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.