A Wedding Invitation

by Alice J. Wisler

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Beluga is a white whale.”

  “Well, make sure your car is running well,” I tease, thinking back to the day of Avery Jones’s wedding. “And have fun.”

  Dovie has a new boarder who sleeps in the little cove bedroom that has the dormer window. I expect my aunt to say that I’ll have to sleep on the couch in the den since all the bedrooms are currently filled, but she tells me that I can have the basement. In the sterile-white lowest portion of the house, I place my suitcase on the double bed that is covered in a floral quilt. Aside from the plaid sofa that sticks out like a wayward appendage, there’s a Kenmore washer, a Whirlpool dryer, and a set of sinks, their basins stained with rust. Above the sinks is a row of cabinets, also white, with little brass knobs that are in the shape of butterflies. The scent in the basement is a mixture of Pine-Sol and sweaty socks. I use the tiny bathroom off to the left, a room just big enough to hold a shower, a sink, and a toilet. Towels of red, white, and blue hang on the rack by the shower door.

  Pearl, her new tenant, actually pays Dovie rent money. I asked Dovie about her when I arrived, and Dovie sat with me while I drank a glass of iced tea at the kitchen table. “She’s newly widowed, and her children wanted her to move into a retirement home, but Pearl fought that.”

  “Really?” I said. “Not interested in a retirement place?”

  “Not in the least.”

  As Dovie swept the kitchen floor, she told me that she met the eighty-five-year-old woman at a gardening party, and seeing her need, invited her to live with her. Pearl crochets, tends to Dovie’s herb garden, feeds the chickens, and takes a nap every afternoon at three after drinking a cup of orange pekoe tea with three-and-one-half teaspoons of sugar.

  Shortly after that, I met the short, plump woman with glossy white hair and she filled me in on her history, including that her husband had been in the Marines. I was about to ask a question about him when Pearl excused herself so she could catch Jeopardy on TV.

  “I watch it every night,” she told me. “Then I take my vitamins.”

  Seeing that it is almost dinnertime, I enter the aromatic kitchen. There is a plate of fried chicken on the counter, and my mouth waters. Beanie is making stuffed eggs, and my aunt is frosting a wobbly chocolate cake.

  Dovie pours me a glass of iced tea and sets it on the kitchen table. She thinks I need iced tea all the time; a fresh pitcher of it is always available. “We’re having a dinner guest tomorrow,” she tells me.

  My aunt likes to entertain. During the warmer months, she puts two tables together on the porch, covers them with pink linen, and serves a feast. Before I can ask who the guest is, the two pies cooling on the counter grab my attention. Each has a lattice crust just like you’d see in a fancy cookbook. “Who made those?”

  “Pearl,” says Dovie. “That’s her specialty. Which is nice since neither Beanie nor I are any good at pies.”

  “What kind are they?”

  “Rhubarb with strawberries. Secret family recipe.” Beanie wipes her hands on a terry-cloth towel. “I think she puts nutmeg in it, and lemon juice.”

  “And a pinch of tapioca,” Dovie says.

  “Tapioca! Why would she put that in there?” Beanie arches her brows.

  “Perhaps she knows something about pies that we don’t.”

  “No wonder ours don’t turn out right.” Beanie covers the eggs with plastic wrap.

  I take a sip of my iced tea and admire the cake.

  “Thanks,” Dovie replies to my compliment.

  “Can I help with anything?”

  Dovie looks at the chicken. “That’s for dinner. We’ll have some biscuits, too.”

  “And mashed potatoes are on the stove,” says Beanie, turning toward the Kenmore. “And green beans. Oh, I need to add some butter to those now.”

  “We’re set then,” says my aunt as Beanie opens the fridge and takes out a stick of butter. “Dinner will be soon. First, we need to get some things taken care of for tomorrow.”

  Beanie pours a glass of tea.

  “Carson is invited.” Dovie says this like she says the day is overcast.

  “Car . . . Carson?” My tongue trips over his name.

  “Yes.”

  “Carson?”

  “Yes, that man you know.”

  “But . . . How?”

