Compromise

                       1

           Uncle Charles looked good in his surge blue suit, with the matching handkerchief. He would make a good corpse. The leathery quality that years of smoking brought to his face almost looked like funeral parlor makeup, and he had that stern but calm expression that was normally reserved for the casket. He was hardly breathing, like a new recruit standing at attention for the first time, as he waited for his fate to walk down the isle.
           The household had been turned upside-down the before, when out of the blue, one of my father’s younger brothers whom we hadn’t heard from in years sent a wedding invitation with the normal white frills and curly pink calligraphy to our house. Mother spent the entire next day on the phone making travel arrangements, while father put in overtime at work so his boss would let him take a few days off. It was rushed, we all knew, but my parents were so happy for Uncle Charlie that we flew out to Arizona on a week’s notice just to witness the happy event.
           We were all shifting on the uncomfortable hard church benches, aching for the hint of a breeze in the warm sterile air, while the organ music changed from Pachelbel’s Canon to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. Standing around for the last hour while my parents socialized with people I didn’t recognize made it hard to force myself to rise with the rest of the congregation when the bride to be walked down the isle. Even when I dragged myself to my feet, I could only see glimpses of the white veil and dress between the heads of people much taller than me, until she finally walked by, when I could catch a glimpse of her—her wide, hardy smile that pushed her cheeks up into her eyes, her red hair that curled down into her forehead, the way her arms and stomach filled out the dress.
           It was hard not to slouch as the ceremony wore on. I played with the lace on the collar of my black dress—the same dress I had worn to Grandma Esther’s funeral the month before—until my mother reached over wordlessly and folded my hands in my lap.
           Nobody knew the priest conducting the ceremony, because neither the family of the bride or the groom was religious. They had to hire a stranger, who spoke of Uncle Charlie’s dedication and soon-to-be-Aunt Janine’s loyalty while beads of sweat appeared on his forehead from the hot lights above him and the heat of July.
           My parents had told me when the invitation arrived that I had met Uncle Charlie when I was nine, but that was six years ago, and the man who looked like stone beside his bride didn’t seem anything like the Uncle Charlie I had heard about who used to sneak out in the middle of the night to do charcoal sketches of the lake where my father grew up by the moonlight. I had heard that he ran off to L.A. as soon as he graduated from high school to try to break into the art scene, and he would drop out of contact for months at a time. Old phone numbers would start giving operator recordings without warning, as he migrated from city to city, study to studio.
           “Mr. and Mrs. Charles Borgh.” The wedding was over. I had spent more time mulling over the stained-glass windows that weren’t really pictures of anything than I thought, but was thankful to be able to stand again. I ducked out to the car as soon as possible to get my notebook, which my mother had banned me from bringing into the ceremony, but which would be my only salvation at the reception in the basement. I could breathe again and stretch my arms. To the west, the clouds were on fire with the red and orange sunlight against the dark blue sky behind them. Every step back into the church brought a heaviness to my stomach, so I sat on the steps while two men in suits and one of the younger girls in a hideous pink bridesmaid dress were pulling out packs of cigarettes. I scribbled poem fragments for a while until I sensed somebody standing uncomfortably close behind me, maybe even staring over my shoulder. I became tense.
           Uncle Charlie sat down beside me. “Do you write form poems or free verse?”
           After I shook off the shock of his question, I said, “Mostly free verse. I’ve only done one or two form poems in my life, and those were for school assignments.”
           He nodded. “It seems like most of the artistic community today writes in free verse, but form poems are always more popular and commercial.” He exhaled smoke which got caught in the wind and blew into my face. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Your hair has darkened with age. I’m sure you don’t even remember me. A lot happens to a woman between nine and fifteen.” He took another puff. “This is actually my last cigarette. Janine said I have to quit.”
           I closed my notebook while he looked down at the concrete. He looked uncomfortable in the suit.
           “Where did you get that dress?” he asked, looking up.
           “Umm, I actually had to order it online. I couldn’t find anything I liked around here.” I stared down at the black sleeves, tight against my skin, with cutouts that made white moons and halves of yin-yangs out of my skin.
           “I like it. Actually, it reminds me of one of my metalwork pieces. I have it downstairs, if you’d like to see.”
           I followed him through the crowds of people downstairs in the reception. He was stopped several times and congratulated by relatives of Jorine that he didn’t seem to know, but we managed to make it back to the single barren corner where he had five of his pieces on exhibition. The pieces of metal were painted in different colors with acrylics and layered on top of one another, to create an odd three-dimensional effect. There were eyes, crescent moons, peace signs and suns all in bright colors on a four-by-four canvas. “I made this after I met Janine,” he said. I wanted to hang it over the behind the priest during the ceremony, but Janine didn’t want that. Putting it down here was our compromise. Actually, I didn’t really want a priest to conduct the ceremony,” he said, his last words trailing off.
           At that moment, the bride rushed over. “Come on Charles. Everyone is waiting for us.” She put her arm through his and walked off with him, and I was left there, staring at two pencil drawings and three photograph prints, all of them emphasizing shadow and form.
           I spent the rest of the night writing in my notebook, listening to bad dance music while my parents socialized. A bouquet was tossed, but I claimed to be too young to join the bachelorettes desperately jumping over one another for a superstition.
           My parents insisted on staying and helping clean up everything after the bride and groom, and most of the party guests had gone. I was drifting off and feeling the affects of the wine my father had let me sip when I heard someone say, “what should we do with these?” I looked up to see them taking down my Uncle’s artwork. “Such bizarre pieces.”
           “Yes, that’s why he was never able to thrive with his art.”
           “What are we supposed to do with them?”
           “Charlie said we should just leave them here, and see if anyone who uses this church wants them.”
           My heart sank.
           “I doubt anyone would want to hang these in their homes. They’d probably just wind up in the dumpster.”
           “Can I take them?” The words slurred out of my mouth.
           It took a moment for my mother to realize that I was still there, and that the sounds that had come out of my mouth were a series of words, and more than that a question that she would have to respond to. “I suppose so, but where would you put them? The walls of your room are cluttered as it is.”
           “I’ll make room.”

