I Didn't Sign for Twelve Brides

Nadine Voss catches the folding corner of Curtis Bellamy’s sketch with one finger as he tries to slide it into a battered shoebox on the fan-shaped bench outside Everafter Bridal. Silver rain stripes the glass roof above them, and the wooded ridge beyond the highway cuts a black edge beneath the last copper light. “Those are Bernice’s hands,” Nadine says, her painted green cheek stitches reflected beside twelve motionless bridal gowns; Curtis folds the portrait inward, and Nadine lifts her finger rather than tug.

Nadine unclasps her borrowed plum cape, pulls a folded agreement from beneath it, and lays the paper across the shoebox lid: portfolio photographs and application help on one side, two weeks as a respectable prom boyfriend on the other. Curtis taps the scholarship deadline printed on his application envelope, then points at the word “respectable” while Nadine pulls her cape collar up around her ears in a creature-feature pose. “Apparently monsters don’t qualify, even when they arrive home on time,” she says, lowering the collar and pushing a pen toward him. Curtis writes “No kissing” beneath the terms and leaves the pen beside her hand.

“Even television monsters deserve advance permission,” Nadine says, and signs below his addition without changing a word. Curtis signs next, holding the page flat with his charcoal-marked cuff while Nadine writes Bernice’s address and their inspection time in the margin. When he lifts the shoebox, Nadine catches the loose contract before it slides onto the midnight-blue tiles and offers it back signature-side up; Curtis tucks it beneath the lid with the hidden portrait.

Bernice Voss draws Curtis Bellamy’s tucked wrists onto two squares of clean cloth at the crowded kitchen sewing table, leaving his borrowed jacket bunched around his elbows. Beneath the shaded lamp, needle scratches shine along the polished edge; beyond the butter-yellow room, rain turns the window blue against a black fringe of trees. Curtis Bellamy folds his stained cuffs inward again, but Bernice Voss spreads the cloth farther beneath them and says, “Charcoal transfers.”

Nadine Voss pulls her chair beside his and lifts her painted cheek toward the lamp when Bernice Voss points at the green stitches. “They’re painted on, Grandma—not an emergency alteration,” Nadine Voss says, slipping the signed agreement beneath her cape before its corner can catch on the button tin. Bernice Voss pinches the empty folds above Curtis Bellamy’s shoulders, then eases the borrowed jacket off him, leaving his pale-blue work shirt exposed. Nadine Voss catches the discarded jacket before its sleeve sweeps the tin onto the floor.

Bernice Voss returns from the doorway carrying a wool jacket over both forearms, its lining flashing amber as she opens it beneath the lamp. Curtis Bellamy reaches for it, then lowers his hand when Bernice Voss says, “My husband wore this one,” and Nadine Voss stops folding the borrowed jacket. Nadine Voss holds one sleeve open until Curtis Bellamy offers his arm; Bernice Voss settles the other shoulder, rolls back the cuff, and draws her scissors beside the wool.

Curtis Bellamy turns the itinerary Bernice Voss has slid beside the button tin toward Nadine Voss, keeping his charcoal-marked wrist above the jacket’s amber lining. Across Bernice’s kitchen sewing table, neat columns assign an arrival, a photograph, and every dance; rain-blue windowlight cuts a sharp border around the honey-gold lamp. Bernice Voss sets one finger beside the first dance, but Nadine Voss takes the pen and writes “ASK ME FIRST” across the columns.

“I booked an escort, Grandma, not a supporting actor in *The Bride Who Never Gets a Line*,” Nadine Voss says, pushing the paper back without releasing the pen. Bernice Voss draws the itinerary away from the scissors, and Nadine Voss sets down the pen, unplugs the sewing machine, and lifts it against her striped shirt. “Upstairs—both hands underneath,” Bernice Voss says; Nadine Voss obeys, her plum cape folded over one arm as she carries the machine through the doorway.

Curtis Bellamy starts easing out of the wool jacket, but Bernice Voss catches its shoulder, marks the new seam, and says, “Keep it on until I finish pinning.” Once she has removed it, her scissors close through the first marked edge, leaving a narrow crescent of wool beside the untouched cuff. Nadine Voss returns and hooks a finger beneath her cape clasp: “Next appointment: you, me, and the shoeboxes—all of them?” “All of them,” Curtis Bellamy says, and reaches past the crossed-out dances to write the appointment beneath them while Bernice Voss pins his shortened sleeve.

