Today, though, I only want to stare down at the ground morosely.
The guests clap excitedly, gasping in awe at the sight of me as my father helps me out of the car. My mother and Isaiah get out first, both dressed neatly in dark green. My father is wearing a black suit and dark green tie, and my mother’s dress is long and floaty. I wonder if dark green is supposed to be one of my wedding colors.
I don’t know because they have never asked me my preferences.
Besides, it hardly matters. Ever since the events of the other night, I have lost all interest in this wedding. My own wedding. I feel so numb, so broken up inside, that I can hardly force myself to smile when everyone rushes up to hug me and offer their congratulations.
But when Daddy fixes me with one of his notorious warning glares, I remember my position as a sort of diplomat for the family. Everything I do, every move I make, every word I say, reflects on the reputation of my family, and my father will not stand for anything less than perfection. In this case, it means I must proceed through the motions and rituals of my wedding as though I truly want to be here.
Even though I want nothing more than to curl up in a ball and cry.
My husband-to-be is nowhere to be seen, and I suspect this is intentional. My father knows how incongruous he is with the rest of the community. He’s an outsider, something our community has always looked at with suspicion and scorn. So the best option is to keep the congregation’s contact with him as limited as possible.
I don’t mind. I don’t want to see him anyway.
As far as I am concerned, any man who would attend an auction in which women are being sold like common cattle is not a man I want to marry. Not that I have a choice.
I know, deep down, that this must be what God wants for me. I have to believe that, otherwise I will be forced to rethink everything I have ever known.
“Congratulations, Cassandra! You make a beautiful bride!” exclaims one of the girls from church, Ruth-Ann. I know she is probably a little jealous. After all, she is twenty years old and still unmarried. In our circle, that is almost unheard of.
“Thank you,” I say, with a gracious smile.
She takes my hands, leans in, and asks in a hushed voice, “You must be so excited! I had no idea you were even engaged…”
I remember now. She is relatively new to our circle and she probably isn’t quite accustomed to the idea of arranged marriages yet. That’s why she isn’t married yet.
“It has happened very fast,” I admit, glancing around a little anxiously. I don’t want my father to see me talking too much about the details of this arrangement. I assume he isn’t particularly open to sharing just how my husband and I met.
Though, for all I know, this is the usual ritual. I have attended several weddings in my eighteen years, and for all the world they looked like normal events. But then again, they all looked very much like this one. Like mine.
How am I to know whether or not the other girls were put through the same meat market setup I was? I think back over all the weddings I’ve gone to. There was the union of Naomi and Jonah just a couple months ago. Naomi looked so happy, so complete, standing next to her tall, skinny new husband Jonah. Had she been forced into a room half-naked with a bunch of drooling, shouting men, too?
Probably not, I assume, since Jonah has been part of the congregation for years. No. They met the old-fashioned way, and now every time I see them at church they are hand-in-hand, always smiling, leaning on each other.
Tears prickle in my eyes again. I want that.
Is this how my father met my mother? He is much older than her… The thought sends a chill down my spine, though there is a passing reassurance. They still live a Godly life, after all, and mother seems happy and well taken care of…
I look out over the crowds and think to myself just how little I know about the man I am about to marry. I remember his stern profile, his enormous height and thick-shouldered build. His deep, foreboding voice reverberates in my head. He made an impact on me, and was by far the most handsome that I saw in the room. Maybe the most handsome man I’d seen in my life. But what do his good looks hide?
Suddenly, my father’s firm hand appears on my shoulder. He leans down to whisper into my ear, “Remember who you represent today.”
I have the strange, foreign desire to cry, to scream at him. This is my wedding day! I don’t know very much about marriage or about much of anything, really, but I do know that brides are supposed to feel good on days like this! But instead, I want to crumple to the grassy earth and go to sleep, to do anything that will make the world spin away into oblivion.
However, my sense of familial duty overwhelms me, and I simply reply, “Yes, Daddy.”