Too Much of a Good Thing

by J. J. Murray

  I won’t hurt myself. I can’t hurt myself. She wants another baby. And what better way is there to blend our two families together than having another child? I can’t just ski now.

  I have to perform.

  “Be back in one second,” I say.

  “Where are you going, Daddy?” Rose asks.

  “To the shed,” I say.

  “Oh, no, Daddy, don’t!” Rose cries.

  I don’t answer her, because this is something I have to do. I run up to the shed to get the oldest, heaviest wooden skis I can find. I take them to the screened porch. “Mom? You still have any of the old suits?”

  “I do. C’mon.”

  Five minutes later, I am standing near the stairs at the beginning of the dock on these ancient red wooden skis, the footings loose and wiggling, wearing a full-body wool bathing suit and a shower cap. I can’t hear a word anyone is saying because they’re laughing so hard. I have given the boys bait buckets to fill with water, and they’re pouring the water onto the dock.

  “Gentlemen, I will need water, lots and lots of water on this dock to assist me in my takeoff.”

  Dad backs the boat to the end of the dock where Jimmy steadies it. “You sure you want to do this, son?”

  “Yes, Dad.” I point at the dock. “More water. That’s it. Keep pouring.”

  Toni looks from me to Dad. “What’s he going to do, Grandpa?”

  She called him ... Dad doesn’t miss a beat, though there’s a little lump in my throat. “He’s going to fly, Toni.”

  “Oh.” Toni looks at me. “Don’t hurt yourself, Joe.”

  I sigh. One victory at a time. “Y’all keep throwing water on the dock during my takeoff.”

  Jimmy brings me the rope, saying, “Be careful, Dad.” “I’ll be fine,” I say. I hope. I haven’t done this in years. I turn to Shawna. “A kiss for luck?”

  “Ooh,” Mom says, struggling down the stairs with her camera. “Not yet, not yet. I have to chronicle this for future generations.”

  As Shawna kisses me on the cheek, Mom snaps the picture. “Okay,” Mom says. “Go on and try not to hurt yourself too badly.”

  “You’re so crazy,” Shawna says.

  “That I am,” I say. “Let’s do this.”

  While the boys, and now Rose and Toni, splash or pour water onto the dock, I squeeze the rope handle tightly. “Let ’er rip, Dad.”

  “Everybody pray,” Dad says, and he guns it, the slack disappearing, the rope snapping, and ... I am gliding (and screaming) over the slick dock and off the dock into midair and for some reason I decide to do a scissor kick and—

  64

  Shawna

  That was the most spectacular wipeout I’ve ever seen.

  That would have made the number one Play of the Week on ESPN.

  Joe raises both of his arms and waves his hands, the top of that wool suit billowing above his head.

  Jimmy can’t stop gushing. “Dad, that was great! Can you do it again?”

  Joe swims in slowly, smiling. “I think I will never do something so crazy again.” He pulls himself up on the dock. “Anyone else want to try?” He looks at me. “You couldn’t do much worse.”

  “Next summer, I promise,” I say.

  As the boat drifts in to be tied up for the day, Toni says, “I wanna try.”

  “Next summer, baby,” I say.

  “Yes,” Joe says. “When you’re taller.”

  “As tall as Crystal?” Toni asks.

  Both Joe and I nod our heads.

  “Cool,” Toni says.

  Cool.

  Oh, everything about this place is cool. I was so worried about the water, but after a few days soaking in it, it ain’t nothin’ but a thang. I could live here, I really could ... from May to September, maybe. All that snow and the lake freezing six feet thick and the temperatures 40 degrees below zero—not for me. I’d be turned to ash in no time.

  And the kids simply love it up here. These same kids who beforehand were fussing at me about no TV or cell phones and who are usually wired to something electronic have played more board games, card games, and simple games like darts and Frisbee than they’ve ever played before. It’s as if they feel freer to play without all those electronic distractions. As a matter of fact, when we get back to Roanoke, they’re probably going to be bored!

  I don’t want to leave! I have learned so much about Joe up here from Elle, and I don’t plan to tell him what I know. While they’re out fishing, she tells me everything. I asked her what a storm was like on the lake, and she turned it into a story about Joe.

  “Oh, storms are awesome things,” she tells me. “Waves four or five feet high, boats smashing into the dock, waves crashing and eroding the shore. We couldn’t sit here on the porch, no sir. Rain blows right in.”

