Father of the Bride by Edward Streeter Read Free Book Online Page A

come,” suggested Mr. Banks. “Don’t they live in Pittsburgh or someplace?”
    “We can ask those families to the church and not the reception,” said Mrs. Banks, disposing of the matter.
    “The church !” cried Mr. Banks. “You mean to say you want to ask Harry and Jane Sparkman to the church and not to the house? Harry Sparkman ? My intimate friend? Did they ask us just to the church when their daughter got married? No. And you were delighted to go to the reception. The church! ”
    •  •  •
    The following evening Mr. Banks returned with a card file and large quantities of three-by-five cards.
    “The pink are for ‘Church Only,’ ” he explained. “The white ones are ‘Church and Reception.’ Now here’s a rubber stamp. Whenever you’re sure someone can’t come because they live out of town or something, stamp that card ‘P.N.C.’ That means ‘Probably Not Coming.’ ”
    Three nights later everyone’s name had been written on a pink or a white card. The out-of-towners and the local 4Fs had been happily stamped “P.N.C.” Then Mr. Banks took the second census.
    Mrs. Banks watched him nervously. “Maybe they’ll come out about right now,” she said.
    Kay looked bored. “The whole thing is just too sordid. I had always thought a wedding was a joyous occasion. The way you’re going at it you might as well hire a couple of bookkeepers to put it on for you.”
    Mr. Banks’ only reply was to count audibly to help his concentration. “Here’s the box score,” he announced at last. “Ten people have been asked to the church and not the reception. Five hundred and sixty-two have been asked to both. There are one hundred and fifty-two cards stamped ‘P.N.C.’ That leaves four hundred and ten people who might show up. Figuring that a third of them won’t, you’ll have two hundred and seventy-three people at the reception.
    “I don’t follow you very well,” said Mrs. Banks in a dazed voice, “but it looks as if we’d have to cut out a few.”
    “All you’ve got to do is to throw a hundred and twenty-three people out on their necks,” said Mr. Banks grimly.
    Kay yawned. “I’m going to bed. My list is right down to the bone, so I can’t be of much help.”

    Each white card . . . debated at length and returned to its place with a sigh.
    Mr. Banks opened his mouth, but Mrs. Banks motioned it shut again. Kay stalked out of the room, swinging her hips with dignity.
    “We can work it out,” said Mrs. Banks. “Kay’s upset. All we have to do is to shift these superfluous people over to the church and not invite them to the reception. Now the Harry Sparkmans—”
    Mr. Banks refused the gage. The timing didn’t seem right. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go. We’ll start by putting the Garden Club in the church—and leaving ’em there.”
    Each white card was removed from the box, de-bated at length, and returned to its original place with a sigh. At the end of each round, when they came to Carlton B. Zachery, they had succeeded in eliminating or relegating to the church only a handful of names. Quite obviously they were getting nowhere. They had too many dear, close, loyal, lifelong friends, to all of whom they seemed to be indebted.
    After three fruitless evenings of this sort of thing Mr. Banks had lunch with a client who was head of a large accounting firm. He had just run the gauntlet himself and, after the manner of all survivors, he liked to strut his scars. As a form of wound-licking he had reduced everything to neat figures.
    Wedding guests, he explained, should be broken down into church units and reception units. That was the only way to get at the per-unit cost. At his wedding each reception unit cost $3.72, including champagne, caterers, tips, breakage, flowers, furniture-moving and extra insurance. He had not included wear and tear, feeling that, considering the occasion, it would be on the mercenary side.
    Mr. Banks made some calculations on the