“Well, let me tell you something, Andrew Joseph Oh. You men have it easy. What’s the groom got to do other than rent a tuxedo and show up at the altar? But it’s different for the bride. If my mother and I hadn’t spent most of this summer going around to places, locking things in and putting down payments on . . .” You listen to me, Andrew Joseph Oh! I hear my mother say. That was always my cue to tune her out. Go someplace else in my mind while she stood there screaming at me. Unless, that is, she’d crossed over into lunatic land—was gearing up to hit me. Whack me with something. She never knew how lucky she was that I never hit her back. How close I came to doing that once or twice when—
“Have you?” Casey-Lee says.
“Have I what?”
“Asked any of your friends yet about being groomsmen? Are you even listening to me, Andrew?”
I nod. Tell her I’m working on the usher thing, which I’m not. Not to her satisfaction, anyway. I’m thinking about asking my buddy Jay Jay from back home to be my best man. Or my dad, if Jay can’t get out here for the wedding. And I suppose I’ll have to ask her doofus little brother to be an usher. But where I’m going to scare up five more “groomsmen” I can’t imagine. “So anyway, Abby called your mother. What did she say?”
“That she and some of the other girls in the wedding party have been texting back and forth. And that they thought maybe they’d try and book my shower at one of the downtown restaurants that’s got a private room with a bar. Make it, like, more of a bachelorette’s night out than a bridal shower. And get this! She asked my mother did she mind if they hire a male stripper.”
I laugh out loud thinking about Mean Erlene with her proper ways fielding that question. And then about that Saturday Night Live rerun Casey-Lee and I saw a few weeks back—the one where Chris Farley and what’s-his-name, the Dirty Dancing guy, were auditioning for Chippendales. I was practically falling off the chair laughing, and Casey just sat there, stone-faced, talking about how fat and disgusting Chris Farley was. Which was the whole point of that skit.
“Boy, I’m really amusing you tonight, aren’t I?” she says. “What’s so funny now?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking about something else.”
“Well, my poor mother didn’t think it was funny. She was horrified. She was like, ‘Well, Abilene. There’ll be a lot of Casey-Lee’s family there. I don’t think her aunts or either of her grandmaws would appreciate that kind of party.’ And neither would I, and I’m the guest of honor. Does Abby think I want to see some man dancing around in one of those G-string things? And a bunch of my girlfriends drunk as skunks and stuffing dollar bills in there? Groping his . . .”
“Meat and potatoes?” I suggest.
“That’s enough, Andrew. There’s no need to be crude. I mean, my poor MawMaw Clegg would probably have a stroke.”
Or a hell of a good time, I feel like saying. Rise up from that motorized wheelchair of hers and start dirty-dancing with the stripper. But I keep that thought to myself. Cover my smile with my hand.
“I mean, when we were rooming together at the U, Abby was such a quiet girl. And spiritual. Whenever I’d get nervous about some test that was coming up, or hurt because another girl in our sorority said something mean about me, she’d go, ‘Give it to Jesus, Casey-Lee. Just pray on it and give it up to God.’ And now that she’s a big shot buyer for Dillard’s, she’s turned into a . . . party girl.”
“So I take it your mother wants a swankier affair?”
“A more dignified one, yes,” she says. “High tea at some nice inn, maybe. Or something nice at the Hilton. Mommy’d already called the Hilton before Abby called. Did some research. They’ve got an outdoor garden pavilion where they do showers. And a poolside patio with a fountain if it’s a bigger group. But when she told Abby what she thought, and even offered to pay for the place, she said there was this silence on the other end. So now she’s in a bind. She doesn’t want to seem pushy, but she doesn’t want her only daughter’s bridal shower to be just some excuse for my girlfriends to get drunk and act improper. And neither do I, for that matter. This is supposed to be about me.”
“Then why can’t you just talk to Abby and tell her how you feel?”
“Because it’s a surprise! I’m not even supposed to know about it!”
I sit there thinking about something to say that won’t dig me in deeper. But here comes our waitress with a tray on her shoulder. “Ah, here we go,” I say. “Good. I’m starved.”
