Chapter 13

We decided to have the wedding in New York City: it was a tolerant place and we didn't know anyone there, so we'd be free to be exuberant.

On the flight I tried to get mom to join the Mile High Club—we could cover up with the little blankets they give you—but she said we shouldn't push our luck.

We stayed in the penthouse suite of a small hotel in Greenwich Village. Diana figured we could splurge since we'd saved so much money by not having to pay Jacquot. The suite had a king-sized waterbed, which were new back then; I was looking forward to giving it a test ride. It also had a private roof garden with a great view of the city.

After we unpacked she said, "I need to henna my hair," and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard water running, and she came out in a robe with her head wrapped in a towel.

I'd seen her this way before and assumed that was just how she dried her hair. "What's henna?" I asked.

"Henna's how the red gets in my hair."

I was shocked. "I thought it was just that way."

"'Fraid not. If you're going to be my husband, I guess you need to know a few things."

"You mean you dye your hair?"

"It's not really dye. It's like a rinse I put on ... then it has to sit. It's all natural," she said a bit defensively. "Made from the leaves of a plant."

"If you didn't put it on, what color would your hair be?"

"Brown ... just like yours."

I was astounded. All these years I'd thought we had different colored hair, but underneath this stuff we were the same. "That's weird." I resented this henna, although I loved the rich color of her hair. "Why do you do it?"

"Because you like it that color."

"What? How do you know?" I asked, thinking she must be reading my mind.

"I tried it years ago and asked you how you liked my hair. You said great. So I've been doing it ever since. And just a couple of weeks ago you said you liked me to be your chestnut mare."

I was amazed. She did it to please me. And she remembered all my reactions to her. My opinion really mattered. "Well, it does look great. I just thought ... that was the way it was."

"Sorry to shatter your illusions."

"I'm crushed. Next you'll tell me there's no Santa Claus."

"You'll get over it, I'm sure. Actually, maybe you want to try it," she suggested with a wicked smile. "We could have matching hair for the wedding. Who knows, you might like it."

The idea had an alluring appeal—to look even more like her than I did already. I pictured our hair entangled as we made love, unable to tell one from the other. We'd look like one tree with merged trunks and the same color leaves. But I drew back from the idea, afraid of disappearing into her. We needed some distinction between us. After all, the parts that were the most different were the ones that gave us the most pleasure. "I don't think so," I said.

She scrinched her gamine face at me. "Want to be the tough guy, huh?"

"Well, it's a hard job ... but somebody's gotta do it," I said. "Let's go outside and look around." I led her through the French doors out onto our roof garden, and we gazed out over Washington Square with its arch and fountain. Greenwich Village isn't as high-rise as the rest of Manhattan; the surrounding buildings didn't tower over us, so we could see a long ways into a forest of stone, metal, and glass under a hazy gray sky. In summer swelter we sat side by side on chaise lounges among potted plants.

"Take off your robe," I said.

Mom glanced around nervously. "Someone could see."

"From way over there?" I pointed to a far building taller than ours. "They'd need binoculars."

"Everybody in New York has binoculars. But what the hell. It's the Big Apple—Give 'em a thrill." She slipped out of her robe. "The sun is hot ... and so is this son." Mom tousled my hair. "They'll think I'm an old woman with a young gigolo."

"You don't look old." I rubbed her sleek leg. "They'll think the truth, that we're a honeymoon couple, the way we're all over each other."

Diana sipped her kirsch-sweetened lemonade. "We're not even married yet."

"That's right. That means this is our last chance to sin." I moved my hand up and caressed her garden. "How long does it take this henna stuff to dry?"

"About half an hour."

"Great."

It was muggy and buggy but we didn't mind. We made love while traffic noise, jazz, sirens, our shouts and those of our fellow villagers, all the great wild roar of Manhattan thronged the air around us.

Afterwards we strolled arm in arm through Greenwich Village. We really felt at home in this bohemian enclave—everybody was a freak of one sort or another. From the crowds here it was obvious that more and more people weren't fitting into the cookie-cutter mold of straight society. I began to understand how important it was to have these alternatives to the mainstream.

