Beanie rolls her eyes and mutters, “Has she lost her mind?”
“Well, well,” my aunt says after listening a while longer, “I suppose that might work.” To us, she says, “Little says that Liza wants to study overseas. Maybe Paris.”
“Why does everyone want to go to Paris?” Beanie says to me.
“It’s romantic,” I tell her. I’ve always wanted to see the Eiffel Tower and dine outside at a street café under the stars. And just maybe, be with someone who touches my arm, causing fire to pulsate through every vein.
“I’ve seen all those movies that are set in Paris. Don’t look like a place a person like me would fit in.”
“Aren’t you part French?” I ask, setting a plate atop the stack of others in the cupboard.
“Sammie Sugar, I am part everything, but that doesn’t mean I understand it all.”
When the kitchen is “put back into place,” as Beanie says, Beanie, still murmuring about Paris, heads up the stairs to her room to listen to the radio. Dovie hangs a dish towel on the rack by the sink and tells me she’s going outside to check on her butterflies and make sure the hens are rounded up and secure in their coop.
Knowing that I need to sleep because I can’t be up like I was last night, I stick to my nightly ritual and brew a pot of coffee. As the crickets and bullfrogs serenade each other across neighbors’ lawns, I join Milkweed on the porch’s love seat.
The silent porch only makes me think of Carson. I sip from my mug of coffee, and although its aroma is strong, stronger still are the fumes from the fireworks. They filter through the air like the scent of a woman’s perfume lingers even long after she’s departed.
“Dovie?” I ask after she returns from making sure all her insects and chickens are safe. I know that ideally she’d like to believe that the chickens would go to their roosting spots by themselves each night without assistance, but there has been a spotting of a fox in the neighborhood, and Dovie doesn’t want to subject her possessions to an attack.
“Yes, dear?” Dovie’s voice has that lovely Southern charm to it. My own mother works hard at hiding her Southern accent. For whatever reason, she doesn’t eagerly admit that she was born and raised in Winston. I think it’s because, once she married Daddy, they lived in various northern regions and people teased her about her drawl.
With my legs stretched out on the ottoman, I ask my aunt, “Did you ever think of becoming a nun?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, indeed I did.”
“Really?”
She plops her tall body onto the space beside me on the love seat. “Yes, I also wanted to be a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader and an interpreter for the United Nations.”
I search her face to check if she’s serious.
Her laughter is loud. “Me? Can you believe those dreams I once had?”
“I can. I once wanted to be a secret agent.”
“Is that so?”
“After our trip to Scotland. Daddy told me I’d make a great agent, and he was sure that Scotland Yard could use me.” I never made it to Scotland again, or London. But after traveling to the United Kingdom during our family vacation, I did yearn to live and work overseas. When I read about the need for teachers at the refugee camp years later, I eagerly applied and hugged Mom a few times when my application was accepted.
Dovie pats my leg like one would pat her child’s, only my aunt has never had children. “I want you to know that you shouldn’t worry so much.”
“Worry?”
“Yes, I see those worry lines on your forehead.”
I rub my forehead with my index finger.
“Samantha?” My name hangs from her lips like a cloak from a hanger.
“Yeah. I know.”
“Know what?” Her brow wrinkles as her eyes look into mine.
This time I pat her leg. “That God loves me and wants me to trust so that I have no need for worry.”
She relaxes. “I know you have a lot on your plate.”
“You mean Mom and the shop?”
“And the past and the future.”
I inhale and nod.
“I’m not sure what that boy meant to you in the Philippines, but you are here now. Release your fears to God.”
In my mind I see a mass of orange and black decorating a field, beginning a journey. “Like the butterflies?”
“Exactly.”
The crickets chirp wildly through the trees as the ceiling fan sputters, casting a breeze over my legs. I think of how we miss so much of nature’s offerings because we’re too occupied with our own dilemmas, yet if we listened to her music more, we might find the solace we desperately need.
