The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin'

by Lamb, Wally

  I sneak the waitress an apologetic look. “Guess not,” I tell her.

  “Okay then. I’ll put this right in for you guys.” Ouch.

  When she walks away, Casey-Lee starts in about fried food and fatty sauces. “You keep eating like that and you’ll have a coronary by the time you’re forty. Why do you think Daddy had to get that triple bypass last year? Clogged arteries from eating the same kind of thing you just ordered.”

  Plus the fact that Daddy’s fifty or sixty pounds overweight and twice my age. And I doubt all those bourbon and branch waters are all that good for his ticker either. “I did a six-mile run this morning,” I tell her. “I’m guessing my heart can handle a little cream sauce every once in a while.”

  “Fine,” she says. “What do I know? I’d just like to be your wife, Andrew. Not your widow.”

  Yup, bad idea: a midweek meal. “You should have just told me if you were too busy to go out tonight. You seem so stressed-out.”

  “I’m fine,” she insists. “I wanted to see you. We’ve gotta eat, don’t we?” She sips her wine. I drink my beer. “So what was your day like?” she asks again. Maybe this time she’ll let me answer.

  Crazy, I tell her. “We got six new patients on the ward that I had to do intakes for. They’re just back from Afghanistan. Got deployed over there for the troop surge.”

  “Oh, you mean the troop surge our ‘antiwar’ president ordered?” She makes little quotation marks with her fingers when she says “antiwar.” “Maybe now he realizes what poor George W was up against.”

  What George W created and Obama inherited, I feel like saying. Although I’ve let her assume otherwise, I voted for Obama last year. Not that I’m too happy with the way he’s been handling things so far. The economy, the wars. “A couple of these new guys we got had to be medevaced out of there,” I tell her. “They’re in bad shape. Some of the worst I’ve seen.”

  “The worst how? Physically?”

  “One of them, yeah. He’s got a TBI. A gunner, twenty-one years old. Took shrapnel in his head and his neck. He’s already had three operations. Brain surgery, facial reconstruction. Poor guy doesn’t even remember the day he got hit.”

  “Well, that’s probably good. Right?”

  “Maybe. But at least it’d give him a context, you know what I’m saying? Why he’s struggling to put sentences together. Come up with the names of simple objects on cards. Today when I was doing his assessment, I held up this one card with a picture of a banana on it. ‘I know what it is,’ he told me. ‘Give me a minute.’ But you should have seen the look of defeat on his face when he finally gave up. When I told him what it was, he started to cry. He’s probably never going to be a hundred percent.”

  “That poor thing,” she says. “When I was volunteering at the V-A with my women’s fellowship last year, it broke my heart to see some of those boys. Bandaged heads, missing limbs. I know they have an important job to do over there, but still. I get down on my knees every single night and pray for them.”

  See? She’s in a bitchy mood tonight, but she’s got a good heart.

  Casey’s cell phone chimes inside her purse, and when she takes it out and reads the text message she’s just gotten, she says it’s from some woman on some committee she’s on—that she’d better respond. Watching her text her back, I recall the day I met Casey-Lee. She was sitting in the solarium, reading some Stephen King story to a couple of our walking wounded. Engaging those guys who would otherwise be sitting in their rooms, absorbed in their misery. Stephen King and a beautiful blonde paying attention to them: it probably did those soldiers more good than all the medication and talk therapy our team was providing. And then a few days later, when I walked into that church service hungover from the night before, there she was again. . . .

