Alone in the parking lot, the cold clogging my nose and scraping against my newly shaved face, I listen to the cars speeding by, their snow tires slapping heavy and useless against the pavement. The low December sun glares from behind the clouds, casting an icy sheen over the tree tops and deserted Detroit factories. At my feet, dried leaves skitter across the lot until they buck up against the back fence of the yellow cinderblock 7-Eleven. \u201cRoast Beef, $3.29\/lb. Get it here\u2014QUICK!\u201d the sign says. \u201cYou need it\u2014we got it.\u201d<\/p>\n
I finger the envelope in my pocket. Check the number on the door. This is the place.<\/p>\n
Could have fooled me.<\/p>\n
I watch another car turn into the lot. A \u201971 red Buick Skylark. Prize of a car. Lady with her hair done up in a twist is driving. My breath catches in my chest. No. Not Cora, though it could be one of her customers. One last time, I take out the invitation. My hands tremble. The letters shine like tar.<\/p>\n
Cora Ginetti Vitale<\/em><\/p>\n
requests the honor of your presence<\/em><\/p>\n
at the marriage of<\/em><\/p>\n
Angelina Mary Vitale<\/em><\/p>\n
and Scott John<\/em><\/p>\n
on the seventeenth of December<\/em><\/p>\n
Nineteen eight-five<\/em><\/p>\n
4:00 P.M.<\/em><\/p>\n
1682 East Grand Boulevard<\/em><\/p>\n
Detroit, Michigan<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n
<\/p>\n
I shake my head. My name not even there. Like I\u2019m dead or something.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou ever tell your mama I call you every other week?\u201d I once asked Angie on the phone. \u201cAnd send money each month?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNah, Dad. It\u2019s not worth it,\u201d she said. \u201cI don\u2019t bring you up. I\u2019ve learned to keep my mouth shut.\u201d<\/p>\n
Yeah, I think, staring at the convenience store. This is what comes of keeping your mouth shut.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I\u2019d be lying if I said I didn\u2019t take to my new life after I left Angie and Cora. I wish I could say the fire drove me away, but it didn\u2019t. I stayed six more years, until Angie told me she wanted to move to my sister\u2019s house. Closer by miles to the high school, and closer to her friends. My plan was to strike east from Detroit and find a job outdoors. It was 1979. I was thirty-four and tired of working under cars all week. Tired of patrolling empty plant halls at night and on the weekends for extra cash. And tired of knowing how unhappy I was making Cora. So I set off, leaving her the car and putting out my thumb. I ended up being lucky when a trucker picked me up on his way to the Scranton sandpits. They needed people, he said.<\/p>\n
I loved the sandpits\u2014the sun on my face, the heavy lifting, the sound of the sand rushing down the chutes into the waiting trucks. At night, I had tons of quiet and books to read. Always a reader. Every other Sunday, I talked with Angie.<\/p>\n
But when winter came, the cold drove me south. I moved on to St. Louis and then Dallas, fixing rails, tending the yards, piling feed and fertilizer. I loved the big engines. Loved watching them slide along the shiny rails, their wheel pistons churning back and forth inside the big steel rims. Loved watching the sparks fly, too. Same as Angie. When she was little, she used to hang out with me at the garage, sit on one of the old aluminum bar stools, kick out her legs, and gaze at the driveshafts spinning. \u201cDaddy,\u201d she\u2019d say, \u201cWhat makes the sparks fly? Why do the pistons fire in that order? Why don\u2019t the belts just sheer in half, they work so hard?\u201d She had a touch of her mother\u2019s southern twang, then, and just like her mother, she never stopped long enough to hear the answers. Maybe that was a good thing, not waiting to hear the answers.<\/p>\n
I stayed in Dallas almost four years until the railroad moved me to Denver, then Boise\u2014too cold there for me\u2014so I went to Abilene. That\u2019s where I was, readying cars for a load of beef, when the invitation came. I couldn\u2019t believe the fancy lavender scrawl on the envelope. Cora\u2019s writing. Cora\u2019s favorite color. Angie\u2019s name in the return box.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In the parking lot, I wait as a few more cars arrive. Young people dressed in fancy clothes, frills and tuxedos hanging down below their parkas, greet each other with hoots and hellos. Their laughter hangs in the frozen air like it might stay there forever. I watch as they enter, not wanting to admit what holds me back. Not my fear of seeing Angie. I can\u2019t wait to see her. But my fear of seeing Cora. Suppose she\u2019s changed. Suppose she hasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
