Work Text:
The March sun hangs high and gentle, casting a golden light across the backyard of 11222 Dilling Street. Marcia Brady, a vision of pre-teen poise at twelve years old, glides down the aisle runner. It’s a masterpiece of childhood ingenuity: a length of woven straw, its coarse texture softened by dozens of small, polished seashells collected from a recent family trip to Malibu. Every ten feet, a bamboo torch, unlit for the daytime ceremony, stands sentinel, tied with a simple white ribbon. As her pink patent leather flats touch the end of the aisle, she turns and takes her place to the side, a smile of genuine accomplishment on her face.
Marcia gazes out at the yard, her newly shared yard. The boys’ backyard. Her family’s backyard. The lawn, manicured and verdant green, now holds a whimsical array of small, circular tables. Each table is draped in a white linen tablecloth, but the real charm comes from the delicate point d'esprit voiles that zigzag across them, catching the light in a thousand tiny, embroidered dots. The voiles are translucent and airy, making the tables look like floating puffs of cloud. She runs a hand down her positively pink bridesmaid dress, a creation of floral-print cotton with a lace collar and a cinched waist. A matching flower bouquet, a simple arrangement of white baby’s breath and small pink carnations, is tied to her wrist with a ribbon. It’s perfect. It’s groovy.
The back sliding glass door, a portal between the familiar house and the transformed yard, slides open with a gentle whoosh. Peter, all of nine years old and looking incredibly formal in his black tuxedo with a bright red bow tie, steps through. His black pants are a little long, pooling slightly around his shiny dress shoes, but he wears the outfit with a serious, grown-up air. A miniature white carnation is pinned to his lapel, a tiny boutonnière that he’s been nervously patting all morning. He holds a cardboard box aloft, carefully navigating the ribbon curtain that hangs in the doorway, its white and pastel streamers swaying with his movement.
He makes his way to a magnificent sight: a large, gnarled oak tree that dominates one corner of the yard. His dad, a man of surprising woodworking skill, has carved a broad, circular table directly into the tree’s trunk. The rough, textured wood of the table is a beautiful contrast to the smooth, finished surface of the house. Peter sets the box down on the carved table with a soft thud and begins to carefully unpack its contents. They are not glass, but heavy, clear plastic wine glasses, sparkling like cut crystal in the sunlight. He arranges them in neat rows, his tongue sticking out in concentration.
Jan, who is also nine but a whole world of difference in personality, walks out next. She is carrying a large, handcrafted birch wreath. Marcia smiles at her. The wreath is a thing of natural beauty, woven with pliable birch branches, their pale, paper-like bark contrasting with the deep green of leptosporum and trailing ivy. Tucked into the foliage are a few crystals, their facets catching the light and creating fleeting rainbows that dance across the lawn.
"It's perfect, Jan," Marcia says, her voice full of admiration. "It's exactly how we planned it."
Jan, her face flushed with pride, struggles to hold the heavy wreath steady. "I know, but where do we hang it? It's too high."
Marcia’s eyes scan the makeshift altar: a simple, elegant arbor of intertwining white-painted wood at the end of the aisle runner, waiting to be adorned. She quickly spots the solution and dashes to the side of the house. A moment later, she returns with a sturdy, wooden stepladder.
“Here,” she says, unfolding it with a snap. “This’ll do it.”
Marcia holds the stepladder steady as Jan climbs up, her pink dress skirt rustling around her knees. With a final heave, Jan lifts the wreath and hooks it onto the central beam of the arbor. It hangs perfectly, is a stunning focal point, and is a testament to the new beginnings about to take place. They stand back, shoulder to shoulder, admiring their handiwork. As they do, a small, six-year-old tornado of bright yellow-and-pink floral dresses and pure joy barrels out of the house. It's Cindy, clutching a large, white plastic bucket with both hands. The bucket sloshes with its precious cargo: brightly colored flower petals in a dizzying array of hues—deep fuchsia, sunny yellow, vibrant orange, and soft lavender.
