chapter 9
Gus, The Sacrament of Marriage
“This could be the smartest thing I’ve ever done, or it could be the dumbest.”
My shoes clicked on the marble as I paced the tiny room behind the altar. Packed as it was with racks of hanging vestments in various shades of metallic brocade, the footed brass prosforo bowls, and bookcases covered in a hodgepodge of crap—everything from extra reams of copy paper (there wasn’t even a printer in this building) to cases of Pepsi and vials of holy water—the space wasn’t big enough to do anything more than spin in a circle.
“It’s certainly not the dumbest.” My brother’s deep voice dripped with acid as he raised his eyebrow, giving me a pointed look one could only read as: remember that time I found you balls deep in my ex-wife?
George looked effortlessly cool leaning back against an abandoned desk with his feet crossed at the ankles and his brow all sardonic.
It had been years since we’d both been back here together, when we’d served behind the altar as boys, dying of thirst and hunger, drooling over… probably that same case of Pepsi, because we weren’t allowed to drink or eat before receiving communion on Sunday mornings.
“You’re right. Momentary lapse.” I stopped pacing. “I try not to actively remember my piece of shit era.”
“You were never a piece of shit. You made some bad choices. This isn’t one of them.” He nodded in the general direction of the nave where, if she hadn’t come to her senses, Decca would be walking up the aisle in a few moments.
“How do you know?”
He shrugged. “I can feel it.”
I rubbed my hands down my face and scraped at my beard before smoothing my hair away from my face.
I wasn’t so sure he was right. But I could feel him feel it, and it stopped me in my tracks.
A year ago, my grumpy mortician brother wouldn’t have recognized a feeling if it hit him over the head. Then Bethany came along and violently beat down the walls surrounding George’s heart, forcing him to finally accept the same care and compassion he gave his grieving clients.
If George could be cured of his raging guilt, workaholism, and cruel cynicism, maybe anyone could be cured of their faults.
Maybe I could be cured.
I took another deep breath, willing my heart to slow.
Hot blood pumped in my neck, rocking my whole body. Every thick beat of my heart warned me this was a bad idea.
Mis-take. Mis-take. Mis-take.
George’s eyes met mine with a stern gaze, but he withheld further judgement. He simply stepped toward me and re-pinned my boutonniere straighter. He brushed a stray bit of lint off my shoulder, appraising my blue suit with a vague smile and a warmth in his eyes I rarely got to see. “You look good as a layperson. I’m going to miss this.”
I didn’t buy a new suit.
It’d been so long since I’d worn this one—navy blue with the faintest ghost of a silvery plaid—since I’d entered seminary. There, I wore the long, black, close-fitting anderí everywhere from classes to church services, even to the movies.
Most Orthodox clergy in America chose to forego the long robes in favor of the traditional Catholic look of a black suit and Roman collar.
Once ordained, I’d likely never wear this suit again. Nor the burnished cognac leather shoes, or the baby blue broadcloth, or the mossy springtime, yellowy-sage paisley silk tie. That was new. I’d splurged on color.
From here on out, my life would be black.
“You won’t miss anything,” I lied to my brother. And to myself. I’d definitely miss the color. “Besides Ma, you’re the one person who knows the real me. I can’t play the spiritual father role with you. You’ve seen me at my worst. And you’ve always been better than me, man. I came to the church seeking forgiveness. You never needed it.”
“Shut up, Gus. Everyone needs forgiveness for something.”
“No, listen.” I sighed. “I know I’m not that person anymore, the kid who wrecked everything in his path. But, after this, I don’t want things to change between us. I still want to think of you as my big brother. The true calm in the storm. I need you to be the place where I don’t have to wear the church’s authority cloaked around my shoulders. Where I can be my lowly human self, because you will offer comfort and protection. You won’t list my sins for me or remind me that the only place I can fall is down.”
“You’re forgetting something.”
“What?”
“Decca.”
I closed my eyes. Decca. The woman presumably in black instead of white and presumably having her own freak out in the Narthex right now, holding a bouquet of some goth flower—lilies probably, plucked from some dead guy’s discarded casket spray.
From the altar, the chanter began intoning the wedding song.
The hymn of the Virgin Mary was my only request. It wasn’t frequently sung, and the melody was so haunting, my ears never seemed to stop craving it. That was my cue.
George checked his watch. “You ready? Or do you want to freak out some more?”
I hugged my brother tightly. In a decade-long twist of fate, I owed him my life and happiness, and I was overwhelmingly blessed he was here with me today as my koumbaro and best man.
We stepped from behind the iconostasis to see Father Vasili wiping tears from his eyes.
Oh, fuck. This was really happening.
Ma, Yia-Yiá, and Pappou sat in the first pew on the right side, with a few of my first cousins behind them. Waylon sat with Bethany’s daughter Sofia, holding baby Athena in her arms, representing Decca’s side on the left.
Everyone wore black. Even the baby had a long, black lace gown and cradle cap, in honor of the bride.
Bethany sauntered up the aisle first, followed by my sister, whose face was ghostly white and bedewed with sweat. Soula hated attention so much she’d postponed her own wedding twice already. But she stood up today. For Decca and for me.
Decca didn’t want attendants—I suspected it was to save Soula the abject terror of being in front of an audience, even as a side character—but Greek Orthodox wedding ceremonies were rigid and long, and they always ran smoother with a few extra sets of hands.
