Living on Love
by Deanna Hershiser
After we marry, in July 1979 in Washington state, I journey with you to the deep south -- a foreign land, my passport a new driver's license, people speaking "ya'll" and eating grits.
Soon several 1965 Ford Fairlane engine parts rest on newspapers at one end of our mobile home's carpeted front room.
A grease-enhanced carburetor brandishes its top screw above the butterfly valve, peripherally taunting as I rummage kitchen nooks for ingredients. My Betty Crocker cookbook lies open to the recipe for tacos with homemade tortillas. Yum, I think. And, won't you appreciate my skill in the culinary. And, later tonight everything intimate might improve, become delicious.
My working six early mornings while you pull 24-hour duty every three nights hasn't provided many times for closeness. Coupled with our virginal status before marriage - two preacher's kids seeking vague semblances of propriety to try and fit our parents' 1950s social assumptions - well, to top it off I'd thought we learned everything we needed in health class.
The cupboard door yawns wider but yields skimpy results. Flour, salt, no corn meal. Whenever I get excited about a recipe, something's missing. Oh, well. Since you and I liked flour tortillas at the state fair, I'm sure I can forgo corn in this recipe. The nice skillet, my parents' gift, warms slowly on the gas burner. I hum.
Our first night, after marathon wedding events and a thousand cousins' hugs, you and I at last lay together under covers in motel room dimness.
You tickled me. We giggled.
Our perfect moment. We were okay. Everything was natural and always would be. No rush. No worries.
Since then, though, bedroom quests to recapture joy have felt like navigating an overwaxed roller rink. I'd imagined us choosing soda pop flavors from the snack bar, my face flushed, aglow. Instead you and I trip, slide, crash, and the floor is hard. Cold.
Something about my first tortilla looks a little off. Gloppy. The pan brims hot oil waiting for the dough via a taco shell shaper. Just slip the spatula quickly beneath the stuff, and get it in there somehow...
Half an hour later you set down your lunchbox and jacket.
"It's horrible!" I wail.
You stand behind me, and we stare at the globulous mass in oil that was supposed to be a crisp, tasty taco.
"I shouldn't've started these. What'll we eat?"
You don't move or speak. Now I'm worried. Comforting words are supposed to emerge from your lips. But you only glance ceilingward.
Hey, I want to shout. Disasters in the kitchen happen. Somehow we'll manage. I'm overreacting because money's tight. All I say is, "I'm a failure, aren't I?"
Only silence. No tickles. I switch off burners. "Say something!" I finally screech.
"I guess just throw it away."
My sandwich is dry. You eat yours easily enough.
"After we're done, I'm calling about an ad," you say. "There's a 1968 Mustang for sale in town."
"Another car?"
"Well, since I used the Fairlane's fuel pump on my Falcon, it's taking too long to get the whole car running. Mustang parts, though, they're popular. You can find those anywhere."
Still confused, I write a check later to a man in his garage, and then you drive the Mustang home. Steering the Falcon I hear our new car's brakes screeching the way I did over the ruined dinner.
***
After sunrise the lines near the Krispy Kreme cash registers tatter.
"More coffee?" I say, the pot weighing on my wrist. Customers gaze a moment out the south-facing window before dashing again to their cars.
I serve one white-haired man who grasps my free hand in both of his. Pats my wrist, smiles until I blush.
"All right, Mr. Jackson, let her go," my boss says, breezing past with a tray of fresh raised glazed. "A customer over there's waiting."
I brush by a man of black coffee and cool words to serve a woman on the end. The man makes eye contact. His stare doesn't let up through my delivery of the woman's order.
"Let's see that rock on your finger," the man says.
I present my white-gold rings. The man inspects without pawing me.
I think of last May, your voice over the phone hinting secretive pleasure.
"What shape's the diamond?" I asked.
"Diamond shaped," you said.
Five days before our wedding you took my hand and slid on the engagement ring. A quarter karat marquee. I inhaled, amazed, then ran to show my father.
The cool customer whistles so loud everyone turns to look. "Incredible! All that money blown. You two must be living on love." His attention returns to his newspaper.
"Love and doughnuts," I whisper.
You pick me up after my shift in the Mustang we just bought. Its dull gold paint reflects wan sun.
"I fixed the brakes." You slide to the passenger seat.
"I should drive?"
You nod. "It's your car."
"So this was all about giving me my own car? You want me to have the Mustang. I thought you'd prefer the more popular one."
"Are you getting in?" you ask.
I will not know, for years to come, how to deal with this way of yours. You give me things I never see coming. Presents from your foreign country to mine. Apologies for what you can't say. I must trust your generosity with material and your lack with words. You aren't a cool customer. You speak a language I will have to learn, if I decide to imagine we can journey on together.
Deanna Hershiser's writing has appeared in Camroc Press Review, Relief: A Quarterly Christian Expression, and flashquake. She lives in Oregon with her husband, a small dog, and a large cat. Contact Deanna.
