The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [93]
But on my wedding day Dad limped two blocks down to the main corner and hailed a horse cab to come to the house. “I’m not having my daughter meeting her groom with mud on her shoes,” he said while the driver loaded my trunk. “New, too, aren’t they?”
It was grand riding in that horse cab with Dad in his Sunday suit beside me. When we pulled up at the church, Isaac stood on the gravel sidewalk looking down the street like he expected me to be on foot. My breath caught as I watched him from the cab window. He wore his army uniform and was fresh shaved. He could have had any woman in Chicago. I could hardly believe he was willing to settle for me.
The cab driver opened the door, and when I got out, Isaac took a step back. It was like he didn’t know me in my satin dress, my waist pinched narrow by my corset, my face half covered by the wide-brimmed plum felt hat. The shock on his face showed that he had never thought of me in anything but patched-over dresses and aprons.
Isaac recovered enough of his wits to introduce himself to Dad, saying how pleased he was to finally meet the father of his bride. Dad only grunted. Then, still looking at me like he didn’t know me, Isaac offered his arm. “No,” Dad said. “She’s still mine.”
“Yes, sir,” Isaac said. “That she is.”
He followed us into the church. I felt his eyes on me, and the secret pleasure of it made heat rise to my cheeks. During the ceremony, with Dad and my brother Johnny nearby, Preacher Teller told me and Isaac to stay on Jesus’ path and to always look to the Lord in times of trouble. I will, I told myself. And then I heard the words “for better for worse, for richer for poorer” and “till death us do part,” and all I could think was, Please, Lord, let death do the parting. Don’t let it be our bargain.
Now, sitting in my rocker, I touched the lace collar on my wedding dress. There were thirty-four pearl-shaped buttons that ran from the back of the collar clear down to the waist. Mama had paid for the buttons. They were her gift to me.
I wore the plum satin dress on the train. It had been a long trip; sitting together on the train as man and wife changed everything. We didn’t know what to say. There was no boardinghouse kitchen to sit in, no dishes to wash, nothing to help us talk. There was only the pleasure of our arms side by side, sharing the same armrest, our fingertips meeting by accident from time to time. But it was a pleasure so deep that there were moments when I was faint with wooziness.
The trip, a dusty journey with many stops and starts, took the day and the following night. We rode it sitting up, and we changed trains once in Omaha long after dark. On the first train, when we walked into the dining car, the other passengers stopped eating and stared. Maybe those white people were surprised that Negroes could afford the dining car. Or maybe they had never seen a Negro in an army uniform and his wife in such a fine dress. The man who took the diners to their tables gave us a peculiar look. He pursed his lips and pointed to the table closest to the kitchen. I didn’t think a thing of it, but when I saw the tight look on Isaac’s face, I said, “My, isn’t this something? Our food’ll be good and hot coming directly from the kitchen.” The tightness in Isaac’s face faded, and then he smiled some, making everything all right again.
We got to Sioux Falls as the sun was coming up, less than twenty-four hours since the wedding. The next train to Interior didn’t leave until late evening. Zeb Butler, from Isaac’s army days, met us with his buggy at the train station. Glad to see each other, Isaac and Zeb laughed and slapped each other’s backs. I stood off to the side, my black cloth purse in my gloved hands as the two of them joshed. There were white people everywhere on the station platform, and I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I made like I was taking in the sights.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Isaac had said it was the last big