  “I hollered out the window. Would have used my phone I rigged up, the one made of soup cans, but the rope broke.” Dovie tries to disguise her smile by covering her mouth.

  Beanie laughs, the glass in her hand shaking from her movement. “Does the city girl think Southerners don’t know how to invite folks over for dinner?”

  Stammering, I say, “What I mean is—how did you get his number?”

  “Carson’s?” My aunt licks the knife she’s been using. A dollop of icing drops from it to her chin.

  “Yes. How do you know him?”

  “He lives nearby.”

  “You think I believe that you know everyone who lives nearby?”

  “I could.” My aunt wipes her chin.

  “She could,” says Beanie with a wink. “In theory, we could know everyone in all of Winston—one big happy Mayberry family!”

  I leave them cackling like the chickens Aunt Dovie has running around her backyard. I head out to the porch, sit by Milkweed, let her flick her tail in my face, and read the first chapter of False Identity in Finland, the next mystery in the Busboy series.

  Of course, at the end of the chapter I have no idea what the book is about. It’s hard to concentrate on a murder mystery when the past shoves its way into my thoughts.

  nineteen

  I can’t sleep. At first I tell myself it’s due to the lumpy bed in the basement, the sheets that smell of cedar, and the dripping of a faucet, but I know better. I’m going to see Carson tomorrow. I don’t know what to wear. I don’t know what to say. My heart dances as I warn it to calm down. I wonder if he still looks like he does in my memory. I wonder how it will feel to talk while looking into his eyes.

  In the kitchen, I forgo my usual iced tea and drink warm milk. When Milkweed purrs, I fill her white porcelain saucer that has Spoiled stamped on the side. I listen to the wall clock tick and watch its pendulum sway like a nervous cattail in the wind.

  The next morning I head out for a walk, wishing Natasha were here to join me. The stress building in my head releases, and after walking ten blocks through the neighborhood and having a dozen homeowners either wave at me or wish me good morning, I’m convinced that it isn’t hard to make friends here and eventually know everyone.

  By a brick house on the corner, children play a game of croquet. Their mallets slice across the manicured lawn at the colored balls. The squeals and clapping bring smiles to parents seated on plastic chairs on a nearby patio.

  An hour later I’m ready to go back to my aunt’s. I’m perspiring and eager to get into the shower.

  After my shower, I stand by the bed in the basement, a towel around me, and look at what I have to wear. My choices are limited to the packing decision I made yesterday. There’s a jeans skirt, the purple cotton shirt I wore on my date with Taylor, a green shirt, a pair of jeans with holes at the knees (Mom is never impressed when I wear them), a pair of khaki shorts, and three cotton T-shirts all in varying shades of pink. If I’d known that I was going to see Carson, I’d have brought my sundress with the Thai print. I like the way it shows off my shoulders and is pleated at the waist.

  “You are going to have fun,” I tell my reflection in the bathroom. I smile—one of those smiles I often see at the boutique from a customer when she tries on a scarf or hat, strikes a pose, and thinks that no one is watching. I wonder if the jeans skirt and green shirt were the right choices and wish I was wearing the sundress. Mom tells me I look good in green, which brings out my olive complexion and brown eyes.

  As I continue to hide out in the bathroom, I wonder if Carson will even show up. He’s from Raleigh. He could have plans to go home for the h
oliday.

  I frown at my reflection. You sack of hay, I almost say aloud. You could be worrying for nothing. I smooth my hair, then fluff it up around my temples. I hope that the tension in my neck will ease.

  Leave it to Beanie to find me. “What are you doing down here?” she asks, knocking on the bathroom door.

  “Busy,” I say.

  “Well, come on out and quit your foolishness.”

  I press my nose to the door. “I’m not being foolish.”

  “Come on out now.”

  “Why?” With my eyes on the stained ceiling, I wonder why this bathroom has to reek so heavily of Pine-Sol. With the amount she uses to clean, I think Dovie must have stock in the company. Closing my eyes, I try not to breathe.

  “You are needed upstairs.”

  “Now?” Could Carson already be here?

  “Hurry.”

  “I’m busy,” I say and wince at my own deceit.