“Release and be still,” my aunt says.
“I loved him.” Once the words leave my mouth, I wonder who has spoken. I think about clarifying or retracting them, but I’m too tired to try.
“I know.”
“I won’t get hurt again.”
She places an arm around my shoulders. “No, you won’t. You won’t be hurt twice.”
I rest my head against her arm. “How can you tell? How do you know?”
“I’ve been in love. Never found a man who could handle being my husband, but I know about love.”
“How do you think Mom ever got so she could trust a man?”
“You mean your father?”
“Yeah. She says the two of you lived in an environment where there was little love and trust.”
“You know that’s true, Sam. She’s not making up the ugly incidences of lies and deceit and abuse that infested our childhood. But as I got older, I refused to let it keep me from living. God had to do a load of healing in me.” Squeezing my shoulder, she continues. “Gradually, I learned that not everyone is out to get you. Your mama just is taking longer to see the same.”
At this point in her life, I doubt my mother will ever change and soften like her sister, Dovie. Suspicious and cautious, she has become old before her time.
“She loves us, though, Sam. She may not want the affection or tell us that she loves us, but she does. Believe that.”
My eyes well as I long for the days with Daddy when Mom smiled more often and I felt the strength of family.
Dovie kisses my cheek and gently wipes a tear that has crisscrossed my face.
We sit together as dogs bay in a neighbor’s yard and a few firecrackers pop into the distant air. Then, after commenting on the brightness of the moon, we leave the porch and head inside. I wait as Dovie locks the front door and then watch her climb the stairs to her bedroom, Milkweed trailing closely behind.
Dovie pauses to say that she hopes I sleep well; I tell her the same.
twenty-three
Beanie makes me blueberry pancakes and sausage links for breakfast. She insists that I try the new syrup shipped from her friends in Vermont. “It’s the real stuff, Sammie. None of that artificial sugar substance. You have not lived until you have tasted real maple syrup.”
I’m not sure why she assumes that I’ve never had the real stuff before. But I play along. Lifting a large piece of pancake with my fork, I watch the syrup drip onto the plate. The morsel fills my mouth. “Wow, it is good.”
“Better, right?”
“So much better.” I take another bite.
Beanie smiles and pours herself a cup of coffee. “Want a cup?”
She reaches for a mug as I answer, “Please.”
“Someone made a pot of coffee last night and didn’t bother to wash it out.” Beanie’s gaze hovers around mine.
Guilty, I confess, “It was me. Sorry.”
As she hands me a mug, she says, “Coffee at bedtime. I don’t know how you do that and actually sleep.”
I take a sip; the warmth from the strong liquid glides down my throat. “In theory,” I say, borrowing her phrase, “caffeine is supposed to make you not able to sleep. I guess I’m wired wrong.”
She laughs. “I suppose we all have our little quirks. Dovie thinks it odd that I listen to WKLV every night.�
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The call letters for the station sound familiar. “Carson’s station, right?”
She adds more sugar to her coffee, then stirs the beverage with the handle of a wooden mixing spoon. “Sure is. And by the way, he is a good D.J.”
I don’t want to keep the conversation on Carson. He already occupies way too many of my thoughts. I focus on the mosaic that decorates the wall behind Dovie’s stove. The pattern is a monarch butterfly, marigold wings spread, ready to fly.
“He has a lot of fans.”
“That was fun dancing,” I say, changing the subject.
Beanie stares at me over the counter. After a moment she says, “Until it reminded me of the old days.”
“Old days?”
“When I lived in New York City and was a dancer.”
“Do you miss New York?”
“Never.” She spits the word.
“Where’s your family? Do they live up there still?”
“I’m from all over.”
“That’s right. You’re every woman.” Eager to learn more about her past, I lean on my elbows and say, “Were you really homeless?”
She nods. “The rumors are true.”
She seems sad. Perhaps I’ve gone and opened a can of memories she’d prefer to keep shut. I try to mask my own discomfort by asking if she got the bank job she interviewed for weeks ago.
