GET ME TO THE CHURCH ON TIME Saturday, October 23, 1993 (Henry is 30, Clare is 22) (6:00 a.m.)

GET ME TO THE CHURCH ON TIME


Saturday, October 23, 1993 (Henry is 30, Clare is 22) (6:00 a.m.)

HENRY: I wake up at 6:00 a.m. and it’s raining. I am in a snug little green room under
the eaves in a cozy little bed-and-breakfast called Blake’s, which is right on the south
beach in South Haven. Clare’s parents have chosen this place; my dad is sleeping in
an equally cozy pink room downstairs, next to Mrs. Kim in a lovely yellow room;
Grandpa and Grams are in the uber-cozy blue master bedroom. I lie in the extra-soft
bed under Laura Ashley sheets, and I can hear the wind flinging itself against the
house. The rain is pouring down in sheets. I wonder if I can run in this monsoon. I
hear it coursing through the gutters and drumming on the roof, which is about two
feet above my face. This room is like a garret. It has a delicate little writing desk, in
case I need to pen any ladylike missives on my wedding day. There’s a china ewer
and basin on the bureau; if I actually wanted to use them I’d probably have to break
the ice on the water first, because it’s quite cold up here. I feel like a pink worm in the
core of this green room, as though I have eaten my way in and should be working on
becoming a butterfly, or something. I’m not real awake, here, at the moment. I hear
somebody coughing. I hear my heart beating and the high-pitched sound which is my
nervous system doing its thing. Oh, God, let today be a normal day. Let me be
normally befuddled, normally nervous; get me to the church on time, in time. Let me
not startle anyone, especially myself. Let me get through our wedding day as best I
can, with no special effects. Deliver Clare from unpleasant scenes. Amen.

(7:00 a.m.)
CLARE: I wake up in my bed, the bed of my childhood. As I float on the surface of
waking I can’t find myself in time; is it Christmas, Thanksgiving? Is it third grade,
again? Am I sick? Why is it raining? Outside the yellow curtains the sky is dead and
the big elm tree is being stripped of its yellow leaves by the wind. I have been


dreaming all night. The dreams merge, now. In one part of this dream I was
swimming in the ocean, I was a mermaid. I was sort of new at being a mermaid and
one of the other mermaids was trying to teach me; she was giving me mermaid
lessons. I was afraid to breathe under water. The water got into my lungs and I
couldn’t figure out how it was supposed to work, it felt terrible and I kept having to
rise up to the surface and breathe and the other mermaid kept saying, No, Clare, like
this.. .until finally I realized that she had gills in her neck, and I did too, and then it
was better. Swimming was like flying, all the fish were birds...There was a boat on
the surface of the ocean, and we all swam up to see the boat. It was just a little
sailboat, and my mother was on it, all by herself. I swam up to her and she was
surprised to see me there, she said Why Clare, I thought you were getting married
today, and I suddenly realized, the way you do in dreams, that I couldn’t get married
to Henry if I was a mermaid, and I started to cry, and then I woke up and it was the
middle of the night. So I lay there for a while in the dark and I made up that I became
a regular woman, like the Little Mermaid except I didn’t have any of that nonsense
about hideous pain in my feet or getting my tongue cut out. Hans Christian Andersen
must have been a very strange and sad person. Then I went back to sleep and now I
am in bed and Henry and I are getting married today.

(7:16 a.m.)
HENRY: The ceremony is at 2:00 p.m. and it will take me about half an hour to dress
and twenty minutes for us to drive over to St. Basil’s. It is now 7:16 a.m., which
leaves five hours and forty-four minutes to kill. I throw on jeans and a skanky old
flannel shirt and high-tops and creep as quietly as possible downstairs seeking coffee.
Dad has beat me to it; he’s sitting in the breakfast room with his hands wrapped
around a dainty cup of steaming black joe. I pour one for myself and sit across from
him. Through the lace-curtained windows the weak light gives Dad a ghostly look;
he’s a colorized version of a black and white movie of himself this morning. His hair
is standing up every which way and without thinking I smooth mine down, as though
he were a mirror. He does the same, and we smile.

