Free A Wedding Invitation by Alice J. Wisler Page A

fistfight.
    Lien excuses herself while her parents grin and refill our soda glasses. Lien’s father, Minh, wants to make sure we are not too hot or too cold.
    Speaking for both Beanie and me, I say that we’re comfortable. To Huy I say, “I thought you were scheduled to relocate to Chicago.” Lien often told me that she and her family were headed from the camp to Chicago, where a relative was waiting for them.
    Huy says, “Chicago was too cold. We have an uncle here, so after one year, we live in North Carolina.”
    Chi, whom I recall being rather quiet, boldly uses her English and says, “Chicago too much snow.”
    “Yes,” I agree. “Chicago can get bitter in the winter.” Then I wonder why I chose the word bitter . Perhaps I am still trying to teach English as a Second Language.
    I continue to eat, knowing all eyes are on me. I glance at Beanie to see that she’s fussing with her chopsticks.
    Lien returns to us. “He’s not in town,” she says as she flops onto the chair beside me.
    “Who?”
    “Carson.”
    “What?” My stomach flutters like the wings of Aunt Dovie’s butterflies.
    “I leave him message.” Her face transports me back to seven years ago when she told me that she’d skipped class to hang out with a twenty-year-old Vietnamese boy her father forbade her to see. “He not home so I talk on his answering machine.”
    “You called Carson?” Every pore feels warm.
    “Yes.”
    I stop eating, my pair of chopsticks suspended over my bowl. “But . . . why?”
    “He wants to see you. He your friend, right?”
    Was . I feel the word in my mouth, tasting metallic. We used to be good friends, but things change. You certainly know about change, Lien, so let’s just leave it at that.
    But Lien continues, her hazel eyes bright. “Miss Bravencourt, I never thought I see you in America! We get Carson here and we can have party.”
    I fake a smile. It stretches across my face like putty, but it’s still not genuine.
    “Mr. Carson want to see you, I’m sure.”
    “Isn’t he married?” Certainly by now he has made his vows to Mindy from Raleigh.
    “No, not married!” She giggles. “He single. Like you.”
    Single. The word stings. When the refugees used it back in the camp, it was suited for me. Now, at age thirty-one, the word feels wrong for me. I should be married by now, my days busy with mopping the floors, making crock-pot dinners, changing junior’s diapers and reading to him from the pages of The Pokey Little Puppy and Goodnight Moon .
    I ask Huy to get a fork for Beanie. She has struggled with her set of chopsticks long enough. But once the fork is in her hand, I decide she’s not too fond of her Vietnamese meal by the way she only rearranges the pieces of pork and vegetables in her bowl. I suppose she’s saving room for her sausage potato pie.
    “Miss Bravencourt,” Lien says after she and her parents have exchanged a few strident words in their native tongue. “You live here now?”
    “No. My friend and aunt live here. I live near D.C.”
    “Washington, D.C.?”
    “Yes.”
    Beanie twists a lock of her black hair so tightly that I see her finger turn blue. She sips from her glass and then plays with her straw paper. Seeing that she’s not going to eat any more and that my bowl is empty, I say that we must leave now.
    Beanie nods and a softness returns to her face. Quickly, she stands.
    Lien says, “Thank you for coming.” Then she asks Huy to take a picture of the two of us together. She wraps her arm around my waist and laughs as Huy uses the Kodak camera. “One more,” she tells him, and this time she presses her cheek against mine. The flash goes off again, causing dots to float across my vision.
    Their parents thank us for coming in the best English they can muster. Even the man who opened the door for us enters the restaurant to thank us.
    As I drive back to Dovie’s, my mind is crammed with memories. I want to talk about my days in the camp, the meals similar