“I will,” he said.
“Lillith O’Neill, will thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? Will thou love him, comfort him, honor and cherish him, in sickness and in health, prosperity and adversity, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will,” she said.
“The wedding ring is the outward and visible sign of an inward bond,” the minister said, “which unites two loyal hearts in endless love.”
“In token of the vow made between us,” Mr. Stenner said, “with this ring I thee wed.”
“In token of the vow made between us,” Mom said, “with this ring I thee wed.”
“Forasmuch as Peter Stenner and Lillith O’Neill have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, I pronounce that they are husband and wife together.” The minister looked at them, and smiled, and said, “May God bless your union and grant to you the wisdom, strength, and love to nurture and sustain it forever. Amen.”
Behind her, my mother heard Grandmother Lu’s voice repeating the word “Amen,” and then Mr. Stenner kissed Mom, and the minister leaned toward her and said in his gentle voice, “May I have the honor, Mrs. Stenner?” and kissed her on the cheek. Mom later told me she was thinking only Mrs. Stenner, I am now Mrs. Stenner, when suddenly she heard a shriek, and thought I’d hurt myself somehow, fallen from a chair, perhaps — had I been standing on a chair while watching the ceremony? And then it occurred to Mom that she hadn’t seen me since several minutes before the ceremony, when she’d gone into the music room to tell me they were ready to start. She saw me pushing my way through the crowd now, clutching the nosegay Mr. Stenner had ordered specially for me, tiny pink roses and baby’s breath. My face was contorted in agony, and tears were streaming down my cheeks.
“I missed it!” I said.
“What?” Mom said.
“What?” Mr. Stenner said.
“I missed the wedding!” I said, sobbing. “You didn’t tell me the wedding was happening!”
“But I did tell you, darling. I came into the music room...”
“You didn’t!” I said. “I missed the divorce, and now I missed the wedding, too!”
“Well,” Mr. Stenner said, “if you missed it, you missed it.” He took a fresh handkerchief from his pocket, dried my tears, and then said, “Now stop crying, or you’ll miss the reception, too.”
Mom watched him as he took my hand and walked to where his sons were standing. Both of them embraced him as he approached, and then Luke awkwardly patted me on the head.
9.
Mr. Stenner began growing a beard shortly after the wedding, at about the same time Chiquita Banana came into my life. I was the one who nicknamed her Chiquita Banana. Her real name was Maria Victoria Valdez. Mr. Stenner had taught me the Chiquita Banana song, and I used to sing it around the house all the time. But I never thought I’d meet someone who was actually from South America, and who was my father’s girlfriend besides. Well, not actually his girlfriend. I mean, they weren’t too serious. I guess. But they were going out together. And maybe sleeping together, I’m not sure. Anyway, by the time I met her, they’d been seeing each other for quite some time. Maybe ever since Christmas. Or at least since Mom got the divorce in January. Come to think of it, that probably was when Dad started dating Chiquita Banana. Because in January he probably realized the marriage was really and truly over, red blob of wax on two red ribbons.
So one Saturday morning in June, Dad drove up to the house, everything in bloom, the forsythia bursting with yellow, the magnolia dripping pink petals on the lawn, the crocuses and day lilies and, oh, just everything in bloom, it was absolutely magnificent — and there was Chiquita Banana.
How to describe her?
Black hair.
Very white skin.
Eyes so brown they looked black.
Very curvaceous.
Yoke neck on her dress, rah-ther protuberant boobs.
Simpering smile on her face.
(Or was it fear?)
“Abby, I want you to meet Maria Victoria Valdez. Maria, this is my daughter.”
“How do you do?”
(Should I curtsy?)
“How do you do, Abby?”
(She says it so that it sounds like “Ah-bee.”)
“Well, get in, get in,” my father says.
“What about my bag?”
“Oh, your bag. Right, right, your bag.”
“I’ll get it, Frank,” Mr. Stenner says.
“That’s okay, I’ve got it, Peter.”
I hated her on sight.
I couldn’t tell which I hated most — Mr. Stenner’s beard or Chiquita Banana. To begin with, the beard wasn’t a beard. Not like Jeff’s beard. Not a real beard, not hair, not a full bushy beard on a person’s face. It was just a scraggly collection of bristles that felt as if you’d walked into a porcupine whenever he gave you a hug.
“Please, Mr. Stenner,” I begged him day and night, “please shave off the beard.”
“I like the beard,” he’d say, rubbing his hand over it. “Don’t you like the beard, Lillith?”
“No,” Mom would say.
“Gee, I like it,” he’d say. “Give it a chance. It’s only a few weeks old.”
I guess he intended going through with it because when he went down to renew his passport, he didn’t shave the beard, even though he knew they’d be taking a new picture of him. I went with him that day. The reason I went with him was because school had already ended at Hadley-Co, and I had nothing to do before we left for Europe.
We went for his passport on a Friday. Dad was supposed to pick me up at five-thirty, after work, and it was about eleven in the morning when Mr. Stenner asked if I’d like to join him for lunch and for getting his new passport. I said I guessed it would be better than sitting around the house. The place we went to for his passport was the courthouse in White Plains. He filled out the application for renewal there, an then we went around the corner to have his picture taken. The photographer told us to come back for it in an hour, and that’s when we went to lunch.
We had an interesting conversation during lunch.
I told him all about the time I’d been to Paris.
He said Mommy had told him a lot about that, too, about me going down the Champs Elysees doing a little dance with an umbrella. He told me that when Luke had been my age, he’d taken him and Jeff to London and the only thing Luke had wanted to buy was a bowler hat. He’d worn it all through England. He told me that every time he thought of me dancing down the Champs Elysees with my umbrella, he automatically thought of Luke wearing his bowler hat all through England. I didn’t know what a bowler hat was. Mr. Stenner said it was a derby. Then he asked me how I liked my new stepbrothers.
“Well,” I said, “no offense, Mr. Stenner, but I don’t think they’re really my stepbrothers yet.”
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Well, I guess what it is... well, I don’t think they like me very much.”
“They’re not used to having a sister,” Mr. Stenner said.
“That may be part of it,” I said, “but the other part is they just don’t like me.” I paused, and looked him straight in the eye, and then I said, “They don’t like Mommy either.”
He thought about this for what seemed like a long time. Then he nodded and said, “I guess you’re right, Abby,” and sighed.