(8:17 a.m.)
CLARE: Alicia is sitting on my bed, poking me. “Come on, Clare,” she pokes.
“Daylight in the swamp. The birds are singing,” (quite untrue) “and the frogs are
jumping and it’s time to get up!” Alicia is tickling me. She throws off the covers and


we are wrestling and just as I pin her Etta sticks her head in the door and hisses “Girls!
What is all this bumping. Your father, he thinks a tree fell on the house, but no, it is
you sillies trying to kill each other. Breakfast is almost ready.” With that Etta abruptly
withdraws her head and we hear her barging down the stairs as we dissolve into
laughter.

(8:32 a.m.)
HENRY: It’s still blowing gales out there but I am going running anyway. I study the
map of South Haven (“A shining jewel on the Sunset Coast of Lake Michigan!”)
which Clare has provided me with. Yesterday I ran along the beach, which was
pleasant but not something to do this morning. I can see six-foot-tall waves throwing
themselves at the shore. I measure out a mile of streets and figure I will run laps; if
it’s too awful out there I can cut it short. I stretch out. Every joint pops. I can almost
hear tension crackling in my nerves like static in a phone line. I get dressed, and out
into the world I go.

The rain is a slap in the face. I am drenched immediately. I soldier slowly down
Maple Street. It’s just going to be a slog; I am fighting the wind and there’s no way to
get up any speed. I pass a woman standing at the curb with her bulldog and she looks
at me with amazement. This isn’t mere exercise, I tell her silently. This is desperation.

(8:54 a.m.)
CLARE: We’re gathered around the breakfast table. Cold leaks in from all the
windows, and I can barely see outside, it’s raining so hard. How is Henry going to
run in this?

“Perfect weather for a wedding,” Mark jokes.

I shrug. “ I didn’t pick it.”

“You didn’t?”

“ Daddy picked it.”

“Well, I’m paying for it,” Daddy says petulantly.

“True.” I munch my toast.

My mother eyes my plate critically. “Honey, why don’t you have some nice bacon?
And some of these eggs?”

The very thought turns my stomach. “I can’t. Really. Please.”


“Well, at least put some peanut butter on that toast. You need protein.” I make eye
contact with Etta, who strides into the kitchen and comes back a minute later with a
tiny crystal dish full of peanut butter. I thank her and spread some on the toast.

I ask my mother, “Do I have any time before Janice shows up?” Janice is going to
do something hideous to my face and hair.

“She’s coming at eleven. Why?”

“I need to run into Town, to get something.”

“I can get it for you, sweetie.” She looks relieved at the thought of getting out of
the house.

“I would like to go, myself.”

“We can both go.”

“By myself.” I mutely plead with her. She’s puzzled but relents.

“Well, okay. Goodness.”

“Great. I’ll be right back.” I get up to leave. Daddy clears his throat.

“May I be excused?”

“Certainly.”

“Thank you.” I flee.

(9:35 a.m.)
HENRY: I’m standing in the immense, empty bathtub struggling out of my cold,
soaked clothes. My brand new running shoes have acquired an entirely new shape,
reminiscent of marine life. I have left a trail of water from the front door to the tub,
which I hope Mrs. Blake won’t mind too much.

Someone knocks on my door. “Just a minute,” I call. I squoosh over to the door
and crack it open. To my complete surprise, it’s Clare. “What’s the password?” I say
softly.

“Fuck me,” replies Clare. I swing the door wide.

Clare walks in, sits on the bed, and starts taking off her shoes.

“You’re not joking?”

“Come on, O almost-husband mine. I’ve got to be back by eleven.” She looks me
up and down. “You went running! I didn’t think you’d run in this rain.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” I peel off my T-shirt and throw it
into the tub. It lands with a splat. “Isn’t it supposed to be bad luck for the groom to
see the bride before the wedding?”


“So close your eyes.” Clare trots into the bathroom and grabs a towel. I lean over
and she dries my hair. It feels wonderful. I could do with a lifetime of this. Yes,
indeed.