Xan puts down our meals and grabs my empty beer bottle. “Another Lone Star, sir?” Is she wearing a bra under that blouse? It’s a toss-up. I tell her I don’t mind if I do. As she walks away, I check out her pear-shaped ass.
“Doin’ some window-shopping?” Casey asks.
Busted. “Now why would I do that when I’ve got the prettiest girl in the joint sitting across from me?”
“Hmph,” she says, but smiles. Nice save, Mr. Smooth Talker.
And I’m not the only one checking out Xan. Casey’s teacher and her pal are following her movements across the floor, too. Does my mother do that? Check out women? Okay, Andrew, knock it off. Don’t even go there.
Casey-Lee’s looking at my meal. “Those ravioli are drowning,” she says. “Could they put any more of that glop on them?” To appease her, I pick up my fork and start scraping away some of my Alfredo sauce. Only, when I look up to see if she’s registering the gesture, she’s picking through her salad. Looking to ferret out anchovies-in-hiding is what I’m guessing.
“Speaking of weddings, my mother’s is this coming weekend,” I say.
She looks right over at her teacher and her friend. So she is making the connection. “I know it is. You never did say whether you wanted me to order them the Steuben glass figurines or that bud vase from Tiffany’s, and I had to send them something. I went with the vase.”
“Great. Thanks for doing that. Did you use my charge card?”
“No, I had to use mine. The Web site said they needed some other four-digit security number on top of the long one, and you didn’t write that down. Or the expiration date either.”
“Oh, jeeze. Sorry about that. I’ll write you a check. How much was it?”
“With express shipping, it came to two ninety-five.”
“Three hundred bucks for a bud vase?”
“It’s from Tiffany’s, Andrew. What did you want me to do? Send them something from Target?”
“No, no. I just didn’t figure it would cost—”
“And then I didn’t know if I was supposed to send it to that New York address or the Connecticut one. I tried calling you to find out, but you didn’t answer your cell phone.”
“Well, like I said. We were crazy busy today.”
“And then, while I was calling, waiting for you to pick up, the screen timed out and I had to start all over again. I ended up sending it to your-all’s old house in Connecticut. Isn’t that where the wedding’s at?”
“No, it’s at some inn. But that’s where my mother and sisters are staying, so it’s fine. She’ll get it. Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome. Have you talked to your sisters lately?”
“Spoke to Ariane last night, yeah.” I think about what she told me during that call: artificial insemination, single motherhood. I haven’t mentioned it to Casey-Lee yet. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. “She’s visiting my dad for a few days. He’s staying up on Cape Cod—the town where we used to go for vacation when we were kids.”
“Cape Cod’s different towns?”
“Yeah. Ari says my other sister’s going up there, too. Wants to surprise my dad. Then on Friday, they’ll head down to Connecticut for the wedding.”
“Even your father?”
“No, he’s taking a pass.” Am I taking one, too, like she thinks? Or am I going? Not deciding’s making me a little nuts.
“Well, I should hope so. Why would he put himself through that? I just feel sorry for your poor sisters. Good Lord, they’ve g
ot to witness their mother marrying someone of her own sex? Going against nature like that? It’s weird.” I can feel myself tense. Because yeah, it is weird, but she doesn’t need to beat it into the ground. She starts fiddling with her salad again, picking out the croutons and piling them on one of those extra napkins.
“What’s the matter?” Now, I feel like adding.
“They’re stale,” she says. “These things must be older than Methuselah.”
Xan comes back with my new beer. “How is everything?” she asks. Fine, I tell her. Great.
“Yeah, like I said, I love that dish. Enjoy.” This time I’m careful not to watch her go.
We eat. Neither of us says much, except when Casey mentions again that she still has her lesson to plan, those bulletin board letters to cut out. And now, on top of that, she’s got to go online and find out how to take a white wine stain out of silk. “Tell you what,” I say. “When we get back to your house, you can work on your lesson and I’ll cut out your letters for you.” She says thanks but no thanks. That the last time I helped her cut stuff out, I didn’t stay on the lines. “Because I’m left-handed and all’s you had was right-handed scissors.”
