THE ISLAND BRIDEGROOM
by Dawn Bedore Proctor
The hotel on the Island had been restored. That meant it was now way too expensive for anyone it had originally been built for. The icebound fisherman of old would have been dumbfounded to find out what a plain room with a clean bed was going for these days. Their strolls over the original pine planking to peer out the same narrow windows had gained a lot of value over the century.
Of course, we’d been coming to Island long before the hotel had been rescued. We came to Island now because we had fallen in love there. To revisit the beginning of our relationship. Back when she and love had been much more willing to rough it.
Still, she had forgotten how innocent and somehow ugly the Island was. While the now densely developed peninsula itself was widely promoted as a vacation wonderland, the tide of tourism began to ebb subtly, then suddenly, just before you reached its tip. Finally, as celebrated in the glossy brochure, which only showed the open blue water, the final turn would be made and the ferry dock appeared, and would turn out to be an industrial expanse of concrete surrounded by scrubby, low bottom woods.
The ferry boat began, or ended here. But the unsettling appearance of the dock belayed the truth of its efficiency as cars and passengers were loaded and unloaded in silent and orderly fashion. Leaving the car on the lower deck, we always ran to the top most level of the ferry to get a good look ahead at our destination. The water of Lake Superior looked dark, deep and cold, even on the warmest of summer days, and she wondered what she was sailing over, what had been lost or shifted, in the depths of this narrow canal leading to the island.
If you’d never been there before, arriving would be a disappointment. There was no welcoming center or committee, not a building that looked like it cared if you showed up or not. There was another, larger, scruffy marina that overflowed onto the land with broken and lisping boats that may or may never be repaired, and few small shops. It only took a few minutes to realize there was nothing to do at this point, but get a map of the rest of the island from a lonely box and drive your car off the dock. We headed out.
The square white shoulders of the Inn relaxed on a long sloping lawn and the meticulously painted grey floor boards sloped quickly down from the center of the room to its edges, an undeniable signal of its age. It was not encumbered with cute signs, chintz curtains or dried arrangements. It was simple and elegant. It was unlike any other part of the Island.
On this particular weekend, the entire eight-room Inn, save one room, had been booked for a wedding. It was the only weekend we could fit in, so we took the lone room which was sandwiched between all the other larger rooms and next to the linen closet.
In all fairness, we’d been warned. “We will be hosting a small wedding party and they’ve rented all but one of the rooms.” It seemed a romantic notion to me, to be witness to the beginning of another marriage as part of celebrating the endurance of our own. Besides, the weather was supposed to be good and as anyone living in Wisconsin knows, that mattered more than anything to the success of a special event.
Our room was very small, but the bed was high and made of soft organic linens with plenty of pillows. There was a narrow, but tall window, directly over the wide front porch, looking out over the soft, sloping lawn, the site of the wedding.
Clouds moved rapidly over the hotel and from moment to moment the outdoor wedding seemed like either an inspired or terrible idea. Deciding to be undaunted, the wedding party finally set up a small group of chairs under the towering oaks and covered them with white linens. There was a small white lattice arch erected at the end of a makeshift aisle and “viola.” the wedding was on.
She first heard his voice through the one window of their room. It carried itself as if wanting to be heard. Anyway, no matter what was intended, it was heard by anyone and everyone. He seemed very young to be getting married, looking no more than 20 or 21, but acted as if he knew he should appear much older and mature, without the slightest idea of how to do so.
So, he reverted to the oldest fable in existence… that the man was in charge. All weekend long I listened to him order the members of his family, the hotel staff, and most of all, his bride, what to do and how to do it. I found him fascinating. He was, in his manner, as old as the hotel itself, and while he may have looked renovated, the internal structure he relied on was as outdated as the slanting floors. He always referred to his bride as “my princess”, and “my princess” had very little to say. The bridegroom was in charge of everything, from when and what would be served to how and when the ceremony would take place. And when it was over and the threat of bad weather survived, they retired inside to the small dining room directly underneath our bedroom.
And the music began. The music began and did not stop until two in the morning. Still, I remained more fascinated than irritated. How had this group ended up on this ragged, lonely island? What did it mean to them? What did it represent? And the music. It wasn’t traditional or ethnic in any way. It betrayed their age and orientation with pop tunes and even rap records. The girls all sang along, they seemed to know every word and the bridegroom kept those hits coming. As she lay awake, listening to Gloria Gaynor croon “I will survive”, she thought, what a strange selection for a wedding. Who would survive? The bride? Or the groom?” She turned over for the countless time and put her money on the groom.
She woke to his voice the next morning. He was up early, strutting with pride for his job well done and his mission accomplished. He was married. But from what she could see and hear, had no idea what that really meant. No more than being in charge. No more than making everything right. Not knowing it took two people to do that in a marriage, and sometimes, many more.
We took our leave of the old hotel, smelling like its soap and satiated by its muffins. We arrived in time to get in line for the 10 a.m. ferry. Again, she raced up the stairs to get a good seat out and over the water, when a voice invaded her consciousness. It was the bridegroom and his bride. She listened again as he told his new bride where to sit, and they did not look ahead. He narrated the voyage for her across the narrow strait. We all disembarked together, their expensive little car taking off faster than necessary from the ferry and off down the road into a future she could only imagine.