  Beanie tries a soothing tone. “Come on, sugar, you can’t miss out just ’cause you’re nervous.”

  I turn around and swing open the door. “I am not nervous.”

  She eyes me, her small hands against her hips, a stance I’ve never seen her hold. “Sure you are.”

  “I am fine.” I enunciate each word like I did when teaching English as a Second Language.

  “Well, I would be if I were you.”

  I square my shoulders and walk toward the staircase.

  “You can’t hide from life. Even I know that.”

  I want to say so much—but not to Beanie. I want sympathy, not reprimand.

  She follows me like the conscience I can’t get rid of.

  I march up the steps, almost run into Milkweed, and abruptly stop as I come face-to-face with the past standing before me—just as handsome and inviting as he was way back then.

  “Sam.” Carson’s deep voice takes me back to the camp, during the early mornings when he’d stop by to wake me for a walk to the market.

  “Carson, how nice to see you!” I say a little too enthusiastically. My smile is pasted on my face, unable to come off even if I wanted it to. I know it’s not wise, but nevertheless I look into his eyes—eyes greener than I remembered. My ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton; it’s hard to hear when your heart bangs against your rib cage like a noisy hammer. At last I find my voice. “Who would have thought we’d both meet again in North Carolina?”

  He hugs me then, all warm and smelling of a fresh spring day.

  Dovie tells us to make ourselves comfortable on the porch, where Pearl sits with a ball of rust-colored yarn and her crochet needle. My aunt and Beanie carry plates of food in from the kitchen.

  I motion to a wicker chair to the left of the love seat. Carson sits down as I slip onto the love seat beside Pearl.

  I introduce Carson, and when I say his name, Pearl puts her yarn and needle aside and tells him that she had a brother named Carson. As the two make small talk, I place my attention on the ceiling fan, the floor, anything but Carson’s beautiful eyes. When there’s a break in the conversation, I ask what he’s been up to, and as he shares about a local Moravian man who makes the best cheese soufflé, I think that I must have missed something. “Do you know this man?” I ask.

  He grins. “Like I said, he’s my neighbor and works in Old Salem. You know Old Salem, right?”

  “Of course,” I say too quickly. I’ve only visited the famous Moravian section of Winston once as a child and don’t remember much about it except people wore old-fashioned clothing and talked in a funny dialect.

  “My neighbor is taking part in a soufflé contest today.”

  Carson continues to talk as I realize all I’ve been concentrating on is my breathing and making sure that I’m poised and looking relaxed. But I’m not relaxed because Carson is looking me over; I know he must be because he hasn’t seen me since 1986, seven years ago. I would like to look him over, but my gaze is glued to the right of me, on Pearl. Pearl’s worn eyes are safe to look at; this old woman will not coax my heart from its safe place.

  The ceiling fan creaks as Pearl says, “I’ve never made a soufflé, but I do like to make a rhubarb pie every Sunday.” With a chuckle she looks around the room and adds, “Sometimes I forget family tradition and make pies on other days of the week, too.”

  I can’t recall the last time I had rhubarb. I know that Pearl’s pies will be served for dessert tonight, along with the cake Dovie iced.

  “The family recipe uses half a cup of white and half a cup of brown.” She giggles as though she has told a funny joke.

  “My mother always made rhubarb pies in the summer.”

  “I hated rhubarb when I was a child,” Pearl confesses. “I think it’s because it reminded me of celery, and I don’t like celery.”

  I wonder if I’ve left earth and am now hovering around the twilight zone. This is ridiculous. Who doesn’t like celery?

  Carson smiles at me. “Sam, remember the time you and I made a pie for one of our potluck dorm dinners?”

  I do remember that time. “It was an ube pie.”

  Carson explains the purple vegetable to Pearl as the older woman listens intently.

  “A purple yam,” repeats Pearl. “Sounds colorful. Now what is it called again?”

  “Ube,” Carson says. Then he jovially asks, “Sam, have you made any fried onions and green peppers lately?”

