The Honeymoon Account

 

“I wish we were going to Mazatlan,” she said.

“Me too,” the soon-to-be groom answered,

“Darn.”

“We’ll make it there, honey.  Don’t worry.”

 “I know.  It’s just that going now would be more romantic.”

“Don’t worry, baby, we’ll make romance wherever we go.”

 “Aren’t you the big talker.”

 “That I am.  Let’s stop over there.”

They pulled into a Gulf Station where she went into the ladies room to straighten up, comb her hair, and check her make-up.  She was a trim young thing, stylish, and hopelessly in love with the big oaf driving.  He sweat a lot and rumpled his clothes, so he changed shirts in the men’s room and put on a tan tie with a splash of orange running down the middle, out of style four years ago.  He was an intelligent, cuddly bear kind of guy who didn’t care how he looked.   He’d owned a tweed sports coat in college.  He still had it.  It was the only one he owned, but she’d forbidden him from wearing it, so he borrowed a suit from his brother who was only a step or two ahead of him in the fashion race. 

They were riding in his blue International pickup truck.  Miles and Yolanda, on their way to the Justice of the Peace in Pacific Grove.  Miles was a family name, which wasn’t as English as it sounded because his family had come from France a hundred years ago.  Miles was his grandfather’s name and his uncle’s.  No one knew how it snuck into the family.  His dad worked for PG&E and his mom was a housewife in Arbuckle, rice-growing country, four miles from the middle of nowhere.  Yolanda, on the other hand, wasn’t a family name. She was the only one of her sisters who didn’t have an ordinary name like Jane or Mary.  She was the oldest, born in San Francisco before her mom and dad quit being hippies and moved to the east bay.  She thought her mom probably decided on her name when she was standing in line at Baskin-Robbins stoned out of her mind.

There is no Justice of the Peace in Pacific Grove today, but there used to be.  His office was just down the street from the ice cream parlor in a building that’s an art gallery today.  Both of their families were there, along with Tony and Fran, who was pregnant and ready to pop.  Tony was supposed to take pictures but forgot his camera.  That made Yolanda’s mother happy because she had an Instamatic in her purse.  She bounced around posing everyone, which was a disarming experience because everyone thought she might be in the throws of another acid flashback.  And Dickie Hart was there.  He’d hitchhiked over from Santa Cruz and was hitting on both of Yolanda’s sisters at the same time.  There was a dose of double trouble.

When the ceremony ended, the party caravanned to the Rocky Point Restaurant where Yolanda’s father spent a month’s salary feeding everyone.  Dickie wanted to ride with Yolanda’s sisters, but there wasn’t room, so he had to go with Tony and Fran.  That upset him and caused him to drink too much, not that he ever needed an excuse. 

They were seated in front of a picture window that looked out across the Pacific.  The cliffs dropped on each side of them to the rocky beaches below, providing the perfect setting for everyone to start drinking and have a good time.  In the midst of the gaiety, one of Yolanda’s sisters pointed out the window and screamed.  There was the bride walking along the edge of a cliff with her arms spread wide like a tightrope walker’s.  Miles, who thought she had excused herself to go to the bathroom, jumped up, ran out into the cold, and pulled her to safety.  Apparently she had downed one too many Mai Tais.  After half an hour of cajoling, he bundled her up and took her to their motel where she spent their wedding night spread eagled on the bathroom floor.

They slept in the next morning, ate lunch instead of breakfast, and left on their honeymoon.  Yolanda didn’t feel well, so she dozed most of the day, mumbling about the beaches of Mazatlan while Miles drove east over the Tehachapis to Barstow and made a left on Route 127.   They arrived at the Furnace Creek Ranch at seven that evening.  Miles was annoyed that they didn’t have any vacancies, and Yolanda went ballistic because he hadn’t made reservations.  “Who knew Death Valley would be crowded?” he asked as if he was defending a reasonable position.

It was the same story at the Furnace Creek Inn, which was “it” as far as accommodations were concerned for a hundred and twenty miles.  They drove back to the Furnace Creek Ranch and snuck into the communal showers, which brightened their spirits a little.  He drove down the highway and pulled into the parking lot at the Texas Springs Campground where they curled up in the cab of their pickup truck under a picnic blanket he kept stashed behind the seat.  He woke up around three-thirty because the truck was rocking.  At first he thought someone was jumping on the bumper, but soon realized it was the wind.  A gale was blowing out there, kicking up one heck of a sandstorm.  Sand was leaking into the cab, and everything in it, including his beautiful bride, was covered with grit.

“Screw this.”  He started the engine, which woke up Yolanda.

“What’s going on?”

“Now there’s a sandstorm.  We’re getting out of here, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll get out and direct traffic.”

He headed west on Route 190.  It was slow going until they climbed into the mountains where the sand cleared and they could see the stars.  Once over the mountains he turned south on Panamint Valley Road instead of going straight ahead to 395.  He thought it might be faster that way.  He stopped in Trona for gas as the sun came up.  It was a dingy little town, everything in it worn and gray and covered with silt.  A sheriff’s cruiser pulled in behind them with all of its lights flashing.  A burly, mean spirited deputy climbed out, hitched up his gun belt, and walked over to Miles.

