In one year all three of my brothers were married, and I, the oldest son of thirty-two, divorced my wife the beginning of that same year. I was devastated. Of course I was depressed that my marriage lasted three years, and of course I started a drinking habit and loathed myself. And three weddings in one year was just the thing to make me feel better. But the worst part was that I knew this would ruin my celebrating the most important event in my brothers’ lives thus far, and whenever I thought of the weddings, it would always be laced with my divorce.
My attitude plummeted throughout the course of the three events. I was happy for my brothers and proud of them, but it was increasingly difficult to show it. How could I see my siblings find love and not feel the sting of jealousy in each smile, in each kiss and in each longing stare and twinkling eye and slight, gentle movement of her hand on his leg? I had been there before and now I missed it more than ever. The blatant display of affection reminded me of the obvious fact that I did not have that and would return to my bedroom each night alone. To be sure I did not miss my ex-wife. It was the inevitable remembrance of the companionship, the fresh pain of my initial wedded bliss, her affair and our subsequent divorce that left me jaded and bitter. These were natural reactions to my situation, and I only wished that they could have happened outside of the weddings. But I put smile on my face, gave a toast at each one and meant every word I said.
My brothers did not know what I felt. How could they? They were busy getting married. But they did not hold my sadness against me. At the weddings, they tried to console me, telling me that they were glad that I was there, that it would not have been the same without me. They said they were sorry, but never mentioned the facts, the hard, cold facts. I wanted to sit down with each of them and tell them everything that I was feeling, that I was sorry. But they were busy making last minute plans, driving to see their soon-to-be parents in-law, spending time with their fiancés and all that.
But everything changed at the last wedding, the wedding of my youngest brother. It was in August so I had been divorced for nine months and was still lingering in the bitter and angry stages of grieving. The weddings had stunted my progress. They decided to have it on the central coast of California. I told my brother that he should look into some of the vineyards as possible sites, central California being renowned for its wineries. But his bride was adamant that it be on the coast. The weather was wretched that day, and I found some sick pleasure in that. It was misty and cloudy in the morning, and the marine layer clung on into the late afternoon. The sun broke through several times and made for beautiful pictures. Finally, it cleared just before evening. The wedding was lovely, and during the reception I took my usual position at the end of the bar and evaded the pestering relatives asking about when it was going to be my turn again.
After a while I got up and went to the edge of the dance floor with my glass of scotch, watching. I held my eyes steady, staring out to the middle of the floor; the bridesmaids’ dresses folded and swayed melodically like a flock of pink flamingoes taking flight. Then I turned and walked away from the wedding reception. I grabbed my coat and scarf as I passed the threshold of the door and came into the glare of the sun, fulsome and impetuous in its inevitable decent towards the ocean. I walked down several wooden steps to a rock path. The heat of the dance room fled from my cheeks, past my ears, off the back of my head and the cool air washed my skin. The jingling tambourines and drums of the music drifted away and up into the sharp, perilous territory of the failing daytime sky. I walked towards the cliffs, and the sun shone bright before me, transforming all it touched to shades of brown, yellow and orange. The grass at the edges of the path shown gold, and the tile roof of the reception hall burned deep red like embers. Even the pine trees atop the cliffs, their shadows stretched east away from their now amber limbs, seemed drawn into the sun, sucking everything violently into itself like an imploding star. I too felt drawn and walked on, expecting that at any moment the scene before me would drain like a bath.
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I soon realized that the noise of the crowd was gone and I was alone. I stopped to set down my glass and put on my coat and scarf. Then I approached the thick row of pines, driven like spears into the earth. I heard the tender wind moving in the trees, the wide limbs moaning, needles brushing one another and fanning their scent at me: the sharp evergreen smell, infused with the deep, thick smelling bark. The sun shone in bands that yawned and danced like violin strings through their trunks and waving branches. I broke through the trees and saw, several yards ahead, a thin mist hovering at the edge of the cliff over the sand. The path cut down into the cliff, making walls of the earth, and the mist had seeped up into the crevice.
I could see the beach below through the mist and heard the waves breaking. I walked for several minutes, the path changing from the hard black dirt to softer, crunchy stone and finally to sand. I stood on the long gray beach. The silver sand sloped upward like fresh cement, smooth like cloudy, porous, glass and rippled from the tidal surge. The wind was soft but cold, but I had my jacket and scarf so it lost the edge and became comforting. I looked back up at the cliffs. They came down in silent anger to the sand like the hull of a great ship, charging and pushing against the beach with infinite colossal shoulders, barely held at bay. As I walked, I felt as though the slated black dirt could break forth at any minute like horses in a river, and run me down. Were it not for the force of the packed sand, invisible and stern, the cliffs would break free and rush into the sea, folding the sand away like wake. Now I saw the pines from the beach, branches whipped away from the sea by years of ceaseless wind, like scratches from a tiger’s claw on the pale, textureless face of the evening sky.
There were large black rocks, like the backs of whales mounding out of calm water, set deliberately in the sand to spite its perfect ephemeral pattern. With pride the rocks remained aloof to the jealous sand that squeezed into their every crack, in vain attempt to force the rocks out of it like splinters.
Then at once, a ways behind me, I heard the loose rocks tumble and slide, then laughter. I saw my three brothers emerge from the path, stumble and walk towards me. They came up and put their hands on me. I was at a loss. For a moment we said nothing, and I could smell the liquor on all our breath. I looked at each of them smiling at me. The silence was heavy, and then they pulled me into their arms, laughing and embracing me. I couldn’t contain it and started crying, then laughing, and then crying again. We turned and walked and talked together through the thin, wispy nymphish fingers of the fog. The wind on my face quickened my spirit and here, now, I felt I could I remain unaffected. Through the warring pieces all around me, I looked ahead into the distance and saw a point for myself. Around it I knew was my home, set in a solidarity I could not see elsewhere. And through this all I had only my brothers, and though I never looked at them, I threw my lot in with them and the time. Regardless of the anger, jealousy or hope I channeled silently, in each push through the air, I felt they understood, better than anyone else, that the paths I had traveled and the choices I had made to feel at home were tossed aside into the sea and forgotten.
