The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (245 page)

“Earth to Andrew,” Casey says. “Where have you just been?”

Looking over at her, I realize she’s finished texting and put her phone away. Rather than tell her what I was thinking about, I get back to what my day’d been like. “No, I was just thinking about this other guy that came in today. He’s got PTSD something fierce. I’m in the middle of doing his intake, right? And there’s this loud crash somewhere else on the ward. He jumps up, starts going all crazy on me like we were being fired on instead of someone out on the floor just dropped something. I couldn’t talk him down. Couldn’t even keep him in the room we were in. He runs out on the floor, wild-eyed and screaming. Ended up, me and LeRoy had to straitjacket him and get one of the docs to sedate him.”

“It’s so sad,” she says. “I just wish these wars weren’t necessary. I hope those 9/11 hijackers are burning in hell.”

I nod. “This guy’s my age. He’s got two kids already and a third one on the way. Makes you wonder if the ones coming back in bad shape are
ever
going to get their heads back on straight again. Or if they’re gonna end up on the scrap heap like all those Vietnam burnouts. You know?” But I can tell her mind’s gone someplace else.

“So did you get someone to cover for you this coming weekend?” she asks. Here’s my opening—my chance to tell her that I might be going back for my mom’s wedding.

“Yeah. I switched rotations with Josette. Her boyfriend’s coming down the weekend after, so it worked out great. I’ve got tomorrow through Monday now. So I was thinking—”

“Good. Don’t forget the prayer breakfast on Saturday morning. It starts at nine. You better write it down.”

Maybe I should wait until after we eat. Or at least until I decide for sure what I’m doing. Why get her upset if I’m
not
going? “No, I’ll remember. You have to speak at that breakfast, don’t you?”

“I’m giving the opening greeting. Remember? Which is why I don’t want to see you walking in late. By the way, you know who’s sitting at our table? Mayor DuPuy and her husband. And did I mention that John Ashcroft and his wife will be there? Traveling down from Missouri? My mother says the Ashcrofts are big in the Assemblies of God Church. They’re sitting just one table over from us, so I’m sure we’ll get to meet them. You should wear your uniform, not your civvies, okay? What was Ashcroft again? Secretary of state?”

“Attorney general.” Gee, maybe he’ll sing that song of his at the breakfast—the one they’re always making fun of on
The Daily Show
. Jon Stewart, Colbert: they go over the top about the conservatives sometimes, but they can be pretty funny.

“Oh, and I have to go early and help set up the table decorations, so you won’t need to pick me up. You just need to
get
there.”

I nod. “And that thing with your parents is the same night, right? What time does that start?”

“Six o’clock. Drinks first at the house, and then we’re heading on over to Diamond Back’s for dinner. The reservation’s for seven thirty, but my parents want you there for the cocktails, too, Andrew. This is a real big deal for Daddy. His top clients and their wives are going to be there, so you can’t be late for that either. I’d feel a lot better if you wrote this stuff down. Or I could e-mail it to you. Why don’t I do that?”

Yeah, why don’t you, darlin’? Wouldn’t want to screw up Daddy’s schedule. I guess I’d just better stay put this weekend. It’s not like my mom’s expecting me. “Good idea,” I tell her. “Hey, did you just say ‘client
s
?’ Plural? I thought it was just that one couple, the Hatchbacks or something?”

“The
Hal
bachs,” she says. “It was supposed to be just them, but now he’s invited the Rutherfords, too. Cubby Rutherford isn’t exactly a client yet, but Daddy’s been working on it. Cubby’s a big real estate guy. His company’s building that new high-rise that’s going up on Highway Six.”

“The one past the Richland Mall?”

“Uh-huh. He owns lots of properties here in Waco, and in Fort Worth, too. Daddy got wind that he’s unhappy with his present firm, so he’s been getting chummy with Cubby. Playing golf with him, taking him skeet shooting at his hunt club. If Cubby decides to switch to Commerford and Crouse, he’ll be Daddy’s biggest client. So the stakes are high. Mommy’s as nervous about Saturday night as a kitty cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

Texas talk, I think. Give her a smile. “Why’s that?”

“Because Cubby’s wife is a Reformed Baptist deacon and Judie Halbach’s got a mouth on her. Gets a few drinks in her and starts cussing like a ranch hand. Talking about gun control, and how going to that clown school cured her depression. In the last election, she campaigned for the Democrats against Governor Perry. Mommy says she’ll just die if Judie gets lit and starts in about that. I mean, the Perrys and the Rutherfords are personal friends. But Daddy says they can’t uninvite the Halbachs at this point. Johnny Ray Halbach’s a big client, too.”

“Well, maybe I could sit next to this Judie and, if she starts mouthing off, spill some wine on her.”

“Ha-ha, very funny,” Casey says. She looks down at her dress again. Presses a fresh napkin against the stain which, to my eyes, isn’t even visible. “I keep thinking club soda’d be good to treat this with before it sets, but I’m not sure because it’s silk.” To change the subject, I ask her how our wedding plans are coming along. Big mistake. “Ugh,” she says. “Don’t remind me. My mother got a call yesterday from my girlfriend Abilene?”

“The bridesmaid I haven’t met yet, right? Your college roommate?”

“Abby’s my maid of
honor
, Andrew,” she says. “I’m glad at least
one
of us is focused on what’s only going to be the biggest day of our lives.”

“Yeah, point taken,” I tell her. “Because hey, it’s only another fourteen months till showtime. I’d better get with the program, huh?”

She gives me a look. Hitches her hair behind her ear in that way I used to think was so cute. Now I find it annoying. Last time when we went out and I started counting how many times she did it, I got up into the teens.

“Are you making fun of me?” she asks.

Yup. “Nope. Just trying to offer a little comic relief.”

“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
some
thing. 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.