That Summer(45)

I was at a pay phone, watching a crazy man talk to himself on the bench I’d just left. I held on.

“Haven.”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell is going on with you?” She sounded incredulous, even as she whispered. “Your mom called here three times already, looking for you. They’re freaking out over there.”

“She called you?” I said.

“She thought you’d come here. She told Mom everything, and I overheard. My mom talks so damn loud.”

“What’d they say?” I was the center of serious mother talks.

“Well, your mom asked if you’d been around and my mom said no, so then your mom goes into this whole thing about you freaking out at work this morning and then fighting with Ashley and running out of the house, and she’s just frantic because she thinks you must be on drugs or something, she’s not sure....”

“Drugs?” I repeated. “Did she really say that?”

“Haven,” Casey said matter-of-factly, as if she knew so much about these things. “They think everything is drugs. They do.”

“I’m not on drugs,” I said, offended.

“Well, that’s not the point. So apparently your sister is going ballistic and your mom and Lydia are combing the neighborhood looking for you and the rehearsal is at six-thirty and they think you might ditch that too, so it’s just imperative that they find you before then.”

“The rehearsal dinner,” I said. Of course. I was a bridesmaid. If I hadn’t been, I doubted an all-points bulletin would ever have been issued.

“So what is going on?” Casey demanded. “Where are you? Tell me and I’ll come meet you.”

“Nothing’s going on,” I said. “I’m on my way home.” I didn’t know if that was true, but I didn’t want Casey meeting me. I liked this freedom and I wasn’t ready to share it.

“Are you sure?” she asked, sounding disappointed.

“I’ll call you later,” I said.

“Wait. At least tell me what happened at work. Your mom said she thought you’d assaulted a customer or something—”

“Later,” I said to her. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she said sullenly. “But are you all right? At least tell me that.”

“I am,” I said. “I just have some stuff to work out.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, call me if you need me. I’m just here practicing my tap dancing.”

“I will. ’Bye, Case.” I hung up and glanced around the small park I’d been hiding in. There were families out with their kids, college students throwing a Frisbee while a big, dumb-looking dog chased after it. I wondered if the Town Car was cruising the streets downtown, Lydia hoping to catch a glimpse of me so that I could be rustled up and dragged to the rehearsal dinner. I was throwing everything out of whack, and I knew it. I was like a fugitive, running from some indefinable force made up of my mother’s worried eyes and Ashley’s whining and Lydia’s Town Car, sucking up my steps even as I took them. It was late afternoon now, and hotter than ever. My shirt was sticking to me and I needed somewhere better to hide.

I was standing at the crosswalk, squinting, when I heard it. That humming of a car, coming around the corner behind me and then down the street, with Sumner behind the wheel. He stopped at the light, too far away to hear me even if I’d had time to yell his name. The light changed and he pulled away, one hand balanced on the steering wheel, the other arm hanging down the side of the car, drumming his fingers. He took off, I watched him go, blending with the other traffic until he turned onto a side street just a little way down. I started walking.

I found him at the senior center, a small building at the end of a long street of minimalls and office complexes. Everything looked very new and very clean, as if it had been hastily assembled the day before. Sumner’s car was parked right next to the door, in a space marked FRIENDS.

I pushed the door open and went inside, looking around. I was still in my fugitive mode, suspicious, as I passed a group of tiny old women, all of them hunched over and white haired. They wore shiny Nike walking shoes with their skirts and sweaters. As I passed by them, my eyes averted, I heard one say in a quiet, musical voice, “What a beautiful, beautiful girl.”

I turned, trying to catch another glimpse, but they had vanished around a corner. I could hear the soles of their shoes brushing the floor and the sound of music just down the hallway. I kept walking, past rooms with walls of bright, happy colors like Easter eggs. In one a group of people were busy painting, each behind an easel. One man glanced over his shoulder at me as I passed, holding his paintbrush in midstroke. In front of him was a half-finished canvas showing a beach scene, the water a mix of a million different blues, the sky a blaze of oranges and reds. I passed a sunroom where a woman in a wheelchair was reading a book, the light slanting through a window just enough to make her almost transparent, and came to a large room with a high ceiling and a shiny floor. In one corner was a record player, and a man shuffling through albums, while in front of him about ten couples danced in slow, even time. A woman in a long blue dress had her eyes closed, her chin resting on the shoulder of her partner as he carefully twirled her. A man with a flower in his buttonhole was bowing to his partner as she smiled and took his hand for another dance. And in the far corner, by a table lined with cups and a punch bowl, I saw Sumner, his head thrown back in a laugh as he led a small, wiry woman with a crocheted shawl around their part of the dance floor. The woman was talking, her cheeks red, and Sumner listened, all the while spinning her slowly around, his feet moving smoothly across the shiny floor. He was in a red dress shirt with a blue tie and old black oxfords. His jeans were rolled into uneven cuffs, and his shirttail hung loose over the waist. When the music stopped, the couples broke up and applauded while the record guy picked out another song. Sumner bowed to his partner and she smiled, pulling her shawl closer around her.