Near the door, an older woman stops to ground out her cigarette underfoot. She looks me up and down as she twists real hard, like she could put out all the fires in the world. Me in my khakis, flannel shirt, and a borrowed wool coat. I clutch the invitation in my hand. \u201cHey, I\u2019m here for love,\u201d I want to say. \u201cYou got a problem with that?\u201d<\/p>\n
For a few more minutes, I stay outside. So much easier to hang here with the cars. Things I understand. Brakes yanked into place, ignitions clicked off, low beams disappearing into sockets like water sucked down a drain.<\/p>\n
I never really got over leaving Angie. I mean, I managed okay. I figured after I left, things would finally get better. But deep inside, I\u2019ve always worried Angie thinks I\u2019m a deserter. That she doesn\u2019t believe in me anymore. I think you should be able to believe in your Daddy, even if I wasn\u2019t so hot with mine. I\u2019d make up for that, I used to tell Angie. And Cora.<\/p>\n
I stare as two men about my age come out the door. One holds a jug of milk. The other cradles chips and soda. They slap each other on the back and guffaw. \u201cWhat\u2019s so funny?\u201d I want to say. I step inside, see the pink and blue twisted crepe paper and fat silver bells hanging from the fluorescent lights. \u201cWe love you Scott and Angie!\u201d reads a banner over the meat counter. Big red hearts on either side. \u201cWe\u2019re having a wedding!\u201d the store clerk whispers loudly. He points toward the milk coolers at the far end. Above the silver rims, a cow jumps over the moon.<\/p>\n
I stand very still. How could Cora let Angie\u2019s wedding be here?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
On Angie\u2019s tenth birthday, I didn\u2019t expect Angie to walk into the kitchen from the backyard where she was having her party only to find Cora with an empty Dewars bottle in one hand and a full glass of scotch in the other. Angie didn\u2019t know I\u2019d just told Cora she couldn\u2019t go eat pizza with the kids. Or dance with them. Or embarrass Angie with her wheeling about. Slurring words. Dropping things. Not if she was rotten drunk.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t tell me what I can and can\u2019t do,\u201d Cora was saying, her eyes and voice burning into me.<\/p>\n
Angie stopped in the doorway when she heard the argument. \u201cNot today, Mama. It\u2019s my\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
Cora spun around to face her. \u201cYou keep out of this,\u201d she said. She took a drag on her cigarette. \u201cNone of your business.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is too,\u201d Angie said, as if all her buddies outside had coached her. Ten years old now. Double digits. You can say whatever you want.<\/em> \u201cDaddy and I are only trying to help,\u201d she added, looking toward me.<\/p>\n
Cora put her head back, her long dark hair swishing with its own weight, and laughed a dry snide laugh. \u201cDon\u2019t you tell me about daddies,\u201d she scoffed. She grabbed the side of the counter, her balance unsteady but her words driven with the force of someone hitting a nail only once. \u201cYou need to shut your mouth sometimes, Ang\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t talk to her like that, Cora.\u201d I gestured for Angie to go back to her party. \u201cShe hasn\u2019t done anything to you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, she hasn\u2019t,\u201d Cora said, pivoting toward me. \u201cBut then who has? Who\u2019s keeping me from spending my own dead mama\u2019s money on whatever I want?\u201d She held up the Dewar\u2019s bottle. \u201cI make my own choices.\u201d<\/p>\n
Angie\u2019s eyes filled with tears. \u201cBut I came in to ask you to light my candles and sing to me.\u201d She walked closer to Cora. Reached for the glass.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, Angie,\u201d I said, stepping forward. \u201cLeave your mother\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
Angie shook her head. Extended her hand, her eyes meeting her mother\u2019s. \u201cI know what you\u2019re doing, Mama. Drinking your life away. You think that doesn\u2019t hurt\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\n
Cora\u2019s hand flashed against Angie\u2019s cheek, a slap that stunned Angie so much she froze a few seconds before she turned and ran out. Cora had never hit anyone before.<\/p>\n
\u201cCora!\u201d I yelled, my voice hard and mean in a way I never expected to hear it. \u201cDon\u2019t you touch Angie. Don\u2019t you\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t you \u2018don\u2019t\u2019 me,\u201d Cora said, crouching down, burying her head in her hands, and shaking with her crying. When I knelt beside her, she pushed me away.<\/p>\n
