The Truth About Forever (10 page)

Delia wiped a hand over her face, shaking her head. "Good Lord," she said, once they were out of earshot. She looked at us. "What should we do?"

Nobody said anything for a second. Then Kristy put down her tray. "We should," she announced, definitively, "make salads." She started over to the counter, where she began unstack-ing plates. Monica pulled the bowl of greens closer, picking up some tongs, and they got to work.

I looked back over at the door, feeling terrible. Who knew three dots could make such a difference? Like everything else, a love or a wish or whatever, it was all in the way you read it.

"Macy." I glanced up. Kristy was watching me. She said, "It's okay. It's not your fault."

And maybe it wasn't. But that was the problem with having the answers. It was only after you gave them that you realized they sometimes weren't what people wanted to hear.

"All in all," Delia said three hours later, as we slid the last cart, now loaded down with serving utensils and empty coolers, into the van, "that was not entirely disastrous. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say it was half decent."

"There was that thing with the steaks," Kristy said, referring to a panicked moment right after we distributed the salads, when Delia realized half the fillets were still in the van and, therefore, ice cold.

"Oh, right. I forgot about that." Delia sighed. "Well, at least it's over. Next time, everything will go smoothly. Like a well-oiled machine."

Even I, as the newbie, knew this was unlikely. All night there'd been one little problem after another, disasters arising, culminating, and then somehow getting solved, all at whiplash speed. I was so used to controlling the unexpected at all costs that I'd felt my stress level rising and falling, reacting constantly. For everyone else, though, this seemed perfectly normal. They honestly seemed to believe that things would just work out. And the weirdest thing was, they
did
. Somehow. Eventually. Although even when I was standing right there I couldn't say how.

Now Kristy reached into the back of the van, pulling out a fringed black purse. "Hate to say it," she said, "but I give the marriage a year, tops. There's cold feet, and then there's oh-God-don't-do-it. That girl
was freaking
."

Monica, sitting on the bumper, offered what I now knew to be one of her three default phrases, "Mmm-hmmm." The other two were "Better quit" and "Don't even," both said with a slow, drawled delivery, the words running together into one: "Bettaquit" and "Donneven." I didn't know who had christened her Monotone, but they were right on the money.

"When you get home," Delia said to me, running her hands over her pregnant belly once and then resting her spread fingers there, "soak that in cold water and some Shout. It should come out."

I looked down at my shirt and the stain there I'd completely forgotten about. "Oh, right," I said. "I'll do that."

About halfway through dinner, some overeager groomsman, leaping up to make a toast, had spilled a full glass of cabernet on me. I'd already learned about gobblers and grabbers: at that moment, I got a full tutorial on gropers. He'd pawed me for about five minutes while attempting to dab the stain out, resulting in me getting arguably more action than I ever had from Jason.

Jason. As I thought his name, I felt a pull in my gut and realized that for the last three hours or so, I'd forgotten all about our break, my new on-hold girlfriend status. But it had happened, was still happening. I'd just been too busy to notice.

A car turned onto the road, its headlights swinging across us, then approaching slowly, very slowly. As it crept closer, I squinted at it. It wasn't a car but more like some sort of van, painted white with gray splotches here and there. Finally it reached us, the driver easing over to the curb carefully before cutting off the engine. A second later, a head popped out of the window.

"Ladies," a voice came, deep and formal, "witness the Bertmobile."

For a second, no one said anything. Then Delia gasped.

"Oh, my God," Kristy said. "You've got to be joking."

The driver's side door swung open with a loud creak, and Bert hopped out. "What?" he said.

"I thought you were getting Uncle Henry's car," Delia said, taking a few steps toward him as Wes climbed out of the passenger door. "Wasn't that the plan?"

"Changed my mind," Bert said, jingling his keys. In a striped shirt with a collar, khaki pants with a leather belt, and loafers, he looked as if he was dressed up for something.