“It’s really cold up here,” says Clare.

“Come and be bedded, almost-wife. It’s the only warm spot in the whole place.”
We climb in.

“We do everything out of order, don’t we?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“No. I like it.”

“Good. You’ve come to the right man for all your extra-chronological needs.”

(11:15 a.m.)
CLARE: I walk in the back door and leave my umbrella in the mud room. In the hall I
almost bump into Alicia. “Where have you been? Janice is here.”

“What time is it?”

“Eleven-fifteen. Hey, you’ve got your shirt on backward and inside out.”

“I think that’s good luck, isn’t it?”

“Maybe, but you’d better change it before you go upstairs.” I duck back into the
mud room and reverse my shirt. Then I run upstairs. Mama and Janice are standing in
the hall outside my room. Janice is carrying a huge bag of cosmetics and other
implements of torture.

“There you are. I was getting worried.” Mama shepherds me into my room and
Janice brings up the rear. “I have to go talk to the caterers.” She is almost wringing
her hands as she departs.

I turn to Janice, who examines me critically. “Your hair’s all wet and tangled.
Why don’t you comb it out while I set up?” She starts to take a million tubes and
bottles from her bag and sets them on my dresser.

“Janice.” I hand her the postcard from the Uffizi. “Can you do this?” I have
always loved the little Medici princess whose hair is not unlike mine; hers has many
tiny braids and pearls all swooped together in a beautiful fall of amber hair. The
anonymous artist must have loved her, too. How could he not love her?

Janice considers. “This isn’t what your mom thinks we’re doing.”

“Uh-huh. But it’s my wedding. And my hair. And I’ll give you a very large tip if
you do it my way.”


“I won’t have time to do your face if we do this; it’ll take too long to do all these
braids.”

Hallelujah. “It’s okay. I’ll put on my own makeup.”

“Well, all right. Just comb it for me and we’ll get started.” I begin to pick out the
tangles. I’m starting to enjoy this. As I surrender to Janice’s slender brown hands I
wonder what Henry is up to.

(11:36 a.m.)
HENRY: The tux and all its attendant miseries are laid out on the bed. I’m freezing my
undernourished ass off in this cold room. I throw all my cold wet clothing out of the
tub and into the sink. This bathroom is amazingly as big as the bedroom. It’s carpeted,
and relentlessly pseudo-

Victorian. The tub is an immense claw-footed thing amid various ferns and stacks
of towels and a commode and a large framed reproduction of Hunt’s The Awakened
Conscience. The windowsill is six inches from the floor and the curtains are filmy
white muslin, so I can see Maple Street in all its dead leafy glory. A beige Lincoln
Continental cruises lazily up the street. I run hot water into the tub, which is so large
that I get tired of waiting for it to fill and climb in. I amuse myself playing with the
European-style shower attachment and taking the caps off the ten or so shampoos,
shower gels, and conditioners and sniffing them all; by the fifth one I have a
headache. I sing Yellow Submarine. Everything within a four-foot radius gets wet.

(12:35p.m.)

CLARE: Janice releases me, and Mama and Etta converge. Etta says, “Oh, Clare, you
look beautiful!” Mama says, “That’s not the hairstyle we agreed on, Clare.” Mama
gives Janice a hard time and then pays her and I give Janice her tip when Mama’s not
looking. I’m supposed to get dressed at the church, so they pack me into the car and
we drive over to St. Basil’s.

(12:55p.m.) (Henry is 38)

HENRY: I’m walking along Highway 12, about two miles south of South Haven. It’s
an unbelievably awful day, weather-wise. It’s fall, rain is gusting and pouring down


in sheets, and it’s cold and windy. I’m wearing nothing but jeans, I’m barefoot, and I
am soaked to the skin. I have no idea where I am in time. I’m headed for Meadowlark
House, hoping to dry out in the Reading Room and maybe eat something. I have no
money, but when I see the pink neon light of the Cut-Rate Gas for Less sign I veer
toward it. I enter the gas station and stand for a moment, streaming water onto the
linoleum and catching my breath.

