That evening I appreciate the air-conditioner as the outside world swelters with humidity. With a new Busboy mystery, Armed in Amsterdam, and my soft sofa, I curl my legs under me and start chapter one. But I don’t get far. Touching my forehead, I think of how Carson leaned in to kiss me, replaying the whole scene in my mind.
The phone rings into my thoughts and as I go to answer it, I hope it’s Carson.
A female voice responds to my hello with, “Hello? Is this Samantha Bravencourt?”
“Yes.”
“Hi! It’s Avery Jones.”
“The real Avery?” I suppress the urge to giggle. “Hi, how are you?”
“Great! I got your number from the phone book. Not too many Samantha Bravencourts in there.”
I’m tempted to tell her that there are more Avery Joneses listed in the Winston phone book than I would have ever guessed.
“I called one Samantha and I knew right off it wasn’t you. She had a real Southern accent, and I didn’t think that would be you.” Her voice bubbles, words spilling into each other as she tells me what she’s been up to. She married Perry a year ago in a Methodist church in Fort Wayne. She tells me she’s an ER nurse and that Perry’s an intern at the same hospital. They want children, a boy first, and then another boy because Perry enjoyed his brother. Then, a girl. She really wants a girl.
I watch robins in the scarlet crepe myrtle outside the window. I try to push aside the feeling of hurt that expands inside my chest. Avery got married and she didn’t invite me.
“My cousin just had twin girls. Now that would be fun.” Her light tone continues as she tells about the twins. I have never understood why anyone who has spent any amount of time with an infant would wish for twins.
“And how are you?”
Looking around my apartment, I answer, “Fine, fine. Yeah, I’m doing well.”
“Where do you work now?”
“My mom’s clothing store. She opened it just after I returned from the Philippines.” And before she was diagnosed with breast cancer, I almost add, but I don’t. I consider telling her about Taylor, knowing she would appreciate the funny story about how I thought I was going to her wedding and met him there. I consider telling her about Carson. But I don’t.
“I’ve got some guy friends,” I say and again wonder what the kiss from Carson meant. A forehead kiss is only a kiss of friendship, is it not? “No one special,” I tell her.
“You’ll meet someone.”
Eager to change the subject, I ask, “Do you still eat Twizzlers?”
“All the time.”
When we end the call, I laugh. Then I laugh because it’s funny to hear myself laugh in the darkness of my apartment. If I hadn’t gone to the other Avery’s wedding and reception, where would I be now?
A professor once told our history class that if you changed one thing in the course of your day, your day would end up differently. He explained with an example. “Say I would have left the house on time to get to work. I would have stopped for coffee on the way. But because I was running late, I didn’t stop. Since I didn’t have my morning coffee, I needed a cup and was dragging by noon. So after my last class, I went to the break room to get a fresh cup. I never went to the break room at noon; I was usually in my office eating a bag of Fritos and grading papers. In the break room stood a most beautiful girl. She was the sister of my colleague down the hall, and she was visiting him and attending his classes just for fun. Now, if I hadn’t missed my coffee that morning, I would have had no reason to enter the break room and I then never would have met Julie.”
“So did you ask her out?” a kid with thick glasses in the front row asked.
“Many times,” our professor said. “And then she became my wife.”
thirty-five
Searching for a missing person is even harder than searching for a missing cat. Of course, Carson reminds me that Lien’s mother is not missing. Hiding, perhaps.
“Why do you use the word ‘hiding’?” I ask.
“Didn’t you hear the story?”
Again I realize that I have not been told everything.
We’re seated in Dovie’s kitchen. She asked me to come down for a butterfly release, wanting me to take pictures. I told her that anyone can take pictures of the event, but she insisted that I was the one with the creative eye and good camera. “Besides,” she added, “we are making pound cake, using one of Uncle Charlie’s recipes he brought over from France when he was stationed there. You’ll love it.”
