The Wedding

God, this dress itches! Why on earth did Ralph want me to wear this ugly, ugly dress? I can’t focus — what is the pastor saying? Or is he a priest? Actually, I’m not sure that Ralph and I have ever talked about religion. We don’t normally talk about serious stuff like that. He usually tells me about his interests or stories from when he was younger. He has a few interesting stories, the one he always likes to tell people about is how he once got a ride back into town from a B-list celebrity when his Volvo broke down after he had gone hiking back in the seventies. Apparently, in the seventies, he was quite the looker too. I suppose looking at him now with his wrinkles and his bald pate and his liver spots, he still has an interesting appearance. His son and grandson are quite handsome. They’re not here, though, not in the chapel. And why should they be?

Those two, and, well, Ralph’s other sons and daughters, and most of his grandchildren as a matter of fact were totally against this. I don’t blame them. I know how it must feel for them. I’m the villain. I’m the thief. The intruder. I’ve manipulated ol’ papa with my womanly charms. As if. Ralph came on to me.

I didn’t ask him to keep coming to the nightclub I worked at. I didn’t ask him to find out my number and call me relentlessly for nights in a row. I didn’t ask him to overwhelm me with gifts. I didn’t ask him to promise to provide for me and my only son. I didn’t ask him to be my boyfriend. And I did not ask him for this.

I wish his family would understand that about me. But they need a villain. I cut into the pie. I get it, I do. It is a really big pie, though, you have to admit. But I must reiterate, I asked for none of this. I did not, honest to God, do anything he did not suggest.

He loves me. He adores me. He tells me all about his life, his family, his two ex-wives, and his dearly departed first wife. He squeezes and kisses me. Do I love him? I keep him company. I give him a listening ear. I keep the house staff in line. His children, who say only they can love him, certainly cannot do what I do for him. They don’t visit except to ask for loans or things like that — mind you, I think they should, but they don’t see what they’re doing as naked extraction. They’re fully grown adults. Business leaders.

I know it weighs on Ralph, though, that they’re only occasionally around to see him. He tells me how much he misses them. I bet he’s sad they’re not here.

Oh, these empty pews. It’s a pretty enough church. None of his family nor mine are here. My son and I sort of have a rocky relationship. I don’t want to get into that right now — way too painful. It’s funny, when I was a little girl, I always imagined that there would be lots of people, flowers, and friends. Ralph says that’s what his first three were like. He tells me he’s sorry he couldn’t give me the one I imagined. I’ve told him it’s fine so many times. My first one, to the man that gave me my son, didn’t even fit that image. It was a silly fairytale I’ve realized. It wasn’t possible for me. Not the way I grew up. Of course, no one is interested in what I have to say. Not even Ralph. No one, and I mean it, no one has ever taken me seriously.

I’ve always been the “bimbo”. I first heard my daddy call a woman from the television that. My mother’s second husband was the first to call me that, though, after I kissed a boy from school. He said I was loose. My mother’s second husband also stared at me. A lot. Go figure. Since then, though, so many men — and women too — have called me stupid and vain.

But, I consider myself smart. I consider myself resourceful. What I’ve had, I’ve used, and all I’ve ever had are my looks and, take note, extreme patience. I can wait. I can endure any difficulty. I can endure any boredom. And I can endure any insult — and there have been a lot, like when Ralph’s daughter Carolyne called me a “whore” directly to my face, “a no good tramp, a goddamned gold-digger.”

She, unlike me, grew up with every privilege one could imagine. Am I not allowed to want that for myself? Why is wealth a virtue when it’s an accident or it comes at the expense of a lot of people? Why is it only a crime when it is given away by a grown man of his own free will? Oh! That reminds me, we will have to update Ralph’s will. I am sure that will be a totally painless process with no protests whatsoever from his relatives (not!)

You know, what is with these people, right? I feel like I am the only one who can honestly acknowledge what type of contract this is. I am going to do my part. I will uphold my end of the bargain. Of course I love Ralph. I love him in a way no other woman would honestly admit. God forbid I expect an old man to know what he wants for himself, to know what he can provide, and to trust him to provide it.

Marriage is my only path to security. I didn’t have any other options. I didn’t have a rich dad. I didn’t get to have a college education. I could never have been a career woman — not that I wanted to. Ralph says he didn’t like that his second and third wife were career women. He says he likes a traditional household.

I’ve also never wanted to be in the limelight, but already there have been two articles about this by some totally vulgar gossip magazines. “Multi-millionaire magnate marries 35 year old!” First of all, I’m thirty-seven. Secondly, how is it even their business? I can only expect more. Ralph apologizes to me for it all the time. I tell him it’s okay, because it is. But I do know those people are all hypocrites. It’s not like they’re some kind of principled feminists anyways.

Oh, the pastor? Or was it a priest? Anyways, he is asking us if “we do”. I do. Gladly. Sincerely, from my heart, gladly. In my own way, of course.

I do, Ralph, I do. Now, kiss me. Well, I will lean over to your wheelchair to kiss you, I suppose.