“Whacha doin’ in town this time a the mornin’?”

“I’m getting gas, officer.   

“Got any ID?”

He took his driver’s license out of his wallet and handed it over.  “What’s going on?”

“There’s a strike up at the borate mine.  There’s agitators and been some violence.  One way or the other, we don’t want you involved.”

“Me too.”

He handed his license back.  “After you fill up, leave town.”  

Miles had never been kicked out of a town before, and he didn’t know whether to be insulted or honored in some macho kind of way.  But he wasn’t going to argue.  He drove out of town with the deputy following close behind.  They drove on in silence for a while, then he slammed his fist against the steering wheel. 

“Damn that Tony.  I never should’ve listened to him.  Who ever heard of going to Death Valley on your honeymoon?”

Yolanda relaxed a little, tucked her jacket behind her head for a pillow, and closed her eyes.  She smiled the smile of someone who’d been right all along.  She pictured herself lying on the beach in Mazatlan listening to Jimmy Buffet and drinking a pina colada.  They’d just saved the price of two nights lodging, and she was going to put it in their honeymoon account as soon as she could get to the bank.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

      The Gordian Knot

 

It was late when they got home from Sacramento because it had poured the entire way. They were tired, so they took quick showers and went to bed.  “God I’m glad I changed the sheets before we left,” she purred.  “I love the feeling of fresh sheets more than anything.”

“Anything?”  he asked.

“I thought you were man enough not to be threatened by fiber textiles.”

“Oh yeah.  I like fresh sheets, too.”

She laughed and turned on her side.  He moved closer, his knees behind hers, his stomach touching her back, and they lay there like two spoons in a drawer.  His arm was draped across her side, his hand cupped her breast, and he nuzzled the nape of her neck.  She responded with a sigh that meant nice try but not tonight.  He nuzzled her again, which meant I’ll be back tomorrow.

When the mood passed, he said, “Jerry told me we need a new roof.”

“I told you that a week ago.”

“I know.”

“Didn’t you believe me?”

“I did.  Sort of.”

“Which is it?”

“I wanted to talk to Jerry before we talked about it.”

“Why?”

“I figured the two of us are smarter than you.”

“So where does that leave you when you’re flying solo?”

“Not as smart as you.  I thought we’d established that” 

“We have.  I just like hearing you say it.”

“Feel better?”

“Completely affirmed.  Now can we go to sleep?”

“I just thought of something.”

“Look out.”

“If I recognize you’re smarter than me, that realization must be spawned from a superior intellect, which means I’m actually smarter than you.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.  It only means you’re an idiot.”

“Which proves my point.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re not smart enough to recognize I’m smarter than you, but I’m smart enough to recognize you’re smarter than me, so that means I’m the smartest.”

“Oh go to sleep.”

“Are you capitulating?”

“Never.”

He nuzzled her neck again.

“Never.”

They laughed and slept soundly through the stormy night

 

 

 

 

               

 

 

                                           Footsteps

 

                                 I hear footsteps on the hallway floor

                                 It’s my daddy at the bedroom door

                                 He creeps in softly thinking I’m asleep

                                 To straighten my covers and warmly keep

                                 Me snug and safe through the night

                                 Along my journey in slumber’s flight

                                 His stubbled cheek brushes my face

                                 And on my forehead he’ll lightly place

                                 A kiss so soft, then there’s two

                                 And he’ll whisper, “I love you”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Lee-Enfield Rifle

 

 

It wasn’t the drought or the dust storms or the barren earth that caused Joe McCrae to fail as a farmer like he would want you to think.  He failed because he didn’t have the aptitude for success.  Good intentions and hard work were never enough when he was involved, so he moved his family off the prairie into an abandoned house on the outskirts of town before they starved to death.  The town merchants, a sympathetic bunch under their leathery exteriors, offered him a job as the town night watchman.   He knew it was charity, but he was so far down he took it anyway.

He made his rounds every night, rattling locked doors and peering in the darkened windows of closed stores.  He went into the alley and rattled the doors back there, then took a break and walked a quarter mile out of town to a roadhouse a where he drank coffee rather than the bootleg whiskey they served in the back room.  He sat quietly studying his brew, thinking about how he didn’t even have a gun to carry.   He wondered what he would do if a real criminal came into town.  Then he’d walk back into town and go on his rounds again, dejected more often than not.

His brother, who we called Uncle H, had enough success for both of them.  He walked out of his daddy’s fields at the age of thirteen and got a job jerking sodas at Mr. Palmer’s Drug Store.  He owned the place by the time he was twenty-five.  After his mama and daddy got over him leaving, he reclaimed his place as the family favorite.  That was a sore point as far as Joe was concerned.  He’d stuck it out, mostly out of a lack of imagination, worked hard, and did what his daddy expected of him, but no one seemed to notice.  When their daddy died, he left his Lee-Enfield rifle, the one he took off a dead Englishman during the Great War, to Uncle H.  It was the passing of the baton.  It was Uncle H’s most prized possession, and Joe’s pot simmered over that one. 

