He’ll keep hitting me. Can I come home?” It was the first time I allowed myself to break down in front of my mother.
She faced me. “You made your bed. Now go lie in it.”
I stared at her broad shoulders, wide ribcage, and dyed blond hair freshly curled and sprayed—the classic 1960s housewife. She turned away from me and stared out the window.