Curtis Bellamy shifts a wooden scenery brace aside and offers Nadine Voss his shoulder in the narrow gap behind the studio’s cardboard cemetery, with his unopened shoeboxes wedged beneath a flaking gravestone. At their next evening appointment, lime-green light traces the cardboard trees against deep plum curtains, turning the camera-facing side into a forest while exposing every staple behind it. Nadine Voss holds up three fingers for her three abandoned introductions, then lowers them toward his sleeve: “Is this included in the boyfriend package?” “Optional,” Curtis Bellamy says, leaving the last few inches between them clear.

Nadine Voss closes that space herself, resting her painted cheek against his shoulder and aiming her script past his elbow instead of toward the lens. She delivers the creature-feature introduction through its final warning about a monster lurking beneath the shopping carts, then starts again without lifting her cheek. Curtis Bellamy holds the brace away from her cape through a third complete rehearsal, his heel slowly rising inside his scuffed sneaker.

“Excellent acoustics,” Nadine Voss says, lifting her head to reveal green paint stamped onto his pale-blue sleeve. Curtis Bellamy steps back, his foot buckles, and his shoulder knocks the crooked cardboard moon into a swinging arc; Nadine Voss catches its scalloped edge before it hits a gravestone. Laughing, Nadine Voss steadies the moon with one hand and offers Curtis Bellamy the other, while his shoebox lids remain closed beside their shoes.

Curtis Bellamy takes Nadine Voss’s offered hand, steadies his buckled foot, and pulls the first shoebox open beneath the swinging cardboard moon. Nadine Voss lowers the moon onto a stack of gravestones, clearing a patch of floor between the exposed wooden braces. As they pack away the cemetery that evening, lime-green light cuts sharp edges along the plum curtains, and Curtis Bellamy lays a grinning shopping-cart monster across the open box like a lid.

Nadine Voss lifts the monster by its clean margins and sets it against a cardboard tree, uncovering a bus passenger asleep with a lunch sack held between both knees. Curtis Bellamy turns that portrait facedown, then reaches for a shop clerk drawn with one shoe slipped off beneath a counter; Nadine Voss withdraws her hand rather than pin the paper down. “Our contract says portfolio photographs, not a television debut,” Nadine Voss says, folding her creature-feature script over the camera lens. “The drawing faces the camera—you don’t have to.”

Curtis Bellamy slides the monster aside and opens the second box, drawing out Bernice’s portrait with her needle raised above a dark sweep of thread. Nadine Voss holds out both hands, and Curtis Bellamy places the sheet across them without folding it. “This one, before Monday,” Curtis Bellamy says, then tucks the other portraits into their boxes while Nadine Voss keeps Bernice’s hands faceup beneath the crooked moon.

Curtis Bellamy lifts Bernice’s portrait out of the shoebox and seats it on the low mounting board inside the curved scholarship window while Nadine Voss holds its upper corners clear of his charcoal-marked fingers. Hard white light picks out the raised needle and the thread across Bernice’s hands; beyond the glass, anniversary bulbs draw pink lines over the rain-dark roof and black wooded ridge. Nadine Voss releases the corners only when Curtis Bellamy slides the retaining clips into place.

Curtis Bellamy reaches behind the board and pulls the timber access panel’s recessed handle, but thick paint bridges its seams and holds it fast. “You inspect an exhibition like a plumbing problem,” Nadine Voss says, crouching beside him with her cape gathered away from the drawing. Curtis Bellamy gives the handle one last unsuccessful tug, then withdraws his hand without disturbing the portrait: “Saturday, after your show—I’ll bring a scraper.”

Outside the display, Nadine Voss lifts the empty shoebox toward Curtis Bellamy, who puts its lid on instead of reaching back for the paper. She points to the green cheek print still stamped on his pale-blue sleeve, and he folds the box beneath that arm without turning the mark inward. Across the bowed glass, reflections of the bridal gowns slide over Bernice’s drawn hands as Nadine Voss straightens the exhibition card and Curtis Bellamy leaves his name facing the promenade.

