A Church Wedding

And it was a church wedding. I thought that was interesting since the first time you got married it was at a concert.” Lindsay says, eyes flitting down to her note cards, then back up.

“Oh, well,” I look to Christina this time and she smiles. “I. . .” I look up at the stage lights and smile too.

*

I took the final plunge into Catholicism a year and a half after my wife, Amanda, died. My mother was a non-practicing Methodist, our maternal grandmother tried to teach James and I about Christianity, but it never made any sense to me. Everything Christina told me was so real, I could tell she believed every word she said. She had thought about all of it, it made sense to her. 

When I told her I wanted to be baptized she smiled the way Amanda had when I asked her to marry me. “You won’t regret it.” She straightened her face quickly though. “You know you can’t keep this a secret.”

I nodded, but I was dreading exposing my new faith to people. What would the guys think? What would my mother say? How would I even bring it up?

That Sunday Christina woke me up at seven in the morning. 

I groaned and she smiled. “I told you we were going to church today.” Her voice was hushed and sweet. 

I looked at the clock, “It’s so early though.” 

She went to my suitcase. “You’ll have to get used to it.”

I sat up, rubbed my eyes, she threw a pinstriped shirt and a pair of slacks at me. 

“Get dressed, we’re leaving in ten minutes.”

I met her in the tiny tour bus bathroom a few minutes later. Christina was wearing basically the only two pieces of clothing she bought before she started playing with us that she still wore, a black skirt and a short-sleeved teal blouse. It was weird to see her in something so conservative and modest for a change. 

I tried to brush my hair, but it was useless and I gave up quickly. I reached for my makeup bag, but Christina swatted my hand. 

“You can’t wear makeup to church.” She said, smiling and returning to her own task.

“You’re wearing mascara.”

She laughed, “That’s different and you know it.”

I sighed, “I look like the living dead.”

“Since when does that bother you?” She grinned over her shoulder at me.

The first service I attended with Christina was slow and awkward. I might have given up then if she hadn’t been by my side. After mass that day she dragged me off to meet the priest, Father Ferguson. 

He was tall and plump with brown hair and pale skin. His eyes were bright, they were a warm mossy color. He smiled when Christina told him I wanted to be baptized.

He shook my hand. “Catechism classes start in a week, we would love to have you join us.”

For the next few weeks I got used to getting up at seven on Sundays, I got used to going to catechism class. Christina stayed with me for class, she knew I wasn’t comfortable there alone. The teacher was a forty-something, tall, birdlike woman who wore big shapeless dresses. She asked me a lot of questions after she realized Christina had already taught me a little about everything. 

The day finally came when I had to tell the guys. We were asked to appear for sound check at ten on a Sunday morning. 

“I can’t do ten, tell them I’ll be there at eleven.” 

Zachary raised an eyebrow at me, but it was Richard who demanded a reason. Christina looked up from the magazine she was curled up with. Her eyes were warm and encouraging. 

“I’ve got catechism class until ten.” 

I’ll never forget the way they all stared when I said this.

“Cate-what?” James asked. 

“I’m, uh, preparing to be baptized.” I explained, my forehead felt suddenly hot.

There was a long silence. Richard squinted at me. “That’s like. . . A religious thing, ain’t it?”

I nodded. “Yea, I’m gonna’ become a Catholic in two more weeks.”

It was awkward initially. It was easy for them to think of Christina as a Catholic, she was sweet and kind, she was a virgin. But to put me in that context was almost impossible. Everyone had Catholic jokes. I rolled my eyes, but I was glad they were comfortable with the change. 

The day of my baptism was incredible in a lot of ways. I was one in a small group of candidates, a fifty year old man named Arthur who was sponsored by his wife, a twenty-two year old girl called Marisa sponsored by her uncle, etc. 

After mass there was a social with doughnuts, coffee and juice. Father Ferguson pulled me aside, he asked me how I felt, if Christina and I were doing anything to celebrate, where we were planning to go next on our tour. Then he asked me something I didn’t expect.

“So, will you and Miss Christina be back here when you decide to tie the knot?”

I smiled at first, then the words sank in and I was overcome with shock. “Wait, me and Christina? Oh, we, we’re not, not. . .”

“Ooh.” Father Ferguson said, secretly enjoying my awkwardness, “My mistake. Why not?”

Why not. I looked across the room at Christina in her new creamsicle orange dress and my mind whirled around that question. “I, I don’t know, I mean I was with Amanda when we met, and. . . We’re, we’re like family.”

“She’s a nice girl.”

I nodded. 

“She’s pretty.”

I nodded again, looked at Christina, she waved. 

“Well, what’s the problem then?” The old priest laughed. 

It was awkward then, but after that I started to see Christina differently. Suddenly everything she did was bathed in the unmistakable light of love. Everything slowed down, I wanted to catch and keep every word she said, every breath she took. She could send me spiraling off the planet with just a twinkle of her eyes or one well-placed smile. 

Falling in love with Chris was easy, being in love with her was hard. We were near each other constantly, which sounds great in theory. But at times when I was supposed to be focussing on hitting that note I wasn’t sure about or making the hook flow a little smoother instead I found myself wondering what kind of shampoo she used or thinking about the tiny white goose bumps she gets when she reads lyric for a new song for the first time. I didn’t want to tell anyone, but I knew it was only a matter of time before one of the guys figured it out anyway. 

