I read the letter three times before I could make myself continue.
The paper shook between my fingers.
“The liver failure was real,” Larry had written. “The month was real. What I wasn't honest about was why I asked you to marry me.”
I lowered the page.
For several seconds I simply stared at the wall.
Then I picked it up again.
His next explanation was worse.
His funeral arrangements had already been discussed. Hospice knew what to do. The county knew what to do. There had never been any real danger that his body would be abandoned without a name.
He had not needed me to solve that problem.
I had believed he did.
He had let me believe it because he knew exactly how I reacted when someone placed a problem in front of me.
I solved it.
Always.
Larry knew that.
The letter said so.
“If you were given something practical to fix, Sarah, I knew you would stay long enough to fix it.”
I closed my eyes.
“That was cruel,” I whispered.
The room gave me no answer.
He was dead.
That was the part I couldn't forgive.
Not because he had lied.
Because he had arranged the lie so that I would have no chance to argue with him afterward.
I stood and walked to the kitchen.
Then I walked back.
I folded the letter.
Unfolded it.
Folded it again.
At the bottom of the page, Larry had written another instruction.
“Before you decide what kind of fool I was, go back to the courthouse where we got married. Ask for Margaret. Tell her you're my wife.”
I stopped.
Margaret.
I had never heard the name.
I read the sentence again.
Then I looked at the clock.
An hour later, I was on the subway.
The courthouse looked exactly as it had three weeks earlier.
That was somehow the worst part.
People sat in the plastic chairs with folders balanced on their knees. A young couple whispered together near the entrance. A father tried to keep a toddler from crawling beneath the seats.
I remembered Larry sitting beside me there.
He had rubbed his palms against his trousers.
“You're shaking,” I had told him.
“I'm dying,” he'd said. “I think I'm entitled to shake.”
At the time, I laughed.
Now I wondered how many times he had made me laugh because he didn't want me to ask another question.
I approached the records counter.
“I'm looking for Margaret.”
The clerk pointed toward an older woman wearing red-framed glasses.
She looked up from her computer.
“Can I help you?”
“My name is Sarah.”
The woman's eyes moved over my face.
I hesitated.
“I'm Larry's wife.”
Her hands stopped moving.
For a moment she said nothing.
Then her chair rolled backward.
“Oh.”
She stood.
Her expression changed immediately.
She came around the counter and hugged me.
I wasn't prepared for it.
I stood stiffly while she held me.
When she pulled away, her eyes were wet.
“When did he die?”
“A week ago.”
She looked down.
“I knew he was sick.”
Her voice softened.
“I didn't realize he was that close.”
I studied her.
“You knew Larry?”
She looked surprised.
“Of course.”
“How?”
Margaret gave me a strange smile.
“Larry worked here.”
I laughed because I thought I had misunderstood.
“Here?”
“For twenty-eight years.”
The laughter died in my throat.
“He worked at the courthouse?”
“He did.”
“What did he do?”
“Marriage records, mostly. Licensing. Witnesses. Paperwork.”
I looked toward the ceremony rooms.
The wooden arch was visible down the hallway.
“But he was homeless.”
Margaret nodded slowly.
“Eventually.”
“What happened?”
“Retirement. Then illness. Medical bills. Savings disappeared. He lost his apartment.”
She sighed.
“Larry was proud.”
“Too proud?”
“Far too proud.”
“Didn't he have anyone?”
Margaret removed her glasses.
“People tried.”
“And?”
“He wouldn't call.”
That sounded like Larry.
He had always accepted a sandwich before he accepted a favor.
“What about family?”
Margaret shook her head.
“I don't know the whole story. Larry didn't like discussing his private life.”
I looked at the letter inside my purse.
“Why did he tell me to come here?”
Margaret's expression changed.
She glanced toward the hallway.
“Did he leave you something?”
“A letter.”
“And he mentioned me?”
“He said you would know what I needed to see.”
Margaret was quiet.
Then she gestured for me to follow her.
We walked down the same hallway Larry and I had walked through on our wedding day.
The ceremony room was empty.
The wooden arch stood against the wall.
I stopped.
“This is where we got married.”
“I know.”
