Going Home Part 21

"No, come on, you want to watch the game. This has been plenty. But you're a love to ask."

"No, I mean it. Let's stop and have an early dinner."

"No, Chris, come on, let's go home."

"Quiet. . . . Sam, what do you think?"

"I want to eat dinner here. Can we, Uncle Crits, can we????"

"Yes, ma'am," and we drove into the St. Mary's garage and walked toward the milling people on Grant Avenue.

Dinner was delicious, and as usual I ate too much. Chris and Samantha worked it out with chopsticks or at least Chris did. Sam ate most of it with her fingers, and poked with the chopsticks. I ate with a fork, which got me a lot of scornful comments from both of them. But I was hungry and never could manage chopsticks.

Driving home we went through the Broadway tunnel, and that completed an evening of Heaven for Sam. A tunnel!! And it was an evening of Heaven for me too. Chris and I looked at each other over her head, and I blew him a kiss and mouthed, "Thanks, I love you." He mouthed back, "Me too," and by G.o.d we did. Whatever the last months had been, whatever Chris had done, or Marilyn, or I, or whomever, it was all buried by that look. Bad times may come again, but a prophecy had been fulfilled. "The good times are coming," the song said. And they had. They really, really, finally had.

31.

On Tuesday, I put Sam back in her old playgroup in the morning, and then Chris and I went downtown to get the marriage license. The place was crawling with Mexicans, and little kids, and odd-looking people who either looked too old to get married or as though they didn't really want to. I guess most of the young people weren't getting married anymore, because we were about the only people our age that I saw. But then again, we didn't look so typical either-I was seven months pregnant and had suddenly blossomed. I stood there in my jeans and Chris's sweater, leading with my belly, and the clerk looked over and shook his head. "I hope you make it, lady." And then he shot a nasty glance at Chris, which made him squirm, and cracked me up.

"Did you see that old b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I mean did you see him?"

"Yeah, so what? What do you care?" Look who was getting sensitive. Poor Chris.

We picked up Sam and he dropped us off at the house. "Got some stuff to do, see you later."

"What stuff?"

"Just stuff, now come on, get out of the car." He'd been in a bad mood since the marriage license bureau. Stupid to let something like that bother you, but he was really upset.

"Okay, see you later," and as Sam and I walked into the house I wondered if Chris were going to see Marilyn. It was just a thought, there was no reason why I should think of it, and the last couple of days had been perfect, but the thought crept up on me and took hold. I wondered if I'd always worry about that, or distrust him. He had learned one thing, and that was that his old openness had cost him something. I doubted if he'd be as honest about it next time he pulled a stunt like that. So I worried all afternoon, and started getting mad, and then worried again, and by the time he came home I was so relieved to have him back I didn't care where he'd been. I purposely didn't ask him what he'd done because I was still pretty much convinced he'd been up to something I didn't want to know about.

"Aren't you going to ask me where I've been?"

"No. Should I?"

"What's with you?"

"Nothing. Why?"

"You look funny. Feel okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," but I was thinking about Marilyn again.

"Come over here, you big dope. Do you think . . . ?" And I squirmed away because I knew what he was thinking, and I was thinking it, but I was ashamed of it. "Hey, Gillian, Jesus . . . don't cry, there's nothing to cry about, everything's okay . . . hey . . . baby . . . ," and there I was like a big fool, crying in his arms, admitting what I'd been thinking all afternoon.

"I told you. It's over. You don't have to worry about it anymore. Now, come on out to the car." He took my hand, led me down the steps, opened the car door, and started ripping newspapers off something in the back seat. It was a cradle, a beautiful, beautiful antique cradle, in dark burnished wood, with delicate carvings on it.

"Oh Chris. . . ."

"There was an auction in Stockton today. I wanted to surprise you. D'you like it?"

"Oh Chris! . . ." and I was crying again.

"Now what are you crying about?"

"Oh Chris. . . ."

"You've already said that, now come on you silly girl. Give us a smile. There. Much better."

"I'll help you get it out of the car."

"No, ma'am. As long as you're still carrying what goes in the cradle, I'll carry the cradle. Just hold the doors open," and he struggled up the steps holding the cradle.

"Don't hurt it," and I held the doors open as wide as I could.

"You're too much," and he grinned at me over his shoulder as he set it down in the hall.

"Chris? . . . You know something? You've changed."

"So have you," and we looked at each other for a long moment, and knew it was true.

32.

The next couple of days were quiet. Sam was in school in the morning, and Chris was up in his studio most of the time, working on projects, busy with whatever it was he did up there. He'd come down for lunch and we'd have a quiet half-hour together before I picked Sam up at the playgroup. We were settling into a nice routine, and I felt as though I had never left, except for the fact that everything was better.

On Thursday, I looked up at Chris at lunch and told him I wanted to go downtown, shopping.

"What for?"

"A wedding dress."

"You're kidding. Gillian, you don't mean it."

"Yes I do. I want to get something new to wear. You know, something old, something new. . . ."

"You've got something new: the baby. Does the maternity department carry wedding dresses these days?"

"Come on, Chris, be nice. I want to get something."

"Have you thought of a color? Like red maybe?"

"Chris! I shouldn't have told you."

"No. You can do it. It's your business. It's your wedding, after all."

"Well, it's yours too. But I want to look nice, and I don't have anything to wear."

"What do you want to look nice for? Have you invited someone?"

