Free Father of the Bride by Edward Streeter

pocketful of envelopes behind a bush and go home.
    When he returned to the house he could usually hear the sound of strange bodies being disposed of for the night in various parts of the house. He used to wonder what it was about weddings that made youth so peripatetic—and where these characters would have slept on that particular night if Kay had not happened to meet Buckley.

   9   
    PANIC
    For many years a light truck, modeled along the lines of a dog-catcher’s wagon and labeled “U. S. Mail,” had skidded into the Banks drive each morning and delivered a stack of assorted envelopes.
    During the course of breakfast Mrs. Banks had ripped hers open with an impatient forefinger, glanced at the contents and tossed them into the wastebasket. Mr. Banks, who resented anything that interfered with his morning paper, tossed most of his in without opening.
    Since the invitations had gone out, however, his attitude had changed. The arrival of the morning mail was now a matter of top priority, although there didn’t seem to be much family agreement on the information it contained.

    “They’re giving it up because they didn’t want to miss ours. ”
    “Oh, what a shame! The Lindley Davises can’t come,” exclaimed Mrs. Banks.
    Mr. Banks’ face beamed with pleasure.
    “Mr. and Mrs. Throckum Nesbitt accept with pleasure. Who in the world are Mr. and Mrs. Throckum Nesbitt? And they say if we don’t mind they’re bringing their daughter.”
    “Never heard of them. They’ve got the wrong wedding.” Mr. Banks was fumbling with the card file. “My God, they’re some people from Pittsburgh! We had them down as “P.N.C.” Haven’t they ever been asked to a wedding before? We don’t even know who they are. That’s some crust, I’ll say. Coming all the way from Pittsburgh! And bringing their daughter. I’d—”
    “The Cramptons are coming—oh, and the Lewises—and the Quincy Browns—and the Gaylords and—oh, how nice—”
    “What’s the matter? Somebody refuse?”
    “No. The Whiteheads were asked to another wedding and they’re giving it up because they didn’t want to miss ours. How sweet of them.”
    Mr. Banks buried himself in the morning paper. The news from Europe was more cheering.
    Each day an increasing number of people, known and unknown, accepted with pleasure. Apparently Kay had selected a day for her wedding when no one within a range of four hundred miles had anything to do. The Banks-Dunstan marriage was evidently an oasis in a desert of boredom.
    Mr. Banks became increasingly impressed with the stupendousness of the spectacle which he was about to produce, and with the importance of the role which he was slated to play. It wasn’t a wedding. It was a pageant. There should be an electric sign on the awning into the church:
MARRIAGE BELLS. A SUPERCOLOSSAL SCENIC DISPLAY. PRODUCED, DIRECTED AND ACTED BY STANLEY BANKS.
    As a form of self-torture the idea pleased him. He developed it leisurely as he composed himself to sleep that night. No one had thought of loud-speakers outside the church to take care of the overflow, or of putting the show on the air, or of billboards.
    Sometime during the night he woke up filled with vague apprehension. For a few minutes he couldn’t figure out what was bothering him. Then, gradually, the interior of a great cathedral took shape in his half-conscious brain. Its monolithic columns towered up and up, disappearing finally into the darkness above. The place was jammed to the doors with flashily dressed people. Somewhere an organ was thundering like a summer storm.
    Suddenly the organ stopped and there was a dead silence broken only by the creaking of stiff collars and the rattle of pearls as a thousand heads turned as if on swivels to the point where he, Stanley Banks, found himself standing, quite alone, at the head of the aisle.
    He tried to slip into one of the rear pews, but his feet were rooted to the floor. Then there was a series of terrific