The bride wants children in the ceremony: ring bearers, flower girls, a choir of pure bell-like voices. They stand soldierly in their deep green satin, vests and tunics, lined up rank and file, their parents off to the side tilting heads and smiling to see the artistry, Marty shaping them like clay—pinching a boy closer, wetting a finger to flatten a cowlick, raising a girl straighter by her chin, coercing them together by suggesting they are afraid—until their grouping pleases him. Beth thinks Marty has acquired a kind of permanent commercial Vaseline blur to his vision. The white gazebo, backdrop, looks like the plastic top of a wedding cake, greenery and baby’s breath poked into its latticework like that phony, inedible icing. “Whiskey,” he tells them on an intake of breath.
“Whiskey,” they shout. His shutter snaps and he drops his hand, releasing his breath.
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.
