Three-Part Harmony

He had rather expected his mother to make some kind of protest at the wedding. She might simply refuse to talk to anyone beforehand or tap her foot in anger during the ceremony or remain standing in the back of the church, a slim cigar in her longest gold holder. He was braced for something like that. But a tantrum! And one of her class-A, star-studded, gilt-edged, glorioso tantrums, at that. Too much!

His sister Meg had warned him the week before that they might be heading for some heavy scenes. At 31, she was five years older than Benedict and had had five more years to observe the phenomenon they called Mother.

No cozy nicknames for Wilhelmina Blessing. Not one of her three husbands had managed to utter the slightest variation on that name--both first and last. For the two children it was Mother and it was to be enunciated clearly. Only once had Benedict tried an affectionate shortening.

It was on his 21st birthday--some five years ago now. His birth had fallen on the day before Christmas, giving the three of them a double celebration. ("Yours was practically a virgin birth, if you know what I mean," she used to say when he was far too young to know what on earth she meant.) Double celebration but half the gifts, of course.

At any rate, the three of them had been drinking margaritas since early afternoon, chatting and watching the sun settle slowly into the atmospheric ooze over New Jersey, waiting for his birthday dinner to be sent up from Young Foo's, when he proposed a somewhat blurred but heartfelt toast: "It hasn't always been easy," he said, glass raised, "and we've had some royal battles, but through it all, you've been our mom."

"Our what?"

"Our...." Sobriety washed over Benedict like a cold wave. The word he had uttered was an obscenity. In the awful silence, they could hear distant sirens. Somewhere a fire was raging.

"Of all the vulgar, demeaning terms," she said, voice trembling beautifully.

"Mother," Meg said, "he didn't mean it. It was a slip of the tongue."

"Didn't mean it? Why would he say it if he didn't mean it? Since when am I 'Mom' to anyone? Is that what you call me behind my back? That's my mom over there; she's a housewife.' Well, let me tell you, Benedict Blessing. I can take a lot of blows and stabs in the back, and God knows I had to with your father, but there are certain vulgarisms I will not tolerate."

At times like that, Benedict was reminded of the fact that as a girl his mother had been given voice lessons and was actually in a Broadway musical once before her first marriage moved her up to a higher station. Yes, she did have a gorgeous voice.

But he couldn't say that just then. He had other lines to deliver.

"I am sorry," he said.

"He is sorry," Meg said.

"It's the salt in the drinks," he said. "It drives men to madness."

She put down her glass and held out both hands, inviting him to step forward. Then, holding his temples, she kissed him on the brow and then on the mouth. "Dear boy, you're a charmer," she said, and the food arrived.

But for all his charm, he had not figured out a way of telling her that he was at long last about to be married. That bothered him. In addition, it was on his shoulders to make the arrangements for the service as well. Arabella, his intended, was once a sculptor but now called herself a constructionist. She worked largely in plastics. At that moment, she was in the middle of a new construction that required all her waking hours, so Benedict had agreed to take care of everything. Time had not been a problem. As assistant art editor on a women's magazine, he could take a day off for a cause like this. But the responsibility of it all had left him somewhat unnerved. "My first marriage," he said sheepishly to Meg, who had been through it twice already. With typical kindness, she agreed to go with him to the church and meet the minister.

It's a long cab ride from the West Side, Manhattan, to Brooklyn Heights, and he was apprehensive. Meg must have sensed that, for she stroked his hand, saying. "Next week at this time, you'll be settled into your new life and you'll hardly know the difference."

When they arrived at the address, it turned out to be a brownstone. "This is a church?" she said.

"You've been out of touch."

Actually, he hadn't been exactly in touch, either. Born and raised in the city, neither of them had been inside a church in their lives. But they had seen pictures. And Saint Patrick's this was not.

But his beloved Arabella had heard that this was indeed a church and that the Freedom Under God group was "devout and legit"--her phrasing. And, more to the point, they were willing.

