Free A Wedding Invitation by Alice J. Wisler Page B

to tonight’s that I enjoyed in the billets, the tales of anguish I heard from many of the refugees, the excruciating heat, the respite at the beach in Morong, the walks in the neighborhoods, and the thrill of hearing a student pronounce a word correctly in English. My memories take me to the administration building, where we teachers often sat at tables under a fan that never provided enough cool air.
    As Beanie studies her fingernails, I say, “We used to have staff meetings each Tuesday afternoon. They went on for hours because our director, Dr. Rogers, loved to tell us how we needed to be extra careful about the New People’s Army hiding in the brush.” Nearing Dovie’s neighborhood, I continue, “Once a group of us wanted to go to Mindanao for a vacation, but he stopped our plans, saying that area of the country was no place for Americans because of the NPA’s activity being heavy in that region.” Shuddering, I wonder why I’m thinking of this military wing of the Communist Party on a night like this. As Dovie has been known to say, our minds can be strange places.
    Beanie is still thinking about the meal served to us at Saigon Bistro. She says, “My ancestors are Chinese, but I don’t care much for their food.”

    The next day I set out to leave early. I told Mom I’d be back at the shop by noon. Natasha will need to go to her office, unable to cover for me. When the clock radio alarm goes off, I feel it is one of those mornings that I could literally sleep until noon.
    As I carry my suitcase downstairs, I see Dovie on the porch with Milkweed. Her opened Bible rests against her lap, her reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. The whole scene is Norman Rockwellesque. I shed my suitcase and open the screen door to join them on the porch.
    Smiling, she closes the book and puts it aside. “Morning, love. Did you sleep well? I heard you up early.”
    “I slept well, thanks. Thanks for letting me come here.”
    “You know you are always welcome.” Rising from the love seat, she reaches over to the small bamboo table where a large Tupperware container sits beside a thermos. She hands me the container.
    As I look through it, I see bologna sandwiches on thick slices of oatmeal bread with Swiss cheese. “Oh, Dovie, this is so sweet of you.”
    Milkweed purrs, jumps off the cushion, and nuzzles my leg.
    Dovie takes the box from me, picks up the thermos, and says, “Hope the tea isn’t too lemony. I must have squeezed three whole lemons in there.”
    I now know that the drive back to Falls Church will be delicious and that makes me smile.
    “Nourishment is vital for your long trip,” she says as she follows me to my car. I often wonder why Dovie never married or had children. I think her maternal nurturing instincts are strong.
    “How has your mother been?” she asks. I think she’s asked this at least twice already over the weekend.
    I reply as I have before. “She’s doing really good.” I know that’s not proper English, but there are times I get tired of hearing myself use the word well .
    “Now, if that cancer comes back, you make sure I’m the first one you call. I know Cecelia won’t be calling to tell me.”
    The sun is just rising over the two sheds in the backyard. I hear the hens cackling.
    I place my suitcase in the trunk and the food she has given me in the passenger seat. “Thank you for everything.” I make my embrace tight.
    “Love to your mother. Drive careful now. Call me when you get home.” She kisses my check, and I catch the faint scent of peppermint, cloves, and worry.

twelve

    I t feels right nice to be back at the shop with Mom. As much as I often want a break from these walls and from customers who can be hard to please, whenever I return from time away, I know I’m where I’m supposed to be. There is something almost magical about running your own business, especially when that business is successful. The man who runs the business next to ours, Sanjay,