The Wedding Dress

By

Melissa Ann Dulay

 

“If we get married, my parents will give us five hundred bucks as a wedding gift. That’s what they gave my brother when he tied the knot,” Tom said as he passed me a joint.

 

“That would sure help with tuition in September,” I replied through the thin haze of smoke.  But my parents will never sign for me.”

 

“Why would they need to sign for you? You are nineteen, for fuck sake.”

​

“It’s twenty-one in Louisiana, unless your parents sign.” I coughed on the harsh hit I had just taken in.

​

Tom took the joint out of my hand and inhaled deeply before he spoke again. “Then let’s elope to Mobile. The legal age is eighteen in Alabama” 

​

Taking a sip of ice tea to cool my throat, I looked directly into his red-rimmed eyes behind the John Lennon–style glasses he wore. “Really? No shit? You wanna do that?”

 

“Well…yeah. Why not? We’ve been living together for a year now. The money would help with our college bills. So…yeah.”

 

Two weeks later we set off for Mobile in Tom’s red VW Bug. The new dress I had bought for the “wedding” was packed neatly in my battered old suitcase, a secondhand find at the Salvation Army thrift store. I was proud of the dress with its multicolored flowers and swirly skirt. It was cotton, practical for the New Orleans summer heat. I had heard that Mobile was hot, too, so I figured it would work fine for our simple ceremony there in the county courthouse.

 

It was early September, the car had no air conditioning, and the windows were rolled down to let in the breeze. Tom’s long blonde hair blew around wildly in the wind, and so did mine. We sped down the highway, singing along to a Beatles song on the car radio. I think it was “Yellow Submarine.” Tom sang off key, but I had a good voice and held my own. The sun shone through the windshield, the engine purred and all seemed right with the world.

 

“I need to pee,” I announced. “Let’s stop at a gas station.”

​

“Already?” Tom complained. “It’s only been an hour since we left.” He shot me an annoyed glance from the driver’s seat.

 

“Too much coffee this morning, I guess,” I explained. “It won’t take long.”

​

I knew from experience on past road trips with Tom that it was prudent to tell him well in advance if I needed a pit stop. He hated interrupting his driving for any reason. His mission was always to get where we were going as fast as we could.

 

About a half an hour later, we rolled into a Texaco station. I uncrossed my legs and hopped out, making a beeline for the ladies room. It was none too clean, so I squatted over the toilet seat, hurrying to finish up and get out of there. No soap, of course, so I just rinsed my hands. No towels either; I shook my hands dry. I was hardly back in the car when Tom started the engine. In seconds, we were on the highway again.

 

“Feel better?” he smirked at me.  I just shot him a look of pure annoyance and remained silent.

 

We had gone another fifty miles when it hit me. “Oh shit!” I cried.

 

“What? What’s the matter?” Tom shot me a puzzled look.

 

“You are going to kill me. I can’t believe what I did!” I shook my head in misery.

 

“Just tell me, for fuck sake. Jesus!” “I flushed the joints down the toilet at the gas station,” I moaned.

 

“What?! What the fuck? Why did you do that?” He took both hands off the wheel for a moment to throw them up in the air.

 

“They were hidden in my underpants, in case the cops stopped us. I forgot about them when I went to the bathroom. They must have fallen out into the toilet.” I put my head down and sighed deeply. “I’m really sorry.”

 

“Shit. Great honeymoon this is going to be with no pot. Way to fuck up, Pam.” Tom stared out the windshield looking disgusted.

 

There was nothing more I could say. We had taken six joints of the best marijuana we could afford, put them in a plastic baggy and planned to celebrate with them on our honeymoon on the Gulf Coast.  But cops stopped hippies like us all the time to search for drugs, so I wanted to be safe.  I hid them in the most secret place I knew. How could I have forgotten they were there? I was severely depressed.

 

We rolled into Mobile in the early afternoon, found a diner and had cheap, greasy hamburgers for lunch. Neither of us talked much. Tom was in a funk over my flushing all our good grass and, frankly, so was I.  When lunch was over, I slipped into the ladies room to change into my wedding dress.

 

Tom finally cracked a smile when I came out. “Looking good, Baby,” he said. 

 

Finding the courthouse without much trouble, we walked in and applied for a marriage license. No waiting period, no blood tests, just our birth certificates and a small fee were required.  Apparently Alabama is all in favor of people getting married. 

 

Even first cousins can “get hitched” there. No muss, no fuss. After we filled out the brief paperwork and paid our money, the chubby lady behind the counter asked us to sit on a wooden bench in the hallway and wait to be called. 