Cindy’s mission is clear. She holds the bucket low to the ground and, with an innocent seriousness that only a six-year-old can possess, she walks around each of the small tables, carefully creating a colorful, rug-like effect around the legs of the chairs and the base of the table. She scatters the petals with a methodical rhythm, making sure each section of the yard receives its fair share of floral confetti. The air fills with the sweet, delicate fragrance of a garden in full bloom.
While Cindy diligently decorates the ground, a familiar, no-nonsense figure emerges from the garage, her arms laden with a long, sturdy case. It’s Alice, her blue-and-white checkered dress a beacon of stability and her practical sensibilities a welcome comfort. She carries a case of what looks like craft supplies and a long roll of paper to a low, long table that has been set up near the hedge.
The table is unlike the others. It’s low to the ground, almost like a picnic table for little people, but it’s long enough to comfortably seat eleven children. She sets her case down and, with a practiced flick of her wrist, unrolls a length of naturally pigmented kraft paper down the full length of the table. It’s a warm, earthy brown, a perfect blank canvas. She folds the flaps neatly beneath the table, securing the paper in place. Alice then sets to work, tactfully decorating the paper with an assortment of rubber stamps. There are stamps of tiny stars, crescent moons, and little cartoon flowers.
She works with a quiet efficiency, pressing each stamp with a firm, even hand. Her expression is one of fond amusement as she contemplates the chaos that will inevitably unfold around this table. But then, she reaches for a different set of stamps: a complete alphabet. She stamps a letter at each place setting, a subtle but firm declaration of assigned seats.
Suddenly, two more figures appear from the sliding glass door. Greg, all of thirteen years old and exuding an easy, teenage cool, follows a bouncing Bobby, who is a year younger at seven. Greg wears a black tuxedo that fits him much better than Peter’s, a crisp red tie, and a boutonnière just like Peter’s. He runs a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, a hint of nervousness showing through his usual confident demeanor.
Bobby, on the other hand, is not nervous at all. He is a whirlwind of pure energy in his little tuxedo. He’s already found his target.
Greg joins Marcia at the altar, a broad, genuine smile on his face. "Wow, Marcia. You look great," he says, his voice a little softer than usual. "That dress is really groovy."
Marcia preens slightly, her earlier concentration now giving way to a bit of teenage vanity. "Thanks, Greg. You look pretty snazzy yourself. The red ties were a good idea."
They stand there for a moment, two halves of a new whole, both acutely aware of the magnitude of the day. The girls, Jan and Cindy, wear similar positively pink bridesmaid dresses, a sea of bright colors and cheerful innocence. Greg and the other boys are in their sharp black tuxedos with red ties and miniature white carnations on their lapels, looking like miniature versions of their father. Bobby, meanwhile, has been on a beeline mission. He has successfully evaded his older brother and sisters and now stands, transfixed, at the end of the long concession table.
It's groaning under the weight of an assortment of finger sandwiches, fruit skewers, and a multi-tiered wedding cake. The cake, a majestic confection of white buttercream with delicate pink and red sugar flowers, is the centerpiece. It’s enormous. It’s magnificent. It's calling his name. His hand, a little too close to the cake stand for comfort, is suddenly and expertly intercepted.
Alice, with the reflexes of a seasoned housekeeper who has seen it all, has appeared from behind him as if from nowhere.
"A-ha!" she says, her voice a low, theatrical whisper. "I don't think so, mister. That's for the guests. And your new mom and dad." She takes his small hand in hers, a firm but gentle hold, and gently drags him away from the dessert and toward the kids' table. "Don't you want to help me set out the juice?"
Bobby, caught in the act, offers a sheepish grin and allows himself to be led away.
As if on cue, the front doorbell rings. And then again. And again. The sound of excited chatter, laughter, and greetings begins to fill the air. The guests, a mix of old friends and family from both sides of the aisle, start to trickle into the backyard. They ooh and aah over the decorations, compliment the children on their beautiful outfits, and gather in small groups, their faces alight with anticipation. The hum of conversation rises, blending with the soft strains of a guitar playing a familiar tune from the stereo. The moment is here. The day is here. The wedding is about to begin.