Morituri Te Salutant

It was the day of her first wedding. She’d been living with her fiancé for four years, but they were marrying so that they could maximize the mortgage loan provided by her employer. They had decided on a small civil ceremony with no one in attendance except her parents, his parents (father and stepmother – his mother was dead), her older sister and his younger brother. The celebration was a strange mix of tradition and nonconformity. They had done the traditional engagement and wedding rings, but there would be no wedding gown. She had gone shopping with her mother and bought a dark blue trouser suit that she could wear for other occasions as well. She held a small bunch of flowers, the size for a member of the bridal party, not the massive bouquet that a bride would carry.

Also in line with tradition, she had spent the eve of the wedding at her parents’ house while her fiancé slept in the apartment they shared. Now they were waiting for a taxi to arrive and take them to the ceremony. The fiancé and his family would meet them there. She sat in the hallway of her parents’ house and considered what marriage would mean. She was used to being independent, doing as she pleased, moving and traveling as the mood took her. She had always had full autonomy over how she spent the money she earned. Now they would pool their resources, with her giving the larger share. On the plus side, he could cook, so she didn’t have to. Still, she had a vague suspicion that somewhere a cell door was closing. She would be in prison, potentially for the rest of her life. The gorge rose in her throat.

Her mother and sister had made more of an effort to dress up and seemed excited by the prospect, although they looked serious, in accordance with the solemnity of the occasion. They were both wearing makeup and clothes suitable for a formal church wedding. She herself never wore makeup. Her father was wearing a suit, as if he were on his way into the office in the city. He was standing calmly, exuding head of the household energy. He would not have to “give her away,” but he was still an important fixture at the ceremony.

Her father was watching her with some unvoiced concern. He noted her pale face and poured her a stiff drink. She took it gratefully, surprised by his instinctive attention to the need she was trying to hide. It occurred to her that she should probably have discussed the pros and cons of marriage with him. She didn’t have a close relationship with either of her parents, but she couldn’t imagine discussing the downside of getting married with her conservative mother. Her father would probably understand her perspective better. Anyway, it was too late now. She couldn’t very well cancel at this point. The house was already bought – they would go to it after the ceremony and become a suburban married couple. She shuddered and took a healthy swig from the vodka and soda in her hand. Her father never made the rookie mistake of putting more mixer than alcohol in the glass. He was a good father.

There was no happy chatter from the small group in the hallway. Perhaps it was her imagination, but it felt more like a funeral than a wedding. Maybe it was. This is where my life ends, she thought grimly. From now on, it’s not just Jane, it’s Jane and Rob. I can’t just walk away and move somewhere else. We share ownership in the biggest investment of our lives. This will be the first home I have ever owned – well, jointly owned. What does that mean? How will we decide how to decorate, when to sell it, all the things that married couples do? Do I have to do gardening like my parents do? Grow vegetables and fruit? Mow a lawn that keeps on growing?

She could have just bought a smaller house by herself, and they could have lived in it together. She had never fantasized about a wedding in her childhood – she didn’t think any of her friends did, either. Everyone she knew well had large gardens, with lawns and flowers and vegetable patches. That had never been a dream of hers, and she had never felt compelled to help her parents with their garden. But some vestige of traditional values drove her to consider marriage, and therefore, a duplex in the suburbs with three bedrooms and 1½ bathrooms. With a modern bathroom suite in a color called Pampas, and woodblock flooring in the L-shaped living room, and a full-sized garden with a fishpond.

So, she went to the General Manager and explained that they weren’t married because of company rules about spouses working together, but they needed to get a joint mortgage. He gulped in horror, imagining what people would say about him forcing his employees to live in sin, and hastily said that they would allow the marriage in this case. She wondered if she should have done that. She was more senior in the company than her fiancé, her salary alone would have been enough to buy a smaller house with less maintenance responsibility.

At the time, it had all made sense. But now she realized that she was signing her life away. She made more money, but they would have to pool their earnings. They’d have to make sensible grown-up decisions about how to spend it. They had fun together, and the sex was great, but was that really a sound basis for a lifetime legal contract?

“The car’s here,” her sister announced, “are you ready, Jane?” She had been the bridesmaid at her sister’s church wedding. She was dressed in a burgundy velvet Renaissance gown, and she had flu, so her face was a very pale yellow in all the photos. At the time, she was clear that she would not get married like that. There was a lot of standing around and preaching involved, in addition to the silly outfits and pointless expenditure.

Her parents started to move towards the door. She threw back the rest of her drink in one gulp and set the crystal glass down on the hall table. She looked briefly at her father, who waited expectantly to walk with her to the car. What would he say if she told him she’d changed her mind? Too late now, she thought to herself. Let’s do this. She heard the roar of imaginary gunfire in the distance as she prepared to go over the top.

That was 1976. The marriage was not a success, but it lasted longer than it should have. She was determined never to do that again. Who said that history doesn’t repeat itself, but it rhymes? Maybe Mark Twain, but most likely not. After six years of mostly unhappy marriage and seven years of living happily alone in four different countries, she found herself in another relationship. There was no plan to marry, she had learned that lesson. This was a better relationship than last time. She had grown a lot, and he was emotionally more open and mature than she was, definitely more mature than the late lamented husband. And then they decided to emigrate to Canada. Again, there was a practical reason to make the relationship official. Again, she earned more money, and in this case it was important that she had a clean record, since he had a conviction under his belt. The evaluation would focus on her, and her husband would be a “plus one.”

This time, she had been more circumspect. They had already pooled their finances. They didn’t pretend that this was a romantic dream, they were a successful joint venture. They didn’t invest in fingercuffs to symbolize their commitment. They didn’t tell their families. His family was local but wildly dysfunctional, and her father had died. The rest of her family all lived overseas. They wore their normal weekend clothes, invited a couple of friends and a registrant to their home, drank some wine, and signed the papers. The registrant probably shouldn’t have had any wine. He filled in the certificate incorrectly, so she fixed the mistake after he left. Twenty years after the first wedding, she had done it again. This time she didn’t have a last-minute panic. She had survived before; she could do it again.