Chapter 24
WILLIAM
No one was to walk Shay down the aisle. As Andrew outlined the mechanics of the rehearsal, this seemed to make the priest uneasy, and he suggested an uncle, or perhaps a godfather.
“I don’t want anyone,” she said.
“Thanks for your permission, Mort,” she said, and Mr. Pruitt’s smile strained.
Ever since arriving at the church, Shay had seemed distracted and on edge.
William had asked if she was all right, and she seemed confused by the question, which made him feel their distance even more keenly.
There was a lack of ease between them, like some muscle they shared had atrophied, and he wondered if she could sense that he was withholding something from her, in the same way it felt she must be withholding something from him.
The bridesmaids cooed over William as if he were their own younger brother, and the groomsmen huddled together in a corner, laughing and talking in low voices, undoubtedly saying things unfit for a church.
Even though he’d been invited, William quickly realized there was no need for him to be there.
As an usher, he wasn’t a part of the ceremony in any meaningful way, he was just going to direct people to their appropriate side of the church, but it was impossible for him to leave.
He did his best to avoid Mr. Pruitt, who had looked at William only once, with narrow, suspicious eyes.
Andrew was clearly in charge, orchestrating everyone and ironing out the details of the ceremony with the priest: who would give each reading, when they would exchange rings.
William had a glimpse of how he must behave at work, both genial and disciplined.
It was not difficult to see why he was successful.
“Isn’t it sweet, how much Andrew cares?” one of the bridesmaids said.
“You’d think he was the bride,” another murmured.
“I mean, he doesn’t really have a choice, does he? Shay doesn’t seem to care about any of it. When I asked her about the dress, she just said it was white. Ever since she got involved—”
“Lisa,” one of them scolded, and William could tell it was because they’d realized how near he still was, that he could hear their every word.
Someone yelled that Shay needed a bouquet, and a blond-haired groomsman—Ken, if William remembered right—jogged outside, returning with a fistful of bluebells.
Though the Pruitts and William’s mother were appropriately serious as they processed, there was a juvenile jocularity to the bridesmaids and groomsmen; one of the couples waved like the Kennedys.
When Shay began to walk down the aisle, everyone quieted as if it were the actual ceremony.
She wore a simple navy sundress, white lace lining its seams, and William remembered what Aunt Eleanor had once said: A wild lynx in her belly.
Even though Aunt Eleanor had meant this as something to fear in Shay, William saw it differently.
The lynx gave her strength. It was at the root of her ability to remain herself as others wavered, but he couldn’t sense it as she stood at the altar, as Andrew took her hands in his own.
William could not imagine he himself would ever be married.
He’d had one girlfriend in high school, Brenda, who had breasts so large they hurt her back, and though it took him too long to admit it, he was drawn to her because she needed him.
She was painfully self-conscious and pulled at her hair so often there was a bald spot at the base of her skull, which meant she never wore her hair up.
She clung to him like a barnacle, even though secretly he was the one who needed her more, who needed her needing him.
William did not want to have sex with Brenda.
It wasn’t because of her hair—he didn’t want to have sex with anyone.
Not Cybill Shepherd or Brigitte Bardot. Not Paul Newman or David Cassidy.
That would have been easier, he thought, but maybe that was a foolish thing to believe, recalling how Jacob Morton lay on the tiled floor of the boys’ locker room with his broken ribs and split lip, how he’d fled the week after graduation to San Francisco.
But maybe Jacob had found his own community there, his own church, whereas William still only had an absence.
He wanted to be close to others, but he had no desire to slide his hand between anyone’s legs, to press his mouth to another mouth.
He had never felt, as Tommy Groult once described it, like he was a firecracker and anything a girl did—cross her legs, apply ChapStick—was a lit match.
Although he woke up some mornings with an erection, that felt the same as waking up with a dry throat or a numb foot.
Sex was something to be studied, a curiosity like photosynthesis or the life cycle of a star.
He’d said this to Shay once, when he was twelve. That’s probably for the best, she’d said, sixteen by then and already so much older. You’ll have more time for everything else. When he told Brenda, she’d dumped him.
You’ll always be alone, she’d spat.
At the back of the church, his eye caught again on the carving in the pew. From a distance, he realized it could coalesce to form the letter S or the simple suggestion of a snake, but when he blinked, it shifted back to meaningless curves and angles. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.
“Then you’ll be pronounced man and wife,” the priest said, and everyone cheered.
After the rehearsal, William stepped outside into the heat, the church cooled by several droning window units. He didn’t know what to do with himself. The dinner with the Pruitts was three hours away. Behind him, the door opened, and the groomsmen strode out onto the lawn.
“William, isn’t it?” Ken asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Yeah,” William said.
“Do you sail?”