Angel Wings by: Tom Austin, Mixed Media, 2015.
II Become I
by: Beth Wade
Marydeth and I enter the high-ceilinged structure and walk down the center aisle. The lighting is so dim it seems like nighttime. The decor is sparse, with only the usual symbol centered on the front wall. We’ll have a bird’s eye view of the proceedings since we arrived early enough to sit on the left, directly behind the place reserved for the family.
All of the festivities are to be held in the same building and there are some gifts on a table to the side. There’s a brown paper sack like a child’s school lunch bag, and window blinds, which looks odd, but apparently it was something they needed. The blinds are an eyesore, and even though you can’t put something like that under wraps, the giver (no doubt someone seated on the other side) should have known better. The groom wears tinted eyeglasses make him look, well, shady, but he was “the one”, after all.
Marriage isn’t the only relationship that is till death do us part—our friendships also are for better and for worse, sharing joys and sorrows. Due to our position, we are unable to object.
The attendants make their entrance. There are twelve of them, so they will be seated during the ceremony, which shows every indication of being lengthy. Before they sit, we all stand. The bride is an angel.
After a brief address by the officiant, solemn vows are taken. It’s the usual procedure—various persons get up to speak, more vowing, readings. The husband sings a song which he himself wrote, although the words, unfortunately, are hardly original. The chorus is about how he thought he was going crazy, he cannot believe it, while the verse concerns how he thought she wouldn’t ever, etc., etc., ad infinitum (Marydeth and I both have seen far too many of these proceedings). The song had been recorded some time before, and a good thing too, since the groom had changed his tune since then.
The groom’s solo seems to last forever. I can see that many of the attendants, including Jeri, another friend of ours, are moved. The man in the family bench in front of us has his head bowed with one hand over his face. This gets me started because I can’t stand to see a man cry, and I know it must be harder for him than for me since he’s a member of the family. Meanwhile, the groom sings—like a canary, as they say. He must be going crazy, he wants to shoot himself, he cannot believe that he killed her, she wasn’t gonna let him see his kid. His confession, taped by the police dispatcher, is one of the pieces of evidence in the case, along with the brown bag containing the bullet that went through the blinds and the window after it hit her in the eye. He fired at such point blank range that there were powder burns on her face. They had been drinking at the kitchen table, where they had broken bread together many times in the past when, in the course of an argument, he killed her.
At the punishment phase of a trial, which comes immediately after the evidentiary portion like a reception follows a wedding, cold justice is served. The judge sits behind a bar like a communion rail and a bench like an altar, and pronounces the verdict. The husband will spend an overnight honeymoon in the county jail, then he will be “at home” at the big house till death us do part. What therefore God has joined together, let no man put asunder.