"Why?" Delia asked. She walked up to the Bertmobile, her head cocked to the side. A second later, she took a step back, putting her hands on her hips. "Wait," she said slowly. "Is this an—"

"Vehicle that makes a statement?" Bert said. "Yes. Yes it is."

"—ambulance?" she finished, her voice incredulous. "It is, isn't it?"

"No way," Kristy said, laughing. "Bert, only you would think you could get action in a car where people have
died
."

"Where did you get this?" Delia said. "Is it even legal to drive?"

Wes, now standing by the front bumper, just shook his head in a don't-even-ask kind of way. Now that I looked closer at the Bertmobile, I could in fact make out the faintest trace of an A and part of an M on the front grille.

"I bought it from that auto salvage lot by the airport," Bert said. You would have thought it was a new-model Porsche by the way he was beaming at it. "The guy there got it from a town auction. Isn't that the
coolest
?"

Delia looked at Wes. "What happened to Uncle Henry's Cutlass?"

"I tried to stop him," Wes told her. "But you know how he is. He insisted. And it is his money."

"You can't make a statement with a Cutlass!" Bert said.

"Bert," Kristy said, "
you
can't make a statement, period. I mean, what are you
wearing
? Didn't I tell you not to dress like someone's dad? God. Is that shirt polyester?"

Bert, hardly bothered by this or any of her other remarks, glanced down at his shirt, brushing a hand over the front pocket. "
Poly-blend
," he said. "Ladies like a well-dressed man."

Kristy just rolled her eyes, while Wes ran a hand over his face. Monica, from behind me, said, "Donneven."

"It's an ambulance," Delia said flatly, as if saying it aloud might get her used to the idea.

"A former ambulance," Bert corrected her. "It's got history. It's got personality. It's got—"

"Final sale status," Wes said. "He can't take it back. When he drove it off the lot, that was it."

Delia sighed, shaking her head.

"It's what I wanted," Bert said. It was quiet for a second: no one, it seemed, had an argument for this.

Finally Delia walked over and put her arms around Bert, pulling him close to her. "Well, happy birthday, little man," she said, ruffling his hair. "I can't believe you're already sixteen. It makes me feel
old
."

"You're not old," he said.

"Old enough to remember the day you were born," she said, pulling back from him and brushing his hair out of his face. "Your mom was so happy. She said you were her wish come true."

Bert looked down quickly, turning his keys in his fingers. Delia leaned close to him, then whispered something I couldn't hear, and he nodded. When he looked up again, his face was flushed, and for a second, I saw something in his face I recognized, something familiar. But then he turned his head, and just like that, it was gone.

"Did you guys officially meet Macy?" Delia asked, nodding at me. "Macy, these are my nephews, Bert and Wes."

"We met the other night," I said.

"Bert sprung at her from behind some garbage cans," Wes added.

"God, are you two still doing that?" Kristy said. "It's so stupid."

"I only did it because I'm down," Bert said, shooting me an apologetic look. "By three!"

"All I'm saying," Kristy said, pulling a nail file out of her purse, "is that the next person who leaps out at me from behind a door is getting a punch in the gut. I don't care if you're down or not."

"Mmm-hmmm," Monica agreed.

"I thought she was Wes," Bert grumbled. "And I wouldn't jump out from behind a door anyway. That's basic. We're way beyond that."

"Are you?" Kristy asked, but Bert acted like he didn't hear her. To me she said, "It's this stupid gotcha thing, they've been doing it for weeks now. Leaping out at each other and us, scaring the hell out of everyone."

"It's a game of wits," Bert said to me.

"Half-wits," Kristy added.

"There's nothing," Bert said, reverently, "like a good gotcha."

Delia, yawning, put a hand over her mouth, shaking her head. "Well, I hate to break this up, but I'm going home," she announced. "Old pregnant ladies have to be in bed by midnight. It's the rule."

"Come on!" Bert said, sweeping his hand across the ambulance's hood. "The night is young! The Bertmobile needs
christening!"

"We're going to ride around in an ambulance?" Kristy said.

"It's got all the amenities!" Bert told her. "It's just like a car. It's
better
than a car!"