  Casey believes that there’s no such thing as coincidence. That it was the Good Lord’s plan to bring us together. Which was why it hadn’t worked out with that other guy she’d almost gotten engaged to: the up-and-coming attorney her father had hand-picked for her. The first time I went over to their house, they still had a picture of him and Casey on their refrigerator: Waco’s answer to Barbie and Ken, they looked like. Not that I’m complaining about her looks. When she stopped me outside the church that day—surprised me by saying she recognized me from the hospital—and I took a chance and asked her out, I was shocked when she said yes. I’m still shocked, sometimes. I like it when we walk into a club or a restaurant and heads look up. . . . But more than once, I’ve imagined Big Daddy’s reaction after that first time I went over there. His last name’s what, Casey-Lee? Oh? What kind of a name’s that? He got some chinky-Chinaman in him? What’s that? Irish and Eyetalian, too? Well, that boy’s a real mongrel then, idn’t he? . . . A soldier? Well, that’s fine, honey. I’ve got nothing but respect for the U.S. Army. You know that. But a nurse? Kind of a nancy-pants career choice, don’t you think? And what can nurses make? Fifty thousand, maybe? Fifty-five tops? That may be a decent salary for a woman. But for a man? A breadwinner? . . . Yeah? Well, what’s that thing I heard at our last training? That one out of five of the ones coming back from Afghanistan and Iraq are suffering from some kind of mental illness? Sounds to me that mental health’s more of a growth industry than real estate lawyering, wouldn’t you say, Big Daddy? Not that I’m being fair. Just because I can imagine him saying that shit doesn’t mean he said it. I’m just glad they took that picture off their refrigerator, that’s all. And maybe Casey’s right. Maybe we did come together because of some divine plan. She brought me to Jesus, didn’t she? Helped to ground me in a spiritual life when I was flapping around in the wind? Getting wasted on beer and weed, wasting my time and money on porn. My sister can argue all she wants to about how it wasn’t our parents’ fault that none of us grew up godly, but we’d been raised to be skeptical about religion. Love thy neighbor, sure, but not because Jesus Christ said so. Support the Democrats because they work for the common good and Republicans are just out for themselves. But it’s not that black and white. Casey’s plenty charitable: reading to the walking wounded, volunteering with Big Sisters. Whenever she talks about that little girl she used to take places, she lights up. . . . My parents, my sisters: voting for Obama was a foregone conclusion for them, but not for me. I remember standing there in that voting booth at the base, looking at both those levers, still undecided. It was McCain’s cancer that finally convinced me to pull the lever for Obama. Palin was just too inexperienced. I couldn’t see her being a heartbeat away from the presidency.

  “Earth to Andrew,” Casey says. “Where have you just been?”

  Looking over at her, I realize she’s finished texting and put her phone away. Rather than tell her what I was thinking about, I get back to what my day’d been like. “No, I was just thinking about this other guy that came in today. He’s got PTSD something fierce. I’m in the middle of doing his intake, right? And there’s this loud crash somewhere else on the ward. He jumps up, starts going all crazy on me like we were being fired on instead of someone out on the floor just dropped something. I couldn’t talk him down. Couldn’t even keep him in the room we were in. He runs out on the floor, wild-eyed and screaming. Ended up, me and LeRoy had to straitjacket him and get one of the docs to sedate him.”

  “It’s so sad,” she says. “I just wish these wars weren’t necessary. I hope those 9/11 hijackers are burning in hell.”

  I nod. “This guy’s my age. He’s got two kids already and a third one on the way. Makes you wonder if the ones coming back in bad shape are ever going to get their heads back on straight again. Or if they’re gonna end up on the scrap heap like all those Vietnam burnouts. You know?” But I can tell her mind’s gone someplace else.

  “So did you get someone to cover for you this coming weekend?” she asks. Here’s my opening—my chance to tell her that I might be going back for my mom’s wedding.

  “Yeah. I switched rotations with Josette. Her boyfriend’s coming down the weekend after, so it worked
out great. I’ve got tomorrow through Monday now. So I was thinking—”

  “Good. Don’t forget the prayer breakfast on Saturday morning. It starts at nine. You better write it down.”

  Maybe I should wait until after we eat. Or at least until I decide for sure what I’m doing. Why get her upset if I’m not going? “No, I’ll remember. You have to speak at that breakfast, don’t you?”

  “I’m giving the opening greeting. Remember? Which is why I don’t want to see you walking in late. By the way, you know who’s sitting at our table? Mayor DuPuy and her husband. And did I mention that John Ashcroft and his wife will be there? Traveling down from Missouri? My mother says the Ashcrofts are big in the Assemblies of God Church. They’re sitting just one table over from us, so I’m sure we’ll get to meet them. You should wear your uniform, not your civvies, okay? What was Ashcroft again? Secretary of state?”

  “Attorney general.” Gee, maybe he’ll sing that song of his at the breakfast—the one they’re always making fun of on The Daily Show. Jon Stewart, Colbert: they go over the top about the conservatives sometimes, but they can be pretty funny.