  “What if you happen to be out on the lake when a storm hits?” I ask.

  “You don’t want to be out on the lake in a storm—unless you’re Joe. When he was eighteen or nineteen, he was out in the canoe, and the fishing was good. He had caught his limit. A storm came up, whitecaps, wind, the whole nine yards. He should have paddled directly to shore, beached that canoe, and waited it out. But ... he wanted to bring home his catch to me.” She sighs at the memory, looking across the lake. “We watched him through binoculars, when the rains would let us, as he rounded Green Point and paddled in place for at least a half hour. He could have cut to shore at any time, but, as you might know, he’s pretty stubborn.”

  In a nice way.

  “I was watching when that canoe dove headfirst into the water ...” Her eyes glaze over. “And that canoe just ... didn’t come back up. I waited, counting to twenty, before Joe’s head bobbed to the surface. He swam, pushing that canoe, all filled with water now, right over to Green Point where he should have gone in the first place. He lost his tackle box, two poles, and a seat cushion. But he didn’t lose his paddle ... or his catch. The storm subsided, he paddled home, he handed me his catch, we ate, end of story.” She smiles at me. “But you have to admire a man who would do just about anything to bring his catch home.”

  And I’m his catch. I have been thinking about that story over and over again in my mind. Elle’s point was so clear: Joe would go through hell or high water for me since I am, hopefully, his greatest catch.

  He’s not such a bad catch either, though he looks simply dreadful in a wool bathing suit. I can forgive him for that.

  65

  Joe

  I never thought I’d see this.

  All five kids are misty about leaving, hugging Mom and Dad an extralong time at the Landing. It seems a shame to go, and the weather today is supposed to be gloriously warmer, which Shawna would have enjoyed.

  “We’d like to give you all an early wedding present if we can,” Dad says once we’ve loaded up the van.

  “Sure,” I say, hoping it doesn’t take up too much space in the van.

  He puts his arm around Mom. “We’d like to be your babysitters when you two go on your honeymoon.”

  “Really?” Shawna asks. “That’s wonderful!” She gives Dad another hug. “Are you sure?”

  Dad stares hard at the kids. “They don’t scare me.”

  The kids giggle.

  Shawna hugs Mom. “Thank you so much for everything.”

  “Thank you,” Mom says, looking at me over Shawna’s shoulder, “for bringing my boy back to life.” She kisses Shawna’s cheek.

  I hug both my parents at the same time. I wish I had bigger arms. “Thank you,” I say, and I start to tear up.

  “Just come back from that honeymoon,” Dad whispers. “If you stay away too long, they might begin to scare me.”

  Mom takes a family picture of us with our backs to the lake. I hope it comes out. I want to frame it and hang it over the mantel back home.

  Instead of being quiet, the kids talk all the way to the border, reliving the past few days at the lake. It’s not the same as being there, but just to hear them talking about fishing and skiing
and eating, it warms my heart.

  Even when Rose says, “Girls rule,” to start an argument, Junior says, “We’ll get you back next year.”

  I hope and pray this lasts.

  And to help it last, we stop at the duty free store at the border and buy matching CANADIAN GIRLS ROCK shirts for Toni, Rose, and Shawna. The boys, who do not want to match under any circumstances, get simple Canada sweatshirts, each in a different color.

  As the skies darken north of Syracuse, I attempt to outrun a few thunderstorms while the kids start to doze. Shawna chooses this specific time to discuss the wedding.

  “We only have a few weeks to prepare for this wedding, Joe,” she says, “and we have so much to do when we get home.” She rattles off a list of at least sixty things that must happen for our wedding to go smoothly, and that’s only a partial list, and it’s only for the girls. “Don’t even get me started on all that has to happen before I let the boys attend our wedding.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “Black tuxes for me and the boys. They’ll be my best men, if that’s okay with you.”

  She doesn’t speak, probably because I have reduced her “boys must do” list to one item.

  “Are you okay with that?”

  She shakes her head. “Why didn’t I think of that? The girls should be my maidens of honor.” She nods. “That makes perfect sense. Now, Pastor Reed is doing the service, and we’ll have to pay him and the organist and the church. Oh, and the caterer. And the florist. Flowers, can’t forget those. And my dress! I need a wedding dress!”

