Free Dog Tags by Stephen Becker

plotting?”
    â€œOur daughter’s future,” she said. “The musicians are here,” and she left them.
    Amos gazed after her and admired. “Look at that articulation! I hope you’ll do better than I did,” he added privily. “That damn woman’s been eating an apple a day since we married.” He shivered himself into laughing fragments. Benny considered prayer.
    Uncle Arthur Untermeyer heaped a plate with meats and said, “Winter weddings are better. You can always tell how classy a winter wedding is by the amount of out-of-season fruit.” Benny laughed inordinately. From the head of the table Amos waved. Across from Benny, Jacob beamed, eyes moist, a noggin of whiskey beside his empty wineglass. “Amos is a good fellow,” Arthur said. “Pleased with himself, but a good fellow. A generous man.” Carol’s cousin Deborah glided through the conversation piece, craning like a hen to sip at her champagne; a plain girl but stoutly made, and Benny’s third eye observed. Behind him the band caterwauled savagely, and made a joyful noise unto the Lord.
    â€œIrv is also all right,” Arthur said, stuffing himself merrily. “He had to be a druggist because there was only money for one medical school. I was luckiest. With me they gave up and let me go into the fur business, so I’m rolling in it. By the way, if you need help don’t hesitate. But Gordon is a bastard, the baby brother and spoiled rotten. Don’t trust him. Notice how the names go. From Amos to Gordon in regular steps. That’s called assimilation. Little Deborah’s not so little any more.”
    Benny understood that replies were not required. Arthur ate; Arthur talked. Good. He turned to his own Aunt Rose. “How goes it, Rosey?”
    â€œIt goes all right. Nobody starves here. Your girl’s beautiful, Benny. I mean really beautiful. It made my heart ache, so young and beautiful. You’ll be happy.”
    â€œI’m happy now. But getting married is murder.”
    â€œMurder, no. Suicide, maybe.”
    Besotted by ceremony, brutalized by gluttony, aching for the road, Benny clutched his wineglass and contemplated this new world. Prpl and Lin debated across a whiskey bottle. Stout burghers shook fingers, declaimed; others fox-trotted. Miss Carol Abravanel Untermeyer and Mr. Benjamin Beer. Joined today in matrimony by the learned rabbi—what was his name? Issachar. Zebulun. It would be on the certificate, doubtless illegible. Uncle Gordon breathed at a pince-nez, polished it on a serge sleeve. Mrs. Beer is the daughter of Dr. Amos Untermeyer, a notorious bungler, and Mrs. Untermeyer, a sexy bit, could be brighter but after all. Of Central Park West, the downtown end with palms in the lobby.
    Miriam Karp came up to kiss him, and with her Ruth Pinsky, weeping. Benny patted, soothed, joked.
    The groom is the son of Mr. Jacob Beer of Union Square, a widower specializing in hand-stitched single-breasted, waistcoat optional; ranking member of local klaberjass and pinochle clubs. A black waiter poured champagne, inscrutable, imperial. The bride was attended by Miss Deborah Abravanel, a saftig bundle who reported unsolicited attentions from Uncle Arthur Untermeyer, known among the desert tribes as Hands-in-Motion. Brief honeymoon. Groom will return to College of Leeching and Cupping, where he is concentrating in astrology. At home. Please send money.
    Benny rose from the table and strode forth. He reclaimed his bride, kissed her soundly in the presence of witnesses, and danced before the Lord with all his might.
    While Carol changed, the exhausted few wallowed among wedding presents. “Tiffany’s,” Sylvia said. Stuporous, Benny admired a tablecloth. Jacob appraised. Amos collapsed into a leather chair: “Too much champagne. Too early in the day.” Jacob had given them five hundred dollars: “Nothing,” he confided. “What Amos tips