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“Everything OK?” Claude asked, walking up to us and seeing our tense faces and MJ’s aggressive posture.
“Yes. Yes,” MJ said. “Kitt was just telling us she has to leave, and we were just trying to convince her to stay a little longer.”
“Oh, you must stay,” Claude said. “We’re about to serve dinner—”
“No, no,” Kitt said. “So gracious of you, but I really must dash—”
“Bye, girl,” MJ said, offering a saccharine smile before leaning forward and bussing the air on each side of Kitt’s face.
“Yes, let me just grab my purse.”
Nonplussed, Kitt turned in little circles, then followed Claude like a scolded puppy when Claude said, “Come, let me help you find your purse.”
As MJ moved through the night, her skirt suit glowed like 10,000 fireflies. She had strung rhinestones through Jackson’s braids, and as he moved his head sparks seemed to fly from his hair. In my pale-lavender suit, I glowed like phosphorus. Tonight, the three of us seemed not to just shimmer with light but to be light itself.
Dinner was over and the reception was winding down when Jackson stood as the DJ handed him the microphone. “Oren and I would like to thank Claude and Octavio and especially MJ for this evening. Our marriage license, our City Hall wedding hasgiven us legal protection, recognition, safety, but this reception has given us family. For that, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.”
As Jackson spoke, unexpectedly, I noticed the waitstaff were again passing out glasses of Champagne. When the applause died down, Jackson raised his glass and said, “I’d like to make a toast to my husband—gosh, I never thought I’d ever be able to use the word ‘husband’ to describe the man I love—a man who, forty years ago had the opportunity to leave our shitty little provincial town. He could have gone alone. Instead, he chose to take me with him. O, thank you for giving me the time of my life.”
Fighting tears and almost choking on love for Jackson, I whispered to MJ, who went to talk to the DJ. I stood, raising my glass. “To Jackson. Thank you for being my wings and my anchor.” We touched glasses. “May I have this dance?” I asked. He looked perplexed because we hadn’t rehearsed this. Still, he took my hand, and we made our way to the dance floor. He paused and threw his head back in laughter as he recognized the song the DJ had cued up: Aretha Franklin’s “Son of a Preacher Man.” I will carry that picture of Jackson in his midnight-blue tux, his head thrown back in laughter, with me always.
MJ was spending the night at her parents’ house, so Jackson and I were to ride home alone. As we walked to the driveway with everyone following behind us, we discovered that the town car had been replaced by a lemon-yellow 1958 Buick Series 60 Century Convertible—the exact model my parents had ridden away from their own wedding in. It is the last photo in their wedding album. MJ has always loved that photo. On the trunkwas written “Just Married,” and tin cans had been tied to the rear bumper with ribbon in the colors of the rainbow.
“Oh, MJ!” I cried. “Where—”
“Later,” MJ said, kissing me on the cheek. “Now go home with your husband.”
From the backseat, as we looked over our shoulders at our friends lining the driveway, I noticed MJ’s cameraman running behind the car with his camera.
At home, horny, half-drunk, and eager to consummate our new legal status, we started tossing off our clothes in the foyer that had at one time served as the house’s portrait gallery. Portraits of the original owners’ patriarchs and matriarchs stared down in stern disapproval at our discarded clothing.
We tumbled into bed. Naked. We assumed our respective positions and…fell asleep.
Sunday, September 6, 2015, Janus—On Monday’s evening news, MJ congratulated us on our marriage and showed a highlight reel of our wedding and reception. This served as a teaser to the larger story that would be shown on the network’s hour-long Sunday news wrap-up program.
The story that aired tonight profiled us and a lesbian couple who had been married by their fathers—a rabbi and a Presbyterian minister. The story focused on growing up and highlighted the differences between my and Jackson’s experiences and those of the lesbian couple, who were in their late thirties, and how we’d felt before and after getting married, and the importance of straight allies.
The mayor, who of course was interviewed, said,“Today, it was my great honor and privilege to marry two men, whom I’d only met minutes before their marriage. My understanding is that they hale from a rural part of our great state, where growing up, they didn’t find the love or acceptance every child deserves. As a father, hearing that hurt me deeply. I hope that by joining them in holy matrimony today, I took a step toward correcting that wrong decades after the fact. And I want to send a clear message that I—and my administration—stand firm in the belief that every citizen deserves the same rights as every other citizen.”
The segment closed with a still photo of Jackson and me being driven away in the backseat of the Buick while looking back at the camera, the wordsJust Married, vivid against the car’s bright-yellow paint, the cans tied to the rear bumper kicking up tiny sparks in the dark. MJ had brilliantly recreated the photo in my parents’ wedding album. I thought of my parents and for the first time wondered if they would have been proud of the man I’ve become, if they would have loved Jackson.
After the program ended, wrestling with emotions even I couldn’t articulate, I suggested we watch a movie. We settled on some confusing movie starring Sylvester Stallone and too much blood. More than an hour later, our landline rang as we were trapped in a movie-induced stupor. Our caller ID had announced it was Jackson’s parents calling, so he put the call on speaker as he always does when they call so I can hear and he doesn’t have to repeat the ugliness they spout. “At first,” Reverend Jackson thundered, “I did not mind that boy—”
“Man. He hasn’t been a boy in decades. He’s a man—”
“That he led you astray. I was sure he’d lose his hold on you, and you’d return home and to the path of righteousness. And youcould take over my ministry and truly show proof of God’s grace—”
“The fact that Oren and I have been together for thirty-nine years despite people like you trying to tear us apart is proof of God’s grace.”
Through my sleepy haze, I heard shouting and what sounded like chanting. Even in my sleepy state, I clearly heard Reverend Jackson scream, “Your blasphemy I can overlook, but this is going too far.”
“What are you talking about?” Jackson asked wearily.
“How dare you go on television and flaunt your wedding—” he spat the word “—embarrassing me.”
“Embarrassing you? No one gives a shit about you. Least of all me.”
“This is a travesty, not a marriage. It is a sterile union. There will never be children, therefore it is not a marriage in God’s eyes!”
