A Wedding Invitation (30 page)

“Jealous that I got to experience Asia. She’s never been out of the South.”

Oh. “That’s crazy. You said her family was wealthy. She could have traveled.”

“I don’t want to talk about her.”

I’m unable to stifle a snort. “But you brought her up.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“I’ve always wanted to know what happened between the two of you. Why can’t you tell me?”

“Let’s not talk about her.”

Fed up, I blurt, “Keep your secrets, Carson. I’m getting so tired of all this mystery.” I consider leaving him alone under the streetlight, reconsider, and stop. “You know, if I want a mystery, I’ll read my Busboy books. The rest of my life should not be one puzzle after another.”

Carson clenches his jaw. His neck muscles tighten.

I start to walk, tiny steps that morph into larger glides. I can see the edge of Dovie’s house and the azalea bushes that line her driveway. I will go inside her home and go to bed. And as I let sleep consume me, I’ll ask God to remove my feelings for Carson.

“Sam, look, I don’t want to let anything get between us. I really want us to be friends.” He rushes to catch up to me.

Friends?

I’m at Dovie’s now, and I make my way down her dimly lit driveway. Over my shoulder I say, “We are friends, Carson. Nothing ever changes.” I curve around his car toward Dovie’s front door. I look to see if anyone is seated on the porch, but not even Milkweed occupies a space there tonight.

As I grab the doorknob, ready to yank the front door open and go inside, away from Carson forever, he is behind me. His hands embrace my waist.

“Sam.” I feel his breath on my neck.

I tighten my grip on the knob.

“Do you know how much I care about you?”

I take a breath. “I think you’ve let me know that we are friends.”

He spins me gently to face him as I release my fingers from the door. His lips touch my nose as his arm cradles my shoulders. “I’m no good at this. I want to say so much to you.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t want to lose you again.”

Something tells me I should push him away and run inside, bolting the door behind me. Something else tells me to lift my lips to his. Tonight, the something else wins.

After all, the urge to kiss Carson has never left, even after all these years.

forty

S
omething’s wrong. The minute we enter Dovie’s hallway, I sense it, like the suffocating feeling you get from the clamminess after a summer rain. For one thing, the TV is off and no radio station is playing. It’s only ten twenty, too early for everyone to be asleep.

Dovie appears in the hallway, Milkweed at her feet. She’s carrying a glass filled with ice cubes and water. Her face is drained of its usual rosy color. When she sees us, she stops and says, “It’s Beanie.”

Fear rises in my mouth. I turn to Carson.

As he takes my hand, he and I follow my aunt upstairs to Beanie’s bedroom. Inside, a solitary lamp casts light upon the twin bed where Beanie lies. Her eyes are closed and I realize I never knew she had such dark and long eyelashes. Her quilt tucks her in, pulled up to her chin. Pearl is seated on a chair, and Little is hovering near Beanie’s feet.

“What happened?” I ask after I see Beanie’s chest rising with breath and catch my own.

“She had a seizure and fell,” says Dovie, her voice barely audible.

“She went up to her room to listen to the radio.” Little explains in her slow manner as I see the lump on Beanie’s forehead. “We heard a thud and rushed up here.”

“What did she hit?” asks Carson.

“The footboard,” says Dovie, her hand gripping the edge of it. She places the glass of water on the bedside table next to Beanie’s radio and then sits on the bed. Reaching under the quilt, she lifts out Beanie’s hand and holds it, her fingers laced with her friend’s. “Now, Beanie, I know you can hear me.”

There is no response from Beanie. She appears to be oblivious to our commotion.

“Who moved her into her bed?” I ask.

“A joint effort. I never realized how many muscles it takes to carry a body.” Pearl wheezes and then places a plump arm against her own chest.

“Do we need to call someone?”

Quizzically, they all look at me.

“I mean, does she need a doctor to help her?”

Dovie says, “We know what to do. We know how to care for her. The first time this happened, I did call an ambulance and I don’t think that Beanie ever forgave me.” My aunt strokes Beanie’s motionless hand.

“Does she usually take this long to come back to herself after a seizure?” I whisper.

“She was talking a moment or so ago.”

“Really?” I scan their faces and add, “That’s good, right?”

When Dovie nods, I ask, “What was she saying?”

Little and Pearl giggle.

Pearl says, “She said, ‘Get that thing off of me.’ ”

“We put an ice pack on her forehead and she was livid.” Dovie brushes the woman’s hair from her face as she speaks.

“I heard language I hadn’t heard since my husband died,” Pearl says with a smile.

I’m not ready to laugh or smile. “So she’s going to be okay?”

“Yes,” says Dovie. “Beanie always is.”

Carson leaves the room shortly after Beanie opens her eyes and cries, “What is going on? Why are you all here?”

We all laugh then, too loudly, but I guess it’s because we’re so relieved.

In the hallway, Carson draws me to him. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he breathes into my ear and then kisses me. I feel that I could just stand here being kissed all night, sheltered in his arms.

After getting a drink of water, I find Beanie’s potion to cure ailments, the one she used on Pearl’s arthritic joints. Remembering how she said it helped with bruises, I take it upstairs.

In Beanie’s room, Dovie is the only one left. Seated on the bed, her eyes are closed, her head bowed toward Beanie’s. I know she’s praying.

I stand by the open door with the bottle until Dovie raises her head, indicating that her prayers have finished.

