A Complicated Marriage by Janice Van Horne Page A

De Quincey’s Confessions of an English Opium-Eater . I knew I’d never forget where it was.
    The next day, the day before the wedding, more jewelry. Clem and I went to Cartier and bought a gold beveled ring. No engraving; I would always know it was mine and who had given it to me. I liked it. Right in line with my golf dress. Next stop: Tiffany’s. I wanted to send out wedding announcements. The saleslady, very chignoned and high-toned, suggested that “at-home cards” should be included so people would know where to send gifts. I’d never thought about that. Presents! I couldn’t tell her, “Oh, we don’t know the kind of people who do that. Besides, they know where we are; we’ve been living in sin for four months.” And, wanting to do the right thing by the saleslady, I ordered the cards: “Mr. and Mrs. Greenberg will be at home at 90 Bank Street . . .” The absurdity of it made me cringe. Clem, as usual, said nothing.
    That night, our wedding eve, was just as Clem had ordained, a night like any other. We went to the Blue Mill on Commerce Street, one of our favorites, which served martinis straight up with a “bonus” in a small carafe. Then to bed—books to be read, sleep to be slept, until it was time to roll out of bed and get married.
    Me in my golf ensemble and pearls, too early in the day for diamonds. Clem in his only suit, his “funeral gray,” he called it, with white shirt, tie, gleaming shoes—he treasured his shoe-polishing gear—and gray hat. How fine we looked. How fine the day looked, sunny and warm. Amazing, considering that I hadn’t been able to get anything right. The face that couldn’t decide whether to be blotchy red or white as chalk. The ornery hair that couldn’t decide whether it was straight or curly and that had sprouted a cowlick I had never seen before. And as the coffee pot boiled over, I burned the eggs. Omens everywhere—I was drowning
in omens. Clem kept to his day-as-usual schedule; reading at his desk, finishing his second half-cup of coffee, lighting up his first cigarette of the day . . . until I thought I would scream.
    Without a minute to spare, we were in a taxi heading up Eighth Avenue. We weren’t going far, just to Madison Square and the chambers of Judge Breitel. I flashed on the Emerald City, the Wizard who was to marry us at noon emerging from behind a curtain of smoke and mirrors, if the tornado didn’t hit before then. Suddenly Clem had the driver pull over, and he dashed into a florist. I leaned out of the window and yelled, “Wrist!” Regular corsages were what wallflowers wore as they hovered in cloak rooms, gardenias staining their bedraggled taffeta. With any luck, today I would break the curse. Back Clem came with an orchid, which he tied to my wrist. Lovely.
    Our small wedding party had gathered: my mother; Clem’s father, Joe, and brothers, Marty and Sol; Sidney and Gertrude; Friedel Dzubas and his two young children, Hanni and Morgan; and my friend Nancy Spraker. The groom was well attended, the bride’s side of the church rather sparse. The judge was forgettable, the ceremony forgettable, though the large corner room with the sun pouring in was extravagantly leathered and carpeted, as befitted his State Supreme Court almightiness. The words were said and the ring slipped on, before I even had time to think, Oh my God, I’m getting married ! Before I had the time to press the moment into my memory book.
    We all taxied up to the Vanderbilt Hotel, where Clem’s father was taking us to lunch. I had met Joe only once in the preceding months. Clem saw him rarely, but it had seemed fitting that we should drop by for introductions. He and Clem’s stepmother, Fan—Clem’s mother had died when he was sixteen—lived at Ninety-sixth Street and Central Park West. Clem never talked much about the past. I knew only that he disliked Fan,