A Wedding Invitation

by Alice J. Wisler

  I thought of how Lien was once in the marketplace with a lacquer bangle brought over from Vietnam and some of my students were trying to catch up to her because the jewelry was not hers. Three girls approached me as I paid for two carrots and a head of cabbage. They announced that Lien had taken the item. I recalled the scenario for Carson.

  “She was only playing,” he said. “I later saw her with that bracelet and she gave it back to the proper owner.”

  “Well, she stole my watch once.”

  Bleakly, he looked at me. “She did?”

  “She picked it up and took it.”

  “Off of your wrist?” Sarcasm was evident in his tone.

  “No. I always remove it and put it on top of my desk when I teach.”

  “And she saw it and was playing with it?”

  “No.” I steadied my voice. “She took it.”

  “Took it away? Put it in her pocket?”

  Today, Carson’s Southern accent grated on my nerves, like fingernails on a chalkboard. Just moments ago I had held his hand and now I wanted to walk away from him. Why was it that Lien could do no wrong in his book? What was it about the Hong family that he revered? Accusingly, I stated, “She had it in her hands and was walking away with it.”

  He pointed to my Citizen watch, sitting securely on my left wrist. “And she gave it back.”

  “But she picked it up and held it.”

  “That’s not stealing!”

  Carson’s tone shocked me. It was loud and seared my skin. I hadn’t seen this side of him before.

  “She had no business taking it!” I gulped, reminded that I had prayed to have patience with Lien, but now patience and understanding seemed miles away.

  “That’s not stealing.” Carson’s eyes looked like dark valleys, no room for light.

  “She took scissors from my desk and kept them for two days.”

  “But she returned them, didn’t she?”

  “Carson!” Then my words spilled, toppling over each other. “You protect Lien all the time. You can’t ever see her faults. She isn’t perfect! If you’re so in love with her, then just go off and have a happy life.”

  It was a stupid thing to say. I regretted it later.

  I regretted a lot later.

  fourteen

  When I finally get Dexter on the phone, his apology is profuse. “Sam, you have to forgive me. My car wouldn’t start. Crazy, huh? I cranked the key over and over, but it was dead. I got a friend to come over and try the whole jumper cable routine. That didn’t work.”

  “So what did you do then?” I’m admiring the recent photos I took of Dovie’s butterflies at the cemetery. I dropped off the roll of film after work and waited the one hour for the drugstore’s lab to process it into glossy prints, which are now spread over the kitchen table.

  “He drove me to Sears to get a battery, but even with a new battery it wouldn’t start. I had to have it towed to a repair shop.”

  “Did you find out what was wrong with it?”

  “Yeah, it was the water pump.”

  “Ohh. That can be expensive to fix.”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Really. I bought a gift and everything. How was Avery?”

  When I tell him it was the wrong Avery Jones, he laughs so loud I have to move the receiver from my ear. “Now that is funny,” he says, and laughs some more. “You went to the wrong wedding, Sam? Just like you went to the wrong lab that time in chemistry. Remember?”

  I think he must feel there’s a pattern here, but really, I am not as ditzy as I seem.

  Taylor calls me and he is as sweet as he was at the reception. He wants to take me for a boat ride on the Potomac River next Sunday afternoon. Jokingly, I ask if this is part of an investigative job he has to do.

  “No,” he says. “I leave my work at home.”

  “So this is for fun?”

  “Unless you get seasick.”

  “Are we going as far as the sea?”

  “Actually, no.” I hear the rustle of some papers. “I have this brochure here that describes a cruise down the Potomac River on one of those old tour boats. Don’t tell me you’ve already done that a million times.”

  “A cruise down the Potomac?” The idea sounds intriguing. During all the years I’ve lived in this area, I’ve never boated on the Potomac River. “That sounds fun.”

  When I tell Mom the news about my date, she wonders if I need a new outfit. “Something pretty?” she asks.

