A Wedding Invitation (16 page)

“You were in Manhattan,” says Dovie.

“Oh yes, I must have told you about it already.” She nods. “Yes, I was.”

“Really?” Carson looks impressed.

For the first time I’m relieved that Mom’s not here. She’d certainly jump into her old story of how her friend was once kissed by Elvis.

“We need a song that commemorates us.” Dovie’s mind is searching, I can tell by the way her eyes are squinty. “We need it to have a line in there that describes how we’re feeling.”

I can think of plenty of songs that deal with love that has gone sour, but I doubt anyone would understand why I feel a song like that would be appropriate right now.

Pearl has been concentrating with closed eyes, and now as they spring open, she cries, “Celebrate.”

Beanie claps her hands together. “Celebrate!” She laughs as the older woman smiles. “By Kool and The Gang!”

“That’s perfect!” says Dovie.

Beanie starts singing the chorus. “ ‘Celebrate, come on!’ ” Then she insists that we each have a wedge of chocolate cake and rhubarb pie.

twenty

A
fter dessert, Dovie gets the phone from the kitchen and hands it to Carson. From memory, Carson punches in the numbers as we wait with broad smiles.

Pearl whispers, “This is the first time I’ve ever requested a song on the radio.” Her excitement is like a little girl’s as she does something she has heard about but never had the opportunity or the nerve to try.

“Hey.” Carson’s voice is warm when the station answers the phone. “It’s Carson. Hi, Jason.” We are quiet as Jason talks and then hear Carson say, “Happy Fourth to you, too. The group I’m with wants to request a song. ‘Celebration’ by Kool and The Gang.”

Pearl nods as Beanie rubs her hands together in anticipation.

“I don’t know,” Carson responds to whatever he’s been asked. He looks around at us. “I guess we’re Dovie’s dinner guests.”

“Dovie’s exclusive dinner guests,” Beanie says with authority. To the rest of us, she adds, “I always wanted to be part of an exclusive party.”

After Carson hangs up, we resume our conversation as the radio provides background noise.

Dovie tells about a butterfly release she had a few weekends ago, where the butterflies refused to get out of the cage, even after she banged on the top a bit with her hand. She then explains how she plans to overnight some butterflies for a release in Florida.

The song “Yesterday” by The Beatles comes on, its melancholy tune reminding me of so many yesterdays, of time slipping away. Then we hear Jason announce that the next song is dedicated to “Dovie’s exclusive dinner guests,” and we grow quiet with expectancy. As the music begins, we grin at one another. Beanie taps her foot against the porch floor. Pearl rises from her chair, her belly knocking a spoon onto the floor, and twists her arms a bit, resembling a Hawaiian dancer.

Carson meets my smile and says, “Doesn’t this remind you of the Philippines?” And I agree that although it’s an older crowd tonight, the desire to sing and dance is just like during those camp days.

Beanie turns up the volume and sings with the musicians, “ ‘Celebrate good times, come on!’ ” Then she pushes aside a few chairs and flexes her arms and shakes her thighs in an energetic move.

Dovie stands, her tall apron-clad frame looking like a telephone pole next to Beanie’s short body. She wiggles her hips and snaps her fingers, not at all in sync with the music, but no one seems to mind. Pearl grabs her hand and the two shuffle about the room in between the furniture.

I envision plates being hit by swinging limbs and torsos so, maneuvering around the dancers, stack up a few to carry into the kitchen. Carson grabs two and follows me.

In the kitchen, beside the loud ticking clock, he says, “You know what?”

“What?” I say as I begin loading the dirty dishes into the dishwasher.

“Lien said you are the same, and you are.”

I think that the years have made him mellow.

“Well . . .” I suck in air. “It’s unbelievable that we are standing in the same space again.”

He smiles, and I note that his light green shirt makes his eyes appear even greener. They are like emeralds almost, and I remember that when I used to look at them closely, I saw flecks of green, brown, and amber.

Seeing that the group on the porch is still dancing, Carson and I sit at the table.

“Is your family still in Raleigh?” I ask.

“They are. My brother and his wife bought a house off of Glenwood. My sister just got married.”

“We were so worried about her. And you.”

Carson’s voice is soft. “Yeah. I’m glad she’s okay.”

“What was her diagnosis?”

“Breast cancer.”

The words sting inside my heart. “My mom went through breast cancer.”

Carson frowns. “How is she?”

“She had a mastectomy. Now she’s fine. Well, you know, checkups every year where they run a bunch of tests.”

“And you hold your breath and pray that the results are negative.”

I nod and feel that bond between us fuse again, like all the years we’ve been apart never existed. “Exactly.”