  “Oh, and I have to go early and help set up the table decorations, so you won’t need to pick me up. You just need to get there.”

  I nod. “And that thing with your parents is the same night, right? What time does that start?”

  “Six o’clock. Drinks first at the house, and then we’re heading on over to Diamond Back’s for dinner. The reservation’s for seven thirty, but my parents want you there for the cocktails, too, Andrew. This is a real big deal for Daddy. His top clients and their wives are going to be there, so you can’t be late for that either. I’d feel a lot better if you wrote this stuff down. Or I could e-mail it to you. Why don’t I do that?”

  Yeah, why don’t you, darlin’? Wouldn’t want to screw up Daddy’s schedule. I guess I’d just better stay put this weekend. It’s not like my mom’s expecting me. “Good idea,” I tell her. “Hey, did you just say ‘clients?’ Plural? I thought it was just that one couple, the Hatchbacks or something?”

  “The Halbachs,” she says. “It was supposed to be just them, but now he’s invited the Rutherfords, too. Cubby Rutherford isn’t exactly a client yet, but Daddy’s been working on it. Cubby’s a big real estate guy. His company’s building that new high-rise that’s going up on Highway Six.”

  “The one past the Richland Mall?”

  “Uh-huh. He owns lots of properties here in Waco, and in Fort Worth, too. Daddy got wind that he’s unhappy with his present firm, so he’s been getting chummy with Cubby. Playing golf with him, taking him skeet shooting at his hunt club. If Cubby decides to switch to Commerford and Crouse, he’ll be Daddy’s biggest client. So the stakes are high. Mommy’s as nervous about Saturday night as a kitty cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

  Texas talk, I think. Give her a smile. “Why’s that?”

  “Because Cubby’s wife is a Reformed Baptist deacon and Judie Halbach’s got a mouth on her. Gets a few drinks in her and starts cussing like a ranch hand. Talking about gun control, and how going to that clown school cured her depression. In the last election, she campaigned for the Democrats against Governor Perry. Mommy says she’ll just die if Judie gets lit and starts in about that. I mean, the Perrys and the Rutherfords are personal friends. But Daddy says they can’t uninvite the Halbachs at this point. Johnny Ray Halbach’s a big client, too.”

  “Well, maybe I could sit next to this Judie and, if she starts mouthing off, spill some wine on her.”

  “Ha-ha, very funny,” Casey says. She looks down at her dress again. Presses a fresh napkin against the stain which, to my eyes, isn’t even visible. “I keep thinking club soda’d be good to treat this with before it sets, but I’m not sure because it’s silk.” To change the subject, I ask her how our wedding plans are coming along. Big mistake. “Ugh,” she says. “Don’t remind me. My mother got a call yesterday from my girlfriend Abilene?”

  “The bridesmaid I haven’t met yet, right? Your college roommate?”

  “Abby’s my maid of honor, Andrew,” she says. “I’m glad at least one of us is focused on what’s only going to be the biggest day of our lives.”

  “Yeah, point taken,” I tell her. “Because hey, it’s only another fourteen months till showtime. I’d better get with the program, huh?”

  She gives me a look. Hitches her hair behind her ear in that way I used to think was so cute. Now I find it annoying. Last time when we went out and I started counting how many times she did it, I got up into the teens.

  “Are you making fun of me?” she asks.

  Yup. “Nope. Just trying to offer a little comic relief.”

  “Well, let me tell you something, Andrew Joseph Oh. You men have it easy. What’s the groom got to do other than rent a tuxedo and show up at the altar? But it’s different for the bride. If my mother and I hadn’t spent most of this summer going around to places, locking things in and putting down payments on . . .” You listen to me, Andrew Joseph Oh! I hear my mother say. That was always my cue to tune her out. Go someplace else in my mind while she stood there screaming at me. Unless, that is, she’d crossed over into lunatic land—was gearing up to hit me. Whack me with something. She never knew how lucky she was that I never hit her back. How close I came to doing that once or twice when—

  “Have you?” Casey-Lee says.

  “Have I what?”

  “Asked any of your friends yet about being groomsmen? Are you even listening to me, Andrew?”