Later that night, I guess it was luck or instinct that woke me and got me downstairs to pull Cora from the burning bedspread on the sofa. A full ashtray beside her. Angie heard me yelling and rushed downstairs to help me beat out the flames. Cora, unharmed, was too drunk to wake up. Next morning, she said she didn\u2019t remember anything. Not until I picked up the phone to call her doctor to get her back to the clinic.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In front of the cash register, I stand on my tiptoes. Where is Angie? There she is, framed by the silver milk cooler doors, her back to me. Broad where it used to be skinny. Smooth and white, edged by the lace of a long white satin gown. Her dark hair is up in a twist. Sparkling with a band woven through it. Cora\u2019s doing, no doubt. The guy beside her wears a tuxedo\u2014obviously Scott. Same height as Angie. Stocky and with dark brown hair. Like me. Except the collar of my shirt doesn\u2019t pinch my neck, and sweat isn\u2019t running down my hairline.<\/p>\n
Why didn\u2019t she tell me about Scott?<\/p>\n
Above them, a wrought iron clock set in a big Slurpee cup registers the time. 4:05. A man clears his throat. \u201cFriends and family,\u201d he begins as a blast of cold air shoots through the door. A young woman, not wearing a coat, rushes in and beelines for the soda cooler. \u201cYo, Frank,\u201d she hails the cashier in passing.<\/p>\n
I shake my head. How could Angie\u2019s wedding be here?<\/p>\n
\u201cWe are gathered to celebrate\u2014\u201d the man\u2019s voice rings out as I step between the aisles and pull myself up onto the bottom shelf of a cracker display. I scan over the crowd. In the far corner, a tall thin man with a bow tie shuffles his papers. Angie and Scott turn to face him. Where is Cora? She must be somewhere near the front, her hair up in a black twist, too. She would do that, wouldn\u2019t she?<\/p>\n
I wonder if she ever thinks back to the night of the fire. Her thick, disheveled hair strewn across her face and body, inches from the flames.<\/p>\n
I never told Angie that Cora swore she wasn\u2019t going into detox again. \u201cUnless you get out of here first,\u201d she told me.<\/p>\n
There are some secrets you don\u2019t tell your children. Not if they don\u2019t ask. And not if they aren\u2019t your secrets to tell.<\/p>\n
The man in the bow tie waits for the crowd to quiet. \u201cWe are gathered here today,\u201d he says finally, \u201cto honor the love of \u2026\u201d Behind me, the door swishes open with another blast of cold air. Three girls enter in a titter. They giggle their way to the chips. Tiptoe back to the register. The drawer dings. \u201cHappy wedding!\u201d they shout. The crowd turns and laughs. Not Angie and Scott.<\/p>\n
Not me, either. I grip the top of the shelf, determined to ignore the intrusions. The laughter. The clanging. The banging. The rustle of goods on the counter. The ding at the deli as the words of the ceremony float toward me, through me, filling me up. Who doesn\u2019t think about their own wedding vows when they hear someone else\u2019s? Especially their daughter\u2019s. A serious, lifelong union \u2026 committed to loving one another\u2026 Requires deep commitment\u2026 trust\u2026 a lot of patience\u2026 be there for each other\u2026in joy and \u2026 in difficult times.<\/em><\/p>\n
When Cora and I got married in the fall after our high school graduation, she and her mother invited a hundred guests, perfumed and flounced, and ordered vases upon vases of flowers to fill the church. \u201cStargazer lilies and baby\u2019s breath,\u201d Cora insisted. \u201cFor our future,\u201d she whispered. She didn\u2019t tell her mother, and nor did I tell my elderly parents, she was pregnant. Our big secret. The thing that would forever hold us together, we thought. Her mother, fingertips yellowed by years of smoking, her face flushed deep red, came to the wedding with a flask in her bag, and never stopped crying.<\/p>\n
Cora didn\u2019t tell me until a few weeks before our wedding that when she was fourteen, she had a baby girl her parents made her give up for adoption. Not that she wanted the baby or thought she could handle that, she said. Her parents made sure her ninth-grade boyfriend and his family moved far away. Then they put her in a home for unwed girls. When she came home afterwards, too depressed to speak, her dad began to hit her, calling her lazy, until she told him she\u2019d call the police. When her father died in a car wreck a year after the adoption, \u201chis own drunken fault,\u201d Cora said, \u201cI never told my mother I thought he had it coming.\u201d<\/p>\n
Repeat after me.<\/em><\/p>\n
Do you take this man? Do you take this woman? To honor and to cherish? In sickness and in health? Richer or poorer?<\/em><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Sometimes, like today, my heart beats like an animal running. Not for its life, I want to believe, but for the joy of seeing someone else succeed.<\/p>\n
