Stuart Kaminsky - He Done Her Wrong

The ceremony had already begun when I stepped into the room. There were about sixty people seated, watching. Anne was dressed in a brown suit, her favorite color, and Ralph was wearing a matching brown. His white hair was Vitalis smooth as he put the ring on her finger.

I couldn’t tell what denomination the clergyman performing the ceremony was. It didn’t matter. It was legal and it was over. Ralph kissed her, and they turned to face the guests. Anne’s eyes were moist and she caught me at the door. She gave me a small smile and I nodded and smiled back.

I’d lost my Buick and my wife in twenty-four hours. Maybe, if I really worked on it, I could lose my health or my life in the next twenty-four. Something touched my sleeve. I looked at my side but no one was there. Then I looked down at Gunther.

“I thought, perhaps,” he said softly, “that you might like a nearby friend.”

A woman with a sickly purple dress and tears in her eyes rushed for the happy couple, threw her arms around Ralph’s neck, and began to laugh and cry. Others joined her with greater restraint, congratulating Ralph and Anne, who looked over them with a pleasant smile in my direction.

I wanted to think that her look across the crowded room was one of regret and nostalgia. I knew it probably had a tinge of fear in it. A scene of some sort was a distinct possibility, but I wasn’t planning one. My only thought was to feel sorry for myself, give Anne a little guilt, and needle Ralph if I got the chance. Then I had a killer to catch.

Anne excused herself and came through the small crowd in my direction. She looked full and beautiful as she took my hand with a smile. Gunther faded back a dozen steps.

“What are you pulling, Toby?” I could see that her grin was fixed and false.

“Pulling?” I said innocently. “Nothing. You invited me. I’m here.”

“Why did you bring a midget?” she whispered. The purple lady had pulled away from the cluster around Ralph and now took Anne’s arm and gushed, “I hope you’ll be happy, so happy with Ralph. He deserves it.”

“Gunther is not a midget,” I explained. “He’s a little person and my friend. I told him about the wedding, and he thought I should have a friend with me.”

Anne glanced at the immaculate Gunther and then at me as a waiter with red eyes and a runny nose offered us some sparkling drinks on a tray. Anne took one, sipped, spilled a little, and laughed lightly.

“Don’t embarrass me here, Toby. Don’t do it.”

The warning in her voice, beyond her fine white smiling teeth, was clear and present. I wondered what she had to threaten me with.

“You mean,” I said, grabbing a handful of tiny, crustless white bread sandwiches with something green inside them from a passing tray, “you won’t invite me to your next wedding?”

I gulped a finger sandwich or two, turned to watch Gunther accepting a drink from the stooping waiter, and listened to Anne say, “I think it would be best if you kissed my cheek and walked out of my life now. I invited you for one reason only, to make it clear to you that you are no longer part of …”

Ralph had broken out of his circle of well-wishers and had stepped beaming next to Anne with a curious look at me.

“Ralph,” she said, her voice showing a little strain as she reached up to wipe a stain from the corner of his mouth, “This is Toby.”

Ralph’s sincere small smile didn’t flicker. He put out his right hand and shook mine firmly. I gobbled the last of the sandwiches.

“I’m glad you came, Toby,” he said in a deep baritone. “Anne’s told me a lot about you, almost all of it quite sympathetic. I admire you in many ways.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to sound sullen.

“Haven’t I seen you …?” he began.

“In the hall outside of Anne’s apartment a few months back,” I said. “We had just had a tumble when you rang. I had to throw my pants on and run.”

Ralph shook his head and put his arm around Anne’s shoulder. His hair was perfect. It was probably done by the Westmores.

“That doesn’t serve you well, Toby. May I call you Toby?”

“Sure, may I call you Mr. Howard?”

“Toby,” sighed Anne. “Please go now.”

People kept sticking their head into the conversation to say congratulations or have a good honeymoon. I folded my hands in front of me and tried not to act like an ass, but the moon would probably be full that night, and I wanted to go out with a bang.

“Howard?” I said. “I think the Three Stooges are named Howard, aren’t they? You related?”

Ralph looked at me as if I were a pathetic puppy who had just been caught peeing on the new carpet. I felt like it.

“Toby,” Anne sobbed, clutching Ralph’s hand.

“Hold it,” I said. “Let’s stop it there. I’m sorry. I’m a bad loser. I’ll get out. If you ever need … well, if you.”

I blew out some air, shrugged at Anne and Ralph, and turned to leave. Gunther was waiting for a sign from me. He put down his almost finished drink and stepped in my direction.

“Toby,” Anne said softly. “Take care of yourself.”

I put up my right hand and waved. It would make a nice parting gesture. Tragic, shoulders down. I felt better. The purple lady caught me at the door and kissed my cheek.

“Your sister is beautiful,” she sobbed.

“Right,” I said and hurried out the door with Gunther at my side.

We went to Gunther’s car without a word and said nothing for five blocks.

“He seems a decent person,” Gunther tried.

“Right.”

“Don’t you want her to be happy?”

“I don’t know.”

We were quiet for four more blocks then and I said, “Yeah, I want her to be happy.”

“Which means?” Gunther prompted.

“I stay out of their life.”

I tried to talk Gunther into stopping for tacos. I wanted to drown my grief in half-a-dozen tacos and a gallon of Pepsi. Gunther said he would go, but he couldn’t hide the revulsion. It wasn’t the tacos as much as the places I liked to eat them. I told him to forget it, and we went back to the boardinghouse, where we had dinner in my room prepared by Gunther: tuna and cheese sandwiches with a bottle of wine Gunther had saved from last Christmas.

Gunther listened to my tale of Ressner and the Grayson murder and commented that the sun, if it ever came out, might improve my outlook on life.

My outlook wasn’t improved by Mrs. Plaut barreling through my door with a new chapter of her never-ending book on her family. Mrs. Plaut was convinced that I was an editor and part-time exterminator. She wasn’t sure whether I exterminated rats, mice, and bugs or people or both. She really didn’t care as long as I paid my fifteen dollars-a-month rent, read her manuscript, and didn’t destroy her furniture. She had, over the past year, removed almost every doily, photo, and handmade item from my room to protect them from the odd assortment of visitors who tramped through.

“Mr. Gunther, Mr. Peelers,” she said in a very businesslike way. She clutched the pages to her nonexistent bosom and pursed her lips before placing the pages on the corner of the table where we were sitting.

“Cousin Dora’s Indian attack,” she said, patting the stack of papers.

“Cousin Dora was attacked by Indians,” I said sympathetically.

“Cousin Dora attacked the Indians,” she corrected. “It’s all in here. There are some in the family, particularly Uncle Tucker, who opined that the Indians had it coming. Others thought otherwise.”

“Really,” I said, downing the rest of my glass of celebration wine and holding it out for a refill from Gunther.

“Dora, you must know, was not really a cousin by birth but by marriage. I leave it to you to decide.” She pulled her cloth robe around her and glanced at the nearly empty wine bottle.