“No.”
“Sorry.”
“Not a problem.” She wipes the counter with a cloth. “In theory, I want to work. But then there’s my health issue.”
“Your health?” Oh no, I think. What is wrong with Beanie? Please not cancer, please not cancer.
But Pearl enters the room before Beanie can answer. The elderly woman is dressed in a flowered duster, her head covered by a brimmed straw hat, her black shoes firmly on her tiny feet. “I was going out to take care of the garden and feed the hens.”
Beanie takes one look at her and says, “I’ll come too.” I’m not sure why she feels she must supervise the old woman. It’s only the garden, I think. Pearl is not going combat fighting.
Beanie challenges my thoughts. “Those hens can be a handful,” she says. “Dinner is an exceptional bear.” She opens the back door and waits for Pearl to join her outside. They’ll water the herbs, feed the chickens, and no doubt converse about the old days like all good Southerners do.
I finish my breakfast as the hens chatter outside. I consider calling Mom at the beach house. She should be awake and drinking her coffee, sweetened with a teaspoon and a half of sugar. I can see her in a straw hat, a little less worn than Pearl’s, and adorned with a few flowers she’s picked on a walk to the beach. She and Maralinda are probably deciding where they’ll eat lunch. A wave of jealousy sweeps over my heart. If they would invite me to join them, I’d accept the invitation in a second.
Minutes later, when Carson appears at the back door, my mind is still on Mom. In fact, the cordless kitchen phone is in my hand. “Carson!” Here I am in a frayed T-shirt and pair of cutoffs and without any makeup.
As he grins through the screen door, I run a hand down my uncombed hair. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
I don’t know whether to let him in or make him wait until I feel more presentable.
He opens the door and lets himself in. “How are you?”
“Good.” I place the phone back in its cradle. “And what are you up to? Breaking and entering?”
His smile is genuine. There were times in the camp that his smile was clearly fake, only used to appease Dr. Rogers, our staunch director, or an irate student. I also remember that at the camp, he just waltzed into my dorm to see me whenever he pleased. “I was thinking we could go over to the bistro,” he says.
“I don’t think so.” The words come out unfiltered, but once they’re said, I stand behind them.
He doesn’t leave, just grins, his eyes shiny and knowing. It’s that knowing look that gets to me. Like he can see into my soul or read my mind. I’m not sure which is worse.
We are no longer at the Philippine Refugee Processing Center, I want to tell him. Here, people call before coming over. This is the South, and as a Southerner he should know that there are invitations, rules and regulations. Even in the Philippines I questioned his motivations when he’d knock on my dorm room door Saturday mornings and tell me I needed to go with him to the market for a breakfast of Vietnamese sandwiches or spicy noodle soup. Why did he want to spend so much time with me when he was saving his heart for Mindy?
“It’s Saturday, Carson,” I’d tell him at the camp.
“I know,” he’d whisper. “The day’s not hot yet. Plus, you like to walk.”
Today I mumble, “I have . . . I have . . . things . . . to do.” I know Dovie is headed to the homeless shelter. Who’s to say I wasn’t planning to go there with her?
His look of disappointment surprises me. Stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets, he confesses, “It doesn’t have to take long.”
I want to say that I’m sorry, that he will have to go without me, that I am a busy woman now and not at all able or willing to respond to his spontaneity. “Okay,” I say. “But can I take a shower first?”
“Sure, that would be acceptable.”
“You can wait in the den. Dovie’s in there with Milkweed watching The Price Is Right.”
At Saigon Bistro, the only table available is in a corner near the restrooms. I hate sitting by the restrooms. As customers walk to and from the lavatory, my hope is that they wash their hands.
Lien comes from the kitchen to greet us. Her dyed-brown hair is in a ponytail and her makeup adds sophistication to her round face. She looks Carson over and says, “You look handsome like movie star.”