  I think the word outfit is a funny English word, like it should describe a Halloween costume rather than something we choose to wear to work or to church. I recall one of my students in camp wondering why the words out and fit together meant an ensemble of clothing.

  “He said to dress casually,” I tell Mom. “We’re going out on a boat.”

  “Shorts and one of the Liz Claiborne cotton V-neck sleeveless shirts,” she suggests. I know exactly where those shirts hang and am grateful when she lets me choose the light purple one to wear.

  On Sunday after church, I park my car at the wharf along the bank of the Potomac. The day is sunny with no visible clouds, the temperature hovering around ninety. After putting on a pair of sunglasses, I watch a sailboat glide across the water. As sweat glistens on my skin, I’m tempted to take a splash in the river to cool off.

  Instead, I walk, meandering along the docked yachts, reading off their given names. There’s Enchanted Sea, Chesapeake’s Charm, and sillier names like Little Putt-Putt and Sight Sea. Their fiberglass hulls sparkle in the sunlight as waves lap gently against them. Realizing I’ve been here a while, I hope that I’m in the right place at the right time today. I followed the signs for the Potomac Jewel as Taylor instructed me to do, and unless there is more than one steamboat by that name in Arlington, I should be okay.

  When I hear, “Hey there, Samantha!” I smile with relief.

  Taylor, dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and an aqua T-shirt, approaches me. He gives me a warm hug and a smile so wide I can’t see his mole at all. “Ready?” he asks. “We have to get our tickets. The tour starts in thirty minutes.”

  After purchasing our tickets, Taylor buys us cans of Sprite and we wait in line to board. He looks for a restroom as I read the brochure to learn more about this large apricot-colored steamboat docked in front of me. The Potomac Jewel is a triple-decker masterpiece, I read, and looking at the boat, I see that it does have three layers to it, like a wedding cake. The top deck is considerably smaller than the others, but my adventurous side yearns to climb to the very height of it.

  Taylor returns just as the line starts moving. Children cling to their parents’ hands, excitedly anticipating the ride.

  “Daddy, do you think it will go fast?” asks one boy.

  His father says, “I think it’s a slow boat, but we’ll be able to see far.”

  The boy seems pleased. “I hope I can see all the way to China.”

  Once on the Potomac Jewel, I note how majestic it feels. This is going to be romantic, I think as I give Taylor a smile. We stand close together on the promenade deck as a whistle blows and the vessel groans away from the dock.

  We watch the wharf grow smaller, and the men standing on it, who have untied the heavy ropes from the vessel, shrink into toy sizes. The docked yachts now resemble white candy-coated Chiclets.

  As the tour guide welcomes us aboard, Taylor comments, “That wedding reception was fun, wasn’t it?”

  I consider telling him that the funniest thing was that I was at the wrong wedding, but I’m not sure I should reveal my ditzy side just yet.

  He launches into a story about a man who hired him to find his missing wife, a woman who really was not missing; she just didn’t want her husband to find her. “The woman was angry when I located her,” Taylor tells me. “She threatened to burn my house down.”

  “Are you threatened often?”

  “Once a man let his pit bull chase me. He was angry that I told him he needed to appear in court the next day.”


  “Were you okay?”

  “I got away. Did the whole ‘throw the stick one way and run the other’ trick. I use that on my dog sometimes.”

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Van Gogh.”

  “Like the painter?” Names for pets often amuse me, such as when my mother christened her cat Butterchurn because he’s yellow, she said, like butter.

  “He looks like a Van Gogh because one ear is smaller than the other.”

  We laugh.

  “He’s a seven-year-old Boxer I’ve had since he was a pup.”

  “Ah, must be nice to have someone who looks forward to your return each day.” No lonely nights.

  “It’s great. He greets me when I come home from work with a tennis ball in his mouth. Just waiting to play. Boxers have great faces,” he says over the tour guide’s voice that is directing us to look out the starboard side of the boat.

  “Faces?” I try to picture the face of that breed.

