complement of family silver-not that we ever ate with it. Someday, in the course of time, Varena and I would divide that silver between us, and the care of it would be on our shoulders; that heavy, ornate silver that was too fine and too much trouble to use.
I got my suitcase and my hanging bag out of the backseat and went up to the front door. My feet felt heavier with every step.
I was home.
Varena answered the door, and we gave each other a quick look of assessment and a tentative hug.
Varena was looking good.
I had been the prettier when we were girls. My eyes are bluer, my nose is straighter, my lips are fuller. But that doesn’t have much meaning for me anymore. I think it still matters very much to Varena. Her hair is long and naturally a redder brown than mine had been. She wears blue contacts, which intensify her eye color to an almost bizarre extent. Her nose turns up a little, and she is about two inches shorter, with bigger breasts and a bigger bottom.
“How is the wedding process?” I asked.
She widened her eyes and made her hands tremble. On edge.
Beyond her, I could see the tables that had been set up to accommodate the presents.
“Wow,” I said, shaking my head in acknowledgment of the sight. There were three long tables (I was sure my folks had borrowed them from the church) draped in gleaming white tablecloths, and every inch was covered with consumer goods. Wineglasses, cloth napkins and tablecloths, china, silver-more silver-vases, letter openers, picture albums, knives and cutting boards, toasters, blankets…
“People are being so sweet,” Varena said, and I could tell that was her stock response; not that she didn’t mean it, but I was sure she’d said that over and over and over to visitors.
“Well, no one’s ever had to spend anything on us, have they?” I observed, raising my eyebrows. Neither Varena or I had ever been married, unlike some in our high school circles who’d been divorced twice by now.
My mother came into the living room from the den. She was pale, but then she always is, like me. Varena likes to tan, and my father does inevitably; he’d rather be out working in the yard than almost anything.
“Oh, sugar!” my mother said and folded me to her. My mother is shorter than me, bone-thin, and her hair is such a faded blond it’s almost white. Her eyes are blue like every member of our family’s, but their color seems to have faded in the past five or six years. She’s never had to wear glasses, her hearing is excellent, and she beat breast cancer ten years ago. She doesn’t wear clothes that are at all trendy or fashionable, but she never looks frumpy, either.
The months, the years, seemed to dissolve. It felt like I’d seen them yesterday.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“He’s gone down to the church to get another table,” Varena explained, trying not to smile too broadly. My mother suppressed the curve of her own lips.
“Is he rolling in this wedding stuff?”
“You know it,” Varena said. “He just loves it. He’s been waiting for this for years.”
“This’ll be the wedding of the decade in Bartley,” I said.
“Well,” Varena began, as we all started down the hall to my old room, “if Mrs. Kingery can get here, it may be.” Her voice sounded a little whiny, a bit flat, as though this worry or complaint were so long-standing she’d worn out the emotion behind it.
“Dill’s mother may not come?” I asked, incredulous. “So, she’s really old and sick… or what?”
My mother sighed. “We can’t quite decide what the problem is,” she explained. She stared off into the distance for a moment, as if the clue to Varena’s future mother-in-law’s behavior was written on the lawn outside the window.
Varena had taken my hanging bag and opened the closet to hook the hangers over the rod. I put my suitcase on the triple dresser that had been my pride and joy at age sixteen. Varena looked back at me over her shoulder.
“I think,” she said, “that maybe Mrs. Kingery was just so crazy about Dill’s first wife that she hates to see her replaced. You know, with Anna being their child, and all.”
“Seems to me like she’d be glad that Anna’s going to have such a good stepmother,” I said, though in truth, I’d never thought what kind of stepmother Varena would make.
“That would be the sensible attitude.” My mother sighed. “I just don’t know, and you can’t ask point- blank.”
I could. But I knew they wouldn’t want me to.
“She’ll have to come to the rehearsal, right?”
My mother and my sister looked anxiously at each other.
“We think she will,” Varena said. “But Dill can’t seem to tell me what that woman will do.”
Dill (Dillard) Kingery’s mother was still in Dill’s hometown, which I thought was Pine Bluff.
“How long have you been dating Dill?” I asked.
“Seven years,” Varena said, smiling brightly. This, too, was obviously a question that had been asked many times since Varena and Dill had announced their engagement.
“Dill is older than you?”
“Yeah, he’s even older than you,” my sister said.
Some things never change.
We heard my father’s yell from the front door. “One a you come help me with this damn thing?” he bellowed.
I got there first.
My father, who is stocky and short and bald as an eight ball, had hauled the long table out of the bed of his pickup to the front door and definitely needed help getting it up the steps.
“Hey, pigeon,” he said, his smile radiant.
I figured that would fade soon enough, so I hugged him while I could. Then I lifted the front of the table, which he’d propped against the iron railing that bordered the steps up to the front door.
“You sure that’s not too heavy for you?” Dad fussed. He had always had the delusion that the attack I’d endured somehow had made me weak internally, that I was now frail in some invisible manner. The fact that I could bench-press 120 pounds, sometimes more, had no influence on this delusion.
“I’m fine,” I said.
He picked up the rear of the table, which was the kind with metal legs that fold underneath for easy carrying. With a little maneuvering, we got it up the steps and into the living room. While I held the table on its side, he pulled out the metal legs and locked them into place. We swung the table upright. The whole time he worried out loud about me doing too much, straining myself.
I began to get that tight, hot feeling behind my eyes.
My mother appeared in the nick of time with yet another spotless white tablecloth. Without speaking she shook it out. I took the loose end, and together we spread it evenly over the table. My father talked the whole time, about the number of wedding presents Varena and Dill had gotten, about the number of wedding invitations they’d sent, about the acceptances they’d received, about the reception…
I eyed him covertly while we transferred some of the crowded presents to the new table. Dad didn’t look good. His face seemed redder than it should have been, his legs seemed to be giving him pain, and his hands shook a little. I knew he’d been diagnosed with high blood pressure and arthritis.
There was an awkward pause, once we’d gotten our little task accomplished.
“Ride over to my apartment with me and see the dress,” Varena offered.
“OK.”
We got in Varena’s car for the short drive over to her apartment, which was a small yellow cottage to the side of a big old yellow house where Emory and Meredith Osborn lived with their little girl and a new baby, Varena explained.
“When the Osborns bought this house from old Mrs. Smitherton-she had to go into Dogwood Manor, did I tell you?-I was worried they’d raise the rent, but they didn’t. I like them both, not that I see them that much. The little girl is cute, always got a bow in her hair. She plays with Anna sometimes. Meredith keeps Anna and the O’Sheas’ little girl after school, now and then.”
