“I was Larry’s wife.”
Everything about her changed.
Her hands stopped.
Her expression softened.
“Larry?”
I nodded.
“He died last week.”
Margaret pushed back her chair.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Before I understood what was happening, she had come around the desk and hugged me.
I stood stiffly inside her arms.
When she stepped away, her eyes were wet.
“I knew he was sick,” she said. “I didn’t realize he had so little time.”
I stared at her.
“You knew Larry?”
She frowned.
“Of course.”
“How?”
Margaret hesitated as though the answer should have been obvious.
Then she said, “He worked here.”
I actually laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because my mind refused to accept it.
“Larry?”
“For twenty-eight years.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
I thought of his old coat.
His cardboard sign.
The subway entrance.
The backpack that contained almost everything he owned.
“What did he do?”
“Marriage licenses, mostly.”
Margaret removed her glasses.
“He really never told you?”
“No.”
A sad smile crossed her face.
“That sounds like Larry.”
For illustrative purposes only
Part 5 — Hundreds of Weddings, Never His Own