I stocked up on film, packed my camera bag and a suitcase, and filled my Honda with gas for the southbound trip.
After an afternoon of capturing butterflies creatively, I enjoyed the dinner of omelets and hash browns Beanie had waiting for us. We ate and talked, and right at dessert time, Carson appeared. I knew Dovie had been on the phone with him, enticing him with the promise of homemade pound cake with fresh whipped cream.
After he arrived, Pearl, Dovie, and Beanie left us alone in the kitchen with the ticking of the wall clock.
Carson rests his arms on the kitchen table and explains. “Lien’s mom was with the American soldier until after Lien’s birth. Then he went back to the U.S. She was shunned. She couldn’t handle the shame. Her parents told her to give up her baby. Actually, Lien was almost four at the time. Lien’s mom then decided to give Lien to her relatives.”
A pain in my left temple causes my eye to pulsate.
“Thuy, Lien’s biological mom, had a hard life in Saigon. After she made sure that Lien could be taken care of by the couple that was much more financially stable, she went to her hometown in the country to be with her parents. She wanted to pretend she was a single woman again and tried to live as normally as possible. But her past reputation caught up with her. Locals wrote nasty slurs on the wall of her parents’ house. One man tormented her in the marketplace.”
“Why?”
“I thought you—”
I stop him right there. “I am tired of you thinking that I know everything.”
His mouth droops; his eyes lose some of their color. “I was actually going to say that I thought you possibly didn’t know about that story.”
“Oh.” Coughing, I look away.
“Sam, don’t be angry.”
My face feels warm. “Why not?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He sighs. Cupping my hand in his, he says, “I am on your side.”
I want to pull my hand away. I want to stand up and leave like I did a few times in the refugee camp.
“We seem to apologize a lot to each other.”
I nod. “I have this problem with flying off the handle.” Looking at him, I add, “And so do you.” At one time, my words would have been delivered with a fierce blow, and Carson would have retaliated with the same force. But we are older now; the years have softened our attitudes.
“I just want to know all there is to know about the Hongs and Lien. I don’t want you to call me unintelligent.” I do not meet his eyes.
“I’d never do that.”
“You did, though.”
“When?”
“In PRPC. I read your letter to Mindy one night. The part where you said I wasn’t intelligent.” I suppose that now is just as good a time as any to let Carson know that I’m the type of person to invade one’s privacy.
Carson’s face sinks like a pothole. “No . . .”
I listen as the clock ticks and Milkweed drinks from her bowl.
Carson says, “I’m sorry, Sam.”
I find his eyes, soft and gentle, like he really means what he says. I suppose I need to confess something else to him and what better place to do it than in Dovie’s kitchen? “You know, about Lien . . .”
“Yeah?”
“It was me who told Van and the others that I thought Lien was a thief.”
Carson sighs. “I know, Sam.”
“Did they tell you?”
“You made it clear that you didn’t th
ink much of Lien.”
All my tirades against her parade before me, and I’m ashamed and guilty.
Firmly, Carson says, “She didn’t take that jewelry, Sam.”
“I know you think that.”
“I know that. It was a man who did. Not a refugee, but a Filipino. They later caught him trying to steal again from the billets.”
“How do you know this?”
“Filipinos entered the camp and stole from the refugees from time to time.”
I think of how the entrance to the camp was always protected with guards on duty with guns. “Why was Lien’s uncle so certain that she took the jewelry, then? Why was she blamed for everything?”
“She was mischievous. You know that.”
Under my breath, I blurt, “She didn’t stand a chance.”
“You’re right; she was discriminated against because of who her father was.”
“I always wondered why the full-blooded Vietnamese admired us but couldn’t be decent to someone who was half white.”
“People are strange,” Carson says without any trace of animosity. “They have their prejudices.”
“It seems like coming to America is what has helped her family.”
“True,” he says. “Some Amerasians are much better off in this country than they were in their own. And some end up in gangs just like they did back in Vietnam.”