Curtis Bellamy yanks the fog machine’s plug from beneath a fan-shaped bench as Pearl Everafter clamps her plastic hand around his wrist on the glass-roofed promenade. The machine’s red lamp dies, but eleven white gowns keep advancing through the mist beneath the rain-striped roof, their reflections sliding between the black firs beyond the glass. Nadine Voss catches the loose cord before it tangles around Curtis Bellamy’s sneakers, while Bernice Voss drapes his newly fitted jacket over a shopping cart’s handle and thrusts both palms against the exterior doors.

Pearl Everafter taps the joined hands pictured on her bridal card, then pushes Curtis Bellamy’s wrist toward Nadine Voss’s open palm. “Hand-holding requires a separate agreement,” Nadine Voss says, ducking beneath their arms. Pearl Everafter follows, stops to tug Nadine Voss’s crooked cape collar straight, and reaches for her again; Curtis Bellamy twists his wrist free while the small mannequin is occupied with the clasp. Bernice Voss pulls the door handles once more, and the lock answers with a hard clack.

Pearl Everafter raises her empty wrist, directing eleven brides into a white wall between the teenagers and Bernice Voss, their veils cutting sharp triangles across the blue glass. Curtis Bellamy offers Nadine Voss his freed hand; she takes it, and he draws her around the low end of the bench before the gowns close the gap. Beside the shopping cart, Bernice Voss gathers the fitted jacket against her chest as a bridal bouquet drops onto the exact spot where Curtis Bellamy and Nadine Voss had stood.

Curtis Bellamy braces the shopping cart against a fan-shaped bench while Bernice Voss climbs into its basket, clutching his fitted jacket, and Nadine Voss tears down a loose anniversary banner to sweep across the brides’ reaching hands. Beneath the Glass-Roofed Twilight Promenade’s rain-striped panes, Curtis Bellamy swings the loaded cart around the bench’s narrow end; white skirts follow in a broad, clumsy arc through the reflected black firs. Bernice Voss grips the basket rim as one loose wheel hammers its fork.

Pearl Everafter points her empty wrist toward the next bench, but Curtis Bellamy doubles back around its fan-shaped base, leaving two brides wedged shoulder to shoulder. Nadine Voss runs beside the handle and folds her banner over a plastic hand before it can catch Curtis Bellamy’s charcoal-stained cuff. “Our agreement did not include a honeymoon getaway,” Nadine Voss says, and Curtis Bellamy lifts his elbow so she can duck beneath it without losing pace. Bernice Voss settles the jacket across her knees: “Your driving is acceptable.”

Curtis Bellamy stops behind the trailing ivy, unlocks the concealed service door, and holds it open while Nadine Voss pulls the cart toward the threshold. A metal shutter blocks the passage beyond; Curtis Bellamy tries two employee keys, but neither turns its lock. Behind the cart, white veils disappear beneath the trembling silver oval on the ten-foot anniversary numeral, while Bernice Voss gathers the jacket away from the wheels and Nadine Voss raises her folded banner again.

Pearl Everafter’s brides seize Bernice Voss beneath her elbows and lift her from the shopping cart as Nadine Voss drives the folded banner between their plastic arms. Behind the trailing ivy, Curtis Bellamy drops his useless keys against his belt and lunges from the service doorway, but a white skirt catches across his knees. The brides lower Bernice Voss into a rolling display chair emerging from behind the ten-foot anniversary numeral, its silver-lit paper edge hiding their hands until an ivory sash tightens across her lap.

Bernice Voss traps Curtis Bellamy’s fitted jacket beneath the sash and draws the pearl-headed hatpin from her cardigan while Pearl Everafter presses her display card against the chair’s arm. “Nobody assigned this dance,” Nadine Voss says, hooking the banner around the chair handle before a bride pulls it from her grip. As Pearl Everafter turns to straighten the witness sash, Bernice Voss slides the hatpin beneath a supporting stitch in the small mannequin’s gown; Curtis Bellamy reaches the chair just as the surrounding skirts shut him out.

Nadine Voss squeezes Curtis Bellamy’s charcoal-stained cuff, releases it, and takes the empty cart’s handle: “I’m not asking for your drawing.” She pushes after the chair toward the escalator landing, her plum cape streaming across the midnight-blue tiles while twelve white reflections advance through the black firs beyond the rain-striped glass. Curtis Bellamy turns away from the open service door and runs beside her cart; through a gap beneath the anniversary numeral, the hard white rectangle of his scholarship window shines downstairs.