"No, but I was going to talk to you about that too. . . ."

"Oh no, Gillian, no way. You and I are going down to the justice of the peace, and we're getting married. No tourists. You can wear anything you G.o.ddam please, but you're not going to invite anybody. And I mean that." And he looked as though he did. "Okay, love. Okay. Don't get excited about it."

"I'm not excited," but he looked irritated and went back up to his garret while I cleaned up the lunch dishes.

After Sam was down for her nap in the afternoon I got dressed to go downtown and went up to the studio to tell Chris I was leaving.

"What's wrong with that?"

"What?"

"What you're wearing now?"

"Chris, I can't wear black to our wedding. It'd look like a b.l.o.o.d.y funeral for chrissake. Now come on . . . you said."

"I know, I know. Go ahead and get yourself a veil while you're at it . . . with plastic cherries on it," and I saw then that his good mood was back. He seemed to be finding the whole thing very funny. And as I closed the door behind me he started singing, "Here comes the bride," at the top of his lungs.

"Bug-off, Christopher," but he just got louder.

I decided to make a real trip of it, parked the car in the Union Square Garage, and then headed for I. Magnin's. They were showing cruise clothes in all the windows, and once inside it felt more like New York than San Francisco. Everyone was all dressed up. It seemed a long way from Sacramento Street.

I went up in the elevator looking for the card that said "Maternity" in the long line of descriptions of the different departments above the elevator doors. The elevator operator looked over at me, smiled, and said "Sixth." I couldn't resist, so I looked back and smiled at her, and said, "Bridal?" and her face froze. I laughed and said sixth would be fine.

"For a minute, there, I thought you meant it."

I just laughed again as I stepped out. . . . Oh lady, I do mean it. Yes I do.

The maternity department had as little charm as those places do, and I went through the racks finding nothing. The fabrics looked crummy, the colors were awful, everything had a bow just over the belly, or a high belt, or something that made me dislike it.

"May I help you?"

"I'm looking for something for my sister's wedding. It's an afternoon wedding, and it will be very small, so I don't want anything too formal." That just about told her all she needed to know.

We looked and looked and came up with nothing. Black was out, white was out, red was out, and I was pretty much out by the time we'd tried everything else on. "How about a coat and dress? We got something in yesterday that would look very well on you. It's very tailored and light gray."

Gray? For a wedding? And I really didn't need another coat.

But out came a marvelous soft gray dress with long sleeves and a perfectly straight shape, with b.u.t.tons down the front, and a soft pointed collar, and wide cuffs; no belt, no bow over the belly, just two very large pockets set at a slant on either side. The b.u.t.tons were covered in the same gray fabric, and the coat was perfectly plain and had the same straight, simple line, with a tiny gold chain belt in the back. It looked divine . . . with my grandmother's pearls, and black shoes . . . and . . .

"How much?"

"One forty-five." Ouch, but what the h.e.l.l, it was my wedding, and I could always use it again. I was getting a coat out of it after all.

"I'll take it."

"Good. It looks wonderful on you. Your husband will like it."

"Yes, he will." He might. But a hundred and forty-five? I still had quite a lot of money saved up, so I explained it to myself all the way home as being a reasonable thing to do.

When I got home Chris and Sam were eating ice cream in the kitchen.

"What'd you buy, Mommy?"

"A new dress."

"Let me see it."

"Not till Sat.u.r.day. That's in two days." And Chris started humming "Here comes the bride" again. I went upstairs and hung it in the back of my closet, feeling very pleased with myself. It was beautiful. The same kind of luminous gray as the fog. My wedding dress.

Early Friday morning, Chris jumped out of bed, gave me a shove and told me to get him some orange juice.

"Now?"

"Yes. Now! I have to be in Oakland by eight. We're shooting a film and I have to be there on time. Come on, lady, move it!"

"Okay," and I rolled out of bed, not too pleased by the hour.

Chris left with his arms full of all sorts of boxes, and notes, and odds and ends that didn't look like much to me. He gave me a quick kiss and said he'd be home late and not to wait dinner for him. "Now go back to bed."

I hung out the door as he started the car, waved, and shouted a hearty "Love you!" wondering if the whole neighborhood was being awakened by my shouting, or his car coughing and gagging as it got started. Or his "Love you too," as he drove away. I went back to bed then for a little bit before getting up to feed Sam and get her to school.

The house seemed quiet without Chris when we left and Sam was in a grouchy mood. I thought she might be catching a cold, and decided to ask Chris to check on the heater in her bedroom. I didn't think it was working too well.

On the way back, I stopped off at the hardware store up the street from the house and decided to buy the paint for the baby's room. A lovely bright yellow. I figured that if I didn't buy it Chris would never get around to it. So I loaded it into the cab and headed home.

When I got there the phone was ringing but it stopped before I opened the door. Probably a wrong number. Chris' calls usually went through his answering service and n.o.body knew I was back yet.

The house was in order, so I went back upstairs to our room, opened my closet, and looked at the dress again. It looked so perfect, and as I stood there looking at it I decided to try it on again.

I whirled around in front of the mirror, wearing black shoes, my grandmother's pearls, and my alligator bag. I pulled my hair up off my neck and felt just like a bride. It was a far cry from my first wedding . . . a far cry. And I giggled at myself in the mirror. "Gillian Forrester, my how you've changed!"

The phone rang again as I was preening in front of the mirror, and this time I got there in time to answer it.