Sunrise

Her shoulders were bare, showing off her powerfully muscled upper arms. She wore the homemade necklace I had given her three years ago, its pendant—a 15/16 nut— nestled at the curve of her breasts. Her exposed skin was red from the cold wind outside, and I suppressed an urge to run down the aisle and lay my jacket over her shoulders. Despite its shoulderless style, the dress sported sleeves so long that they nearly hid her hand and hook. I almost laughed out loud when her skirts shifted and I caught a glimpse of her feet—she was wearing her usual black leather combat boots under all that frippery. What did brides normally wear on their feet? Glass slippers? I wasn’t sure. Anyway, the combat boots were much more practical for waiting around in the snow outside while the rest of us filed in.

We had no organ or piano, of course, but we had scavenged a fiddle, and Elaine, one of the young women who had been shot outside of Warren, was a Suzuki-method violinist. She managed a pretty decent rendition of “Here Comes the Bride.”

Reverend Evans started saying something, but I couldn’t hear him. All the space between my ears was full—full of Darla. I had been in love with her almost since the first time I’d seen her: an overall-clad angel with a needle and thread to sew closed my wounds. But I had never felt that love as keenly as I did at that moment. I loved the small mole on her back under her left shoulder blade. I loved her earlobes and the way she giggled when I kissed them. I even loved her hook, with its ungainly wrench and screwdriver sockets.

“Ahem,” Reverend Evans was clearing his throat, “would you take the family candle, please?”

Darla was holding a lit candle and glaring at me. I could read that glare as clearly as a billboard—it said, “Now, dumbass!”

I smiled an apology at her and picked up the other lit candle. Five unlit candles were arrayed on a stand between us in front of the altar: four smaller candles in a square pattern and a large one in the middle. The candles were mismatched—purple, red, and white, their sizes irregular too. Candles were exceedingly difficult to come by now and worth a fortune in trade; burning a few inches off these would easily be the most expensive part of this ceremony “We light the memory candles to symbolize those who have passed on and ca

Darla tipped the candle she held to light one of the smaller candles. “For my father, Joseph Edmunds.” Her voice was clear and brave. She lit the next one. “For my mother, Gloria Ed—” A tear raced down her cheek, and she bit her lower lip.

I lit a candle. “For my father, Douglas Halprin.” I lit the fourth small candle. Did it make sense to light a candle for my mother? She wasn’t here, but she wasn’t dead either. Was I saying she was dead to me? She wasn’t, I decided—would never be so long as we were both physically alive. I would hold onto hope even if she couldn’t. “For my mother, Janice.” Did I call her Janice Halprin or Janice Petty? I hadn’t thought about it, so I just used her first name.

After a short pause, Reverend Evans stepped into the silence. “And now we light the unity candle to symbolize the joining of these two families.” Darla and I tipped our candles toward the large one, letting our flames mingle and light it. We put our candles in the candelabrum and stepped back to listen to the remainder of the service.

The rest passed in a blur. There were readings and prayers, and Reverend Evans preached a sermon of sorts—I barely heard it. My mind burned as brightly as the candles before us, full of wonder at the beautiful woman beside me, soon to be my wife.

Then I was repeating after Reverend Evans, taking the vow that would bind us forever. I remembered what Darla had said in the snowbank outside Stockton, when we thought we were dying: that we were already married, that we had taken a vow stronger than the one that bound most married couples.

In a way, she was right. So many people mouthed these words and then ignored their meaning, ignored the hard work and sacrifice the vow required. In that sense, we were already more married than many couples and had been for more than two and a half years.

But in another way, she was wrong. There was something wonderful about saying the words here, in front of our whole community. In front of God, maybe. I had never been much of a believer, but in that moment, it wasn’t difficult to feel that something holy was taking place, that we were being watched and blessed from above.

Max fumbled the ring, and it rolled around on the floor for a moment. I had visions of it falling through one of the cracks in the floorboards. We had built the long-house fast and loose—there were plenty of ring-size cracks in the floor. But Max stopped the ring by the simple expedient of stomping on it. He plucked it off the floor and handed it to me, his face burning redder than the candles.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” I said as I slipped it onto Darla’s finger. She slipped my ring onto my right hand—I would wear it there forever. Darla had offered to make me a ring holder for my hook, so I could wear it on the traditional side, but I had said no. I wanted the ring against my skin, where I could feel it, reminding me of this day and of this promise.

Then Reverend Evans spoke the words I had been waiting through the whole service to hear. “You may kiss the bride.”

I kissed Darla gently like the first time we’d kissed on an old couch in an abandoned house east of Worthington, Iowa, more than two and a half years ago. When our lips parted, Darla whispered, “Did I ever tell you that you’re a five-star kisser?”

“No,” I said. “There aren’t enough stars in the sky to describe how it feels to be kissed by you.”

Darla smiled and turned to the crowd, holding my hand aloft. “Let’s party!” she shouted.

Everyone quickly cleared out the middle of the long-house. We didn’t hold a procession—there was nowhere to proceed to anyway. I turned to snuff the candles; we might need them if our electricity failed.

The violinist was joined by a banjo player, and Max set up a scavenged drum kit. It was a strange trio, but the banjo player knew a bunch of square-dancing songs, so he led and Max and the violinist just followed along.

Flasks and bottles appeared as if by magic, people sharing their long-hoarded personal stock to celebrate. Nearly everyone offered me a drink, but I turned them all down. I didn’t love the taste of alcohol, and there was no way I wanted to be drunk on my wedding night. Darla drank until her cheeks were flushed, and her smile grew a little brighter than usual.

We did as many of the usual reception rituals as we could. Darla tossed a plastic bouquet over her head, and Alyssa snagged it out of the air. She carried it back to where the band was set up and leaned over to smooch Max. He was so surprised, he dropped his drumsticks.

I went over and pounded Max on the back by way of congratulating him. He stood up and leaned close, whispering, “Someone left a necklace under Alyssa’s pillow three nights ago. She thinks I did it.”

“You didn’t?” I said.

“No.”

“I wonder who’s giving her stuff? Whoever it is has been remarkably secretive—it’s been going on for what, a year now?”

“A year and a half,” Max said.

“You’d better tell her it’s not you, before she finds out some other way.”

“I guess you’re right.” Max shrugged, and I went to rejoin Darla.

We didn’t have a traditional cake, but someone had made a dense, fudgy concoction from supplies we’d gotten from the Wallers. Darla and I cut the ersatz cake and smeared it all over each other’s faces. I held her tightly and cleaned off her face with my tongue, while Rebecca looked on in disgust. I thought I was being eminently sensible, though—no sense letting all those calories go to waste, right?