“You were here?”
“No.”
She went to a cabinet.
“But Larry came here the afternoon before.”
I turned.
“Why?”
Margaret unlocked the bottom drawer.
“He didn't tell me exactly.”
She pulled out a thick binder.
“He sat in that room for almost an hour.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at the arch.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“He said he was nervous.”
I almost smiled.
“Larry? Nervous about a wedding?”
Margaret gave me a dry look.
“That was my response.”
She carried the binder to the table.
Then she opened it.
The first page contained an old marriage record.
Two names.
A date from decades earlier.
And Larry's signature.
I leaned closer.
Beside his name was a single word.
Witness.
Margaret turned the page.
Another couple.
Another date.
Another Larry.
Again, witness.
Page after page.
Different names.
Different years.
Same handwriting.
Same signature.
Always beneath the same title.
Witness.
I touched the edge of one page.
“How many?”
“Hundreds, probably.”
“Why?”
Margaret smiled.
“He couldn't stand seeing people get married without anyone beside them.”
I looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes couples came in alone. No parents. No friends. No one available to sign.”
She tapped one of the old records.
“Larry would step away from his desk and volunteer.”
I stared at the signatures.
All those strangers.
All those ceremonies.
All those moments when someone needed another person standing nearby.
“He never told me.”
“He didn't tell many people.”
Margaret closed the binder halfway.
“He used to joke that he'd attended more weddings than anyone here and never had an anniversary.”
The words hit me unexpectedly.
I laughed.
Then the laugh caught in my throat.
Because I remembered something Larry had said after our ceremony.
I had teased him about asking the clerk where to sign twice.
“You're acting like this is an actual wedding.”
He had gone quiet.
Then he smiled.
“First marriage. Let me be nervous.”
At the time, I'd thought it was another joke.
Now I wasn't sure.
“Was he ever married before me?” I asked.
Margaret didn't answer.
I waited.
“Margaret?”
She slowly closed the binder.
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“To whom?”
She looked at me.
“You.”
I didn't understand.
“What?”
“You were his first wife.”
I stared at her.
“That isn't possible.”
Margaret's expression softened.
“You misunderstood me.”
She opened the binder again.
“He wasn't married before you. You were the first person he ever married.”
I let out a breath.
“But you said yes.”
“I said he had never been married.”
“Then why did you look at me like that?”
“Because Larry had spent twenty-eight years watching people come here alone.”
She turned another page.
“He signed as their witness.”
Another page.
“Never the husband.”
Another.
“Never the groom.”
She looked at me.
“Until you.”
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Margaret reached into another drawer and removed a clear plastic sleeve.
She handed it to me.
Inside was a copy of our marriage certificate.
I saw my name.
I saw Larry's.
Then I saw the word printed beside his name.
SPOUSE.
I sat down.
For years, Larry had stood beside other people's marriages.
He had been the extra signature.
The person who made sure nobody had to say, “There was no one there for me.”
And then, for three weeks, he had become the person whose name was legally tied to mine.
The letter in my purse suddenly felt heavier.
“Did he tell you why he wanted to marry me?”
Margaret sat across from me.
“He told me he was nervous.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“No.”
She looked at the certificate.
“I think you already know that.”
I shook my head.
“I don't.”
“Then read the rest of his letter.”
I stared at her.
“You knew?”
“I knew Larry.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No,” she said quietly. “But it is the only one I can give you.”
I wanted to be angry with her.
Instead, I looked down at the certificate.
My finger traced the printed word.
Spouse.
Three weeks.
That was all.
Three weeks between a man who had spent decades signing as a witness and a man who finally had someone else's name beside his.
I left the courthouse with more questions than I had brought.
On the subway home, I kept thinking about the cardboard sign.
MARRY ME.
I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT.
For the first time, I wondered whether the sign had been telling the truth and still somehow lying to me.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: The Courthouse Records Changed What I Thought Larry Wanted, but the Next Page of His Letter Made His Real Fear Impossible to Ignore
The Sign Outside the Station Forced Me to Ask Why a Dying Stranger Wanted Me to Become His Wife Before Time Ran Out
Part 2 of 12
