My parents had a photo album of black-and-white wedding pictures in plastic sleeves from 1947. In the photographs they are young and smiling. My father, looking very handsome with his hint of Inca blood, had survived WWII and unknowingly was about to embark on his own personal WWIII. My mother, delighted to be the center of attention, looks excited and pretty.
There is a photo of their wedding cake, with the bride-and-groom figurines on top. The waxy figures are standing on a round base to elevate them.The groom is wearing a black tuxedo, the bride has a white wedding dress to symbolize her youthful purity, and the little couple is standing on top of the world.
Oddly, this cake topper kicked around the house for years. My mother never bothered to put it away properly, so it became dirty and dusty. It started to turn brown from the bottom up, so its base became dark and horrifying. A metaphor for their marriage.
In the meantime, I was very happy to meet Artiste at college. He was smart and handsome and kind and did not abuse me.
Unfortunately, my parents did not share my enthusiasm. My father sent me a typed hate letter on a triplicate form (white and yellow copies for me; pink for him) saying the only reason Artiste could possibly be interested in me was for my "inheritance."
OK, that was insulting. Moreover, WHAT inheritance? My parents never willingly gave their kids a dime. Today I'm 59 and I have yet to find out about any "inheritance." Not even a toaster oven.
My mother pitched a fit about Artiste. I was supposed to marry a lawyer from Philadelphia - not that I'd never even met one - instead of a mongrel from Michigan, and a painter to boot.
The passage of time did not help the situation. After a visit in which Artiste lay awake all night fearing my mother would plunge a steak knife into his chest (seriously!), we left the following morning for Michigan. My mother got drunk, called the police, and tried to have Artiste arrested for "transporting her daughter across state lines."
The police were interested. "How old is your daughter, m'am?"
"Twenty-one."
I can only imagine what they did after they hung up.
One day she got drunk and called Artiste's mother. She had called to ask her if he was retarded.
Artiste's mother asked what signs her son had exhibited that indicated he was retarded.
"He doesn't do the dishes," my mother said.
When Artiste and I decided to get married, my father was polite. He had been taught very good manners to use in dire situations.
My mother had no use for good behavior and said many things, including: "You're only 18!" (I was 22), "What will I tell my friends?," and, "You've broken my dreams!" She got terribly drunk and took to her bed in a paroxysm of rage and self-pity. Why, oh why, had God cursed her with such an irredeemable failure for a daughter?
I had wanted to get married outside, but Jack, the wise minister at the little church of St. John the Divine, talked me out of it. Good thing. The day before our wedding there was a massive nor'easter that shredded the June leaves all over the streets, darkened by the torrential rains.
Fortunately we had a cheery yellow-and-white tent set up in the back yard for the reception. Since I had been furiously finishing up my last year of college - and it was a doozy - I did not interfere when my mother said she had arranged booze, food, and a cake.
The ratio seemed off, as everyone was drunk and I personally never saw one bite of food. I heard there was some. The cake was not at all what I expected. There was a modest little wedding cake with a couple of tiers, accompanied by a large, flat Costco-looking cake. Definitely not the cake of wedding dreams.
When it came time to cut our mini-wedding cake, my mother suddenly rushed into the house and came out with the old, moldy cake topper. Triumphantly she mashed its blackened bottom onto the top of my little wedding cake. Apparently she'd had this intention since 1947, and had never said a word to me about it. Of course.
I could not very well take it off and throw it at her in the middle of my own wedding reception. I quickly sliced up the mini-cake and threw out the grotesque cake topper. The guests moved on to the sheet cake.
My aunt, who also had eaten too little and drunk too much, wielded a huge carving knife, stabbing the sheet cake ineffectually at odd angles. "Shorry about what I'm doing to your cake," she slurred.
I cut a piece and handed it to her.
At least she was shorry.
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