"Does it have a CD player?" she asked him.

"Actually—"

"No," Wes told her. "But it does have a broken intercom system."

"Oh, well, then," she said, waving her hand. "I'm sold."

Bert shot her a look, annoyed, but she smiled at him, squeezing his arm as she started over to the Bertmobile. Monica stood up and followed her, and they went around to the back, pulling open the rear doors.

"Have a fun night," Delia called after them. "Don't drive too fast, Bert, you hear?"

This was greeted with uproarious laughter from everyone but Wes—who looked like he would have laughed but was trying not to—and Bert, who just ignored it as he walked over to the driver's side door.

"Wes," Delia called out, "can you come here for a sec?"

Wes started over toward her, but I was in the way, and we did that weird thing where both of us went to one side, then the other, in tandem. During this awkward dance I noticed he was even better looking up close than from a distance—with those dark eyes, long lashes, hair curling just over his collar, his jeans low on his hips—and he had a tattoo on his arm, something Celtic-looking that poked out from under the sleeve of his T-shirt.

Finally I stopped moving, and he was able to get past me. "Sorry about that," he said, smiling, and I felt myself flush for some reason as I watched him disappear around the side of the van.

"Where are we supposed to sit?" I could hear Kristy asking from the back of the Bertmobile. "Oh, Jesus, is that a gurney?"

"No," Bert said. "It's where the gurney used to be. That's just a cot I put in until I find something more comfortable."

"A cot?" Kristy said. "Bert, you're
entirely
too confident about this car's potential. Really."

"Just get in, will you?" Bert snapped. "My birthday is ticking away. Ticking!"

Wes was walking back to the Bertmobile as I dug out my keys and started toward my car, passing the van on my way.

"Have a good night," he said to me, and I nodded, my tongue fumbling for a response, but once I realized that saying the same thing back would have been fine—God, what was wrong with me?—it was too late, and he was already getting into the Bertmobile.

As I passed the van, Delia was in the driver's seat fastening her seat belt. "You did great, Macy," she said. "Just great."

"Thanks."

She grabbed a pen off the dashboard, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled napkin. "Here," she said, writing something on it, "this is my number. Give me a call on Monday and I'll let you know when I can use you next. Okay?"

"Okay," I said, taking the napkin and folding it. "Thanks again. I had a really good time."

"Yeah?" She smiled at me, surprised. "I'm glad. Drive safe, you hear?"

I nodded, and she cranked the engine, then pulled away from the curb, beeping the horn as she turned the corner.

I'd just unlocked my door when the Bertmobile pulled up beside me. Kristy was leaning forward from the backseat, hand on the radio: I could hear the dial moving across stations, from static to pop songs to some thumping techno bass beat. She looked across Wes, who was digging in the glove compartment, right at me.

"Hey," she said, "you want to come out with us?"

"Oh, no," I said. "I really have to go—"

Kristy twisted the dial again, and the beginning of a pop song blasted out, someone shrieking "
Baaaaby
!" at full melodic throttle. Bert and Wes both winced.

"—home," I finished.

Kristy turned down the volume, but not much. "Are you sure?" she said. "I mean, do you really want to pass this up? How often do you get to ride in an ambulance?"

One time too many, I thought.

"It's a refurbished ambulance," Bert grumbled.

"Whatever," Kristy said. To me she added, "Come on, live a little."

"No, I'd better go," I said. "But thanks."

Kristy shrugged. "Okay," she told me. "Next time, though, okay?"

"Right," I said. "Sure."

I stood there and watched them, noting how carefully Bert turned around in the opposite driveway, the way Wes lifted one hand to wave as they pulled away. Maybe in another life, I might have been able to take a chance, to jump into the back of an ambulance and not remember the time I'd done it before. But risk hadn't been working out for me lately; I needed only to go home and see my computer screen to know that. So I did what I always did these days, the right thing. But before I did, I glanced in my side mirror, catching one last look at the Bertmobile as it turned a far corner. Then, once they were gone, I started my engine and headed home.