Beanie’s eyes flicker. Seeing the bottle in my hand, she says, “Good girl.”

I trade places with Dovie and open the lid to the herbal lotion. Tipping the contents onto my fingertips, I use my other hand to carefully set the bottle on the bedside table. With my index finger I smooth the concoction onto Beanie’s forehead. I feel the bump and see the colors of a bruise forming. “Does it hurt?” I ask as the fragrance of oranges and ginger rises to my nostrils.

“Like fire. But I know the ointment will help, so keep going.” Her voice is raspy and strained.

I motion for her to stop talking. I add some more of the potion, smoothing it out along her hairline, amazed at how soft her skin is. I suppose I thought that after the life Beanie has led, her skin would be rough and callused. A dollop of the white balm runs near her crooked left eyebrow. I rub it into her temple. “Feel better yet?”

She sighs. “Makes you tired, those seizures. I’m too old to have to put up with them.”

“You’re not old,” I say. I suddenly realize that I’ve never been this close to Beanie before since I know she doesn’t accept hugs and silly sentimental displays of affection. Beanie likes to appear tough, yet when she’s sick, she’s just as vulnerable and dependent as the next person.

At one fifteen, when Dovie leaves to get ready for bed, Beanie shifts to sit up and take a sip from the glass of water. Then she slowly eases down onto her mattress, her head against the cotton pillow. “Promise me, Sammie Girl.”

“What?”

“When I go, you take care of your aunt.”

“Where are you going? You’re not going anywhere.”

She coughs. “Dovie needs to be told how entertaining her butterfly stories are. She needs to know that we are fascinated with those specks that dart all over creation.”

When her eyes flutter and then shut, I wonder if she’s going to sleep. After a brief respite she says, “Don’t waste time with the bitty things of life, Sam.”

“What do you mean?”

She finds my hand and squeezes it. “When you find what you want, don’t ever let go.”

Wondering where she is going with these thoughts, hesitantly I say, “All right.”

“I chased after the wrong bottles—the kind that have Johnnie Walker on the label. That led me to the wrong men, which led me to . . .” Her voice trails off, perhaps lost in memory. Lines of anguish are imprinted on her face.

I seal the bottle of lotion and place it on the table. “Tell me about your son.”

At first I think she won’t, but after a moment her mouth opens. “He got into a mess. But he’s gonna be okay.”

“When does he get out of jail?”

“In about nine months. He’s a handsome boy. Takes up after me. The day he was born, I couldn’t believe that I could love someone so much.” Releasing my hand, she says, “Ah, look at me.” She says no more, as though embarrassed at being sentimental.

Feeling my throat start to weld, I look away from her at her shelf of colorful candles, all of them created by her from a kit she bought after going to some home party that charged too much for candles. I recall the day she said, “I can make these myself and not spend all that money.” Then, with great excitement, she showed us how to make the candles, dipping the wick into the hot wax so many times my head grew dizzy. She let me try my hand at it, and the slender form I made looked like the tail of a muskrat.

“Not to worry,” she encouraged me. “Art has no boundaries, just like love. If it’s in the heart, you can claim it.”

We had to hold the formations until they dried, and then she placed them in brass holders that Dovie purchased at a yard sale.

She’s watching me, her eyes now open. “When I go, you can have those.”

Turning from the shelf, I look into her dark eyes. “You’re not going anywhere, Beanie.”

She yawns. “You may leave now, Sammie Girl.”

“No, I’ll sit here a little while longer.”

“I’ll be here tomorrow.” She yawns again. “And the next day. And the next. Not sure about the day after that one, though.” Amused with herself, she lets a smile break over her lips. I watch it fade as sleep takes over.

I head to the basement, to the lumpy bed there, even though I know there are only a few hours until I’ll need to wake to get ready for church. The drip of the faucet puts me into a deep sleep.

In my dream, Beanie is standing in a field of sunflowers, and as Dovie’s butterflies leave their cage for a world of freedom, Beanie says,
“Don’t judge me. Just love me.”
She says it over and over so that when I wake, I am ready to love and not judge.

I check in on Beanie, thinking she’ll be amused by the dream. She’s asleep. “Beanie,” I say, “I dreamed of you last night. It was like a broken record.”

She continues to sleep.

“You kept saying ‘Don’t judge me. Just love me.’ ”

I stand at her doorway, waiting for a response. After a few minutes, I start to get worried. Just then I see a weak smile form on her lips. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you.” Then she lets out a snore.

The bridal shower takes place at Dovie’s the next day at three in the afternoon. This means that Pearl will have to forgo her customary nap, but Pearl says she thinks for a celebration, she can manage.

Between checking on Beanie and getting the refreshments ready, Dovie, Pearl, Little, and I are moving at a steady pace.

Leave it up to my aunt to hold a bridal shower for Lien. When I told her that Lien was engaged with plans to be married in November, Dovie’s mind was clicking like a cash register. “Do you know if anyone has planned a shower for her?” asked my aunt.

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to think if Lien’s friends would be the type of folks to do this.

Without wasting another minute, Dovie grabbed a calendar to see which dates she had to offer Lien for the party. She asked for Lien’s number, and while I stood by her side, she told the young woman that she wanted to have a shower for her. “I’m Samantha Bravencourt’s aunt, and I live in Winston. I want to have a little party for you.”

Lien was speechless, and Dovie thought something had been lost with the language barrier. But Lien understood perfectly; it was just hard for her to respond when tears were stifling her throat.