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She started to cry. “The Supreme Court ruled in favor of marriage equality.”
“What?” I dropped my ice cream. I’d completely forgottentoday was the day.
“Holy shit!” Jackson shouted. “The Supreme Court just made same sex marriage the law of the land.”
“When are you two getting married?” MJ asked in my ear as I stared at Jackson, trying to decipher his reaction, and then saw tears coursing down his cheeks as he embraced me.
“Everyone is texting me asking when we’re getting married.”
Cars driving down the street blew their horns; people on the sidewalks whooped and hollered and hugged strangers. Jackson and I, caught in the maelstrom of excitement and disbelief, hugged each other.
“MJ, let me call you back. I need to check the news.”
“Be sure you’re near a TV. It’s our lead story tonight.” And she was gone.
A few minutes later, Claude texted me:
Let us know when you two are getting married. We would be honored to host your reception at our house. It will be our gift to you both. Just let us know the date. We’ll take care of everything else.
Hugs & Kisses,
Claude & Octavio
Saturday, August 8, 2015, Janus—Jackson and I are getting married. It’s all we’ve talked about since leaving Rehoboth. We’ve settled on August 28 as the date, so we’ve been shopping for wedding bands—Cartier, Tiffany, Van Cleef & Arpels. Today, we decided nothing appealed to us, so we are opting to exchange the same heavy platinum Atlas rings from Tiffany & Co. we gave each other nearly three decades ago on our tenth anniversary. Back then, we’d taken the precious rings out of their dark velvet boxes and placed them on each other’s fingers at the jewelry counter. The saleswoman witnessing the exchange wished usmazel tov, and we’d gone to dinner at the hottest Cuban restaurant in the city. This time around, there would be an actual marriage license and a justice of the peace and MJ and her parents as witnesses—we had no family and no church, so a justice of the peace ceremony seemed a reasonable option—and a reception with friends, hosted by Claude and Octavio.
Saturday, August 29, 2015, Janus—Yesterday, Jackson and I got married. We’d originally planned to go to a justice of the peace with MJ as our witness, but she convinced us to marry at City Hall in the chambers of a judge she and Octavio knew. She also wanted to film our wedding for a news story.
MJ arrived in a town car to pick us up at 4:15. She emerged from the car’s shadowy depths wearing a circa 1970s Halston crystal and pearl beaded black silk chiffon jacket with a matching skirt. The heavily beaded jacket was open at the front and had long bishop sleeves, which were gathered at the wrist. She looked stunning: understated and elegant. MJ studied us each in turn from the bottom of the porch steps. Jackson was wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo with a silk shawl collar that flattered his litheness while making his shoulders look broader. I was wearing a lavender linen suit with a mint-green silk bow tie with lavender flowers that Jackson had bought for me one morning in Italy when he’d gone out to get us coffee.
“You’re both gorgeous,” MJ pronounced. Then, turning around and offering us each an arm, she said, “Shall we go, gentlemen?”
As I slid into the seat next to her, Jackson leaned in and asked, “Where are Claude and Octavio?”
“They’re meeting us there.”
Getting in, Jackson asked MJ, “You’re alone?”
“No. I’m with the two of you.”
“No,” Jackson said in the teasing tone he tends to adopt with MJ, “I thought you might have had a plus-one.”
“Why would I need a plus-one when I have the two of you?” she asked, straightening her already perfect posture. MJ has always been notoriously tight-lipped about her love life. In college, she’d been in a fewentanglements—boys like glancing blows to her heart. She in her turn, I was sure, had bruised, if not altogether broken, a few others.
We fell silent as we walked through City Hall’s whispering grandeur, feeling the weight of what was about to happen. Wewere getting married; what had always seemed an impossibility suddenly wasn’t.
“Mary Jane,” a voice boomed pleasantly, causing her name to ricochet around the marble columns supporting a terra cotta ceiling.
“Mister Mayor,” MJ responded, turning around. The mayor kissed her cheek. “Let me introduce you to my friends, Oren and Jackson. Jackson, Oren, His Honor the Mayor.”
“A pleasure, a pleasure,” he said to each of us in turn in his booming voice while taking our hands in his and looking us in the eye before covering our hand with his free hand. Noticing the cameraman trailing us at a carefully calculated distance so that he was present but not intrusive, he asked, “Where are you off to, Mary Jane?”
“We’re headed to Judge McAfee’s chambers—he’s going to marry these two.”
“Wonderful. Mazel tov,” he said, looking at us then, turning to MJ, added, “I know the judge—wonderful man. I’ve an idea. What if instead of the judge, I perform the ceremony?” He looked at us. We looked at MJ.
“I’ll leave that decision to you two,” MJ said.
The mayor has always supported LGBTQ folks and marches in the parade every year; he was an early supporter of marriage equality. It is rumored that his daughter is a lesbian. She’d come out to her parents young and then swore them to secrecy. I think on some level he hoped marrying us in a public way would encourage her to open up. Also, he never met a camera he didn’t like.