Meg and Benedict mounted the stairs, holding hands. He was grateful for the support. He had never met an honest-to-God minister.

The man who answered the door was reassuring. "Bless you," he said, taking both their hands. He was round-faced, bearded and wore a sloppy gray sweater, Levis and sneakers. "I'm Bishop Effringham and you must be Benedict and Arabella."

"Not exactly," Benedict said.

"Not exactly?"

"Well, I mean, this is my sister, Meg." He put his arm around her in an affectionate hug.

"Sister? Far out."

"She just came along for the ride," Benedict said, abruptly dropping his arm.

"A stand-in?"

"Aren't you sort of young to be a bishop?" Meg asked.

"Of course. But so is our group. And so"--he put both hands on Meg's shoulders for emphasis--"was Jesus."

Then he gave them a tour of the church. The two first-floor rooms had been joined to make a pleasant meeting area in glistening white. On Sundays and Wednesday evenings, he told them, they had services in which they borrowed rituals from all religions. And on other evenings, they had group-therapy and encounter sessions. They liked to think of themselves as an extended family.

"Speaking of families," Meg said suddenly, "we have a kind of problem."

"Everyone does," Bishop Effringham said cheerfully. "Every family is a cluster of problems. Every family is weird. . . ." He raised his hand like a figure in a Greek icon, letting his words sink in. "But with a good family, all those weird needs fit together like a jigsaw puzzle."

"I didn't say we were weird," Meg said, drawing herself up a bit. "I didn't say that at all. It's just that Mother used to be on the stage. She has a certain theatrical presence. It can be a problem."

"What kind of a problem?"

"She might make a scene," Benedict said.

"Splendid," Bishop Effringham said, clasping his hands together. "A marriage is a scene. With Freedom Under God, everyone is free to add to the drama."

"I don't think you understand," Meg said.

"Be not afraid, child. Life is one enormous psychodrama."

• • •

That night, Benedict made a full report to his beloved Arabella and to Tulip, a young Chinese girl who shared Arabella's spacious loft.

"Hold this," Arabella said, pointing to a length of red-plastic tubing that was to be bent around a pylon of clear Plexiglas, forming a coil. "So what's with this bishop? Is he legit?" She showed Tulip how to stroke the plastic tubing with an electric heating pad, making it pliable.

"Oh, he's legit," Benedict said. "He showed me his card. They have a whole group going there, you know. Maybe we should attend."

"To hell with that," Arabella said mildly. "But I'm not knocking them if they'll do the service. I want it done right, you know. No hokey stuff."

"No hokey stuff," Benedict said. "Genuine."

The smell of hot plastic wafted about him. Tulip stroked and he bent the tubing into place and Arabella supervised, muttering, "Good, good. Easy does it, now. There's no rush."

"Who's coming?" Tulip asked.

"Just us and a small group from the gallery and, of course, Benedict's sister and dear mother."

"Don't be nasty."

"I wasn't. I'm never, but never, nasty. She's a magnificent thing. A Happening, that woman is. Tulip, dear, don't rush it. Gently. Just a bit more right there. Benedict, lift it just a bit. Oh, good. Very good. You really are marvelous."

• • •

The day of the wedding turned out to be one of those raw, gray days when the sun starts setting at noon. The slush in the streets had crusted over and so had Mrs. Blessing's rage. Meg had finally volunteered to tell her the dread news and her reaction was not at all as bad as either of them had feared. After a day of hysterics in which she had to be sedated by the family doctor, she adopted a role of chilly disdain.

Benedict had spent the previous night at Arabella's loft, which was not the first time, but it was a bad tactic, nonetheless. His mother had said several times that she would rather see her son move in with "that plastic freak" than actually get married, but consistency was not her forte and every time he stayed downtown, she went into a sultry rage.