  I nod. Tell her I’m working on the usher thing, which I’m not. Not to her satisfaction, anyway. I’m thinking about asking my buddy Jay Jay from back home to be my best man. Or my dad, if Jay can’t get out here for the wedding. And I suppose I’ll have to ask her doofus little brother to be an usher. But where I’m going to scare up five more “groomsmen” I can’t imagine. “So anyway, Abby called your mother. What did she say?”

  “That she and some of the other girls in the wedding party have been texting back and forth. And that they thought maybe they’d try and book my shower at one of the downtown restaurants that’s got a private room with a bar. Make it, like, more of a bachelorette’s night out than a bridal shower. And get this! She asked my mother did she mind if they hire a male stripper.”

  I laugh out loud thinking about Mean Erlene with her proper ways fielding that question. And then about that Saturday Night Live rerun Casey-Lee and I saw a few weeks back—the one where Chris Farley and what’s-his-name, the Dirty Dancing guy, were auditioning for Chippendales. I was practically falling off the chair laughing, and Casey just sat there, stone-faced, talking about how fat and disgusting Chris Farley was. Which was the whole point of that skit.

  “Boy, I’m really amusing you tonight, aren’t I?” she says. “What’s so funny now?”

  “Nothing. I was just thinking about something else.”

  “Well, my poor mother didn’t think it was funny. She was horrified. She was like, ‘Well, Abilene. There’ll be a lot of Casey-Lee’s family there. I don’t think her aunts or either of her grandmaws would appreciate that kind of party.’ And neither would I, and I’m the guest of honor. Does Abby think I want to see some man dancing around in one of those G-string things? And a bunch of my girlfriends drunk as skunks and stuffing dollar bills in there? Groping his . . .”

  “Meat and potatoes?” I suggest.

  “That’s enough, Andrew. There’s no need to be crude. I mean, my poor MawMaw Clegg would probably have a stroke.”

  Or a hell of a good time, I feel like saying. Rise up from that motorized wheelchair of hers and start dirty-dancing with the stripper. But I keep that thought to myself. Cover my smile with my hand.

  “I mean, when we were rooming together at the U, Abby was such a quiet girl. And spiritual. Whenever I’d get nervous about some test that was coming up, or hurt because another girl in our sorority said something mean about me, she’d go, ‘Give it to Jesus, Casey-Lee. Just pray on it and
give it up to God.’ And now that she’s a big shot buyer for Dillard’s, she’s turned into a . . . party girl.”

  “So I take it your mother wants a swankier affair?”

  “A more dignified one, yes,” she says. “High tea at some nice inn, maybe. Or something nice at the Hilton. Mommy’d already called the Hilton before Abby called. Did some research. They’ve got an outdoor garden pavilion where they do showers. And a poolside patio with a fountain if it’s a bigger group. But when she told Abby what she thought, and even offered to pay for the place, she said there was this silence on the other end. So now she’s in a bind. She doesn’t want to seem pushy, but she doesn’t want her only daughter’s bridal shower to be just some excuse for my girlfriends to get drunk and act improper. And neither do I, for that matter. This is supposed to be about me.”

  “Then why can’t you just talk to Abby and tell her how you feel?”

  “Because it’s a surprise! I’m not even supposed to know about it!”

  I sit there thinking about something to say that won’t dig me in deeper. But here comes our waitress with a tray on her shoulder. “Ah, here we go,” I say. “Good. I’m starved.”

  Xan puts down our meals and grabs my empty beer bottle. “Another Lone Star, sir?” Is she wearing a bra under that blouse? It’s a toss-up. I tell her I don’t mind if I do. As she walks away, I check out her pear-shaped ass.

  “Doin’ some window-shopping?” Casey asks.

  Busted. “Now why would I do that when I’ve got the prettiest girl in the joint sitting across from me?”

  “Hmph,” she says, but smiles. Nice save, Mr. Smooth Talker.

  And I’m not the only one checking out Xan. Casey’s teacher and her pal are following her movements across the floor, too. Does my mother do that? Check out women? Okay, Andrew, knock it off. Don’t even go there.

  Casey-Lee’s looking at my meal. “Those ravioli are drowning,” she says. “Could they put any more of that glop on them?” To appease her, I pick up my fork and start scraping away some of my Alfredo sauce. Only, when I look up to see if she’s registering the gesture, she’s picking through her salad. Looking to ferret out anchovies-in-hiding is what I’m guessing.