A Wedding Invitation (2 page)

Flipping the pages in the catalog, I see a short sleeveless party dress. Reading the details, I note that it’s made of rayon and silk with a scoop neck and a zipper in the back. The model looks great in the dress, and as I imagine myself in it, I wish I had a party to attend. Something with jazz music and silver trays of those tiny hors d’oeuvres where you wonder just what you’re getting and then end up pleasantly surprised.

Feeling guilty about my self-centered thoughts, I turn to Mom. “Cats are able to live a long time on their own. Dovie told me she saw a show where a cat lived by herself for sixty-two days, just feeding off the land.”

“We’re in a metropolitan region,” Mom says as though she needs to remind me. “D.C. has no place for a cat to feed off the land.”

Again I see distress in her eyes, but I have no idea what to do. I want to hug her and tell her I love her. But she never accepts that kind of affection from me.

With her glasses once more on her face, she asks, “Could you make a few more?”

“Few more?”

“Flyers. I’ll tape some up to telephone poles in my neighborhood.”

As I pull more sheets of paper from the drawer, Mom nods with approval, her dismal mood seeming to brighten a little. By the time two customers enter the shop, Mom’s face shows its usual liveliness. Guiding them toward the newest slacks and turtlenecks, she speaks of the way polyester and wool are blended in the pants. “A must-have,” she coos. Holding up a cream-colored turtleneck, she fingers the fabric. “This is the most comfortable shirt you will ever wear.”

The shop closes at seven tonight, with Mom heading home to a dinner of crock-pot beef stew—simmering on low since morning and one of her cherished classics—at her ranch house in the suburbs, and me to my apartment complex just five miles down the road. I think there’s a pack of hot dogs in the freezer that will serve as dinner.

“Why aren’t you putting on your coat?” my mother asks as we walk to where our cars are parked. “You will catch cold, Samantha. You are not in the Philippines anymore.”

I smile, walk a little faster, and wave good-bye. The temperature has dropped since this morning when a light rain washed over the region; I’m anxious to get home before the roads grow shiny with ice. With the heater warming my car, I drive cautiously.

At the stone entrance to my apartment building sit rows of metal mailboxes lit by a pair of towering florescent lights. After parking my car, I unlock box number 214 with a tiny key I keep on the key ring with the one for my apartment.

The wind whips through my cotton blouse, making me wish I didn’t toss my coat in the back seat of the car instead of putting it on. The mailbox creaks open, and I pull out a handful of colorful flyers, a power bill, and a large powder-blue envelope.

Clutching the mail with numb fingers, I tackle the envelope. After tearing it open, I pull out another smaller envelope and from its glossy interior retrieve a soft aqua piece of card stock. Silver lettering is imprinted on its face. Shivering, I read. Avery Jones and John Mason request the honor of my presence at their wedding. My mind does a few cartwheels, happy that Avery has found a man to spend the rest of her life with.

As though in a deliberate attempt to snatch the outer envelope, the wind seizes it from my hand and flings it against the frigid pavement. I reach for it. Like a heavy breath, a current of air blows it north, toward a set of rusty garbage dumpsters.

After a long day at the shop, I have no energy left to chase this item around, especially in this weather. I clasp the pieces of mail to my chest and climb the flight of stairs to my second-floor apartment. Inside, coolness greets me, causing panic to set in. Last year the heating unit broke and the maintenance man repaired it at two in the morning as I sat waiting at the kitchen table in my heavy coat and two pairs of socks. I crank up the thermostat to seventy and am relieved when I hear air blowing through the vents. On the back of a chair I find my trusty wool sweater—as shapeless as a lump of yarn. Even though it has two holes and will never be a fashion statement, it feels comfy and keeps me warm.

In front of the living room window I stuff my hands in my sweater pockets and watch the first snowflakes begin their dance across the lawn. Mom always says that when snowflakes dance, it’s because they’re happy to be birthed from pregnant clouds.

Hungry, I heat two hot dogs, squeeze mustard onto my plate, and wonder if there’s a good movie on the Lifetime channel. Halfway through
When Harry Met Sally
I’m thinking of days past, when Avery and I were roommates at James Madison University and used to dip Twizzlers into cream cheese frosting for midnight snacks.

She was dating Perry Lesterfield then, and thought she was in love. With a mouthful of Twizzlers she confessed one night that she wanted to marry Perry even though her mother thought his ego was larger than Australia.

I finger the invitation and wonder how Mrs. Jones feels about her daughter marrying John. I liked Perry because he always had a good story to tell, even though I think some of them were embellished. I’ve never met John Mason.

Dialing the only friend I’ve kept up with since my days at James Madison, I reach Dexter.

“Did you get invited?” I ask as I run my fingertips against the raised script on the invitation.

“To what?” His first name is Howard, but he prefers to be called by his surname of Dexter.

“Avery’s getting married in May.”

“Twizzler Girl? I hadn’t heard.”

Because he’s a good friend, I say, “Wanna go to it with me?”

“To Avery’s wedding? Who is she marrying? Perry?”

“No, the invitation says John Mason.”

“Where’s the wedding?”

“Winston-Salem.”

“North Carolina? Why’s she getting married there?”

