a hand towel for someone to take from my hands.
“I’ll just use the restroom,” said one of the peach-colored bridesmaids as she entered the bathroom. She emptied the contents of her Chanel makeup bag on the counter. She retouched her blue eyes with a Clinique charcoal-colored liner pencil, then brushed a shimmering, silver eye shadow by MAC on her lids. Her makeup had not faded, and when she reapplied it, the colors didn’t look any heavier.
Perhaps good makeup absorbs into the skin, I thought, and bad makeup reapplied just looks embalmed. Many years ago in high school my friend Erika had reapplied makeup at every break so that by the end of the day she looked ready for a chorus part in Don Giovanni. This woman looked ready for the runway. She nodded at me as she left the room.
Gradually, the bathroom became a gathering place. Women chatted to each other while in the stalls or at the counter. “Isn’t Abi a beautiful bride?” asked one bridesmaid. “I’m glad she waited,” answered her friend.
“It’s so special,” said another, directly to me as she picked the towel out of my hands.
“Yes, wonderful,” I said.
“No tip jar?” the woman asked.
“Not necessary, but thank you,” I answered.
“Well, here.” The woman leaned over and tucked a bill right into my pocket. “I used to be an art student. I know.”
For a moment the bathroom was empty. Through the closed door, I could hear that a swing band had replaced the string quartet. Dancing had started. I took the bill out of my pocket. A twenty. That would cover a week of subway rides.
A woman with bobbed hair, wearing a sequined, silver gown, came into the restroom. Even though every hair looked in place, she tore off the plastic around one of the combs and passed it through her hair. It made no difference. Every hair still looked in the same place. She had an enormous diamond ring on her finger. The bathroom lights sparkled off the diamond ring and the sequins on her gown.
“It’s my engagement ring,” she said, looking at me watching her in the mirror. I didn’t realize I’d been staring—ogling her ring, her poise. “My fiancé couldn’t come tonight. Used to date the bride.”
“It’s a beautiful ring,” I said.
“Yes,” said the woman. She threw the comb in the garbage can and walked out. She wasn’t a good shot, though, and the comb missed the can. I got up and threw the comb away.
The manager’s assistant Sheila, wearing a headset to coordinate the timing of the evening, entered the bathroom.
“Holding up?” she asked.
“Thanks. Fine.” I was glad I’d been standing when Sheila walked in rather than sitting. I wanted to be moved out of the bathroom and up to serving hors d’oeuvres. I’d make $15 an hour instead of $10.
“You dancers are always good on your feet. Don’t forget to get food later before you leave. Gratis.” She spoke rapidly.
“Thanks.”
“Perk of a corporate wedding. The raspberry chocolate truffle cake rocks.”
Immediately after Sheila left, a middle-aged woman entered the bathroom. Beth, the friendly bridesmaid who had spoken to me earlier in the evening, followed. As soon as the door shut, the older woman put both arms up on the wall as if to steady herself. She wore a cream-colored linen suit with a peach silk shirt that matched the bridesmaids’ dresses. The suit fit her well, but the linen had wrinkled.
“He doesn’t love her.” The woman started crying. “He doesn’t love my baby.”
“Of course he does.” Beth patted the woman’s shoulder. “Let me get you a Kleenex.”
In between sobs, the mother of the bride patted her nose and mouth with the tissue. Her neck tightened as she tried to get herself under control.
Her mascara had not smeared. Must be waterproof, I thought.
I tried to imagine my own mother sobbing in the bathroom at my wedding. I couldn’t imagine my mother letting me get so far as to marry someone so wrong for me or the family. That image wasn’t part of my positive-thinking future.
I sat on my maidservant chair and averted my eyes, which meant I could unobtrusively watch the entire scene in the mirror.
“He’s using her.”
Beth continued patting the mother’s shoulder. “They’re in love.”
“Did you see them walking down the aisle?”
“They’ll be okay.”
The mother coughed. “This never would have happened if her father were alive. She would have come back to Illinois long ago. She respected her father. He wouldn’t have liked Jonathan.”
“Abi will be okay.”
“He didn’t get to give our baby away.” I hoped the swing band drowned out the mother’s renewed sobs. The mother was leaning against the wall as if the wall could be her husband, as if the wall could help carry her through the rest of her life.
I stood up and motioned to my seat. The mother sat. Beth continued patting the mother’s shoulder and started making a low humming sound. The humming sounded like the flow of the Bitterroot River on a quiet afternoon. I wanted to join in. I wanted the water to flow over the mother and soothe her.
Slowly, as if her heart had room to beat again, the bride’s mother quieted. She dabbed her eyes with a fresh Kleenex that I handed to her.
“They’ll be okay,” the bridesmaid repeated.
“A wedding reverberates forever. Even when it ends,” said the mother.
Act Three
“[Martha Graham] said so many interesting things, such as, ‘I never think a dancer is alone on stage because there is always the relationship to surrounding space.’ My imagination had not run to the possibility of space as a partner.What a comfort that might have been.”
—Margot Fonteyn, Margot Fonteyn: Autobiography
Dancing in the Park
July. Hot. Humid. Upper Manhattan. My black leather dance bag is heavy. We’re walking across Dyckman Street, to the edge of Fort Tryon Park, and it looks as if there is very little shade from the trees along either side of the blacktop where we are to perform. The other dancers go on ahead, but I stop at the corner Korean deli at Dyckman and Broadway. Buy two bottles of Gatorade: one, yellowish-green; the other, orange.
Dancing in the park—a ritual during summer in New York City. I’m only making twenty-five dollars a pop for this gig, but it