“Quite a day to be out in ” says the thin elderly gent behind the counter.

“Yep ” I reply.

“Car break down?”

“Huh? Um, no.” He’s taking a good look at me, noting the bare feet, the
unseasonable clothing. I pause, feign embarrassment. “Girlfriend threw me out of the
house.”

He says something but I don’t hear it because I am looking at the South Haven
Daily. Today is Saturday, October 23,1993. Our wedding day. The clock above the
cigarette rack says 1:10.

“Gotta run,” I say to the old man, and I do.

(1:42 p.m.)
CLARE: I’m standing in my fourth grade classroom wearing my wedding dress. It’s
ivory watered silk with lots of lace and seed pearls. The dress is tightly fitted in the
bodice and arms but the skirt is huge, floor-length with a train and twenty yards of
fabric. I could hide ten midgets under it. I feel like a parade float, but Mama is
making much of me; she’s fussing and taking pictures and trying to get me to put on
more makeup. Alicia and Charisse and Helen and Ruth are all fluttering around in
their matching sage green velvet bridesmaids’ outfits. Since Charisse and Ruth are
both short and Alicia and Helen are both tall they look like some oddly assorted Girl
Scouts but we’ve all agreed to be cool about it when Mama’s around. They are
comparing the dye jobs on their shoes and arguing about who should get to catch the
bouquet. Helen says, “Charisse, you’re already engaged, you shouldn’t even be trying
to catch it,” and Charisse shrugs and says, “Insurance. With Gomez you never know.”

(1:48 p.m.)
HENRY: I’m sitting on a radiator in a musty room full of boxes of prayer books.
Gomez is pacing back and forth, smoking. He looks terrific in his tux. I feel like I’m



impersonating a game show host. Gomez paces and flicks his ashes into a teacup.
He’s making me even more nervous than I already am.

“You’ve got the ring?” I ask for the gazillionth time.

“Yeah. I’ve got the ring.”

He stops pacing for a moment and looks at me. “Want a drink?”

“Yeah.” Gomez produces a flask and hands it to me. I uncap it and take a swallow.
It’s very smooth Scotch. I take another mouthful and hand it back. I can hear people
laughing and talking out in the vestibule. I’m sweating, and my head aches. The room
is very warm. I stand up and open the window, hang my head out, breathe. It’s still
raining.

There’s a noise in the shrubbery. I open the window farther and look down. There
I am, sitting in the dirt, under the window, soaking wet, panting. He grins at me and
gives me the thumbs up.

(1:55 p.m.)
CLARE: We’re all standing in the vestibule of the church. Daddy says, “Let’s get this
show on the road,” and knocks on the door of the room Henry is dressing in. Gomez
sticks his head out and says, “Give us a minute.” He throws me a look that makes my
stomach clench and pulls his head in and shuts the door. I am walking toward the
door when Gomez opens it again, and Henry appears, doing up his cuff links. He’s
wet, dirty, and unshaven. He looks about forty. But he’s here, and he gives me a
triumphant smile as he walks through the doors of the church and down the aisle.

Sunday, June 13, 1976 (Henry is 30)

HENRY: I am lying on the floor in my old bedroom. I’m alone, and it’s a perfect
summer night in an unknown year. I lie there swearing and feeling like an idiot for a
while. Then I get up and go into the kitchen and help myself to several of Dad’s beers.

Saturday, October 23, 1993 (Henry is 38, and 30, Clare is 22)
(2:37p.m.)

CLARE: We are standing at the altar. Henry turns to me and says, “I, Henry, take you,


Clare, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness
and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.” I think:
remember this. I repeat the promise to him. Father Compton smiles at us and
says,“.. .What God has joined, men must not divide.” I think: that’s not really the
problem. Henry slides the thin silver ring over my finger into place above the
engagement ring. I place his plain gold band on his finger, the only time he will ever
wear it. The Mass proceeds, and I think this is all that matters: he’s here, I’m here, it
doesn’t matter how, as long as he’s with me. Father Compton blesses us, and says,
“The Mass is ended, go in peace.” We walk down the aisle, arm in arm, together.

