A Wedding Invitation (3 page)

Accepting the mic from the young man, I went over to a piece of plywood—the “stage” where others had stood to sing. Reaching out, I took hold of Carson’s hand—those long fingers that mastered the saxophone so skillfully—and pulled him to his feet as Paul Simon sang. I smiled and asked Carson to join me.

Carson was in a jovial mood. I knew this because all night he’d been laughing. I wouldn’t have asked him otherwise because I hated the way he resorted to sarcasm when irritated. He grinned at the audience—one of his lopsided smiles—and as we shared the mic, he sung out, “There must be fifty ways to leave your lover.”

I threw in a few
oohhhhs
, making the crowd clap. When we got to the chorus, we sang together, “Hop on the bus, Gus . . .”

We laughed afterward as we walked back to our dorms, using the main road that ran between the two phases—the sections that divided the camp. Our staff housing was a six-minute walk from the café on a good night, built between Phase One and Phase Two.

“You have a right nice voice.” Carson’s tone was soft, but there was a sincerity to it that made my heart tingle. “You should sing more often.”

I was flattered by his compliment but didn’t know how to respond. So I changed the subject. “Did you see how those kids danced while we sang?”

“I guess we should start regular performances.” He grinned.

“Next time, you could play your sax.” Carson often entertained the rest of the staff with his music. The three teachers who had brought guitars would join him, and we’d sing for hours in his dorm’s living room.

That night was warm, too warm, and I was tired, yet happy. When I’d met Carson on my second day at the camp, we’d talked about North Carolina for half an hour. He was from Raleigh, and although I was from northern Virginia, I knew a lot about his state since my aunt Dovie lived there and I visited her often. The other American and Canadian teachers within our agency liked to tease Carson about his Southern accent, use of colloquialisms, and the way he would say the words
right
and
nice
together. But I was used to hearing people talk that way.

As we walked back to our dorms, Carson shared a childhood memory about the time his brother was angry with him and stuffed olives into his saxophone. It was after nine o’clock and the curfew for the camp had kicked in, so our voices were the only ones whispering in the night. Carson told me that, to this day, he didn’t eat olives.

“Black or green?” I asked.

“Neither.”

“What a shame! I love olives.”

We stood together in the dusk, two teachers at the Philippine Refugee Processing Center—a refugee camp near Bataan for Southeast Asians who had fled their troubled homelands—thousands of miles from home. We’d both signed one-year teaching contracts with a U.S.-based agency called World Concern. It was my second month, and Carson’s fourth. We were supposed to teach the children the essentials they’d need to become Americans.

When we parted to enter our separate dorms, his arm brushed against mine. I felt my heart flip in my chest.

You are crazy
, I told myself as I went into my dorm, the creaky screen door shutting with a bang behind me. I greeted two teachers, who were in our living room talking about how hard it was to teach “Amerasians,” the term applied to children of American soldiers and Vietnamese mothers. They told me they’d heard that in Vietnam, these half-breeds were discriminated against so violently that often the young children were forced to live on the streets. I had yet to have an Amerasian child in my classroom, so I just listened to the conversation, feeling pain in the pit of my stomach for every one of the kids.

In my tiny bedroom with a twin bed and one opened window, I turned on my fan and sat at my little desk, letting the whirl of the fan’s blades circulate the air and cool my face. Then I got my toothbrush and tube of Crest and walked down the hall to the only bathroom in our dorm. I brushed my teeth as I looked at my face in the little mirror above the sink.
Carson has a girlfriend back home, remember? You’ve seen her photo—the one pinned to the bulletin board in his room.
She had thick brown hair, full lips, and her name was Mandy . . . or Mindy. Perhaps I wanted to pretend I didn’t know for sure.

Stop thinking about him.
I brushed harder.
Take photographs, go on walks, spend time with some of the female teachers. You came here to teach and help others; don’t get your heart broken so that you’ll be the one needing help instead.

I brushed until my gums bled.

four

T
here aren’t many things that make a girl’s palms sweat and skin prickle like when she realizes she’s in the wrong place. Once, I waited for Natasha at the Lincoln Memorial, but within a few minutes I realized we’d planned to meet at the Washington Monument and made my way across the National Mall to the white edifice, my apology as heavy as my panting.

More recently, last month I thought the UPS truck was delivering stock to the boutique when the packages actually weren’t due for another week. I’d canceled a doctor’s appointment and wore my tennis shoes to work, prepared for a day of moving boxes and sorting clothes onto their proper racks.

“Why did you wear your sneakers?” Mom asked me as she fastened her apron strings around her waist and watched me. From the apron’s pocket, she withdrew a black licorice morsel and chewed it with deliberate thoughtfulness. She has stared at me while sucking on licorice for as long as I can remember.

My mouth opened to say, You know I always wear my tennis shoes when our new stock comes in, but I sensed something was wrong. I walked behind the counter and looked at the calendar of store events. That day’s box was unmarked. Nonchalantly, I picked up the feather duster and ran it along the phone. I felt Mom’s eyes still on me. My own were studying my shoes. “They’re comfortable.”

“You know it’s next week our shipment from New York arrives.”

“Oh, yeah.” I coughed. When I’m caught off guard or a little uncertain, a good cough puts me at ease.

