Young Jane Young(21)

In my dream, though, Aviva Grossman had managed to get past all of that. In my dream, she was in her forties and she had smart, short hair, and she was wearing a neutral pantsuit and a turquoise statement necklace, and she was running for national political office, though my dream wasn’t clear which one. It felt like Congress to me, but maybe that’s too poetically just. But it’s my dream, so let’s call it Congress. In any case, she was at a press conference when a journalist asked her about the affair. At first, Aviva gave a politician’s response – “It was a long time ago and I’m sorry for any pain I caused” – and she sounded not unlike Congressman Levin. The journalist persisted. “Well,” Aviva said, “being the age I am now and being in the position I am now, I can tell you with absolute certainty, I would never sleep with one of my campaign interns. But looking back and thinking about my part in it, my conduct, the only thing I can say… the only thing I can say about it is, I was very romantic and I was very young.”





TWO





M

y name is Jane Young. I am thirty-three years old, and I am an event planner, though my business mainly consists of weddings. I was raised in South Florida, but I now reside in Allison Springs, Maine, which is about twenty-five minutes from Portland and which is a popular summer spot for destination weddings. It is less popular in the fall and still less popular in the winter, but I manage. What else can I tell you? I like my work, but no, I did not see myself doing this when I was a kid. The thing I went to college to do, I didn’t end up doing for a variety of reasons, and I found I had a knack for the combination of discipline, communication, psychology, politics, stagecraft, and creativity that planning a wedding requires. Oh, I have a precocious eight-year-old daughter, Ruby, whose father is not in the picture. Ruby is truly clever, though she has probably been around brides more than is healthy. Last week, Ruby told me, “I never want to be a bride. They’re all miserable.”

“Come on,” I said. “Some of them seem happy.”

“No,” she said with certainty. “Some of them seem less unhappy.”

“Unhappy brides are each unhappy in their own way,” I said.

“Sure, I guess,” Ruby said. Her brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I explained that I was riffing on that old Tolstoy saw, and Ruby rolled her eyes. “Be serious,” she said.

“So you’ll never marry?” I said. “That’s not much of an advertisement for my business.”

“I didn’t say that,” Ruby said. “I don’t know if I’ll ever marry. I’m eight. But I do know I don’t ever want to be a bride.” Ruby is at a perfect age. She is old enough to talk to and not yet a teen or a tween. She is nerdy and slightly round, but it is delicious. I want to eat her. I want to bite her solid arms. By the way, I never mention her weight because I don’t want her to end up with a complex. I was overweight when I was her age, and my mother discussed it exhaustively. And yes, as a result, I would say I am the proud owner of several complexes. But who isn’t? When you think about it, isn’t a person just a structure built in reaction to the landscape and the weather?





THREE





M

y storefront is located between a stationers and a chocolatier, in the main part of town. It was November, and things were slow. After catching up with some of my spring and summer couples, I spent the morning shopping online for things I didn’t need. How many black shift dresses could one woman have? A lot, if you’re me. Seventeen, at last count. A wedding planner dresses for a wedding as if it is a funeral. I was thinking of what Ruby had said about every bride being miserable when Franny and Wes walked through my door. They didn’t have an appointment, but this time of year, they didn’t need one.

Franny was Frances Lincoln. She was twenty-six years old, unformed. She was pretty enough but somehow like dough that had not been allowed to rise. She was a kindergarten teacher – of course she was! no one had ever looked more like a kindergarten teacher than she – but she said she was on leave. Wes was Wesley West – based on his name, I suspected his parents would be awful and I looked forward to meeting these monsters. Wes was a Realtor, and he informed me that his office was around the corner from mine though I had never noticed him before. He also told me that he had political aspirations. “I just thought you should know,” he said in a conspiratorial tone that suggested I should not plan the wedding for the future whatever of Allison Springs and be caught unaware. He was twenty-seven, and his handshake was too firm – what are you trying to prove, bro? As far as my clientele went, these two were not exceptional in any way. Weddings had a sneaky way of turning people into old-fashioned stereotypes of husband and wife.

“We were thinking about hiring someone from the city,” Wes said. “The city” referred to Portland, and this was meant as a dig.

“I’m from a city,” I said with a smile.

“But I thought, why not try someone local? I mean, I pass your office every day. Nice place. I like how clean everything looks, how white everything is. Also, I’m hoping to run for city council, so I like getting to know the local businesses. My constituency, you know. Must be pretty slow for you this time of year.”