That Summer(38)

“Underwear?” Lewis said, turning to face her. “What’s this about underwear? I never heard anything about underwear.”

“It’s nothing,” Ashley said, shooting me a death look.

“Underwear is not nothing,” Lewis said, shifting in his chair so that her feet fell out of his lap to the floor. “You said you just went to dinner and had too many margaritas. You didn’t say anything even remotely related to underwear.”

“Lewis, please,” Ashley said. “We went to this place, right before we came home. We didn’t stay long, it was stupid, but they told the guy I was getting married and then he ...”

“Oh, God,” Lewis said, throwing down his pencil. “Strippers? You were with strippers last night?”

“Not strippers, Lewis,” Ashley said in a tired voice. “They’re exotic dancers, and I didn’t even want to go. It was Heather’s idea.”

“I don’t believe this.” Lewis looked at me, as if I could help, and I looked back at the table. “We promised each other we wouldn’t do any of that traditional stuff, Ashley. You made a vow.”

“Lewis, don’t do this. It was just a stupid thing.”

Lewis crossed his legs, a habit that always made my father cringe. “Did you touch him?”

Ashley sighed. “Not really.”

There was a silence and I thought about making a quick exit, but as I moved to go I felt Ashley’s foot lock around the bottom of my chair, holding it in place.

“Not really,” Lewis repeated slowly. “So that would be a yes.”

“It wasn’t like I touched him,” Ashley said quickly, “but he danced in front of me and I had to put money in his... , thing... because it’s rude if you . . .”

“His thing?” Lewis shrieked. “You touched his thing?”

“His underwear,” Ashley said. “God, Lewis, his underwear, for Christ’s sake.”

“The same underwear that was around your neck, right?” Lewis stood up, pushing his chair out. “I don’t want to hear about this, okay? A week before my wedding and my fiancée is out putting her hands on strange men ... I just can’t think about it right now.”

“Lewis, don’t be like this,” Ashley said, too tired and hung over to get into a big fight. “Like I said, it’s just a dumb thing.”

“Well, obviously that vow didn’t mean much to you,” Lewis snapped. “So I wonder if any of the others will.”

“Oh, please,” Ashley said, rolling her eyes. “I’m too tired to deal with your dramatics, Lewis. Let’s just forget about it.”

Lewis just looked at her, in his pastels and madras. “I think I need some time away from you, Ashley. I have to go now.” And with that he walked stiffly to the door, opened it, and left with a great flourish of shutting it behind him. Ashley just watched him go, then turned her gaze on me.

“Thanks a lot, Haven,” she said icily. “Thanks a whole lot.” She stood up and slammed her glass on the table, then went out the same door, calling his name.

I sat at the table knowing I should feel bad. But I couldn’t do it. I knew I owed Ashley somewhere for something nasty she’d done to me; there had been enough over the years. It was exhilarating in a way, this feeling of wrongdoing, of making things even. I listened to them arguing outside and thought of Ashley the night before, telling me to remember when things were good. I sat back, listening, and concentrated on this moment, my last act of revenge against my sister, and savored it.





It was later that night that I got the call from Casey. I didn’t even recognize her voice at first, a voice I’d heard all my life. She sounded like she was choking, or had a cold.

“I need to talk to you,” she said as soon as I picked up the phone where Ashley had left it dangling on the floor with a glare at me. She was still mad, even though Lewis had forgiven her before he even made it down the driveway. “It’s important.”

“Okay,” I said. “Should I come over?”

“No,” she said quickly, and in the background I could hear baby Ronald hollering. “Meet me halfway. Right now, okay?”

“Sure.” I hung up, found my shoes, then walked to the living room, where my mother, Lydia, and Ashley were watching “Murder, She Wrote” and making lists. “I’m going for a walk with Casey.”

“Fine.” My mother hardly looked up, her mind on the band and the ushers and the flower arrangements. “Be back by ten.”

As I stepped into the thick summer air I heard only cicadas, screaming from the trees around our house. It was warm and sticky and I left my shoes on the porch, walking barefoot down the sidewalk, past houses with their lights burning, the sound of televisions drifting from open windows. I could see Casey coming from the other direction, walking quickly and brushing her hair out of her face. We met halfway, by the mailbox in front of the Johnsons’.

“It’s horrible,” she said to me, breathless. She was sniffling—no, crying—and she kept walking, with me falling into step behind her. “I just can’t believe it.”

“What?” I’d never seen her like this.

“He broke up with me,” she said, sobbing. “That bastard, he broke up with me over the phone. Just a few minutes ago.”