  “Their large eyes and expressions make you feel they are really listening to you when you talk, and you feel that they understand you.”

  “Sounds like having a good friend.”

  “Until your Boxer licks his rear and walks away.”

  I giggle. “I might get a dog one of these days.” I think of Milkweed and Butterchurn and add, “Or a cat.”

  “Cats can’t fetch a ball or a Frisbee.”

  “True. Maybe a dog, then. I’ve never owned one, but yours sounds fun.” Growing up, we had cats because Mom claimed that her personality was more suited toward having a cat. Thinking again of Butterchurn, I say, “Can you find missing animals?”

  “What?” he asks as a gust of wind blows over us, tousling our hair.

  “Aren’t you a private investigator?”

  “For people, Samantha,” he says and then laughs.

  “Let’s go up to the top floor.”

  “You mean the top deck?”

  “Whatever it’s called. Come on.” Grabbing his hand on impulse, I take us toward the signs for the upper deck.

  After threading through the throng of people, we climb the stairs to the third tier of the steamboat. With a hand on the wrought-iron railing, I anchor myself and gaze to my left, where a milky marble President Abraham Lincoln sits in his columned memorial. The boat glides under the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge, and I get a glimpse of both the Korean War Veterans Memorial and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Up ahead, the Washington Monument towers like a beacon of national pride.

  To the left is the Pentagon, sprawled out like a set of large building blocks.

  When Taylor puts his arm around me, I catch a whiff of his cologne. A man who smells good is a plus in my book. We stay on the top deck, enjoying the break from the tour guide’s microphone voice that is much louder on the lower levels.

  When the tour ends and we’re safely on land again, Taylor takes me to a little Greek restaurant near the Thai embassy, and we enjoy lamb gyros and slices of toasty pita with hummus. He talks about a case he’s working on, and after I ask a few questions, he tells me about another.

  We part around eight. I thank him for a lovely time and wonder if he’ll kiss me or ask to see me again. As though reading my thoughts, he says, “I’d like to go out again.”

  “I’d like that, too.”

  “Have you ever been to Donatello?”

  “Once.” I recall going there with Natasha and Mom years ago.

  “Why don’t we go there sometime? It’ll have to be later in July. I’m going home for Canada Day.”

  “Canada Day?”

  “July first. Right before your Independence Day.”

  Hesitantly, I ask, “You’re Canadian?”

  “Through and through. Moved here when I was out of college. My parents still live in Toronto.”

  “Do you ever say ‘eh’?” I tease.

  He produces an awkward smile; I hope I haven’t offended him.

  “Well, have a good time there.” I give him my cheeriest smile as we hug good-bye. Again I wonder if there will be a kiss, but we break our embrace without one.

  As I drive back home, the radio playing softly, I relive snatches from our date. Stepping into my apartment, I switch on the lights and then realize how tired I am. Thankful for a working air-conditioner, I turn down the thermostat a few degrees to compensate for the muggy night. As I pour a glass of lemon iced tea, I listen to the message on my answering machine.

  “Hi, Samantha. This is Carson Brylie. Lien gave me your number. I hope we can talk soon. Bye.”

  For a second I don’t breathe. Then when the shock wears off, I put the pitcher down, walk over to the answering machine, and play the message again. And again.

  fifteen

  On Monday morning, I wear my tennis shoes because I remember that it’s delivery day from one of our suppliers. The UPS truck brings us seven boxes of clothes, the driver huffing as he carts the last one into the back room.

  Since there are no customers in the shop, I begin to open the boxes. Feelings of happiness flit around my heart like Dovie’s butterflies when I think about yesterday with Taylor. I recall how his arm felt around my shoulders as the boat skirted across the water.

  Mom notes my smile and asks about the date. “Do you like him?”

  “Hmmm,” I say and then, looking at the boxes, decide I better step away from my cocoon of recounting Saturday and get busy.

  “Just be careful.”