Normally I would laugh at such a line, but I’m at a loss for words.
Carson seems unmoved. Casually, he says, “Thank you.”
“What you want today?” she asks, running fingers down her white apron with Saigon Bistro embroidered in baby blue over her chest.
We know what we want; there is no mulling it over. Carson orders two bowls of pho with pork.
Before heading back to the kitchen, she sticks around our table to tell us how she thinks movie stars came to eat at the restaurant yesterday. “They very nice and very beautiful.”
“Do you know who they were?” asks Carson.
“Maybe Lady Diana. And someone else.”
“Lady Di is not a movie star,” I say.
Lien produces a small smile at Carson. “To me, she is.”
When she leaves us alone, I let out the first thing that comes to mind. “She still adores you. Clearly.”
“She’s appreciative.”
Huy brings our lunch on a black lacquer tray. Seeing we have nothing to drink, he cries, “She didn’t get you anything?” Frowning, he asks what we’d like.
We agree that water is fine, even after he suggests soda. Carson tells him to wait on the other paying customers, not to worry about us.
Steam fills our nostrils and eyes as Carson and I lean over our bowls with identical pairs of chopsticks.
Later, Lien smiles down at us as we eat. “Like PRPC,” she says, refilling our water glasses from a metal pitcher. “Just like days there.”
Carson smiles, I smile, and Lien giggles. I feel silly.
She insists that we eat the sweetened rice concoction that she’s invented. It’s a cross between the Indian kheer that Sanjay makes and Scottish oatmeal with brown sugar.
“You like?” Her eyes are hopeful.
Carson responds in Vietnamese.
“Good,” I say, but I suspect that Lien has not heard me at all. She tells us that she wants to open another restaurant in High Point and serve hamburgers.
“Why?” I ask.
Gazing at Carson, she replies, “Americans eat hamburger more than bok choy.” Her laughter continues; it hasn’t changed since she was a rambunctious student in my classroom. I expect that she’d take a sw
ing at a customer who got under her skin.
After our bowls are empty, Carson looks at me. “Want to walk a bit?”
“Where?”
“There’s a park near here.”
I think of the summer heat that rages outside these doors. But then I recall how we managed to walk and talk all over the camp during the sticky days and nights of our time in the tropics. “Okay,” I say.
This will be my chance to talk with you without anyone else vying for your attention. Mentally, I form my questions, and as we stand to leave, a certainty takes over my mind. I’ll ask about her.
Although he knows that the gesture is futile, before leaving the restaurant Carson hands Lien a twenty-dollar bill for our lunch.
“I tell you no pay,” she says, waving his offer away. “How you say? On top of the house?”
“On the house.” My teacher side comes out.
“I get it.” Slowly, she says, “Santa Claus goes up on top of house, but when you give friends a meal, it is on the house.”
We smile at her manner of memorizing the English language, and then in Vietnamese thank her for our lunch, Carson’s gratitude a bit more lengthy than mine.
Washington Park is about two miles from the restaurant, near the North Carolina School of the Arts, an area filled with elite homes and well-groomed gardens.
“I think Dovie’s taken me here before,” I say when I see the two stone columns holding up the wrought-iron arch displaying the name of the park. “Some organization held a butterfly release.”
“Most likely,” says Carson. “It’s a right nice place. Lots of history here.” He parks his car near the entrance and then leads the way under the arch. Soon we are walking along a path under large oak trees, their leaves sheltering us from the sun.
Squirrels pounce and run up tree trunks as birds flit around us. The sky is a brilliant blue with white cumulus clouds that sashay across it, driven by a light wind.
Walking usually gives me the freedom to think and even say things I might not say in a living room. Perhaps I feel that if I mess up and say the wrong thing, I can easily take off down a side street or walk off in the opposite direction from whomever I’m walking with. I’ve never actually done this, but perhaps just knowing I can provides me with some kind of tranquil assurance.
A Wedding Invitation Page 12