Laughter rushes from the porch into the kitchen. Beanie is still dancing. From the sound of scraping movements, she’s possibly moving chairs to make for more room.

Carson’s smile captivates me, and although I try, I can’t look away. “Seems like they are having a good time,” he says.

“Beanie with more talent than the other two.”

“Your aunt is good for her. Good for all of us in Winston. Like our own Mother Teresa.”

“Like you were in the camp.”

“Me?”

“You helped everyone. Everyone knew you and liked you.”

“Except for Minh. Remember how he was angry with me for sticking up for Lien?”

I’m about to ask how his relationship is now with the Vietnamese man when Carson reaches for my hand and runs his finger along my thumb. “Sam.” His voice is low.

Warmth rises from my stomach and spreads over my limbs. Carson’s face is inches from mine.

With feeling he says, “It’s so nice being with you again.”

“Oh, I almost forgot!” I pull my arms away from the table.

“What?”

“I have to take photos of the butterflies for Mom.”

His look holds disbelief. I know that look well. “Right now?”

I don’t meet his eyes.

“Sam?”

“And I have to make a phone call. Will you excuse me?” Darting out of the kitchen, I climb the stairs to the second floor. Once upstairs, I wonder where to go.

The bathroom is not in use. Inside, I lock the door. Leaning against the white door, I trace the wood with my fingers and feel my breath against my hand. I will not come out. I will not. Carson is not going to win me over.

Ever.

If that’s what he’s trying to do.

And he’s not.

Eventually, I find that I can open the bathroom door and return to the porch. I decide to avoid the kitchen in case Carson might still be seated at the table. When I hear his voice from the group outside, I let myself enter the kitchen. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, I fill it with water from the faucet and take a long sip. The water soothes my throat.

Just then I hear pounding on the back door. I open it to see four neighborhood kids standing there.

“Daddy’s going to do fireworks,” the tallest boy announces. He looks like he could be seven or eight.

“Where’s Miss Dovie?” asks a girl. She has no front teeth.

“Out on the front porch,” I say.

“Tell her to watch the fireworks.”

The boys are in shorts, and the girls are wearing red, white, and blue sundresses.

“Will you tell her?” The tallest is demanding.

“I will.”

“We’re doing them on the cuddle sack.”

I note the dots of perspiration on his tiny nose. “The what?”

“The road,” says the girl with bouncy blond hair. Pink bubblegum pops off her lips. She catches it in her hand, shoving it back into her mouth. She then slides her hand across her sundress a few times.

“Cuddle sack is what you call the end of the road,” says the shorter boy, wisdom flowing from his young words.

“Okay. I’ll let everyone know.”

Neighbors arrive carrying lawn chairs. They set them on the edge of the road in front of Dovie’s porch. Dovie greets them all by name and asks if they would like either chocolate cake or rhubarb pie. Each one declines her offer but thanks her.

The family with the fireworks has its clan seated on a large fluffy blanket on their lawn at the end of the road. The children shriek and clap, begging their daddy to start the show.

Carson is near me. I have no idea where anyone else is; I just know that Carson is seated to my right, inches from my elbow. If I look down, I can see his left black Adidas with the milky white shoelaces.

The first firecracker launches. As it crackles into the darkness, it exposes each face with light. The next one flares, sending rockets of color into the dark sky.

The audience claps. The children cry for another.

I get a glimpse of Carson’s face, that sturdy nose, that chin that juts out a little, and those eyes that squint when he’s puzzled. But when he catches my gaze, I turn and study the sky once more.

One by one, the fireworks boom into the air. I’ve always been mesmerized by the beauty of these things. There is so much noise and color packed into one small container. I recall how Daddy would let me choose which cellophane pack to buy from the display at the grocery store. As a child I wanted the assortment that would bring the most sizzle. “Which package makes the best noises?” I recall asking my father. “That’s what I want!”

Now I prefer the rockets that cause the air to tingle with romantic notions. I once told Natasha, “Fireworks are romantic.”

She agreed and confessed, “I always pretend they scare me and then I have an excuse to grab the hand of the guy I’m with.”

I feel Carson’s legs stretched out near mine, his broad hands within holding distance. But even as a boom of fire rapidly sails into the sky, I can’t reach for him.
You did that once, remember?

He leans in and whispers something about the fireworks. I can’t hear him over the chattering children and adults around us.

When three rockets pop into the sky, the children squeal. White stars crackle in the air, each one louder than the previous one.

“Daddy, make the next one hit the moon!” one boy shouts after the residue from the cardboard has subsided and the last hiss has left the sky.

Carson turns to me, his arm brushing against mine.

The urge to kiss him has never left me. As Beanie would say, it just got “pushed underneath all the living.”

twenty-one