“I don’t know, but it’s where my aunt Dovie lives. I’d love to see Avery again. Want to meet me there?”

two

May 1993

A
s long as I have Paul Simon CDs and my own concoction of sweetened lemon iced tea, I can drive anywhere. Leaving Falls Church, I pop the 1971-to-1986 collection of Paul’s hits into my Honda’s CD player. Soon the nostalgic words to “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover” entertain me as my southbound trip expands down the highway.

The day is warm with a gentle breeze, and just to feel air sift across me, I open the window. Clouds spiral over the sky, looking like mounds of whipped cream on a slice of blueberry pie.

“Hop on the bus, Gus,” I let my voice bellow, glad that I still remember all the lines. I hope that singing will distract me from my guilt over not being at the boutique today. May is an active month for the store as women look for spring clothes and Mother’s Day gifts. I owe my friend Natasha dinner at Native Thai Restaurant—my gift of gratitude for her willingness to help Mom at the shop today.

When the WELCOME TO NORTH CAROLINA sign flashes in front of me, anticipation nips at my pulse. At a gas station, I put twenty-six dollars of regular into my car, then find the restroom nestled behind a stack of wooden crates and cardboard boxes crammed with rolls of toilet paper. As I wash my hands, my reflection in the glass above the sink shows the apprehension I can’t hide. It’s been years since I’ve seen my friends from JMU. What will it be like? I recall a tale Dovie told me about a woman who went to a college friend’s wedding twenty years after graduating and no one remembered her. Perhaps I should turn back.

Just hop on the bus, Gus. Set yourself free.

“You can do this!” I say. Adding scarlet lipstick to my mouth, I tell myself I have to carry through with this. I sent back the RSVP card saying Dexter and I would be there. With a surge of confidence, I cry, “You are going to have fun!” Then I straighten my teal chiffon dress at the waist as uncertainty lines the walls of my stomach.

Embarrassment replaces the fear when I open the restroom door to find a middle-aged woman waiting to enter. By the woman’s smile, I know she heard my pep talk to myself.

I must be my mother’s daughter. I often talk to myself, just as she has for so long—especially on those winter mornings after Dad died.
“Now, Cecelia,”
she’d say in a tone a general might use on his platoon,
“we are not going to cry today. We are going to act as though life is merely but a dream.”
Then she’d hum a few bars of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” put on her L.L.Bean slippers, and walk downstairs to make her morning coffee.

I pay for my gas, thank the cashier who wishes me a nice day in her creamy Southern accent, and then head out of the station. I wonder if Avery will serve Twizzlers at her reception. It would be like Avery to do that. She is not at all conventional.

As I sail down the interstate with Paul singing “Still Crazy After All These Years,” I imagine what it will be like to see old friends from college. I think of the four of us who hung around together our junior year when we all got roles in JMU’s production of
Our Town
. Dexter was Mr. Charles Webb, and my role was Mrs. Julia Gibbs, although secretly I’d hoped to be cast as the star, Emily.

I lost contact with my college friends when I was in the Philippines. Between caring for Mom and all the hours I put in at her shop, my days are full. Natasha and I manage to go on walks so I can justify the pair of Nikes I didn’t buy on sale, but most evenings after work, I only have enough energy to watch a movie on TV and then the news as I drink coffee. Often during those hours, Aunt Dovie phones to talk about Mom.

“Come down to the wedding,”
my aunt said as I studied the invitation shortly after receiving it. Dovie’s Southern accent was like Christmas carols in my ear.
“It will be spring and my butterflies will be at their best. You’ll get some good photos, and of course you will stay with me.”

Dovie’s old white house with metallic green shutters has four bedrooms. But we’ve all learned that just because you’re invited to stay doesn’t guarantee you’ll get to sleep in one of the beds. Dovie brings home boarders like dogs carry fleas; some of the people take up residence in her house for as long as a year. All are wanting, according to my aunt. She is fond of saying that each one needs
“a little bit of loving and some good nutrition.”

I look at the directions she gave me over the phone. Dexter and I plan to meet at the Congregational Church on Cherry Street for the wedding, then we’ll drive together to the Winston Avalon Club for the reception. With about seventy miles to go before I reach the city limits, I replay Paul’s “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover” as my mind dips around the world, southeast.

three

July 1985

I
’m not sure if they enjoyed seeing us protest or if they really wanted to hear their American teachers sing, but often the Vietnamese refugees would pass a microphone to a group of teachers and beg them to belt out a little karaoke. One night in July, at the neighborhood outdoor café, under a sky spotted with dim stars, Van, a young Vietnamese refugee with chunky glasses, handed me the mic. He pleaded, “Miss Bravencourt, please. Sing.”

The music blasting from his tape player was Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” a favorite among the Vietnamese, especially the children. I complained, saying that was much too hard a song for a novice like me.

Under a single-bulb light hoisted in a tree limb by a tangled cord, Van rummaged through his collection of cassettes. “I will find song for you,” he assured me while I prayed that we’d either be hit with a downpour or the batteries would give out. Finding a cassette, he fiddled with his large boom box until Paul Simon’s “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover” piped out through the speakers.

In the humid night air, Van’s face was beaded with sweat. He took a sip from his bottle of Sprite and again said to me, “Sing.”

I looked at my friend Carson, who was seated at the table next to me with several refugees. He and I had walked to this café together after dinner because Van, a mutual friend, had invited us. The night was just hot and sticky enough to mess with my better judgment.