(6:26p.m.)

HENRY: The reception is just getting underway. The caterers are rushing back and
forth with steel carts and covered trays. People are arriving and checking their coats.
The rain has finally stopped. The South Haven Yacht Club is on North Beach, a
1920s building done up in paneling and leather, red carpet, and paintings of ships. It’s
dark out now, but the light-

house is blinking away out on the pier. I’m standing at a window, drinking
Glenlivet, waiting for Clare, who has been whisked away by her mother for some
reason I’m not privy to. I see Gomez and Ben’s reflections, heading toward me, and I
turn.

Ben looks worried. “How are you?”

“I’m okay. Can you guys do me a favor?” They nod. “Gomez, go back to the
church. I’m there, waiting in the vestibule. Pick me up, and bring me here. Smuggle
me into the downstairs men’s John and leave me there. Ben, keep an eye on me,” (I
point at my chest) “and when I tell you to, grab my tux and bring it to me in the

men’s room. Okay?”

Gomez asks, “How much time do we have?”

“Not much.”

He nods, and walks away. Charisse approaches, and Gomez kisses her on the

forehead and continues on. I turn to Ben, who looks tired. “How are you?” I ask him.

Ben sighs. “Kind of fatigued. Um, Henry?”

“Hmm?”

“When are you coming from?”

“2002.”

“Can you.. .Look, I know you don’t like this, but...”

“What? It’s okay, Ben. Whatever you want. It’s a special occasion.”


“Tell me: am I still alive?” Ben isn’t looking at me; he stares at the band, tuning
up in the ballroom.

“Yes. You’re doing fine. I just saw you a few days ago; we played pool.”

Ben lets his breath out in a rush. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Tears are welling up in Ben’s eyes. I offer him my handkerchief,
and he takes it, but then hands it back unused and goes off in search of the men’s
room.

(7:04 p.m.)
CLARE: Everyone is sitting down to dinner and no one can find Henry. I ask Gomez if
he’s seen him, and Gomez just gives me one of his Gomez looks and says that he’s
sure Henry will be here any minute. Kimy comes up to us, looking very fragile and
worried in her rose silk dress. “Where is Henry?” she asks me.

“I don’t know, Kimy.”

She pulls me toward her and whispers in my ear, “I saw his young friend Ben
carrying a pile of clothing out of the Lounge.” Oh, no. If Henry has snapped back to
his present it will be hard to explain. Maybe I could say that there was an emergency?
Some kind of library emergency that required Henry’s immediate attention. But all
his co-workers are here. Maybe I could say Henry has amnesia, has wandered away....

“There he is,” Kimy says. She squeezes my hand. Henry is standing in the
doorway scanning the crowd, and sees us. He comes running over.

I kiss him. “Howdy, stranger.” He is back in the present, my younger Henry, the
one who belongs here. Henry takes my arm, and Kimy’s arm, and leads us in to
dinner. Kimy chuckles, and says something to Henry that I don’t catch. “What’d she
say?” I ask as we sit down. “She asked me if we were planning a ménage a trois for
the wedding night.” I turn lobster red. Kimy winks at me.

(7:16 p.m.)
HENRY: I’m hanging out in the club Library, eating canapés and reading a
sumptuously bound and probably never opened first edition of Heart of Darkness.
Out of the corner of my eye I see the manager of the club speeding toward me. I close
the book and replace it on the shelf.

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.” No shirt, no shoes, no
service.


“Okay.” I stand up, and as the manager turns his back blood rushes to my head and
I vanish. I come to on our kitchen floor on March 2, 2002, laughing. I’ve always
wanted to do that.