At the end of it, George would place the delicate gold crowns on our heads and take our first steps behind us, sanctioning our union and our martyrdom to each other. Other churches had vows. We had stefana. Promises weren’t enough. She was supposed to give up everything for me. As I would for her.
The weight of it hit me hard as my body stiffened into rock. Could we get there? A true union of souls?
Bethany winked at me from across the solea. I took a deep breath and looked at the faces in the pews once more.
Everyone I loved most was in this building.
Waves of love floated up from my family. There weren’t many times in your life when everyone showed up to pour out their collective support. To stand up with you to say, this is good. This is blessed. We’ll be there with you.
It was an embarrassment of riches, receiving this much love.
Who am I to deserve this?
I turned to the altar to blot away stinging tears with my knuckle, ignoring George’s poor attempt to repress a smirk. I never understood why people cried at weddings, and now look at me. It was my least favorite of the seven sacraments. Wasn’t it all just fluff? Yet all these people came here today.
None of them would stand for fluff.
Decca and I had treated this so casually. When we talked about the wedding, it was with only the most minimal of planning. She’d invited her friends over a text message. We hadn’t thought anything about clothes or flowers until George showed me the boutonniere he and Bethany had procured from one of their preferred funeral vendors. We’d eat at my cousin’s restaurant after. Mom made a baklava. It had almost been a joke. It wasn’t a real marriage, so it would be foolish to make real plans, to celebrate for real.
We’d both acted as though this marriage was nothing more than our own trashy reality TV show.
We were so wrong.
Now that I was here, and it was happening, there was no disguising what this was. A real marriage. Decca was about to become my real wife. And I wanted it… her… more than I’d wanted anything. I wanted our souls to be joined forever. To sacrifice for her. To love her as my own flesh and get to work building our skeleton. It was no coincidence that Christ began his earthly ministry at a wedding. That the Church was the bride of Christ.
The low, clear alto of the chanter’s voice echoed off the marble walls of the church, bringing me back to the present.
The guests stood, and I turned to face the end of the aisle as Decca crossed the threshold, beginning her slow, awkward walk to the altar on the arm of my father.
I laughed in relief as I met her eyes. Her smile broadened, and she shrugged, already apologizing for herself. As if she was anything less than perfect.
Whatever I’d expected her to wear on her wedding day, it wasn’t this. White was a shocking choice. I’d never seen her in anything but black. She looked beautiful. Like Audrey Hepburn in a cupcake.
She’d swept her black hair back in a big, vintage-looking updo that matched her old-timey dress and little jacket. Her poufy skirt was short enough that I could see a pair of tiny white shoes peeking out, making her ankles wobble when she stepped.
Maybe, just maybe, it would all be okay.
The ceremony itself was a blur. Vasili thrust a large white candle into my hand. Not a unity candle, a heavy Orthodox wedding candle that I’d have to hold for most of the hour-long ceremony. Decca handed her small bouquet to Bethany before accepting her own candle.
We’d rehearsed this; the candle, the chalice, the crowning. All we had to do was stand there, drink some wine, stand there some more, walk thrice around the table, and we were married.
There were no spoken intentions, no readings from Saint Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, no Pachebel’s Canon in D. Just a long, quiet ceremony with a lot of Greek chanting. Knowing Decca, she’d translated and memorized every last word so she would be able to mentally follow along with the sacrament. She assured me she didn’t disapprove of anything. Good thing, since there was absolutely no changing or customizing any word or detail of the ceremony that had remained the same for centuries.
I suspected that was the part Decca liked the most, the history of it all.
I was still in a daze, unaware if time was racing or standing still, when Father Vasili introduced us as husband and wife and gestured for us to kiss.
Decca’s head jerked to me in shock. She hadn’t expected a kiss. How could she have? It wasn’t officially part of the ceremony, so it wasn’t in any of my books that offered the translation of the service. I hadn’t thought to tell her. We could have practiced, so it wasn’t obvious to my grandparents and cousins that this would be our first kiss.
I assured her with my eyes. I tried to, anyway. I wasn’t so sure about this myself. She nodded, and took a deep breath, throwing back her shoulders.
I tried not to grit my teeth as I watched my wife brace herself to kiss me.
The light shifted—maybe it was another one of Christ’s wedding miracles—and the rest of the room blurred into obscurity. Decca and I were alone, standing in a single beam of pure, clear sunlight streaming in between all the broken panes of colored glass. Reds and ambers, blues and violets surrounded us, shielding us from the rest of the world. My hands encircled her waist and our lips met in the center of that light. Her lips were soft and warm, confidently pressing against me as her hands reached up and clasped behind my neck. Our bodies were so close. Our breath hot.
My lips parted and moved against hers. I swallowed down her soft sigh. We fit together so perfectly, her mouth molded under mine, her heat and magnetism locking us together for what seemed like minutes. Hours. The contact was monumental. Surely the earth had stopped spinning. Tonight, I’d get a news alert on my phone that the Richter scale measured a record-level seismic event. Something had happened.
I opened my eyes. Slowly, unwillingly, I peeled my lips away from hers.
Both of us were unmoving. Wide-eyed in disbelief that a kiss could be like that. Our kiss. So powerful and provocative.
I didn’t want to turn and face the others. We were safe here in our beam of light. But marriages didn’t exist atop the head of a pin. I couldn’t be her husband only on the steps of the solea. Like bones, souls only knitted themselves together after stress and hardship.
This was it. We were married. But this was only the first step.
Now we had to start knitting.