Father of the Bride by Edward Streeter Read Free Book Online

certain number of local people being sick, or out of town, on the day of the wedding.
    Mr. Banks estimated that they could rely on refusals from a third of the local invitations. On that basis, and excluding the out-of-towners, they could ask two hundred and twenty-five to both the church and the reception and one hundred and fifty additional just to the church.
    To Mrs. Banks, who was used to entertaining on a retail level, this seemed like a staggering number. She proposed that each one make a separate list—just the people they really wanted. Then these could be combined, the duplicates eliminated—and there you were. If there were more than two hundred and twenty-five, which was unlikely, the excess could be asked to the church only.
    This task occupied an harmonious evening.
    Mrs. Banks jotted down the names of all living relatives (and her memory was encyclopedic), plus her special cronies in the Garden and Bridge Clubs; also all the people who had invited Mr. Banks and herself to dinner in the last few years—and whom she had neglected to ask back.
    Kay put down the classmates who had written fatuous messages across her photograph in her copy of the Heathwood Hall class album, all the young men who had ever asked her to major football games, and people whom she had visited for more than two days. In a burst of gratitude she threw in the fathers and mothers of those who had put her up (or vice versa) for more than a week. To these were added her former cronies at the Fairview Manor Country Day School and sundry strays.
    Mr. Banks thought in terms of old friends. As his memory limbered up, their dim forms passed before him almost faster than he could write them down. By the time he had finished with World War I his heart was overflowing with good-fellowship. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember the last names of many of them and was obliged to let them go their way. Then he could not remember where most of the balance lived (or if they did). As a result his list was a small one.
    He spent the following evening combining the lists. There were alarmingly few duplications. Apparently the members of the Banks family had no friends in common. Finally he turned to his wife and daughter with a sadistic leer. “Guess how many.”
    Mrs. Banks squirmed uneasily. “Two hundred?” she ventured, without conviction.
    “Five hundred and seventy-two,” shouted Mr. Banks triumphantly. “Five! Seven! Two! What did I tell you? It’s either the immediate family or Madison Square Garden.”
    Mrs. Banks grabbed the lists. “Nonsense. Let me see. You’ve done something wrong. I’ll bet I can cut this down. Now look here, we certainly don’t need to have the Sparkmans. We never see them and as for that dyed-haired woman I don’t care if I ever have her in my house again.”
    Mr. Banks wondered why it was that, every time he discovered an attractive woman, Mrs. Banks said her hair was dyed. And anyway what if it was? “Listen,” he said. He was dignified now; cool, austere—and on guard. “Do you realize that Harry Sparkman is one of my most intimate friends, to say nothing of being a very good client? Why, I’d go to the ends of the earth for that fellow and he would for me.”
    “How ridiculous. You hardly ever see him.”
    “There you are,” said Kay. “I told you these were just customers. I knew it.”

    “Five hundred and seventy-two,” shouted Mr. Banks triumphantly.
    Mr. Banks bit his lip and said nothing. He realized that he was licked for the moment. “And who in the world are the DeLancey Crawfords?” continued Mrs. Banks smoothly. “I never even heard of them.”
    It was Kay’s inning. “Listen, Mom. How can you be so stupid? Don’t you remember that I spent half the summer with them at Western Point two years ago? And Twinkey Crawford is one of my closest, closest friends. Why, Mother, they’ve been right here in this house . Now if we’re going on like this, Mother—”
    “Maybe they won’t