Stephen Dixon: Time to Go

We go to the Diamond Center for wedding bands. “How’d you find us?” the man behind the counter says.

“We saw all the stores and didn’t know which one to choose,” I say. “So I asked this man who looked as if he worked in the area ‘Anyone place carry only gold wedding bands?’ He said ‘Nat Sisler’s,’ who I suppose, from the photo there, is you, ‘4 West, down the middle aisle on the right. There are forty other booths there but you won’t miss his. He’s got the biggest sign.’”

“Just like me on both my office windows,” my father says.

“Biggest the city allowed for a dentist. If they’d allowed me to have signs to cover my entire window, I would’ve.”

“Too bad you don’t know this man’s name,” Nat says. “We always like to thank the people who refer customers to us. But he was right. We’ve nineteen-hundred different rings, so I promise you won’t walk away from here without finding one you like. Anything particular you looking for?”

“Something very simple,” I say.

He holds up his ring finger. “Nothing more simple and comfortable than this one. I’ve been wearing it without taking it off once for forty-five years.”

“That’s amazing,” Magna says. “Not once?”

“I can’t. I’ve gained sixty pounds since I got married and my finger’s grown around it. Maybe he’ll have better luck with his weight. He’s so slim now, he probably will.”

“More patter,” my father says. “Then when you’re off-guard they knock you over the head with the price. But remember: this is the Diamond Center. The bargaining’s built into the price. Here they think it’s almost a crime not to, so this time whatever price he quotes, cut him in half.”

“Single or double-ring ceremony?” Nat says.

“Double,” Magna says, “and identical rings.”

“Better yet,” my father says. “For two rings you have even greater bargaining power. Cut him more than half.”

Nat brings out a tray of rings. “What do you do?” he asks me.

“You look like a doctor.”

“I teach at a university.”

“So you are a doctor, but of philosophy.”

“I barely got my B.A. I write, so I teach writing. She’s the doctor of philosophy.”

“Oh yeah?” he says while Magna’s looking at the rings.

“Turn your ears off,” my father says. “Next he’s going to tell you you’re a handsome couple, how great marriage can be, wish you all the luck and success there is, which you’ll need, he’ll say all that stuff. Though they love bargaining down here, they love making money more, so act business-like. Ask him right off what the price of this is and then that. Tell him it seems high even if you don’t think it is. Tell him you’re a teacher at the lowest level. Tell him you make almost zero from your writing and that she won’t be teaching next year, so you’ll have to support you both. Tell him any other time but this you might have the money to pay what he’s asking, but now, even if it is something as sacred as marriage, you’re going to have to ask him to cut the price more than half. And being there are two rings you’re buying—”

“What do you think of this one?” Magna asks me. It looks nice. It fits her finger.

“You have one like this in my size?” I say.

“That’s an awfully big finger you have there,” Nat says, holding my ring finger up. He puts several ring sizers on my finger before one fits. “Ten and a half. We’d have to make it on order. When’s the wedding date?”

“Ask him how much first,” my father says, “ask him how much.”

“The fourteenth,” Magna says. “But I’m sure these will be much higher than we planned to pay.”

“That a girl,” my father says.

“Hey,” I say. “You’ll be wearing it every day of your life, you say, so get what you want. I happen to like it.”

“How much are they?” she asks Nat.

He puts the ring she wants on a scale. “Seventy-two dollars.

Let’s say seventy. The professor’s, being a much larger size — and they’re both seamless, I want you to know. That means they won’t break apart unexpectedly and is the best kind of craftsmanship you can get — is eighty-five.”

“Sounds okay to me,” I say.

“Oh my God,” my father says. “I won’t even say what I think.”

We go to the apartment of a rabbi someone told us about. His wife says “What would you like to drink? We’ve scotch, vodka, white wine, ginger ale—”

“Scotch on the rocks for me,” I say.

“Same for me, thanks,” Magna says.

“So,” the rabbi says when we all get our drinks, “to your health, a long life, and especially to your marriage,” and we click glasses and drink. He shows us the certificate we’ll get at the end of the ceremony. “On the cover — I don’t know if you can read it — but it says ‘marriage’ in Hebrew.”

“It’s a little bit gaudy for me,” I say. “You don’t have one with fewer frills? Oh, I guess it’s not important.”

“It is so important,” my father says. “That certificate will end up meaning more to you than your license. And it’s beautifully designed — good enough to frame and hang — but of course not good enough for you.”

“You’ll have to provide two glasses for the ceremony,” the rabbi says. “One with the red wine in it you’ll both be drinking from.”

“Dry or sweet?” Magna says.

“What a question,” my father says. “Sweet, sweet.”

“Whichever you choose,” the rabbi says. “You’ll be the ones drinking it.”

“A modern rabbi,” my father says. “Well, better than a modern judge. Ask him what synagogue he represents.”

“By the way,” I say, “do you have a congregation? George said he thought you’d given that up.”

“Right now,” he says, “I’m marketing a wonderful little device that could save the country about five hundred thousand barrels of oil a month, if the public would just accept it. I got tired of preaching, but I’ll get back to it one day.”

“What he’s not saying,” his wife says, “is that this gadget will only cost three and a half dollars retail, plus a slight installation fee, and will save every apartment and home owner about fifty dollars a month during the winter. The oil companies hate him for it.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, “but I will say I haven’t made any friends in the oil industry. But the effectiveness of the device has been proven, it’ll last without repairs for up to fifteen years, and someone has to market it, so it’s almost been like a crusade with me to get it into every oil user’s home. Wait, I’ll show it to you.”

“Wait’ll he comes around to telling you the cost of his ceremony,” my father says.

“The other glass,” I say, after we’ve passed the device around.

“Is that the one I’m supposed to break with my foot?”

“Scott has the most brilliant interpretation of it during the ceremony you’ll ever want to hear,” his wife says. “I’ve heard it a dozen times and each time I’m completely absorbed. Actually, except for the exchange of vows, I’d call it the highlight of the ceremony.”

“Would you mind if we don’t have the breaking of the glass? We’ve already decided on this. To us it represents the breaking of the hymen—”

“That’s just one interpretation,” he says, “and not the one I give. Mine’s about the destruction of the temples and other things. I use biblical quotes.”

“Wait wait wait,” my father says. “Did I hear you don’t want to break the glass?”

“It’s also just a bit too theatrical for me,” I say to the rabbi. “Just isn’t my style.”

“Isn’t your style?” my father says. “It goes back two thousand years — maybe even three. You have to break the glass. I did with your mother and her father and mine with our mothers and their fathers with our grandmothers and so on. A marriage isn’t a marriage without it. It’s the one thing you have to do for me of anything I ask.”