By Anna Von Reitz
Uriah got back in the wee hours of the morning. Bathsheba and I were in the kitchen hunched over cups of herbal tea, hoping to sleep. Eight days without a word. Iranian missiles carpet bombing most of the Middle East. She stood up and stumbled into his arms.
I left the two of them clutched together like shipwrecked mariners and fled up the back stairway to my guestroom.
In the morning, it was only Uriah and I at breakfast. The late night and the demands of the regimen exhausted Bathsheba; she went back to bed after the first early morning session. Uriah looked pale and vaguely haggard, but he smiled his old smile when he saw me and said, "Good morning, Pants."
"If the suit fits, wear it!"
This was a total formula, earned when I acquired the nickname
"Old Iron Pants".
"Old Iron Pants".
I looked him deep in the eye and asked, "Is it over?"
"Not yet," he replied with a faint flicker of concern.
We were talking about the British extraction of records, people, and assets from Dubai, without really talking about it.
He clapped the lid on the old WWII vintage coffee pot, the one informally labeled as "my" coffee pot, and I considered the kindness that kept a coffee pot for me when everyone else drank tea. The ancient percolator hissed.
"How'd it go?" I asked.
And now we weren't talking about Dubai, we were talking about the reunion with Bathsheba, and we both understood that implicitly without a word being said to shift the subject. It just shifted, and so did we.
"She's exhausted," he replied. "Who wouldn't be?"
We were quiet then for at least a whole minute, just letting the percolator perk, until I finally said, "Isn't it odd? Out of all the young math gurus, none of us actually went into mathematics."
That caused an automatic resorting and thoughts, a sieve-like process as we recalled the names and faces and fates of all the
classmates and co-workers who started out with us.
"I turned in my resignation letter," he abruptly confided.
"That's wonderful!"
"What time we have left on Earth is ours," he said as he poured me a cup of steaming coffee. "She asked me if I wanted her to have breast reduction surgery...."
"Well?" I looked up at him, listening intently.
"No, thank you! I spent enough years without her, to ever put her at risk. We'll use traditional herbs to dry her up and -- gradually -- take back our lives with her breasts intact."
He was faced toward the red light of morning pouring in through the high windows. He looked like a man at peace, a little bittersweet around the edges, but ready and resolved.
"Oh," he perked up suddenly. "And you are going to be the Matron of Honor, next December 12th."
"You can't possibly be serious," I sputtered. "I've served as Maid of Honor or Matron of Honor at sixteen weddings! Sixteen!"
"But never at our wedding," he countered.
"No, no, no! I will be seventy years old next December, and by the way, I live in a different country."
"If you've already done sixteen weddings, what's one more?"
"No!" I practically shouted, imagining the difficulties, the endless decision-making, the terrible small arguments, the Guest List, the rentals and dress-makers, and etiquette questions worse than a full session of Parliament. "No!"
"Dear Pants," he said gently, "there's always a penalty to be paid for loyally supporting an underdog, and this is it. If not for you, I'd be sitting in my flat in Portsmouth, all alone, with nothing to look forward to but an epitaph: "Here lies a Yummy Plumber."
I felt like a gaffed fish.
"You are breaking protocol," I sniffed. "Bathsheba is supposed to ask me."
"You can be my Best Man, too," he shot back.
I thought of the two of us sitting at the pub together the night of her first wedding, when she married King David, and teared up suddenly. In an unexpected, totally uncharacteristic breach of his stolid British reserve, Uriah hugged me.
Hugging is somewhat frowned upon in Britain and is more likely to happen between men engaged in some endeavor -- like a rugby match.
"Well-played, Uriah," I said, my voice coming out muffled against his jacket lapel. "Well-played. Best Man it is."
Granna
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