(7:21 p.m.)
CLARE: Gomez is making a speech: “Dear Clare, and Henry, family and friends,
members of the jury... wait, scratch that. Dearly beloved, we have gathered here this
evening on the shores of the Land of Singledom to wave our handkerchiefs at Clare
and Henry as they embark together on their voyage on the Good Ship Matrimony.
And while we are sad to watch them bid farewell to the joys of single life, we are
confident that the much-ballyhooed state of Wedded Bliss will be a more than
adequate new address. Some of us may even join them there shortly unless we can
think of a way to avoid it. And so, let us have a toast: to Clare Abshire DeTamble, a
beautiful artbabe who deserves every happiness that may befall her in her new world.
And to Henry DeTamble, a damn fine fellow and a lucky son of a bitch: may the Sea
of Life stretch before you like glass, and may you always have the wind at your backs.
To the happy couple!” Gomez leans over and kisses me on the mouth, and I catch his
eyes for a moment, and then the moment is gone.

(8:48 p.m.)
HENRY: We have cut and eaten the wedding cake. Clare has thrown her bouquet
(Charisse caught it) and I have thrown Clare’s garter (Ben, of all people, caught that).
The band is playing Take the A Train, and people are dancing. I have danced with
Clare, and Kimy, Alicia, and Charisse; now I am dancing with Helen, who is pretty
hot stuff, and Clare is dancing with Gomez. As I casually twirl Helen I see Celia
Attley cut in on Gomez, who in turn cuts in on me. As he whirls Helen away I join
the crowd by the bar and watch Clare dancing with Celia. Ben joins me. He’s
drinking seltzer. I order vodka and tonic. Ben is wearing Clare’s garter around his
arm like he’s in mourning.

“Who’s that?” he asks me.

“Celia Attley. Ingrid’s girlfriend.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yep.”

“What’s with that guy Gomez?”


“What do you mean?”

Ben stares at me and then turns his head. “Never mind.”

(10:23 p.m.)
CLARE: It’s over. We have kissed and hugged our way out of the club, have driven
off in our shaving-cream-and-tin-can-covered car. I pull up in front of the Dew Drop
Inn, a tiny, tacky motel on Silver Lake. Henry is asleep. I get out, check in, get the
desk guy to help me walk Henry into our room and dump him on the bed. The guy
brings in the luggage, eyeballs my wedding dress and Henry’s inert state, and smirks
at me. I tip him. He leaves. I remove Henry’s shoes, loosen his tie. I take off my dress
and lay it over the armchair.

I’m standing in the bathroom, shivering in my slip and brushing my teeth. In the
mirror I can see Henry lying on the bed. He’s snoring. I spit out the toothpaste and
rinse my mouth. Suddenly it comes over me: happiness. And the realization: we’re
married. Well, I’m married, anyway.

When I turn out the light I kiss Henry goodnight. He smells of alcohol sweat and
Helen’s perfume. Goodnight, goodnight, don’t let the bedbugs bite. And I fall asleep,
dreamless and happy.

Monday, October 25, 1993 (Henry is 30, Clare is 22)

HENRY: The Monday after the wedding Clare and I are at Chicago City Hall, being
married by a judge. Gomez and Charisse are the witnesses. Afterward we all go out
for dinner at Charlie Trotter’s, a restaurant so expensive that the decor resembles the
first-class section of an airplane or a minimalist sculpture. Fortunately, although the
food looks like art, it tastes great. Charisse takes photographs of each course as it
appears in front of us.

“How’s it feel, being married?” asks Charisse.

“I feel very married,” Clare says.

“You could keep going,” says Gomez. “Try out all the different ceremonies,
Buddhist, nudist...”

“I wonder if I’m a bigamist?” Clare is eating something pistachio-colored that has
several large shrimp poised over it as though they are nearsighted old men reading a
newspaper.


“I think you’re allowed to marry the same person as many times as you want,”
Charisse says.

“Are you the same person?” Gomez asks me. The thing I’m eating is covered with
thin slices of raw tuna that melt on my tongue. I take a moment to appreciate them
before I answer:

“Yes, but more so.”

Gomez is disgruntled and mutters something about Zen koans, but Clare smiles at
me and raises her glass. I tap hers with mine: a delicate crystal note rings out and falls
away in the hum of the restaurant.

And so, we are married.