“Tomorrow I’m standing on the other side of the desk.”
The memory of Larry’s shaking hands came back.
I had blamed the illness.
Maybe I’d been watching something else.
Margaret opened the binder.
“Look.”
An old marriage record lay beneath the plastic sleeve.
I had blamed the illness.
Two strangers’ names appeared at the top.
Near the bottom was a signature I recognized immediately.
Larry.
Beside it was one word.
Witness.
Margaret turned several pages.
Another couple.
Larry.
Witness.
Then another.
Beside it was one word.
The dates jumped forward.
Different people.
Different years.
The same handwriting.
“What is this?”
“People sometimes came in without anyone else,” Margaret said. “Larry would step out from behind the counter and witness for them.”
The same handwriting.
She turned another page.
“He hated the thought of somebody getting married with nobody standing there.”
I touched one of his signatures.
It was strange seeing Larry’s handwriting from decades before I’d known him.