“That’s because no one in our family is left-handed,” she says. “I’d bring home a pair of the left-handed ones from my classroom if I thought you could stick those big sausage fingers of yours through the holes.” I can’t even believe we’re having a conversation about scissors.
When Xan returns to clear our plates, she’s got dessert menus. I’m about to tell her no thanks, just the check, but Casey-Lee asks her how the tiramisu is. Delicious, Xan tells her. The best dessert on the menu. Casey says, okay, she’ll have that. “Good choice. How about you, sir?”
“Nothing, thanks. Just the check.”
“Coffee, maybe? A cappuccino?”
“No, but you know what? If she’s having dessert, why don’t you bring me a Captain and Coke?”
“Sure thing. Oh, and the bar’s running a special this week. You can get a double shot for just a dollar more.”
“Can’t pass up a bargain like that,” I tell her. Maybe Captain Morgan can help me get through the rest of this damned meal.
When the bill comes, Casey’s gone off to the ladies’ room. I pay in cash and add an extra twenty to the tip because of the way Casey treated her when she spilled that little bit of wine. Xan swings back by and grabs the folder. “Any change?” I tell her no, we’re good. When I see Casey coming back, I chug the rest of my drink and stand.
“Ready to go?” I ask. She nods and we head for the door. But as we pass by that old teacher of hers, she reaches out and touches Casey’s arm. “Well, my word, is that Casey-Lee Commerford all grown up?”
“Oh, Miss Bascomb!” Casey says, fake surprised. “Nice to see you again. This is Andrew, my fiancé.” As proof, she holds up her ring.
“Ooh, that’s purty,” Miss Bascomb says. “This here’s my friend, Margaret.” We exchange glad-to-meet-yous. When Miss Bascomb asks me where I’m from, I tell her Connecticut.
“Enemy country,” her friend says. She points to the Tennessee Lady Volunteers logo on her orange T-shirt. Until then, I’d assumed they were both wearing U.T. Longhorns shirts. “That little Eyetalian coach you got up there is a burr in poor Pat Summitt’s saddle, but y’all got some damn good players. Hate to say it, but Maya Moore’s gonna pay off big time for y’all.”
“Her and her women’s basketball,” Miss Bascomb says. “She’s a fanatic. So when’s the wedding, you two?”
November, Casey tells her.
“Not this coming one,” I say. “The following November.”
“Well, I’ll be. And what are you doing with yourself these days, Casey-Lee?” She tells her she’s teaching kindergarten. “Oh, that must be fun. They’re such cutie pies at that age. Margaret was an elementary school teacher, too.”
“Got out two years ago,” Margaret adds. “Exchanged the classroom for the golf course. I miss my third graders, but not all the b.s. bureaucracy of those last years. All that state-testing and such. I feel sorry for you young teachers. It’s not like the good ole days.” Come on, Casey, I think. The woman’s speaking to you. The least you could do is have the courtesy to look at her. They’re nice, these two.
Margaret gives up on Casey and turns back to me. “Played basketball myself when I was in college. Course, that was back in the stone age when they’d only let us dribble it in from half-court because we were such delicate flowers.”
“Ha!” Miss Bascomb says.
“Yeah, I didn’t realize that until I went to the Basketball Hall of Fame,” I tell her. “Hard to believe now, huh?”
“Thank God for Title Nine. That’s all I can say. The Basketball Hall of Fame’s up in Massachusetts, idn’t it?” I nod. “I’d like to get up there and see it myself if I could ever get this stick-in-the-mud here to take a trip.”
“I’m a homebody,” Miss Bascomb says.
“Well, we gotta go,” Casey says. “Nice to see you again, Miss Bascomb.”
“Nice to see you as well. You two sure make a handsome couple, I’ll tell you that much.”
I smile and nod at her. “Thank you, ma’am,” Casey says. “Bye-bye now.”
At the door, she notes that she called us a handsome couple, instead of a nice-looking one. “Like we’re two men.” Last Sunday at family dinner, her father said that in his “humble opinion,” signing the Defense of Marriage Act into law was just about the only useful thing Clinton ever did during his two terms as president. “Far as I know, the Book of Genesis didn’t mention anything about Adam and Steve.” We all chuckled, as if he’d just made it up instead of that it’s stuck on every other back bumper around here.
