Inside was an old marriage record.
Two names I didn’t recognize appeared at the top.
Near the bottom was a familiar signature.
Larry.
Next to his name was one word.
Witness.
Margaret turned the page.
Another couple.
Larry.
Witness.
Another page.
Different couple.
Different year.
Same signature.
Again.
Larry.
Witness.
I looked at Margaret.
“What is this?”
“Sometimes couples came in without anyone with them,” she explained. “Larry would leave his desk and sign as their witness.”
She turned another page.
“He hated the idea of someone getting married with nobody standing beside them.”
I ran my finger over one of his old signatures.
It was strange seeing Larry’s handwriting from decades before I knew him.
The same narrow L.
The same crooked y.
“How many times did he do this?”
Margaret shrugged.
“Hundreds, probably.”
She smiled.
“He used to joke that he had attended more weddings than anyone in the courthouse but never had an anniversary to remember.”
A laugh escaped me.
Then another question occurred to me.
“Was Larry ever married before?”
Margaret slowly closed the binder.
She didn’t answer.
“Margaret?”
“Once.”
My stomach tightened.
