A Wedding Invitation (37 page)

Mom says, “You will see that everyone has their way of dancing.”

What has this got to do with Dad? Did my father even dance?

“The dance of life. We all do it differently. But our movements and the music to which we dance are as unique as to how we survive.”

In the movies Beanie and Dovie watch, the young heroine throws up her arms in despair or faints. I want to do one or the other right now.

Determined, I say, “I want you to care that I am moving to North Carolina.”

She pats a pair of shorts with a graceful hand. “I do, Sam. I’ll miss you. And yes, I will make the trip and come and visit you.” She gives me a genuine smile. “You and Carson.” Then as her eyes rove over the boxes, she confides words I have never heard. “I was told I had no skills. Told I needed others to make me succeed. Basically, as a child, I was led to believe that Dovie had talent and I was without any. Those are the things my mother said to me. I’ve had to fight her words. All my life.”

I don’t care if she doesn’t want to be held, I step over boxes, trip on the edge of one, and wrap my arms around her.

We do cry together. She blows her nose with a tissue she produces from her pocket. I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

“Samantha,” she says later as the moon glows in a starless sky, “you make Carson a happy man.”

I want to ask, Do I make you happy? But it’s late and she has her car keys and purse in her hands. So I offer a smile and then take her in my arms and hug her tightly again. This time she feels frail and small. “I love you, Mom,” I breathe.

“I know you do, Sam.” Pulling from me, she meets my eyes. “And I love you more than you will ever know.” Then she leaves me. The clank of the door closing echoes through my apartment’s walls.

After I brew a pot of coffee, I call her to make sure she’s arrived home safely. She tells me not to worry about her.

“I’m the daughter, remember?” I say. “I’m allowed to worry.” I give a light chuckle, hoping she’ll join me.

She asks if I’ve noticed that Butterchurn has gained some weight and then tells me to sleep well. “And oh,” she says as though her next thought is not really important, “I’m going on a date tomorrow night, so if you need me, I will be out.”

“A date?” My voice squeaks.

“Yes, Samantha. Older women do go out, you know.”

“Oh yes, of course,” my words spurt. “And they should go out.”

I want to pry with questions: Do you like him? Do you want to get married again? But I already know the answers. Yes, she likes him. Officer Branson is just her type. He enjoys the classics.

forty-eight

March 1994

I
asked Carson what he thought our wedding invitation should look like and he said it didn’t matter. “Can’t we just call people up and tell them to come on over?” he said one day when I dragged him into a stationer’s at the mall. I almost said that perhaps that’s the way Southerners do it down in Winston or Raleigh, but the way I was brought up, I couldn’t. But just as I got ready to speak, he suggested we get some ice cream at Baskin Robbins. So we left the stationer’s for cones of chocolate.

Seeing that Carson didn’t care about the invitation, I asked Natasha her opinion, and a decision was made. The wedding invitation is printed on ivory card stock with a white beaded border; the lettering is gold. The words on it make my heart sing:

Inside a tiny envelope is a glossy card with green wording asking recipients to respond by May 1 for the reception. Le Rue is a restaurant near the Washington Monument, where apparently my parents dined on their tenth anniversary. Mom thought that would be a great place for the reception. I said I had no money for a reception of that caliber, and she assured me that there was money. “Uncle Charlie left me some,” she said. “He told me to spend it on you when the time was right.”

I guess there are some things I still don’t know about my uncle Charlie.

At the Annandale Road post office parking lot, I open my car’s passenger door to remove a large shopping bag filled with the addressed invitations for my wedding. I stayed up too late last night writing addresses and licking stamps while
The Sound of Music
played on my TV. Carson had his list of family and friends to invite. When Carson took me to meet his mother in Raleigh, she presented me with hers. I was surprised how many friends Mom had on her list, including Maralinda, who has agreed to help Mom in the boutique after I move. Carson thinks that all the time Mom now spends with Officer Branson might amount to another wedding in the near future, but I’m not so sure about that.

I hold the door to the post office open for a weathered man in a wheelchair. He is gracious, thanking me. One leg is missing, and just as I notice this, I see the sticker on the back of his chair: VIETNAM VETS.