 

An old black woman walked by with a rolling cart of flowers. “How ‘bout a l’il bouquet fo da bride,” she drawled to us. 

 

I looked longingly at the flowers, then sighed meaningfully in Tom’s direction.

 

“How much for a couple of red roses?” he pulled out his wallet.

 

“I give ya three fo’ two dollar.” The woman showed him a toothless grin.

 

“I got a dollar; will that work?” Tom held out a dollar bill to her.

 

She snatched it out of his hand as if she was afraid he’d change his mind.“Awright,” she mouthed, handing him a pitiful bouquet of three past-their-prime roses with a sprig of baby’s breath. “Da ya go. Good luck to ya both.”

 

Tom handed me the bridal bouquet. “Can’t say I never gave you anything,” he quipped.

 

“Thanks.” I sniffed at the roses, but they had no scent.  Disappointing.

A thin middle-aged man in a white short-sleeved shirt and tattered green tie stepped into the hallway. “Thomas LaBlanc and Pamela Gerard?” he read from a clipboard.

 

We stood. “That’s us,” Tom said. “Guess this is it,” he turned to me and shrugged.

 

I raised my eyebrows and smiled at him, “Here we go.” 

 

We followed the man through a doorway into a wood-paneled courtroom. It was cool in there; a shiver went through me.  Dim shafts of sunlight slanted down from the high windows. We were led to the front of the room.

 

“If you’ll just stand here, the judge will be along in a few minutes.” The man nodded toward a large wooden door behind the judge’s bench.

 

Tom shifted nervously from foot to foot. Suddenly I was aware of my heart pounding in my chest. I clutched my sad bouquet, taking a few long slow breaths to calm myself. I didn’t know why I was having this reaction. 

 

The door squeaked open, then, and a tall gray-haired man in long black judge’s robes walked toward us, holding out his hand. “Judge Daniel T. Boone here. Nice to meet you. Congratulations on this most auspicious occasion.”

 

”Tom and I exchanged a glance, speechless for a moment. Was the man kidding? Daniel T. Boone? I stifled a giggle. Tom recovered himself first and held out his hand.

 

“Honored to meet you, Mr. Boone, I…I mean Judge Boone.” Tom and the old judge shook hands.

 

“And you must be the lovely bride-to-be, m’am?” He held out his hand for me to shake.

 

“Yes…yes, sir,” I stuttered, extending the wrong hand. He took no notice of my awkwardness, kindly giving my hand a little squeeze. 

 

“Well, then, Thomas and Pamela, do you want to get married? Shall we proceed?” he smiled widely, his eyes twinkling. He obviously enjoyed this part of his job.

 

Tom and I nodded at him silently, like the silly children we were, and the deed was done in an amazingly short time. Before I knew it, we were skipping down the courthouse steps as husband and wife.

 

There was a phone booth at the corner. Tom pointed at it, saying, “Hey, Pam, wanna call your dad and give him the happy news?” He laughed.

 

“Yeah, right. Like he’d care. He’s too busy with his big important job to have time for me.  Always has been,” I pouted.

 

“Fuck him. Let’s go celebrate, Mrs. LaBlanc!”  He led the way back to his car in the parking lot. 

 

Waves of heat rose from the cement. The car was stifling hot in the afternoon sun. We found a dark, air-conditioned bar a few blocks away and took refuge there. A few beers later we were ready to head to Pensacola beach for our honeymoon.

 

The old motel we found was a block from the beach and not fancy, but it was all we could afford. A faded, threadbare green bedspread covered the double bed, the window air conditioner made a rattling noise and the gray towels, which had once been white, were as thin as flower sacks. I washed my sweaty face in the tiny bathroom and changed into shorts and a tank top.  A roach as long as my pinky finger skittered out from behind the toilet, evoking a scream from my throat. 

 

“Jesus Christ, Pam! What the hell is the matter?” Tom yelled from the bedroom.

 

I ran out of the bathroom. “A huge ugly roach…in there.” I pointed.

“Oh, so what? Just step on the fucker.” Tom turned back to fiddling with the rabbit ears on the old television set.

 

“But I hate the way they crunch when I step on them, “ I whined.

“You are such a wimp, ya know that? Let’s just get out of here. I’m starving. I need something to eat.”

 

We walked the block to the beach. The sun had set and twilight was upon us. I slipped my hand into Tom’s as we strolled along. He pulled his hand free after a moment. “Too hot and sweaty,” he mumbled.