Diana and I had dinner in a sidewalk café, then went to a jazz club that reminded her of the be-bop spots in the 1950s. We didn't stay late, though; we wanted to be rested for the big day tomorrow.

In the morning we went shopping. Now that we were getting more traditional, I tried to convince mom to get a white wedding dress, since she'd never been married before, but she said she'd be too self-conscious. In a West Village boutique she found a silk dress with gold and violet flowers on a white background. It looked great with her freshly hennaed hair.

I didn't own a suit and didn't want one, and I've never worn ties, although my grandparents gave me one for every birthday. I preferred to wear my phallus between my legs rather than around my neck like a hangman's noose. In a Hippie shop on the Lower East Side I found burgundy bellbottoms and a white linen shirt with a Nehru collar.

Diana decided she wanted to wear the traditional something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. She had the new dress and had brought along a cameo barrette that had been her grandmother's. For blue we found a beautiful lapis lazuli necklace and earrings in a hand-crafted jewelry shop. But what could she borrow?

When we went back to the hotel, the maid was cleaning the hallway. She was a friendly, heavyset black woman, and Diana asked her if she had a bobby pin she could borrow. "Why sure, honey," she replied, searching in her hair and plucking one out. "You sure you need just one?"

"That's fine, thanks," mom said and stuck it above her ear.

She secreted herself in the bathroom for a few minutes and emerged in blue eye shadow and apricot lipstick. We put on all our new finery and stood arm in arm for inspection in the full-length mirror. "A very attractive couple ... in my biased opinion," mom said.

"We look great together," I agreed.

As we were getting ready to leave, I surprised her with a wreath of red rosebuds for her hair. She loved it—the crowning touch.

Outside, on a street softened by late-afternoon shadows, we flagged down a battered yellow cab. "Central Park, please," Diana said.

"Central Park?" The driver tossed back curtly, "What part a Central Park? It's huge." His accent was so heavy I could barely understand him.

"Where the horses are," I put in.

"Horses?" He snorted as if we'd insulted him, then turned the radio up and listened to the Mets game, cheering them on to another glorious defeat.

We got out by the carriage stand on Central Park South and rented a horse taxi. This driver was polite and friendly, an out-of-work actor. The horse was sadder looking than our Colorado mares, laden with blinders, feed bag and heavy harness, but his hooves made nice clip-clops on the street and he lifted his tail and made some nice plops there, a bit of nature in the city. We meandered through the sylvan oasis of the park, enjoying the trees and grass and slow pace, looking for the right setting for our ceremony. When we saw a small pond and a meadow with not too many people around, we told him to stop, we'd be staying here.

Above the trees, skyscrapers enclosed the park in a jagged, toothy horizon. The sun had disappeared behind them but still shone on the clouds, which hung in stripes of mottled gold.

We strolled about, searching for the best spot. Three people were tossing a Frisbee around and three others were passing a joint around. Ducks with shiny green heads cruised the pond and waddled through the reeds and ferns around its bank. Two birds with sleek black heads flew with beaks full of bugs to a nest hidden high among the leafy branches of a maple. Grass grew thick beneath the tree, almost hiding the cigarette butts and other trash that were a constant reminder of the surrounding millions.

We decided this tree would be our witness, and walked over to it with the bag we'd brought with us. I patted its bark and said, "Thank you for being here at our wedding."

"Mighty maple tree," Diana addressed it, "you are our minister, maid of honor, and best man. Please witness our vows."

I took out the notes we'd made for the ceremony, and we read aloud passages on love from First Corinthians and The Prophet.

Standing with arms around each other's waists, we said in unison, "We are here to declare that our relationship has grown and improved. In addition to being mother and son we are now going to be wife and husband. Today we are having a family marriage. We promise to stay together, to have and to hold in joy and in sorrow, through good times and bad, to honor and cherish each other with faithful love."