“But Lien is on a good path,” I say with certainty. “And she has Jonathan. He’s a decent guy, isn’t he?” Please tell me he is. I want to hear that he is a great match for her. I see Lien’s effervescent smile and know she has always just wanted to belong. Somewhere. “Her family will accept her if she marries an American, won’t they?”
“Oh, yeah, they will.”
With a small meow, Milkweed jumps into my lap, settling into a small bundle, her eyes closing as I stroke her soft fur. “Did you move to Winston because of them?” I ask Carson.
“The Hongs? No, I moved to work at the station. Lien wrote a few times when they lived in Chicago, and I knew that they were unhappy up there. I guess it was about two years ago when I saw them again.”
“You went to Saigon Bistro and there they were?”
“That’s just the way it happened. I went in for a bowl of pho and the past surrounded me.” There is lightness to his voice.
“Were they happy to see you? I mean, was Minh still mad at you for defending Lien?” I recall Minh’s cold stance on the bus when they departed the camp.
“I worried about that, too. But the minute he shook my hand, I knew he’d put that behind him.”
thirty-six
On Sunday afternoon in Dovie’s kitchen, the iced tea tastes a little bitter, but perhaps it is due to what I’m hearing. Little is worried about her daughter because, although Liza followed her dream and went to Paris, Little has yet to hear from Liza. The hostel where Liza said she’d be staying has never heard of her. Little will call the U.S. embassy in France on Monday.
Pearl enters the kitchen, ready to make a rhubarb pie, her weekly routine. She massages her fingers, one hand caressing the other.
“Bothering you, Pearl?” asks Beanie.
Pearl fumbles with a sack of flour, unable to open the bag. Beanie reaches over and tears the top portion of the paper for her. Pearl tries to flex her index fingers.
“Why don’t you just sit for a spell?” Beanie motions toward the empty chair to the left of me at the kitchen table.
“I was going to make a few pies.” Opening the pantry door, she reaches up and takes an apron off a hook.
Beanie says, “I was going to give you a little therapy.”
“I could use some.” With the apron balanced over her shoulder, Pearl stiffly makes her way to the table.
Meeting her halfway, Beanie takes her by the hand and pulls out a chair for her to sit in. Then she takes a clear bottle from the cabinet over the sink and plants herself across from the older woman. With care, she removes the cap and pours a white creamy substance into the palm of her hand.
Gently, Beanie rubs the lotion from her palm onto Pearl’s fingers.
“Ahh,” sighs Pearl and closes her eyes for emphasis. “That is remarkable.”
The trust between the two women tells me that this therapy has been done before.
“What is it?” I ask. The contents of the bottle give off a heavy odor of ginger and orange.
“If I told you,” says Beanie, “I’d have to kill you.”
I laugh.
“Ancient Chinese herbs?” The strain in Pearl’s face has lessened.
“Old family recipe,” says Beanie. She takes Pearl’s other hand and repeats the rubbing. “Cures everything from senility to beestings, especially good on stiff joints.”
Pearl nods, her eyes still closed, her head hung against her chest. “I feel my arthritis pain going away.” The apron slips from her shoulder, easing silently onto the tile floor.
Beanie rubs her thumb over Pearl’s knuckles. “Now, you go watch a show or two on TV.”
Pearl’s eyes pop open. “My pies,” she says reluctantly.
“We can have leftover pound cake for dessert tonight.”
Pearl extends her fingers. “I think I could roll out a crust now.”
“Go rest,” Beanie insists. “Go on. Enjoy feeling better.”
After she leaves, Beanie puts the cap back on the potion. “Cures bruises, too,” she tells me.
“Do you get bruises often?” I think of how Mom says she can bump into almost anything and obtain a bruise, her skin is so thin.
“About once a week when I fall.”
As she picks the apron off the floor and hangs it back on its hook, I look at her face to see if she’s joking. “You fall that often?”
