Free Father of the Bride by Edward Streeter Page A

boomps from the organ and the peals of the wedding march resounded through the vaulted shadows. A shaft of white light sprang from the gloom above him and placed him in the center of a glaring pool of brilliance.

Alone . . . he started down the aisle.

Alone, pacing slowly to the measured rhythm of the organ, he started down the aisle. It was several hundred yards long and at the end of it he could distinguish the figure of the minister which kept growing larger and larger until it towered over the whole scene and reached into the shadows—huge, sinister, forbidding, daring him to run the gauntlet.
    Now he could hear titters from either side. “It’s Banks. How grotesque! Why, his clothes don’t fit him. Look at his figure! Why, he can’t even get his coat buttoned! What a clown of a man!”
    The tittering was giving way to shrieks of laughter. People were standing on the seats of the pews and pointing at him. “Look at his knees shake! He’ll never make it. He’ll go down in a minute. How could a man like that have such a beautiful daughter? They say she isn’t his. It’s a joke. He’s a joke. Banks is nothing but a big fat joke—a big fat joke—a big fat joke. My God, his pants are undone!”
    He was sitting up in bed. His forehead was clammy.
    “Why don’t you take a sleeping pill, dear?” said Mrs. Banks. “It’ll quiet you down.”
    •  •  •
    Of course Mr. Banks realized that this sort of nocturnal shenanigans was immature and silly. For a successful lawyer it indicated an alarming lack of self-control. However, in spite of his efforts to reason the matter through logically, he felt queasy all day. When he arrived in Fairview Manor late in the afternoon it occurred to him that it might be a good idea to go up and look at the church. Not that he wasn’t thoroughly familiar with it. He merely wished to look it over in its new role as a Wedding Church.
    The side door was open. The leveling rays of the late afternoon sun sifted through the stained-glass windows and filled the interior with a rich tapestry of subdued color. The place was deserted. He felt like an intruder bursting in on its introspective silence.
    Standing at the head of the aisle, he studied the terrain like a hunter. Why had he thought of this intimate place as a cathedral? The pillars on either side, as he studied them critically for the first time, looked rather short and dumpy. As for the aisle, from where he stood a hop, skip and a jump would land him in the minister’s arms.
    “Anything I can do for you, sir?” It was Mr. Tringle, the sexton of St. George’s. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Banks. I didn’t recognize you. Come to look things over for the wedding? Well, don’t get nervous, Mr. Banks. We’ll handle everything the way you want it.”
    “I’m not nervous,” said Mr. Banks irritably.
    “Of course not. No sir. Some fathers get nervous, though. Good Lord, you wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it with your own eyes. Fine upstanding men falling to pieces like that. Why, I’ve had ’em out in the vestry shakin’ so’s their hair was in their eyes. Shockin’, some of ’em. Didn’t think I’d ever get ’em down the aisle. Somethin’ about the sight of a church seems to set ’em off. Seems like men’s more highstrung than women that way. Everything’ll be all right. Don’t give it a thought, sir. Worryin’ won’t make it any better anyways. I can remember—Oh, have you got to go? Will you go out this door please. Good night, Mr. Banks.”
    •  •  •
    A short time later he found himself sitting on the livingroom sofa with Kay, sipping his evening old-fashioned. Delilah was out. Mrs. Banks was in the kitchen. Kay suddenly slipped her arm through his. He patted her hand absently, his mind on Mr. Tringle.
    “I know I’m a fool, Pops, but I want to talk to you about something. You won’t think I’m silly, will you?”
    “Of course not, Kitten. What’s bothering?”
    “I’m scared,