But both of us knew I was a week off schedule.

Like that day, I don’t want to admit I’ve goofed. This is probably one of the most embarrassing mistakes I’ve ever made. People like me don’t fail to read instructions or omit details. I took a quiz about my personality once, and the results showed that I’m organized, precise, a bit of a flirt, and like to have fun.

But inside the sanctuary of the Congregational Church, quiz results don’t matter. What does is that I’ve never before seen this tiny wisp of a woman with blond curls and an ivory veil. As the creases in my hands grow moist, I stretch my brain to come up with a way that I might know her—and a reason she might invite me to her wedding. I scan the heads of guests for Dexter’s. But he’s not here at all.

The groom, dressed in a gray tux and a golden cummerbund, looks like he might fall over from anxiety. He lifts his hand to wipe a beaded brow as I notice that the best man is tanned and fit; most likely he worked out yesterday and will do the same tomorrow.

Trying to appear casual as I turn to my left and then right, I scope out the scene for a familiar face. There is a woman with spiked hair who could be Annette from my sophomore year, but she’s blowing her nose into a pink tissue and Annette never cried, not even when we all watched
Terms of Endearment
.

I pull at my earlobes to make sure my tiny pearl earrings are still in place. I fold my hands, sit up straight, cross my legs, uncross them. I got an invitation to this wedding, didn’t I? In my mind I go over as many details as I can remember about the day in February when the pretty card arrived. Standing at my mailbox, I took it out and opened it. I read the words. Avery Jones was getting married in Winston-Salem on Saturday, May 15 at 4:00 p.m.

I cough—two times—and the man in a dark blue suit and avocado tie seated next to me hands me a pack of Life Savers from his pocket. I take the roll and pull out a cherry-flavored candy. My grandmother on my dad’s side used to hand me Life Savers in church, but since her death eight years ago, no one has offered me any. I pop the sphere into my mouth.

The man smiles when I return the pack to him. His eyes are a creamy brown and match a pair of sandals I have under my bed.

As the organist plays and a robust soloist sings in a nasal soprano about loving through a lifetime—or she could be singing about living through a love time—I swallow my discomfort, keeping the Life Saver from going down my throat. I hear popping sounds in my ears. The man next to me is cute. Before shifting my gaze toward the front of the church again, I note that his left hand is sans ring.

As the bride and groom proceed with their vows, I attempt to relax, but one thought keeps reoccurring: This is what happens to other people. Actors get paid to act out a scene in which a woman ends up at the wrong wedding. I expect someone to jump out from behind the minister, who wears a black robe, and shout, “Surprise! You’re on
Candid Camera
!” With the sense of humor Dexter has, I wouldn’t be surprised if he is behind this.

I consider grabbing my clutch bag and exiting this place, taking confident breaths as I go. Mr. Cute beside me has three others seated next to him, and to my right there are three women and two men. I think the expression
sandwiched
could be used here. I am sandwiched between guests without any wiggle room, and regardless of which aisle I chose, I’d have to trip over people in order to make my escape.

I’ve already stepped on Mr. Cute. Before the bride flowed down the aisle with her father, her bouquet’s fragrance leaving an aromatic scent behind her, I accidentally bumped the toe of my shoe against this gentleman’s shin. I apologized. Quickly, he whispered, “That’s okay,” and I was reassured that it was.

When the ceremony ends, the organist plays a lively hymn that sounds like a rendition of “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee.” Folks stand to chatter. The man and I introduce ourselves to each other.

As he shakes my hand with a firm clasp, he tells me his first and last name, to which I respond, “I’m Samantha.” I don’t believe in bothering with last names.

After asking where I’m from, he says, “Is the reception near here?”

“I’m not sure.” At this point, there’s little of which I am sure.

“Are you going?”

I’ve come all this way, and this guy is so cute. Standing, I nod.

“Great!” says what’s-his-name. I wish I’d listened better when he introduced himself. I’ve already forgotten what he said. He rises, touches my shoulder. “See you there.”

His smile reminds me of a vacation Mom and I took to Emerald Isle, off the coast of North Carolina. The sun baked my skin and spirits as I spent mornings on the beach, making treks into the waves every half hour to cool off. Mom joined me once, got caught in a wild wave, took in a mouthful of salt water, and then laughed. She hadn’t laughed since Daddy died. I remember looking up at the bright sky and thinking that we were going to be all right. Daddy was in Heaven, and we were going to be able to eat chocolate and strawberries with cream and laugh, even when adversity came in the form of a large wave.

As the wedding guests make their way through the packed sanctuary toward the door, I see a skinny man in a velvet top hat videotaping the guests. I like to look my best, so I give my so-glad-to-be-here smile.

Brown Eyes says that his father and Avery’s dad were in the Korean War together. I want to say that Avery was my roommate during our first year of college, but I’m in church, and as my eyes shift over the stained-glass windows—scenes of Jesus feeding the hungry—I don’t feel I can lie. Clearly, this is not the right Avery Jones.

His eyes flicker with light from the pillar candles that stand in each window. I am soaked up in warmth like when I see my mother’s dogwood blossoms on a spring day.

“I’ll see you at the reception,” I tell him.

“Sure thing,” he says.

I hope I remember where I parked my car.

five