The Last Word: Dowry Days

I imagine that in societies where arranged marriages are still common, the doomed-to-be might feel similar to how I felt in the hours that followed my sister’s wedding last December. That seemingly uncomfortable moment where a woman meets her future in-laws was mimicked in the horse-and- pony show of the bachelor big brother (me) bringing a date to the nuptials of my little sister.

That’s an extreme position to take, I know. My situation is a bit different, but let me deal you the facts. First of all, the woman I took to the wedding is someone I’ve been dating since September, so we were into month three of our relationship. I invited her on purpose -- not as a backup. I wanted my extended family to meet her; I wanted my immediate family to be around her again. I wanted her on my arm; I wanted to share this day with her and for her to be a small part of my sister’s wedding. Admittedly, there was a part of me that whispered in my own ear, “Well, maybe, you know, this relationship could be something more,” but only when I thought no one was looking.

Somewhere in the windy cold blocks we walked between the church and the reception location on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, a barrier was crossed -- invisible, metaphysical, real, whatever -- and what had been a coronation for my little sister and her groom seemed to shift its focus slightly to me and my date.

I imagine that arranged marriages involve a similar amount of ceremony. Perhaps they take place in special locations (in our case, the Museum of Natural History), and the townspeople (wedding guests) gather to witness the bartering (drinking, dancing). The only thing missing in this scenario would be my girlfriend’s family and a dowry. However, the enthusiasm with which my family met, spoke with, and then raved about her struck me as the reaction a family of noble lineage (but dwindling money) would have over a well-made coupling with the nouveau riche family down the block. One comes away with money and stability, the other with title and upward mobility. I don’t know which side of the equation I was on, but everything went uncomfortably well.

“She is just LOVELY!” gushed my aunt after spending a mere 45 seconds talking with her. What could possibly have been said? It is not that my date was not, is not, lovely. She is graceful, intelligent, strong-willed. She has my interest and my affection. Perhaps I’m just used to more skepticism. Less praise.

“Maybe soon we’ll be going to another wedding,” my other aunt winked and nudged after huddling face-to-face with my girlfriend for a minute, maybe even two. As the older brother of the bride, I might have seen this coming. Weddings can be contagious affairs. It’s easy to consume the atmosphere and find yourself drunk on love, especially when you are dancing in a blue- tinted room with a giant whale hovering overhead, as my family was that night. We were all dressed up. We were all looking good. Happy times. But didn’t they seem a little too eager to see me in the wedded way?

My date would meet a family member -- cousin, uncle, aunt, dear and close friend of family -- and after a cursory conversation that included what she did, where she grew up, how we met, and even how long we’d been together, would immediately track me down for a subsequent conversation that had all the subtlety of a gong banging in the middle of the dance floor.

“She’s definitely a keeper, Jarret.”

“Don’t let this one get away.”

“I hope you realize how lucky you are.”

Now, I do recognize how lucky I am. But the virtues and vices of her character, the tiny minute details that become the inexplicable reasons we fall in love with another person. These are things that have taken me time to uncover. She seemed to have revealed them to my family, all of them, in a brief spattering of hit-and-run conversation.

Toward the middle of the evening, I brought her over to my grandmother. They met briefly at the church, and I wanted my grandmother to have a chance to talk with the girl on my arm. The past year had been a horrific one for our family’s matriarch—we’d watched her suffer through a quadruple bypass, an episode of the shingles, a coma that none of us thought she would survive, and a stroke that has robbed her of much of her independence.

“Grandma, do you remember Natalie?”

She looked at me cockeyed, and not because she has lost much of the sight in her left eye. I’ve seen looks that could speak, scream, dance, cry and laugh, and her look said, “Don’t patronize me, boy. Of course I remember her. I’m old, not dumb.” I sheepishly led Natalie to the chair next to her and my grandmother placed her left hand, bent and half-paralyzed, in her lap and with her right good hand she touched Natalie’s arm.

“This is a wonderful dress. You look like Audrey Hepburn in it, dear.” Natalie blushed and smiled. The two women talked together for another five minutes, laughing and speaking about the wedding, my grandmother’s trip out here, the coming holidays. As my grandmother watched my girlfriend describe a dinner we’d recently had, I saw her eyes widen. It had been a difficult year, one of her hardest, and being at that wedding, sitting in that chair, meeting my new girlfriend, it all registered. I watched her good eye as she looked up at me and it seemed to say all I needed to hear.

“I approve of this match.”