“Sometimes more.” She lifts her pant leg to expose a greenish blob on her shin. “Got that a week ago.”
“How?”
“No one’s told you?”
“About what?”
“I have seizures.” She takes the lid off the bottle again and adds some of the lotion to her bruise.
“You do?”
“I’ve been on all kinds of meds. Nothing has really helped.”
I know so little about seizures. “How long have you had them?”
“Epilepsy? All my life.”
I piece together what I know about Beanie. She was married to an abusive man, left him and was homeless for a while. I know her son from her first marriage is currently in jail for drug trafficking. Now she’s on disability, although she’d like to work to make more than her monthly check offers. I look her over. She’s probably only forty-five or so and yet it seems her life experiences have been more daunting than most I know, except for the refugees. “Beanie, you’ve had a rough life,” I say with feeling.
“Wouldn’t know how to handle anything but rough.”
Standing from the table, she refills my tea glass, asking if I want more ice cubes.
“No, thanks. I don’t need any more ice.”
She sets the pitcher of iced tea on the counter and then takes two red onions from the fridge.
“What does Dovie say to do about your dizziness?”
“She prays.” Beanie searches for a knife.
“Do you mind?”
“Mind what?”
“That she prays for you.”
A snort follows. “I would think that if she wants to take the time to ask God to help me, I should be all kinds of grateful.”
I smile.
As she slices the first onion, she says, “She prays for all of us. I hear her talking to God every morning. Some wake to birds singing. I wake to Dovie’s prayers.”
“I know.”
“I have no problems with prayer,” she adds. “I have no problems with God, either. I just don’t like those people who look at me funny. Like I’m not good enough for them because I’m different. You know, don’t nobody want to be judged.”
“You’re unique,” I say.
“Unique.” She rolls
the word over in her mouth. “Is that better than different? ’Cause I like the way that sounds.” Adjusting the collar on her oversized shirt, she proudly repeats, “Unique.”
After we eat a dinner of bacon potato stew, oatmeal bread, and tomatoes, Beanie turns the radio on to Carson’s station. She, Dovie, and I clean up the kitchen. At our insistence, Pearl takes her yarn and needles into the den to watch Jeopardy.
Carson asks for requests on his show. “This is Carson Brylie, and it’s your turn to tell me what you want to hear.” His voice fills the room like a familiar scent, relaxing all the senses.
He plays “Saturday in the Park” by Chicago. Beanie and Dovie do a few dance moves around the kitchen, dish towels flung over their shoulders. Beanie looks professional, while my aunt as usual doesn’t pay attention to the beat of the music.
“Remember the cha-cha?” says Beanie, but Dovie says she never learned that one.
When that song ends, the station goes to a commercial break. Dovie and Beanie are still dancing, laughter flowing about them.
I’m sweeping the kitchen floor when Carson says, “I want to dedicate a song. This one is an old favorite of mine. It goes out to Samantha Bravencourt.”
My heart freezes as I stop sweeping. Why is he dedicating a song to me? At this point, I don’t know if I should be pleased or annoyed. Then I hear the music for “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover” and let a smile replace the tension in my face. I sing a few of the words, letting the broom handle act as my microphone.
When the chorus begins, Beanie claims, “Not very romantic, is it? ‘Set yourself free’? ‘Hop on a bus, Gus’?” Her forehead wrinkles as she frowns.
“Oh, sometimes a song can have more to it that makes the heart flutter than meets the eye. Or should I say more than meets the ear?” Dovie gives a nod my way and then begins to dry a glass bowl with her towel. She hums, just like her sister—my mother—hums when she does tasks around the store, a little off-key but with gusto and feeling.
I swallow a few times.
Beanie says, “Sounds like a breakup song to me.” But now there is a smile on her face, as if she has heard Dovie and gathered that there is more than meets her ears.
A Wedding Invitation Page 18