                       2

           Janine rounded the corner, left foot first, her father at her side, to the sight of a church full of people admiring her in her long, trailing dress. It was hard to breathe and the dress was hot, but the swell of joy that came over her while the organist played the Wedding March solely for her penetrated those minor discomforts.
           There was a little suppressed shock in her face when she saw the man waiting for her at the altar, his face stern and calm. It wasn’t the face that she had imagined being in that place since she was nine years old. As she walked forward and took his arm, it occurred to her that she didn’t know what that face should look like. She had imagined every strand of her dress in perfect detail, but the face that she kissed was always blurry.
           She stood at full attention, a smile plastered to her face, through the entire ceremony. The adrenaline pumping through her system let her ignore the weakness in her legs and the sweat under her breasts. The words of the preacher blurred through her head—she only listened for her cue, “til death do you part” when she would deliver the most important line of her life. “I do.”
           She slinked into her husband’s embrace when the preacher said, “you may kiss the bride,” reveling in the most meaningful kiss she would ever have. “I present Mr. and Mrs. Charles Borgh.” And with that she lost the name of Rosen. Something made her want to cringe.
           Everyone hugged her in the receiving line and kissed her on the cheek while tears streamed down her face. Her younger sister Karen came up to her in her green bridesmaids dress with tears streaming down her face and wrapped her arms around her. There were audible sighs and awws from the people around her.
           “I’m going to miss you,” Karen said.
           “I’ll miss you too.”
           The last few guests in the line lingered there with her, and it didn’t bother her to talk about all her future plans with her new husband. They had a house picked out already in a lovely subdivision with good schools. She had claimed that wasn’t a factor because Charles said he didn’t want children, but she was sure he would change his mind. He would be a writer for the Arts and Entertainment section of the newspaper, and she would keep her job as secretary until they were ready to have kids.
           “How did you two meet?”
           “It was actually through a personal ad.”
           “Really? I’m surprised any relationship works out that starts so artificially.”
           She grinned. “Well, Charles and I are walking proof that personal ads can work.”
           “Where is he anyways? I’d like to shake his hand for having such good taste as to marry my cousin.”
           Janine looked around and realized that he wasn’t there. “Oh, he’s probably out finishing off his last pack of cigarettes.”
           “I thought you always swore you’d never get involved with a smoker?”
           “Oh, well I guess you make exceptions for true love. I told him he has to quit today though.”
           She navigated her way to the table of the wedding party when hunger started to set in, but Charles was still nowhere to be found. She looked all over, and finally found him in the corner where she had reluctantly agreed to let him showcase a few of his works from when he was trying to break in as an artist. This was probably the biggest audience they had received, even though only a few people were even glancing in that direction. He was standing there with a girl who could have been one of the artsy girls he used to date if she were ten years older. She rushed over to them.
           “Charles, come on. Everyone is waiting for us.”
           “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “By the way, this is my niece, Astrid.”
           “Nice to meet you,” she said. “Come on Charles.”
           They dined and they danced, but she had a hard time enjoying herself, although the smile still plastered on her face didn’t acknowledge it. When the dances paused and most of the guests went back to the buffet for a second-course, she looked over at her husband, searching in him.
           “What is it?” he asked, finally catching her eye.
           “Nothing,” she said.
           “Janine, you told me you wouldn’t do this anymore. If something is wrong, you have to tell me.”
           She sat there silent for a while before she said anything. “I don’t want to take any of your artwork with us to the new house.”
           “I told you that we don’t have to hang it up. I could keep it in the attic.”
           “No, I don’t want it in my house.”
           “May I ask why?”
           “It’s supposed to be our house. Our life together. Your art is part of your life apart from me. I don’t want it around.”
           A full minute of silence passed. The couple watched their guests eating shrimp and laughing among themselves. “Alright. I’ll have John pick up all the remaining works. I’m sure he’ll be able to find a good home for all of them.”
           She wanted to say thank you then, but something stopped her. Soon they were swept away in more wedding rituals—cutting the cake, tossing the bouquet. Eventually, Janine’s mother came up to her and said that she would take care of the cleanup if they wanted to get away a little early. She was exhausted by then and ready to accept the offer. “One more thing,” said Janine. “Those artworks in the corner don’t need to be saved.”
           They stepped outside, and a low overcast blocked any moonlight or starlight. Charles opened the door for her as she stepped into the limo. As they rode on, the silence growing between them became more comfortable.