The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (246 page)

“Well, I should hope so. Why would he put himself through that? I just feel sorry for your poor sisters. Good Lord, they’ve got 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.”

“Yeah, okay.”

She’d go ape shit if she knew I’d gone to that place with LeRoy a couple of times. What was it called? The Pink something. Pink Flamingo? The first time we drove out there, I stayed in front and watched the pole dancers while he went in the back with that bleached blonde with the fake torpedo tits. But the second time, I succumbed. Rented myself some time with that girl Claudine who talked dirty while she was riding me bucking-bronco style, one arm up in the air, the other holding onto my hip. I start stirring a little just thinking about it. No big surprise. Three double shifts in the last ten days. By the time I get back to the barracks, I’ve been too whipped to go into a stall and give myself some relief. At least I got some shut-eye this afternoon. Which is probably why, despite that fiasco of a meal, I’m feeling horny for her. Wanting one of her put-him-out-of-his-misery blow jobs . . .

Last time me and him went to that place—the Pink
Lady
, that’s what it’s called—when we got out to his car afterward, LeRoy goes, “Hooey, I got my pipes cleaned out
real
good tonight. That gal oughta work for Roto-Rooter. How ’bout you?” When I told him I wasn’t the kiss-and-tell type, he’d laughed. Produced a joint, lit it up, and took a hit. “Nah, I’ll pass,” I’d said when he held it out to me. I was already feeling calm and mellow after that workout with Claudine. Dozed a little on our way back, even. The guilt came later. . . .

I’d ask LeRoy to be an usher if I thought he’d get the Commerford family seal of approval, which I know he wouldn’t. “Hillbilly trailer trash” was Casey’s verdict that time the three of us went bowling. She’d taken offense at the profanity he used whenever he got a pin-split or a gutter ball, which was plenty. Even with the way she lobs the ball, Casey beat him two strings out of three. She’d gotten
really
pissed when he started rating some of the other women at the alley from one to ten. “He’d better not ever rate
me
,” she’d said on the phone later that night. Which, the next day on the ward, was exactly what he’d done. “How’d an ugly sumbitch like you ever snag a fox like her?” he’d kidded me in that West Virginia drawl of his. “That purty lil thing’s a tin outa tin, you lucky fuck. I bet she’s a she-devil in the sack.” I’d smiled, told him I had no complaints. That’s a laugh. I’m probably the only guy left in the state of Texas that’s still waiting for the wedding night to tap his girlfriend. So that, when she says “I do,” she’ll still be a virgin. Technically, that is. I’ve gone down on her a few times, too, without hearing any objections.

When she comes downstairs again, she’s got her dress slung over her arm. We go into their family room. Casey sits cross-legged on the couch and starts cutting out her paper letters. I’m given an assignment, too: get on Google and find out how to remove wine stains from silk. “Says here cold water and salt. You wet it a little and then rub salt into it.”

“Salt? Are you sure that’s for silk?”

No, it’s for burlap. “Uh-huh.”

She gets up and grabs the dress. “Okay, come on.”

In the kitchen, she’s at the counter treating the stain according to my directions with a kind of . . . how would you describe it? Delicate intensity? I come up behind her. Reach under her T-shirt and up to her braless breasts. Cup them, move against her a little, and then a little more. Feel myself rising and bend my knees so that it’s between her butt cheeks. She lets me for several seconds, then turns around. “Andrew, now quit.”

“Why? Don’t you like it?”

“I like it fine, but you’re distracting me. And besides, my parents and my little brother could walk in here any minute. Why don’t you go into Daddy’s den and watch TV or something? I think there’s a Rangers game on.”

The Rangers: I’ve been stationed here for almost two years now without ever getting into that team. Still, I head down the hall to Big Branch’s man cave. Flop down on one of those oversize leather couches in there and scan the room: big-ass cherrywood bar, big-screen TV. Deer head on the wall, and next to it that stuffed and mounted marlin he’s always bragging about having caught down in Key West. My eyes move to their family portrait, a museum-size oil painting that Casey’s told me some artist made of them from a professional photograph. Big Branch sits in his red leather chair, wearing a tan suit with Western-trimmed lapels, those custom-made cowboy boots that he said he paid six hundred bucks for. A teenage Casey-Lee and her mom, in gowns, stand on either side of him. Little Branch, a chubby kid in a crew cut and string tie, is down on one knee in front of his dad. God, I hate that kid. Thinks his shit doesn’t stink now that he’s turned into a no-neck high school fullback. I recall the Sunday dinner a few weeks back after we’d all gone to church together—the one when Big Daddy made that crack about Adam and Steve. Little Branch had just come back from football camp and most of the conversation revolved around that. Then Big Branch turned to me, as if it dawned on him that I existed, too. “You play sports in high school, son?”