She needed more pills to sleep and more pills to stay awake. Still, she went on with the affair, waiting every day for the moment she could announce the truth to her friends and family and unpack this terrible, oppressive guilt.
She avoided answering the phone; lying to Barb or Ethel was impossible, but neither could she tell them the truth. She returned calls when she knew they’d be gone or hung up when one of them answered.
Never had she imagined herself to be the woman that she’d become; loving Rye had transformed her into a liar.
Every night, alone in her bed, she prayed that tomorrow he would say it was done, they could be together, walk hand in hand in the sunlight, spend the night together.
Each morning, she felt another piece of her soul fall away.
In August, when she got Barb’s excited phone call that she was getting married, Frankie’s first reaction was a searing, toxic jealousy that took all her will to suppress.
Now she was in a Chicago park, on a sweltering hot late summer day, standing in front of a few guests who sat in folding chairs, already drinking champagne. The aisle had been strewn with red rose petals.
Ethel and Frankie, both dressed in brightly colored, geometric print palazzo jumpsuits and white sandals, stood by a wooden arch that had been decorated with flowers and greenery.
Next to them, under the arch, was the groom, in a brown polyester sport coat with matching slacks. His twin boys were his groomsmen. A Baptist minister held on to a Bible.
A portable cassette player with not-great speakers played Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” as guests took their seats. Ethel swayed to the music, quietly singing along.
At the end of the aisle, Barb waited impatiently; she was dressed in a flowy white jersey halter dress, her hair decorated with flowers. She held on to her mother’s arm.
When the last guest was seated, Barb gave the thumbs-up.
Ethel went to the portable tape deck, changed the music, and turned it up on “Here Comes the Bride.”
Barb and her mother walked slowly down the aisle, past the smiling collection of friends and family who were here: a few of Barb’s relatives from Georgia, some of her coworkers at Operation PUSH, Jere’s ACLU colleagues, and Ethel’s husband, Noah, and their daughter, Cecily. Barb was smiling so brightly it made Frankie’s whole life look tawdry, sinful.
There, she thought, that’s love. The way Barb kissed her mom and helped her into her chair in the front row; the way Jere looked at his bride.
Love. A thing to be shouted from the rooftops, celebrated, not cultivated in secret and clipped into shape in the dark.
“Dearly beloved,” the minister said. The music snapped off.
Barb and Jere held hands, stared at each other. The minister’s voice went on, saying the words she’d heard at other weddings and on television and in movies.
Old words. Love. Honor. Commitment.
And as much as Frankie wanted to celebrate with her friend, as much as she rejoiced in Barb’s new love and new life, she felt that toxic shame growing in her, pushing kinder emotions aside.
She closed her eyes and imagined herself beneath the arch, with Rye at her side and Joey strewing flowers …
She heard Jere say, “From now on, Barbara Sue, I am here for you, standing beside you. To paraphrase Yeats, I love the pilgrim soul in you and love the sorrows of your changing face. Always and forever.” He placed a ring on her finger.
“Barbara Sue Johnson,” the minister said, “do you promise to love, honor, and obey Jeremiah Maine, as long as you both shall live?”
“I do,” Barb said, beaming at him as she fit a plain gold band on his finger.
“You may kiss the bride,” the minister said.
Jere pulled Barb into his arms. She clung to him, kissed him. When they drew apart, they were both laughing.
The music changed, turned up loudly: “Let’s Get It On.”
Ethel whooped and hollered. Frankie realized a moment too late that she was crying.
Ethel put an arm around her. “It’ll happen for you, too,” she said.
Frankie wiped the tears from her eyes. “I still think about…” It took pure strength to finish. “Rye.” She looked up at Ethel, thought, Tell me it’s okay to love him. Release the shame.
“Forget him, Frank. He’s a liar. You’re too good for him.”
“But. I love him. I mean … he is my one.”
Ethel gave her a look so hard and sad Frankie felt its impact in her bones. “No. He’s married, Frank. He is a father. I know you. I know how much you cared for Jamie, but you wouldn’t even consider dating a married man. You’re a good woman. Honest. Moral to the point of ridiculousness. You couldn’t survive an affair.”