After her detoxes, Cora often hung out with me and Angie in the kitchen, sitting on a stool, smoking her cigarettes, and sipping Pepsi from a tall plastic glass, but she didn\u2019t eat much. Even when I made toast or a sandwich or dinner just the way she liked it, she left the food largely untouched. Mostly, she stared at Angie, who had begun to look so much like her mother. Angie didn\u2019t like the staring. Or the return to the drinking. She started studying at her friends\u2019 houses and keeping her door closed when she was home.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s not easy to stop drinking. Do I need to say that?<\/p>\n
Not easy, either, to know Cora once hit Angie. She apologized a month later, or so Angie told me. Angie also told me she forgave her mother, but when she moved back into her mother\u2019s house her senior year of high school, she also told me she made clear to Cora, \u201cIf you ever hit me again, I\u2019ll hit you back.\u201d<\/p>\n
You may now kiss.<\/em><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The hoots and cheers of the crowd feel like they could raise the roof. I, too, thrust my jubilant fist into the air and hoot, my heart racing as I step off my shelf, shake out my arms, realign the boxes, and get ready to see Angie. I\u2019ll hold her tight, I tell myself, then grip Scott\u2019s hand, or hug him, if he\u2019ll let me. Like I\u2019ll never let go again.<\/p>\n
But as I wait for a path forward, my feet freeze on the floor. He had it coming. I\u2019ll hit you back.<\/em> Will Angie hug me? Will Cora remember our young love, and treat me like someone who tried to make a difference in her life? Or a nobody in her eyes? A deserter?<\/p>\n
What Cora thinks shouldn\u2019t matter anymore, but it does.<\/p>\n
I jam my hands into my pockets. Shift from one foot to the other. In front of me rows of white plastic, egg-shapes shimmer, their bright-colored labels calling out. Sheer energy. Active support. Silky support.<\/em> I stare at the choices. How does a woman ever know what she wants? How does anyone know?<\/p>\n
The tap on my shoulder takes me by surprise, but not the press of the long nails. \u201cAngelo,\u201d Cora says from behind me. \u201cGood to see you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Slowly I turn. I want to say the same, but not a single word rises over my pounding heart. Cora\u2019s face, as always, is lightly blushed. As always, she\u2019s wearing mascara. As always, her red lipstick is thick on her lips, though a little has smeared across one of her front teeth. Not something she would like. Not that I\u2019ll mention it. Her black hair is shorter now, curled in a slight wave around her almost bare shoulders. Her lavender dress follows the curve of her body. A fuller body now. But just as beautiful.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat a pleasant surprise,\u201d she says. She glances over her shoulder before she flashes a smile.<\/p>\n
I try to relax. Try to hear her comment as a genuine welcome. Maybe she, too, is struggling to find her words. But I\u2019m also tempted to follow her glance. Who\u2019s watching? Angie? Or someone else?<\/p>\n
For a moment longer, Cora and I stand awkwardly facing each other. I wish our silence was because both of us have so much to say. How are you doing? Are you okay? What a hard time we had back then, but isn\u2019t it great to see Angie so happy.<\/em> Surely, she felt our love when she was a child. And surely, she knew how important it was for us to go our separate ways. To get you into detox so could you find your health and happiness.<\/em> Not that Cora ever said that last sentence. And not that I didn\u2019t love my freedom.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo will you join me in a toast to the bride and groom?\u201d Cora asks. Her eyes light up.<\/p>\n
My head spins. She\u2019s asking me to come with her to the milk coolers, to stand side by side at the front of the crowd, and raise our glasses together? I start to nod, a surge of gratitude pumping through me as she reaches into her bag and pulls out her mother\u2019s old silver flask.<\/p>\n
\u201cWouldn\u2019t it be nice, for old time\u2019s sake, to have a real toast?\u201d She lifts the flask but only half-smiles, as if she\u2019s seen the alarm written all over my face.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t have a glass,\u201d I say, barely able to speak. Nor do I come up with the words that don\u2019t flash through my mind until later on. This is 7-Eleven. We can\u2019t drink here. Didn\u2019t you know that when you chose this place?<\/em><\/p>\n
I watch breathless as she reaches into her bag and brings out two plastic Slurpee glasses, places them on the shelf, unscrews the flask, lifts it to her nose, breathes in a long whiff, and grins as she extends the flask to me.<\/p>\n
