Still Life at Father’s Second Wedding

Sara Martin

How about, my brother asked, pacing our room at the Westin Princeton at Forestal Village, “matrimony is defined as the state or ceremony of being married . . . but I thought we were in the state of New Jersey!”

 His girlfriend, Laura, and I sipped coffee and shook our heads. 

Terrible, she said.

Absolutely awful, I said.

Great, he said, then we’re on the right track! 

*

Our father was getting remarried. 

We had flown to New Jersey, reluctantly, and had not stopped complaining about this event for approximately one year.

The ceremony was in five hours and my brother had agreed to make a speech at the reception. The aforementioned is as far as he had gotten.

I was doing a reading at the ceremony and was to tell no one that I was working in a donut shop.

When my father asked if I would write an original poem, I said I was sorry but
unfortunately, my writing style wouldn’t suit the occasion
of leaving your wife after thirty years to marry the alcoholic 
who lived across the street from them.  

Actually, my sister said, that sounds exactly like what you’d write about. 

Yeah, said my brother, take a break from penis warts and toxic shark meat for a second. 

Thanks guys, I said, but I stand by my refusal. 

* 

I met his new wife for the first time ten years earlier 
when I returned her toddler son to her. 
He had escaped from her house and was found on our lawn 
with his pull-ups pulled down, taking a shit. 

*

My father interpreted my refusal as artistic difference 
and listed me in the wedding’s program anyway 
reading Corinthians 13. 
Like a very boring nightmare.

Like in Wedding Crashers? my friend Craig asked me, as we took a fourth shot of bourbon, pre-gaming the rehearsal dinner,  at a bar with a combination rustic-industrial aesthetic. 

Exactly like in Wedding Crashers, I said, forgetting where I was and almost lighting a cigarette inside. I’m going to recite every line like it is a question, I said, waving the unlit cigarette. Love is . . . patient? Love is . . . kind? 

It does not . . . envy? he said, incredulously, widening his eyes and cocking his head to the side. It does not . . . BOAST??

We were asked to leave shortly after Craig asked the bartender, loudly, repeatedly 
if the bar’s interior was inspired by the design of the first American slave ship, Desire. 

*

Have you ever had that dream, my brother started, standing before guests at the reception, that you’re addressing 300 Republicans at your father’s wedding? 

Laughter. Safe. He nailed that Ultra-Lite Deprecation. 
Just one little finger around their anus. 

My sister stood beside him. She was seventeen and very beautiful. 

Doesn’t your sister look amazing? My father asked me before the ceremony. I don’t understand why she doesn’t wear makeup all the time!

She said nothing and frowned into the microphone 
like it was whispering bad news.