Curtis Bellamy drives his scraper beneath the painted panel behind the scholarship drawing while Nadine Voss shoves her shopping cart across the bridal procession beyond the bowed glass. Having taken the stockroom shortcut downstairs, he braces one sneaker against the timber and levers the handle beneath the hard white exhibition light. The blade bends, scattering paint chips over the back of the mounting board, but the panel stays shut.

Nadine Voss tries to swing her cart sideways; its loose wheel hammers its fork, and two advancing skirts wedge the basket against the glass. “Apparently brides don’t reverse,” she calls, pressing her shoulder into the handle as white reflections slide over Bernice Voss’s charcoal hands. Pearl Everafter taps the approving witness on her display card and directs the rolling chair toward the escalator arch, while Bernice Voss keeps Curtis Bellamy’s fitted jacket trapped beneath her sash and slips her hatpin under another stitch of the small mannequin’s train. Nadine Voss catches sight of Curtis Bellamy behind the portrait and shakes her head, one palm raised toward him through the pane.

Curtis Bellamy drops the bent scraper onto the stockroom floor and grips a flatbed cart parked against the passage wall. “This isn’t in the contract,” he says, pulling it square with the panel. On the other side, Nadine Voss releases her trapped cart and reaches for her grandmother’s chair; Curtis Bellamy plants both hands on his cart’s handle, with the luminous portrait directly in its path.

Curtis Bellamy drives the flatbed cart through the paint-sealed panel at the Curved Scholarship Window, splintering the mounting board as Nadine Voss ducks beside Bernice Voss’s rolling chair. The bowed glass bursts outward beneath the exhibition lamps, scattering bright fragments across midnight-blue tiles, and the ivory portrait drops behind the cart. Curtis Bellamy shoves the handle sideways until the cart’s nose catches the chair’s front caster, stopping it short of the escalator arch.

Pearl Everafter reaches toward the joined hands on her display card, but Bernice Voss hooks her hatpin beneath the last supporting stitch and pulls the small mannequin’s satin train free. The fabric slides beneath the following brides; their rigid ankles catch, and three white skirts tip together beneath the reflected black firs. “Emergency alterations cost extra,” Bernice Voss declares, wrenching the witness sash loose while Curtis Bellamy holds the chair against the cart.

Nadine Voss drops to one knee, scoops the fallen portrait from beside the broken mounting board, and folds her plum cape around it without bending the paper. With the covered drawing tucked against her ribs, Nadine Voss catches Bernice Voss beneath one elbow while Curtis Bellamy takes the other, guiding her over the flattened panel into the stockroom passage. Pearl Everafter stretches her empty wrist across the wrecked window; Bernice Voss lifts Curtis Bellamy’s fitted jacket clear of the splinters, and Nadine Voss catches his charcoal-stained cuff with her free hand.

Curtis Bellamy pulls the concealed service door shut behind Nadine Voss and Bernice Voss, catching a reaching plastic hand against the jamb before forcing it back onto the promenade. Inside, the locked shutter leaves barely enough room for Bernice Voss to spread his fitted jacket beneath the cape-wrapped drawing while Nadine Voss keeps hold of his cuff. White fingers scrape the door until a silver stripe reaches beneath it hours later and the fingers stop.

Curtis Bellamy opens the door onto the Glass-Roofed Twilight Promenade, where sunrise washes the midnight-blue tiles and leaves twelve brides halted among reflections of the black firs. He picks up the dropped bouquet beside the fan-shaped bench and settles it into Pearl Everafter’s empty elbow, then steps back when it stays there. Nadine Voss unwraps the portrait on the bench, revealing unbroken ivory paper, and Curtis Bellamy holds its corners flat while she retrieves her borrowed camera from beneath the event table. The shutter clicks on Bernice Voss’s charcoal hands, with Bernice Voss’s real hands holding the jacket beneath them.

“Would you two like a prom photograph together?” Bernice Voss asks, gathering the loose cape away from the drawing instead of placing either teenager. Curtis Bellamy offers Nadine Voss his shoulder and says, “Would you go out with me—for real, without the contract?” Nadine Voss sets the camera safely beside the portrait, rests her painted cheek against his sleeve, and answers, “Yes—and the acoustics are still excellent.” Bernice Voss lifts the camera, waits for their nods, and catches them laughing before either can straighten into a pose.