“Did you notice those matching rings on their fingers?” Casey says. “What does that tell you?”
“I don’t know. That they went shopping together? That they like the same kind of jewelry?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” She laughs that laugh of hers—the one I used to think sounded so pretty. Sounds snarky now. Casey’s told me more than once that she admires Sarah Palin’s grit. “Wait’ll I tell Janisse.”
“And maybe you should call the National Enquirer while you’re at it. Give ’em a scoop. They like to out the gays, don’t they?”
She says she doesn’t know—that she never reads those trashy papers. Which is bull. Last time we were waiting in line at the grocery store, she was thumbing through one of them, tickled to death. Looking at the “gotcha” pictures of movie stars at the beach, caught with their cellulite and potbellies showing. “Eww,” she kept saying. “Eww.” We walk out into the parking lot, me almost fed up enough to accuse her of being homophobic like her father. But that’d be the liquor talking, I suspect. I keep my mouth shut.
At the car, she asks me if I’m okay to drive. Says she wouldn’t feel comfortable operating my car, but she will if she has to. “I’m fine,” I tell her. “I only had a couple of beers and a cocktail.”
“Two cocktails,” she says. “That Captain and Coke was two drinks in one.” We get in. I start her up and back out of the space. “Put your seat belt on,” she says. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I answer her by not answering. Was she always this naggy? No, this is something more recent. Back-to-school stress, probably. Wedding planning. Or maybe it’s previews of coming attractions. Maybe now that she’s got that ring on her finger, she feels she can yank a little harder on the leash. I reach down, buckle my belt. Look over at her to see if she’s satisfied. And when I look up again, I just miss the black Escalade that’s pulling into the parking lot. “See?” she says. “But go ahead, Andrew. Get yourself a DUI if that’s what you want.”
It comes out as shouting. “Jesus fucking Christ, stop harping at me!”
“And you stop using the Good Lord’s name in vain!” she shouts back.
She’s right about that at least. Sorry, Lord. That was just a slip. I’m thankful for all Your blessings. But Casey’s not finished. ?
??Whatever the bug is that crawled up your backside tonight, it’s not my fault.”
“Look who’s talking crude now,” I shoot back. “And for your information, you’re the one who’s got the bug up your ass. ‘I hate chain restaurants. I better e-mail you a reminder because you’re too irresponsible to get there on time by yourself. Wear your uniform, not your civvies.’ You didn’t give it a rest that whole damned meal. And it’s not like I’m that irresponsible.”
“I didn’t say you were irresponsible, Andrew.”
“Not in so many words, but that’s what you meant.”
“Oh, hush up.”
“No, you hush up.” It’s the kind of exchange I used to have with my kid sister. Maybe I will get on that plane and go to the wedding this weekend. That’d fix her. But a mile’s worth of silence later, she says she guesses she is kind of “off ,” tonight. That that open house coming up at her school’s got her in a tizzy. “I’m sorry,” she says. I mumble a knee-jerk apology, too.
When we get back to her parents’ place, I pull into their circular drive. Her mom’s Mercedes is there but not Daddy’s Beemer. “Your parents out?”
“Uh-huh. They’re at Little Branch’s school for a sports boosters meeting. You want to come in?” When I tell her I better get going and let her get her work done, she says she wants me to come in. “Please, hon? I don’t want us to leave things like this.” So I cut the engine. Get out and go around to her side and open her door. Sometimes when we’re alone in there, she lets me get a little frisky with her. One time, after we’d had an argument and made up, she even unzipped my fly and went down on me. She’s done that a couple of other times, too. I guess in Casey’s mind a b.j. doesn’t count as premarital sex. That it’s just a service she’s willing to provide. Guess I’ve got Bill and Monica to thank for that. So there’s another of Clinton’s accomplishments besides the Defense of Marriage thing, Daddy. Not that it’s all that pleasurable: her head pumping up and down like the cylinder of a car going eighty miles an hour, box of tissues at the ready next to her knee.
“I’m going upstairs to change,” she says. “Be right down.”