Time moved along without anyone noticing.  There was nothing to set one day apart from the next until the afternoon Marvin Fuller drove through town.  Marvin was a small time bank robber who had just made an unauthorized withdrawal from the Farmers National Bank and Trust over in Purcell.  His escape route brought him right through the middle of Sanger with half a dozen speeding vehicles full of irate, heavily armed citizens in close pursuit.  Before the dust settled, Uncle H had grabbed the Lee-Enfield rifle, hopped in his Model T Ford with Joe in the passenger seat, and they joined the chase.  They caught up with the posse out on Route 9 between Middlesberg and Taber, where Marvin had been run to ground.  Uncle H got off several shots at a haystack across the field where Marvin was said to be hiding.  Joe didn’t get a chance to shoot because he didn’t have a gun, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself by asking to borrow the Lee-Enfield.

Marvin Fuller’s career came to an end that afternoon.  The posse took him and his two henchmen into Middlesberg where they laid them out on planks, propped them up, and posed for a dozen photographs standing around the corpses with their rifles cradled in their arms.  Joe stood in the rear because he looked naked without a gun.

The next morning Sanger was astir with visitors wanting to see the rifle that shot at Marvin Fuller.  “Think you winged him?” someone usually asked.

“I had him in my sights,” Uncle H lied. 

While they were in the drug store looking at the rifle, the curious would buy a soda pop or plug of tobacco, so he kept the rifle close at hand.

Joe was sick of it, H and that rifle getting all the attention.  The rifle should have been his, or part his, and he should have been able to get off a shot or two himself.  He brooded about it until the night he jimmied the lock on the drug store’s back door.  He made his way into H’s office, located the rifle and fondled it before he laid it on the dry goods counter.   He walked to the storeroom and brought back a piece of oilcloth, wrapped it around the rifle, and walked to the back door.  He checked to see if anyone was in the alley, then stepped off the porch and hid the rifle under the steps.  He looked around again, took a deep breath, and ran off to tell H someone had broken into his store.     

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Uncle H said.  “No tellin’ who took it.  There’s been a couple dozen people in to seen it.” 

The sheriff wasn’t hopeful.   “There ain’t nothin’ to do but keep our eye out and ears open, though it ain’t likely it’ll show up.” 

Joe knew he had to be cautious, so the next day he built a pine box and took it on his rounds.  He put the rifle in the box with the oilcloth wrapped around it, nailed the lid shut, and brought it home.  He buried it on the other side of the truck garden in line with the east wall of the house, a hundred paces out.  He dug down four feet in case someone was to plow there.  He thought about the Lee-Enfield a lot after that, but was he too scared to dig it up.  There was never really a need.  Having it was enough.

Joe’s burden had always been to take care of his children, but they’d grown up and escaped at the first opportunity.  They’d done better than expected, considering they’d been reared in the wake of his failures in a bleak house devoid of charm and cheer.  The girls married and moved away, one to Oklahoma City, the other to Los Angeles.   His boy enlisted in the Army when he turned seventeen, six months after Pearl Harbor.

The stories about the growing prosperity in Southern California called to Joe.  It was one last chance, so he and his wife, Ruthie, boarded a Greyhound bus and came west.  He found a job in Compton running a nailing machine at the Southern Heater plant, building shipping crates for water heaters.  It was the first regular paying job he’d ever had.  The Lee-Enfield rifle had to stay behind, but he dreamed of it most nights.  He wanted to bring it to California where he could enjoy it away from H’s prying eyes.

 It was 1951 before he went back to Sanger.  He went alone on the Greyhound bus, his wife being the sedentary type, to dig up the rifle and bring it back to California.  He didn’t tell H he was coming.  He didn’t tell anyone.  The bus dropped him off in Winston and he walked the last four miles to Sanger.  It was dusk when he arrived.  He walked to the alley behind the stores on Main Street and went to an unlocked shed where Cyrus Miller kept his tools.  He grabbed a pick and shovel and walked to the edge of town where he had lived in that run down house for so many years.  But things had changed.  The house was gone.  The ground had been grated and a paved road ran through where his garden and chicken coop had been.   The foundations for several houses were poured on both sides of the road, and he had no idea where the Lee-Enfield rifle was buried.  “Shit,” was all he could of to say. 

He was leaning on the shovel in the growing darkness, surveying the unfamiliar landscape when something unusual happened.  For the first time in his life, Joe let go of one of his negative obsessions.  Who knew why?   Clinging to them had given his life meaning, as downtrodden as it was.  Maybe he was tired of being a loser.  Maybe he was just tired.  His mind filled with thoughts of his children and his grandkids and his decent job.  And it didn’t snow in Los Angeles.  Life ain’t so bad, he thought.

He put the pick and shovel back where they belonged and walked to Winston in the dark.  The next afternoon he took the Greyhound bus to California and spent the rest of his days a little happier, except when the Republicans were in office, and he thought about the Lee-Enfield rifle a little less each day.