 

We found a dumpy little bar and grill across the street from the gulf that looked affordable. As we slid into a cracked naughahide booth, a plump waitress with teased blonde hair sauntered over to us. 

 

“What’ll it be?” she said in a monotone, then resumed chewing her gum. 

 

I glanced at the dog-eared menu and then at the grease stain on her pink polyester shirt just below her ostentatious cleavage. Tom did more than glance; he was staring openly, practically drooling.

 

“Ice tea for me,” I looked back at my menu and lightly kicked Tom’s foot under the table.

 

“Uh…gimme a beer,” he said, tearing his eyes away from her boobs, “Make it a Dixie.” 

 

“You bet, honey,” she shuffled away to the bar, her pink vinyl flats dragging on the chipped linoleum floor.

 

“Why’d you kick me?” Tom frowned at me.

 

“To get your attention away from that blonde bimbo’s boobs,” I raised my eyebrows.

 

“Hey, I may be married, but I ain’t dead. I can still look, can’t I? And it’s not like you have a ton of cleavage for me to enjoy.”

 

“Gee…thanks a lot. Can’t help it if I’m skinny. It's just heredity,” I pouted.

 

“That’s okay, Baby. You may not have much in the tits department, but you do have a mighty cute ass.” Tom grinned.

 

I rolled my eyes and sighed as the waitress returned with our drinks.

 

“Something to eat?” She took a pad and pencil out of her apron pocket.

 

“Burger and fries for me,” Tom said to her cleavage.

“I think I’ll have the fried shrimp basket,” I said.

She scribbled on her notepad and headed for the kitchen. Tom watched her retreat. “Her ass ain’t bad either.” He took a long swig of his beer.

 

We ate our dinner in silence; I couldn’t think of a thing I wanted to say to him and he just wolfed down his food like a starving animal. He washed the meal down with three more beers. By the time we got our check, he was slurring his words. 

 

“This izzz…this izzz mighty…mighty good beer,” Tom waved a Dixie bottle at the waitress. She ignored him and took the money I handed her. He was too drunk to dig out his wallet.

I put my arm through his and helped him out the door. I wanted to walk on the beach in the hazy moonlight, but he was unsteady on his feet.

 

“Why the hell did you drink so much?” I shot at him.

 

“You lost the pot. Your fault,” he spat out.

 

“What the fuck? You have to be high all the time?”

 

“Sure, why not? Makes life bear..bearable. Bearly bearaby.” He laughed drunkenly and stumbled, but I kept him from falling.

 

We made it back to the motel where he collapsed on the bed diagonally.

 

“C’mere, Baby. B-bring that cute little ass here and let’s fuuuuck.”

 

I sighed and shook my head. “I’m gonna go wash up.” 

 

When I emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, he was snoring, mouth wide open, one arm slung over his eyes.  I removed his shoes, pushed him over to one side of the bed and slipped under the sheet on my side. As I reached over to turn off the bedside lamp, a tear slid down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away and fell into a troubled sleep.

 

The next morning dawned rainy and gray. The air was warm and thick with humidity. Tom awoke with a pounding headache. We decided to just head back home to New Orleans. The trip wasn’t turning out to be much fun anyway.

 

Tom drove fast; in just a few hours, we were in our basement apartment. He found some pot he had hidden in the back of the closet in an old sock, rolled a joint and proceded to get wasted. I unpacked my suitcase, made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sat at the kitchen table chewing and trying hard not to think at all.

 

Around seven that evening, Tom announced that he was going out to play pool with his buddies. “Don’t wait up. I don’t know when I’ll be home,” he called over his shoulder, not looking at me.

 

After he closed the door behind him, I picked up the wedding dress that lay crumpled on the floor next to my suitcase. It smelled of dried sweat. Filling the kitchen sink with warm soapy water, I dunked the dress in and began to wash it.  I stared into the suds for a long time, losing myself in the motion of rubbing the fabric against itself, not feeling, not thinking, not crying. Finally, I rinsed the dress, wrung it out with my hands and hung it on a hanger over the bathtub to dry. As I smoothed out the wrinkles, I noticed that some of the seams had split. The wedding dress was literally falling apart. This seemed incredibly sad to me, one of the saddest things I had ever seen. I covered my face with my wet hands and wept.

 

When I was empty of tears, I walked into the living room and sat on my old oak rocking chair. The newspaper lay on the floor next to the chair. I picked it up, opening it to the want-ads. Using the pen on the coffee table, I circled an ad that caught my eye. 

 

It read: “Roommate wanted for female college student. Small two bedroom apartment near campus. Call to apply…”

 

I stood up, took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dialed the number.