“But ours isn’t an old-fashioned marriage like we meant in that pact,” Hal says. “We’re tying the knot to thwart the government’s evil authoritarian regime that’s tossing Astrid out of the country, and we’re also fighting back against how queer rights are being stripped. What’s more progressive than that?”
I call Hal’s bluff on that. “Does that mean you’ll be getting divorced once Astrid can get another visa?” I ask.
“Of course not,” Hal says, as if I’m the crazy one here.
Astrid chimes in, says she never would’ve thought she’d begetting married to a woman, but she’s come so far in her time in America and it’s all thanks to the Redstockings. “I’m so very grateful,” she says, eyes aglow with enlightenment-gone-wrong.
It’s such warped logic that it’s not even worth my rebuttal. Tara’s quiet too, like she’s trying to convince herself that she’s taken too many hallucinogens. I’m hoping I’m seeing things too, but I know I’m not. There’s an eerie realism pulling me down into the scene—grippy socks, not ballet slippers.
Of all of us in the pact, I was sure Hal was the safest, the most loyal. The Hal I knew would never do something like this.
“Come on, EJ, don’t overblow this,” Hal says when I tell her that. “We’re evolving into real adults who don’t need a juvenile pact to tie us together. It’s the next phase of our journey, that’s all.”
Letting go of Tara’s hand, I ask if that’s how she feels too, that the Anti-Marriage Pact was nothing but a phase, a childish game. “No hard feelings,” I say. “I’ll just pack up my stuff and be out the door.”
Tara says no, the pact is a lifelong commitment that she’s taking to the grave. Turning to Hal, Tara pleads, “Don’t give in to marriage. You’re too much of a free spirit for that. There’s got to be another option here.”
I can feel Tara’s hurt and it’s even deeper than my own.
“You’re both blind,” Hal says. “I’m not falling into the trope of a conventional marriage. I’m actually dissenting more than you are, resisting the patriarchy from the inside, full Trojan horse–style.” Cozied up next to Astrid, she goes on to say that nothing will change, that we’ll still be the Redstockings.
“That’s false and you know it,” I say. “Remember Jenni? She swore marrying Peter wouldn’t come between us, but that’s all it’s done. At the end of the day, marriage is marriage no matter how you spin it. It places a romantic partner above platonic friendships and that’s heresy, end of story. Looks like the Redstockings were just another of your start-ups. A novelty to throw yourself into and then leave in the dust to start something new.”
Looking at Tara, I know we’ve already lost. Even if Tara never marries, never leaves me, we’ll still be two people against the world. Two is that despicable number that belongs to couples and conformity. In an effort to overcorrect for all the lesbians they wrongly deemed roommates over the centuries, my biographers will probably assume I was sleeping with Tara, that we were lifelong lovers. If I even get a biographer at all. Probably not because there’s suddenly nothing original about me or my contributions to society. The Friendship Soulmate Revolution is as good as dead.
Hal decides she’s done trying to earn my approval and puts on her business voice. “We’re going down to city hall tomorrow morning to make it official,” she tells Tara and me. “You’re welcome to come if you want; it would mean a lot. But don’t bother if you’re going to be all judgy about it.”
Hal goes on to say that she was hoping that Astrid could move in here so we could all still live together, but based on our reactions, she’s reconsidered and decided it’s best if she moves to Astrid’s apartment in Washington Heights.
Washington Heights is an egregiously long subway ride from here—might as well be Washington State. I carve my stoniest expression and tell Hal and Astrid that unfortunately I have a prior engagement tomorrow. “But I wish you the very best in your little prison cell together, I really do.”
Without tying my boots, without zipping my coat, I head out the door. I don’t slam it on the way out, don’t even close it. I leave it open, letting the frozen air strike until Hal has to get up and close the door herself, like she’s already done on us.
It’s very late by the time I return to the Inn, already morning. Tara has texted me to say that she’s gone down to city hall to be there for Hal and Astrid.
I don’t love it obviously but want to support Hal,she says.Lmkif you want to come too. We’ve still got each other and always will.
Tara’s too soft for her own good; it’s sad to watch. I shut myself in our room, covering my head with my pillow because I’m basically buried already. Everything I stand for is going to the grave that some people call the altar. It’s hard to breathe and I wonder for a second what it would be like if I just stopped inhaling altogether. The thought makes me angry that I even entertained it. I’m not someone who gives up; I’m someone who gets up.
So I wind up going to city hall too. It’s not like I’ve had a change of heart about giving my blessing or anything; I just want to catch a glimpse of Hal and Astrid so I can process that it’s actually happening. It’s proven that seeing the dead body is a necessary stage of grief to help process it, so that’s all I’m doing. Seeing the cadaver.
City hall is down in the Financial District, next to Tribeca and not far from Chris’s apartment. I’m not thinking about him; it’s just a random fact that pops in my head as I’m trying to distract myself from the ghastly scene before me.
There’s a line outside city hall. Apparently everyone wants their modern little elopement to make them feel better about how they’re about to be legally tethered to another person.
I hide in the crowd without having to hide at all. That’s probably the best thing about Manhattan. The ability to not be seen. It’s the worst thing about it too. How no one ever sees you.
Finally Hal and Astrid emerge from the hall. Hal is in this penguin tux she got who knows where, and Astrid’s in a white calico frock with a faux fur capelet. They unleash the PDA right there on the steps, a flamboyant dip and kiss. The other people in line to get married are hooting and hollering, and Tara’s there snapping all these photos.
I try to feel outraged as I watch it all go down, but there’s an envy rearing up instead. I try to tell myself I’m just jealous that Astrid isstealing Hal away, but I’m worried I might actually be jealous of both of them together and the life they’re skipping off to with real commitment, more than our pact ever meant apparently. Jealous of how they’re leaving me behind, a relic of a past era but too recent for antique shops to ascribe any value to.
There’s the temptation to walk over to Hal and let her know that I came after all, but my body won’t let me. So I just stand there and watch them twirl around for the camera. They eventually head off into the crowd and Tara texts me that they’re going back to Lone Wolf if I want to join them for drinks.
I don’t move, just stay and watch the other couples come streaming out of city hall with their new spouses, everyone beaming like they’ve won the fucking lottery. It makes me wonder, just for the briefest of moments, if I’m doing something wrong by not buying my ticket too. The whole scene has an unexpectedly rebellious vibe to it. No fuss over the seating arrangement, no meltdowns because the centerpieces came in the wrong shade of beige. It’s the way I’d go about it if I had to get married. But I don’t have to—that’s the whole point. Plus, I’m seeing people at the very peak of their married life, the fleeting euphoric aftermath. It’s all downhill after this.
Just for the absurdity of it, I picture what my wedding would look like. I’d be skateboarding down the courthouse steps in a white suit. I can’t tell who I’m getting married to, but Arnie’s there so that gives me a bad feeling but also a good feeling. It’s the exact opposite of what I want, but given all my contrarian shit, I’m not sure if that means I actually hate the idea or just hate the idea of the idea.
Zigzagging through the streets now, I find myself near Chris’s apartment and I nearly go up so I can take Arnie out for a walk. But I’m still holding firm to my efforts to distance myself from Chris, what with how attached he’s become and all, so I just pause outside the Windemere and keep walking all the way up to 14th Street, my head winning the battle against my feet by not turning around.