"Perfectly charming of you to come uptown," she said to him with a flip of her head just as soon as he had entered the apartment. "I thought perhaps you were expecting me to look up this alleged 'church' in the Yellow Pages and find myself a cab."

"It's a tense day," Meg said. "Let's not get dramatic."

"I'll say it's a tense day," her voice beginning to take on the old music-hall volume. "My son marrying an amazon plastic freak."

"She's a sculptress," Benedict said steadily, selecting the traditional term for his mother's benefit. "She works in stainless steel, Plexiglas and polyethylenes. She happens to be an expert in the bonding of heterogeneous thermoplastic resins. She's published articles on heterogeneous bonding agents."

"Sounds obscene to me."

"It's not exactly your field, Mother. But you know that she's taught at the New School. And she's shown uptown."

"I'll bet she has. But not her plastics."

"Mother," Meg said sternly, "don't be vulgar."

Mrs. Blessing shifted from irony to pathos, pressing the back of her hand to her brow and closing her eyes. "What I've been through--it would bring tears to the eyes of a psychiatrist."

• • •

The wedding itself was a beautiful, restrained affair. The bride wore a flowing Renaissance gown in wine velvet with a daring scoop neck and full sleeves gathered at the wrists, and a wide-brimmed hat in matching material. The entire ensemble served to accentuate her dramatic height.

(continued on page 206) Three-Part Harmony (continued from page 126)

There were more guests than anyone had anticipated--Arabella's friends from the gallery and art dealers and critics: Benedict's associates from the magazine and a number of his mother's circle of well-dressed West Side residents: and a quiet little knot of Chinese known only to Tulip. In addition, there was a scattering of individuals from various walks of life in a profusion of costumes, members of the congregation along for "the sense of shared bliss," as one of them put it.

The program started with readings from Rimbaud and Baudelaire delivered by the bishop to the accompaniment of a three-stringed Chinese violin. A group from the congregation began a Hare Krishna chant while the bishop wafted the room with incense.

Then the bishop moved to the heart of the service, having the participants join hands and reading to them his authority to join the participants in holy wedlock. At the moment of the traditional statements and responses, all hell broke lose.

It was coming from the back of the crowded room. Benedict couldn't see exactly what was going on through the haze of incense, but there was no question as to who was the star performer.

His mother's voice, thrilling in its finest contralto vibrato, called the church a "goddamned brothel," the guests "weirdo, plastic-freak cultists" and the bishop "a son-of-a-bitching Lower East Side fink."

"Marvelous," the bishop kept saying, his eyes sparkling. "Splendid."

"The last days of Rome! Twilight of the gods! This is the absolute end!"

Exit Mrs. Blessing. And Meg. For a hushed moment, the audience listened to the offstage tirade drifting in from the street. It died, finally, with the slam of the cab door.

"And so," the bishop said, finger tips touching, "revitalized and rededicated by that stirring performance, we move on to the culmination of this union."

• • •

As soon as the final pronouncement had been made, Benedict skipped out by himself. The cab that had brought Arabella and Tulip was still waiting. He commandeered it. Though married, he had a filial obligation to fulfill. He was sure that everyone would understand.

It was an agonizing ride, crawling through the darkness of a winter's-after-noon rush hour. The ticking meter, the horns, pneumatic drills from street crews all blended in his mind with the chants. He even thought he could hear the nasal wailing of the three-stringed Chinese violin. Were all weddings this traumatic?

"I've just been married. Things went wrong. Are weddings always this difficult?"

"Always," the cabby said. "Believe me."

Benedict found this beautifully reassuring.

But his mother's apartment was deserted and his anxiety returned. The doorman hadn't seen either of them. Benedict went to Henri's and searched the dark booths--his mother would never sit at the bar--but they weren't there. He went on to the Volga, an obscure cocktail lounge favored by aging White Russians. This time he was right. The two of them were at a little table in the corner drinking margaritas.