My thoughts jumble as an ache brews in my heart. I think of war and how it destroys, divides, and damages. I see the faces of those in the refugee camp and those who found their names on The List and are now in America. I want to tell this wounded soldier that I am sorry for his loss and for the abandonment he may have felt upon his return. I want to say other things, but right now I’m just honored to hold the door for him.

Inside the post office, I wait behind a woman who is letting her child insert a manila envelope into the box. The child, a girl of about six, says with a toothless grin, “Grandmommy and Granddaddy are going to love my pictures.”

The woman says, “They sure will.”

“Excited is what they’re going to be, right, Mommy?” Standing on her tiptoes, she gives the envelope a final push into the narrow slot and then claims, “I’ve gotten so big.”

As I wait, I wonder how my aunt is doing trying to convince Thuy to move to North Carolina and board at her home. I’ve told Carson that between Lien and Dovie, Thuy might as well stop fighting. She does not stand a chance of staying in her meager apartment here. When it comes to being pushy about certain things, Lien and Dovie are not forces to try to stand against.

When the woman and child are finished, I remove an invitation from my bag and gingerly touch it. I am getting married, I almost say aloud to the woman, to the vet, to everyone. I grin as I wonder if anyone not invited will show up.

I note how easily the first envelope slides into the blue mailbox. It’s addressed to the original Avery Jones and her husband, Perry. I add another into the thin slot, and then another one, until all ninety-two envelopes are safely inside.

When I walk outside, a breeze blows across the lawn, ruffling the American flag. I zip my coat and look at the sky. I think they’ve predicted snow again, although Mom says it’s definitely not cold enough.

Walking toward my car, I think about all those invitations I’ve addressed and just mailed. Although I hope they make their way smoothly to their intended destinations, I know that there is always that margin of error. Perhaps a woman in need of a second chance will come to my wedding. Maybe she will let herself follow an unlikely script, written just for her. Being at the wedding might just place her in the right place at the correct time to set her next adventure in motion. She might even meet someone from her past who will change the course of her future.

As Beanie would say,
“Those kinds of happenings do happen, so I’ve heard.”

I know that they can. I also know that they are
right nice
when they do.

recipes

D
OVIE’S
O
ATMEAL
B
READ

1 cup of old-fashioned oats (not instant)

1½ cups of boiling water

¾ cup of molasses

3 tablespoons of vegetable oil

2 teaspoons of salt

2 cups of warm water

1 tablespoon of active dry yeast

4 cups of bread flour

4 cups of whole-wheat flour

Combine the oats and boiling water in a large mixing bowl and let sit for at least thirty minutes. Add the molasses, oil, and salt to the oatmeal mixture, combining well. In a separate bowl, dissolve the yeast in the warm water. Add to the oatmeal mixture. Stir in the flour, one cup at a time. Once the dough starts to pull from the sides of the bowl, turn dough onto a floured surface and knead in the rest of the flour until smooth. Continue to knead for about 8 minutes. Place the dough in a greased bowl, turning it so that all sides are coated. Cover with a damp cloth. Let rise until doubled in size—about 1 hour. Punch down and divide dough in half. Shape into two loaves and place dough in two greased loaf pans. Cover and let rise for 45 minutes to 1 hour. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Place loaf pans in oven for 5 minutes, then reduce heat to 350 degrees F. and bake for an additional 40 minutes. Loaves should brown and will be ready to take out of oven when they sound hollow when lightly tapped.

P
EARL’S
S
ECRET
F
AMILY
R
ECIPE FOR
R
HUBARB
P
IE

For crust

3 cups all-purpose flour

2½ teaspoons sugar

¾ teaspoon salt

2⁄3 cup chilled solid vegetable shortening, cut into pieces

½ cup plus 2 tablespoons (1¼ sticks) chilled unsalted butter, cut into pieces

10 tablespoons or less of ice water

For filling

3½ cups sliced rhubarb

3½ cups hulled and sliced strawberries

1 teaspoon of lemon juice