We were performing in California, the only state where we do shows in three cities and we were stopped for a little while in Sacramento. It was hot, but not sweltering, so the six of us were eating lunch outside. Keith and Zachary were pelting each other with tortilla chips, Richard was carefully constructing a triple decker bologna and cheese sandwich. Christina eats like a bird, so she was tearing up a slice of salami which she would wash down with some dried cranberries she bought at the last gas station we stopped at. 

I sat with my brother who was eating a sloppy bologna sandwich. He stretched out his mouth to take his first bite and I dropped my voice and told him I needed to talk to him. 

His eyes shifted toward me behind his horn-rimmed glasses, he took a bite and cocked his head. 

“I guess I might sort of like Chris. . .”

He rolled his eyes, swallowed, “Is this supposed to, like, surprise me or something?”

I guess I should have known he would know already. “I don’t know what to do, though. Should I tell her?”

“F**k no.” He took another bite, and gestured with the sandwich as he spoke, “She spent the last twenty-eight years of her life getting the s**t kicked out of her by the people who were supposed to be taking care of her.” 

I stared at the ground rather than watching him chew as he told me I should wait, and when Chris was ready for a new relationship I would be able to tell. I nodded and accepted the fact that it might be a while. In reality it wasn’t long at all. A month later we were at an after-party in Los Angeles, in the basement of legendary tattoo artist Lisa Marshal’s mansion. It was a crazy party, Lisa is a close friend of Zachary’s, although she’s done work on all the guys at least once, except for me of course, since I’m terrified of needles. She always goes to our shows when we’re in the area. Her basement is done up like a night club, strobe lights, a bar, a few pool tables, a dance floor, even a couple stripper poles, although I’ve never seen anyone female use them before. Chris stayed with me most of the night, as comfortable as she was becoming on stage, after-parties still made her really nervous. She knew I usually had a quiet evening since I don’t drink anymore, and normally that was exactly what she wanted. That night, though, she seemed distracted and it didn’t take long for me to notice that she was staring across the bar at some guy in a heavy black motorcycle jacket, with shoulder-length, red hair. 

I let her stare for a while, pushed down the twinge of jealousy I felt at seeing that look of want directed at someone else. He was bare-chested under that hundred dollar jacket, and muscular perfection, he looked familiar, probably some professional hockey player Lisa did work on. Anyway, after I had observed her for a while, I leaned in close to her ear so she could hear me over the music, “Why don’t you go introduce yourself?”

Christina blushed, startled, she looked back at me. “I couldn’t.”

I loved how quiet her voice was, I could hardly hear her over the music and the people ordering drinks next to us. “Sure you could.” I smiled at her, “His evening isn’t complete without you.”  

She glanced over at him, “What would I even say?”

“Hi, my name is Christina.” 

She took a deep breath, looked across the bar again, bit her lip. “Do you really think I should?” 

I nodded, forgetting myself for a moment. I watched her mince through the crowd and tap him on the shoulder. As the crowd shifted the two of them faded in and out of view. She sat on the stool next to him. I watched them talk, I watched him stroke her arm and hold her hand. I watched her try to hide her embarrassment, sipping on the sprite he ordered for her when she refused alcohol. I watched him discretely look down her top, then brush the hair out of her eyes. I watched her laugh at something he said, and I watched him lean in and whisper something to her. Her face fell, she blushed, shook her head. He smiled, bit his lip, pleaded. She shook her head again, stood clumsily and walked away. 

She shook her head a third time when I asked her what happened. She said he wanted to take her home. She was really upset, she crossed her arms over her chest and fought back tears. I told her I wasn’t feeling well and suggested we go back to the bus. The cab was unnecessarily air-conditioned, so Christina took my jacket to cover her bare arms. 

“I never pictured myself alone.” She said, breaking the silence, looking out the window at the lights of the city as they passed by. 

“You’re not alone.” I hated seeing her in such a dark mood. It didn’t suit her. 

She smiled halfheartedly. “No, I mean, like, I thought I’d be ready to have kids by now, you know.” She shook her head, “Sorry.”

It had never occurred to me that cutting the chord with Ricky could be anything but liberating, but Christina had loved him for six years, and he was gone, and we were her only friends, and we hardly knew her. 

“No, I get it, I mean, me too. . . Mandy and I even had names picked out. . .” I shook the thoughts of my dead wife out of my mind. This was about Christina. “Don’t give up so easy, though, guys you meet at Lisa’s party are always a******s. . .”

“And the last thing I need is to date another a*****e.” She said, not without a hint of bitterness. 

We laughed. “I don’t think my skull could handle it.”

“Aw.” She kissed the side of my head. I looked at her, she ran her fingers through my hair. “You can hardly feel where the stitches were now.”

It was dark inside the cab, but I could see the lights of the city as they passed us by reflected in those bright blue eyes. I knew her hand was still on my head, but I could hardly feel it. In that moment I felt a connection which had been missing in my life for a long time, so I kissed her. 

By the time the cab stopped in front of the tour bus there was no doubt that Christina’s next boy friend would be a jerk, but there was no danger of him trying to bash my skull in.