  I know that Mom’s warning has nothing to do with the boxes of clothes. She knows something happened in the Philippines and wants to make sure my heart doesn’t get trampled again.

  Nodding to appease her, I get on my knees, pull a box toward me, and dig into the contents. The first thing I pull out is a pair of silky florescent pink underpants encased in plastic. The next item is the same.

  “I didn’t order those,” says Mom, a blush the same color as the underwear tinting her cheeks.

  I open each box, but none of the contents is what we ordered.

  Mom’s convinced that these are for that other boutique on the edge of town. She asks if the address is ours.

  “Yeah, they even got the zip code correct.”

  “Well, it’s a drastic mistake.”

  After being put on hold for twelve minutes, I reach an operator at the company called Bannerfields. “This is Have a Fit in Falls Church, Virginia. We just received the wrong shipment of clothing.”

  The woman at the other end can’t believe that a mistake has been made. “Are you sure that you didn’t order those?”

  I look at my mother, one of the most modest women I’ve ever known. She’s still blushing from the dozens of pairs of lacy panties, some with polka dots, others with tiny red bows. “We did not.”

  Per the operator’s instructions I call UPS to pick up the unwanted boxes. The promise is that a driver will be at our store by five today to take the boxes away.

  Mom sighs. I see heaviness in her movements and a dullness to her eyes. Panic fills me, my mind reeling back to the days she spent in the hospital getting treated for breast cancer.

  “Why don’t you go home?” I suggest. “Get some rest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You must be tired.”

  “Samantha. I will run this store. Don’t start telling me it’s too big a task for me.” I see her eyes plead, Don’t take this away from me. If you do, what will I have to live for?

  I put my arm around her shoulders.

  She winces. “I will not let you or Dovie baby me.”

  I pull her close. “I know. I know that, Mom.” I kiss her cheek, then release her.

  She starts to sort dresses, putting the long in with the petite.

  I don’t say a word. I just take a marker from the counter and, for the next five minutes, add a few more lines to the Shop with Elvis posters.

  In the microwave, I heat a bowl of noodles for dinner, first adding water and then sprinkling on the chicken flavor packet. I break ap
art a pair of wooden chopsticks from the takeout at Joyful Dragon and am about to sit at my kitchen table when the phone rings.

  Setting down the chopsticks, I lean over to grab the cordless.

  The voice on the other end is like a summer day at the beach, familiar and brimming with anticipation. “Hi. Is this Samantha?”

  “It is.” I feel my heart pole-vault in my chest. “And is this Carson Brylie?”

  “It is.”

  I can tell he’s smiling. “I can’t believe it! How are you?” My words gush out like water from a faucet turned on all the way.

  “Pretty good. How about you?”

  “Good. Yeah. Doing well. I just made some noodles for dinner.” Immediately I feel silly for saying that.

  “Lien told me I could call you.”

  It sounds just like Lien to try to run the show. Even after all these years, I still don’t know how to handle her. Covering my thoughts, I say, “It was fun seeing Lien again. She’s taller than I am now.”

  “She told me all about it. Showed me the photo Huy took of the two of you.”

  “She did?” I hope the photo is flattering. I hate to think that after all these years, Carson’s first encounter with me was an unflattering picture.

  “She couldn’t stop talking about how Huy found you and invited you to the restaurant.”

  There’s so much I want to tell him—about Mom’s illness, my job, the fire in the dumpster, how often I think of him. Instead I mumble, “Yeah, she’s grown up a lot.”

  “So, what are you doing?”

  “Oh, not too much.” The heat from the bowl and from Carson’s Southern accent have warmed my face. “And you?”

  “Just mowed the lawn. It’s my day off.”

  I feel like a silly schoolgirl who’s gotten a call from a guy she likes. After all this time, you still hold a piece of my heart, Carson. In the pit of my stomach, a disturbance flails. Swallowing, I steady my voice. “Where do you work?”

  “A little radio station.”

  “What do you do there?”

  “D.J.”

  “You’re a D.J.?”