  My first reaction is to laugh, and I do. “I don’t have that skillet, so you know, without it, I can’t cook.” I see the skillet in my mind—it was a heavy object that once caught fire when I left it on a burner without any oil. I know Carson is remembering that scene because he was there to put out the fire with a bucket of tap water.

  “Do you ever hear from anyone?” Carson leans closer toward me.

  “From PRPC days? I get a letter from Brice about once a year. Christmas card, actually.”

  “I get those. I can’t believe he’s married with four kids and still living in the Philippines.”

  Once I got letters from you, I want to say. Then you stopped writing to me. I almost feel bold enough to ask him, What happened? But I just smile until my face feels like it might crack like dried Play-Doh.

  When Beanie returns to the gathering from the kitchen, we stop talking to hear her tell us, “Wash up now because dinner is nearly ready.” The aroma of food is enticing, although my stomach is tighter than Pearl’s ball of yarn.

  Carson and I head to the little bathroom by the front door as Pearl joins us, her orthopedic shoes heavy against the wooden floor. We let her go first and stand by the opened door as she insists that we use the decorative soaps in the glass canister beside the sink.

  “I never knew why people buy these pretty things only to display them and never wash with them,” she tells us as she pulls out a peach-colored ball in the shape of a seashell. As the water runs, she lathers with the soap ball. She rinses, dries her hands on the red, white, and blue guest towel that displays an embroidered American flag, and says, “I believe in enjoying life, I guess.”

  Carson and I smile discreetly at each other, and taking her advice, wash our hands with the pretty soap. Then we leave the fragrant room for the porch, where dinner is served under the wobbly ceiling fan.

  Carson is the epitome of good-natured. His memory must be shorter than I realized, forgetting the distance that was once between us. “Sam, it’s good to see you.”

  I swallow the desire to be sarcastic. How easy it would be for me to blurt out something about how he refused my advances one night after we watched a video together. How he wanted nothing to do with me for some time after that and how embarrassed I felt. How we disagreed over Lien’s accusation of theft. How he avoided me.

  When Dovie appears, we seat ourselves at the table, noting the aromatic spread that lay before us. There is a plate with stuffed eggs, another with watermelon, grapes, and melon slices, and a platter stacked with grilled pork chops. A green salad filled with Boston and romaine lettuce, cucumbers, dried
cranberries, tomatoes, and slivered almonds is to the left of my elbow, and in front of Carson are trays of twice-baked potatoes and homemade oatmeal bread. An inviting dome of whipped butter sits in a ceramic dish.

  Dovie asks us all to hold hands around the table, and then she says her usual prayer of thanksgiving. Once she says her “Amen and amen,” we lift our heads and start passing platters of food.

  I spoon small portions onto my plate and hope that no one comments on how little I’ve taken. As I cut my pork chop, I also hope that no one notices my shaking hand.

  Beanie asks Carson about the radio station where he works, and after he’s told us about that, I jump in to ask the question I’ve wanted to hear the answer to. “How do you all know each other?”

  They look around and exchange sly smiles.

  “I needed bail money and your aunt helped me out.” Carson says this like it’s a joke, but knowing how many people my aunt helps, it could be the truth.

  “Really?” I scan their faces and realize Carson is kidding. “Tell me the truth now.”

  “It was at the soup kitchen,” says my aunt. “Last December, wasn’t it? His radio station was raising money for the kitchen, some sort of fund-raiser.” She lifts a forkful of potato and eats.

  “And he interviewed you,” Beanie adds.

  “That’s right. I said something about being proud to give of my time.” She looks at us and shrugs. “Something pretty lame.”

  “Oh, no!” cries Beanie. “You did just great. I was . . .” Her eyes focus on her hands. “I was proud of you.”

  I look closely to see that her eyes are moist. She blinks, looks back at her hands.

  I want to reach across the table and say, “There now, Beanie. You can be sentimental after all.”

  Carson looks my way. “Then last week, I learned that Dovie is Sam’s aunt.”

  “That’s when I got the notion to invite Carson over for dinner with y’all tonight.” My aunt is proud she could pull off this meeting, I can tell. Her face is radiant with the satisfaction of a well-kept secret. “I knew Sam would be coming here for the Fourth.”