I pull my lips tight and shake my head.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, Angelo,\u201d she says. The smile suddenly gone. She lifts the flask to my nose. \u201cYou think I haven\u2019t learned something, too?\u201d<\/p>\n
My heart throbs as I take in a whiff. Not alcohol. Maybe sparkling cider?<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you\u2014\u201d I can hardly put out the words. \u201cNot drinking since the day I left?\u201d Could that be true?<\/p>\n
She casts her eyes down and holds still. \u201cPut it this way, Angelo,\u201d she says, her voice almost too soft for me to hear. \u201cWhen my daughter asks me to do something on her day, I\u2019m totally willing. On other days\u2014well\u2014\u201d Her voice drops. \u201cI do what I can.\u201d She pauses. \u201cIt hurts only me, now.\u201d Then she lifts her head and looks me straight in the eyes, where I can see my reflection in the veil of water that makes her black pupils sparkle. \u201cI\u2019m glad you came, Angelo. Angie really wanted to see you. Now, if you\u2019ll excuse me. She looks over her shoulder. \u201cThere\u2019s someone who\u2019s dying to\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDad!\u201d Angie comes running from behind me. \u201cYou\u2019re here!\u201d she says as I turn, take her into my arms, and hold her as tightly as she holds me. At the same time, I feel her nodding ever so slightly to someone behind me. Her mother? Scott?<\/p>\n
\u201cI wouldn\u2019t have missed this for the world,\u201d I whisper into her ear, even as I feel a flash of self-doubt. Is her embracing me her choice or someone else\u2019s?<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you like it, Dad? Were you surprised to find the wedding here? Surprised to learn about Scott? I wanted it to be a surprise. Now, do you wanna know our big secret?\u201d<\/p>\n
I hold very still as I feel the warmth of her cheek press against mine, and the softness of her satin gown as I rest my hands around her back. For six years I\u2019ve been on the road, believing in her every day. That she\u2019d remember the love and confidence we gave her early on. That she\u2019d make it through high school. A good student, like me. Then through college. Strong enough to know when to speak up and when to be silent. When to hold on and when to let go. Why should that change now?<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ll never believe this, Dad,\u201d she says. She laughs. \u201cThis is where me and Scott met two years ago. Both working the night shift. Going to college during the day. We decided it would be fun to have our wedding here. Isn\u2019t it great?\u201d As she laughs again, her gown swishes ever so slightly as if she can feel my body unwind, too. A clear start. A new beginning. \u201cBut there\u2019s another secret, too,\u201d she says. \u201cWanna know it?\u201d She pauses long enough for me to think she feels me holding my breath. Wants me to be holding my breath. Remembering the tough days, too. \u201cScott wanted me to wear his manager\u2019s apron over my dress for the ceremony,\u201d she whispers, \u201cbut I said \u2018no way\u2019! I get to choose for myself. And don\u2019t I look beautiful,\u201d she says, stepping back and opening her arms, not to me or her mother or Scott, but to herself.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, beautiful,\u201d I say, knowing my answer sounds sappy and clich\u00e9\u2014the kind of thing weddings make us say and believe in again\u2014but it\u2019s also true.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Near the door, an older woman stops to ground out her cigarette underfoot. She looks me up and down as she twists real hard, like she could put out all the fires in the world. Me in my khakis, flannel shirt, and a borrowed wool coat. I clutch the invitation in my hand. \u201cHey, I\u2019m here for love,\u201d I want to say. \u201cYou got a problem with that?\u201d <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":21228,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[3780],"class_list":["post-20781","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-jodylisberger-com","writer-jody-lisberger"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20781","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=20781"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20781\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21231,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20781\/revisions\/21231"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21228"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20781"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20781"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20781"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}