Then Margaret said something that made me remember her trembling hands.
“He looked at that bow and said, ‘Tomorrow I’m standing across the desk.’”
Margaret opened the folder.
Inside were old marriage records.
He turned to a page.
A couple's names appeared at the top.
At the bottom was Larry's signature.
Besides, there was a word.
Witness.
She turned another page.
Another couple.
Another date.
Another Larry.
Again, next to your signature:
Witness.
For illustrative purposes only
And then another.
And another.
Hundreds of names seemed to pass before my eyes.
Different couples.
Different years.
But always the same handwriting.
Always Larry.
“He used to step up when people walked in with no one else,” Margaret explained.
“I couldn’t stand the thought of someone getting married without anyone by their side.”
I played one of his signatures.
It looked exactly like the signature on my marriage certificate.
“How many weddings have you witnessed?”
“Hundreds, probably.”
She smiled.
“I used to joke that I had attended more weddings than anyone else in the building and never had to remember an anniversary.”
A little laugh escaped me.
Then I asked the question I didn’t expect to ask.
“Have you ever married before?”
Margaret closed the folder.
“Once.
My heart skipped me.
“Whom?”
She looked at me straight.
“You.
I sat down.
For twenty-eight years, Larry had seen strangers enter that building as two separate people and leave legally connected.
Every time someone needed a witness, he stepped forward.
His name appeared again and again.
But never next to the word spouse.
Not until I.
Margaret opened another drawer.
“There’s something else.”
She placed a plastic sleeve on the table.
Inside was a copy of our marriage certificate.
My name.
Larry's name.
And next to his name:
SPOUSE.
I remembered how careful Larry had doubled his copy after the ceremony.
I remembered him asking the employee twice where he was supposed to sign.
I had joked about him.
“You’re acting like this is a real wedding.”
He had been silent for a moment.
Then he smiled.
“First marriage. Let me have my nerves.”
At that moment, I laughed.
I couldn't now.
Margaret sat next to me.
“Did Larry tell you why he wanted to marry you?”
I told him about the letter.
I told him that I had admitted that the disease was real, but the story about a wife’s need for the city not to bury him anonymously was not.
Margaret listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she didn't defend it.
“That wasn’t fair to you,” he said.
“No.
“But Larry was always better at asking for practical help than asking someone to choose him.”
I looked at her.
“What was he really saying yes to?”
Margaret looked at the marriage certificate.
“That’s not my story to tell.”
I wanted to ask more.
But then I remembered the rest of Larry's letter.
He told me to come first.
He wanted me to see the records.
Witnesses.
The countless weddings.
And finally, your own marriage certificate.
I left the courthouse and took the subway home.
But when the train hit Larry's old stop, I got off.
I went to the coffee kiosk next to the station.
The woman behind the counter recognized me.
“Two?”
I almost said yes.
Then I looked at the empty place where Larry had spent so many mornings.
“Yes.
He gave me my coffee with cream.
And Larry's usual black coffee.
I was carrying both outside.
For two years, I had never stayed there long enough to finish a cup.