He sat down without a word and signaled to Bruno, the waiter, for one more of the same. Judging by the napkins, Meg and his mother were into their third round. Fast work. Still no one talked. They were leaving the opener to him.

"Did you see that three-stringed Chinese violin? Wasn't that something?"

It was like lancing a boil: "Violin? You talk about a weirdo violin? You sit there after an affair like that and talk about a violin as if we've just been to some international musical soiree? How could you?"

Anyone else might have felt that his had been the wrong opening move, but Benedict had observed his mother for more than two decades. He knew from experience that no one moved his mother with appeals to logic or reason. Distraction, indirection: These were the only tactics that worked.

"And the chanting," he said. "Have you ever heard Hare Krishna given so much feeling?"

"Feeling? My God, Benedict, I should have had you committed."

"You liked it," he said to Meg. "Didn't you?"

"Charming. As weddings go."

Mrs. Blessing stood up. "You're both absolutely insane. Insane!" Her voice had risen. All heads in the Volga were turned in her direction. The captain and Bruno stood nearby, smiling like idiots in their apprehension. "What did I do wrong? The two of you chattering about the music after conducting a ritual that was a positive obscenity. There are no standards left anywhere. It would serve you right if I stepped out that door right in front of a cab. Monsters, I've raised!"

It was time to shift tactics. "You've done marvelously," Benedict said, standing, too. "No son deserved more. A terrible strain on you. Other mothers would have suppressed their feelings, would have been eaten out. You express your honest convictions. Right out in the open. Just exactly what you feel. And that takes courage. I've learned that from you. Whatever courage I have, I've learned from you." He picked up both her hands, clutched them together and kissed them. "Thank you, Mother." He turned to the captain and the waiter and the nearby tables. "I've been the luckiest son in the world."

Mrs. Blessing stood there, caught for once without words. Benedict couldn't be sure, but he thought that there were tears in her eyes. One last kiss, full on the lips, and he was gone. On the run.

• • •

When he reached Arabella's, he was flush with the sense of victory--the master diplomat who has singlehandedly avoided a nuclear confrontation between major powers. He opened the door with his key and caught the familiar, sensual smell of hot polyethylene. The lights were out and for one dark moment, he was afraid that he was in for another search. But no, there were candles lit. And at the far end by the studio windows were two forms. It was Arabella and Tulip dancing slowly to a recording of soulful Tibetan temple music.

He sat down on the water bed, home at last. The gentle undulations under the covers soothed him.

"Everything solved?" Arabella asked.

"A great ritual parting. Everything solved. Sorry to leave you at the church. But you knew I'd be back, didn't you?"

"Of course, love."

She stopped dancing for a moment and gestured to him. He danced with her for a while. Later she stepped back and he and Tulip continued. He always found her thin, adolescent body a pleasant contrast with Arabella's ripe fullness--like sweet-and-sour pork, he thought. No, more like a rich port and a light Chablis, alternate sips.

Without planning, completely at ease, they moved to the water bed together. He began kissing the supine Arabella while Tulip massaged his thigh.

"Easy does it," Arabella whispered. "There's no rush."

Lovingly, hands were undoing clothes. There was no sure way of knowing whose were working on which. Fabric slipped away here and there. The Tibetan musicians slid up and down the scales with serpentine sensuality.

"Why was she so uptight?" Tulip's voice asked. It was coming from behind him now, but he couldn't tell whether those were her hands massaging him. His cheek was resting on someone's arm or perhaps a leg. "What set her off?"

"Who knows?" Benedict said, shifting again, probing new areas. "Perhaps it was the service. I mean, when the bishop said, 'Do you, Arabella, take these two good people as your lawful mates?"'

"Oh, good," Arabella whispered, but she wasn't talking about the bishop. "Very good. You know, you two are really marvelous."

Benedict felt no sensation of strangeness, of experimentation. Indeed, it was as if he had been doing just this all his life.