  I wish we were closer to Roanoke. I don’t want Shawna stressing for the next five hundred miles. “I know there’s some superstition about—”

  “I am not wearing my old dress, Joe Murphy. Don’t you even suggest it.”

  Wedding dresses are far too expensive, in my opinion, for one day’s work. If you break down a thousand-dollar wedding dress into the hours of actual use, it’s like paying $250 an hour to look beautiful. “Why not?” I ask. “Why can’t you wear your first wedding dress?”

  “It’s just not done, Joe.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “I don’t know why ...” She sighs. “Maybe because it’s full of memories.”

  “Good memories.”

  “Of course they were good. They are good.”

  I shrug. “So bring the good memories to the church. That dress obviously worked once, right?”

  “Rodney didn’t marry me for my dress.”

  I smile. “What did he marry you for?”

  Shawna checks the kids, then whispers, “For my cooking, but that’s not the point.”

  “Your cooking?” I ask. “You like to cook?”

  “You know I do, and don’t change the subject. I cannot—”

  “I like the way you cook,” I say, “and I am not just talking about food.”

  She seems about to say something, but I don’t hear any words.

  “You do like to cook, don’t you, Shawna?”

  “Of course I do,” she whispers. “And not so loud. The kids might be listening.”

  “I like to cook, too,” I say. “A lot. All day and all night if I have to. I’m just a cooking machine.”

  “I can’t wait to cook with you, Joe.”

  I smile. “And this brings us back to that dress, Shawna. No matter what you wear, that dress cannot interfere with our cooking, because you won’t be wearing it long.”

  She tightens her lips and widens her eyes. “Um, well, I guess I can wear that dress, I mean, if I’m only going to be wearing it for a little while.”

  We’ve just saved at least a thousand dollars. Hallelujah!

  “I know I’ve shrunk, though,” she says. “I’ll have to be fitted.”

  I have a solution for that one, too. “Rose can do it. She sews.”

  “Ah.” She nods. “That makes perfect sense, too.” She laughs. “But, Joe, that means you had to assume I had more meat on me when I first got married.”

  “I know how children can suck the life out of you,” I say. “I’ll probably need a smaller tux, too.”

  I check the gas gauge. Almost on empty again? This van is sucking the life out of my wallet.

  I pull into a Shell north of Scranton and fill her up. Luckily, none of the kids wake up to beg me for money for “American” junk food at the convenience store. But when I try to start up the van, the engine won’t turn over.

  “They said the battery was fine,” I say. I try again, and I only hear clicks. “Come on, come on.” I try once more, and I don’t hear even the clicks.

  A thunderstorm chooses this moment to dump about two inches of rain on the parking lot, and though we’re under cover, the lot fills up with water and the wind sends sheets of rain against the van while I’m under the hood. Like my dad, I have this optimistic (though usually mistaken) notion that I can fix anything just by popping the hood and wiggling a wire or two.

  I look at one of the battery posts and see some caked white powder clinging to it. I knock a crusty piece off. Corrosion. Hmm. If I dust this off, maybe ...

  I open the back of the van, searching for my shave kit.

  “What’s wrong, Dad?” Joey asks, yawning himself awake.

  “A little trouble with the battery,” I say. “No problem.”

  I find my shave kit and take out my toothbrush, returning to the battery—and Shawna, who is peering at the engine.

  “You’re going to fix the engine with a toothbrush,” she says.

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Y’all Murphys sure are resourceful.”

  I brush off lots of white, powdery dust from the post, blowing it away.

  “And this will fix it?” Shawna asks.

  “I hope so,” I say. “Try it.”

  Shawna gets in, turns it over, and it starts. We switch places, I put the toothbrush, a vital tool for everyone’s vehicle, into the glove compartment, and we continue on our way.

  “Joe?” Shawna asks.

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want you to turn off this van again until we get home.”

  “I agree,” I say.

  And as the kids wake up, their motor mouths running in high gear again, I realize that families are just like engines. You have to keep them both running if you’re going to get home.

  66

  Shawna

  This isn’t so hard.

  Okay, it is, but it is not impossible to work double shifts at McDonald’s, plan a wedding, shop for school clothes, buy a wedding band for my future husband, pack up the apartment, move Junior and Toni to Joe’s house, make my incoming family comfortable at the apartment, squeeze Kaz and Elle in over at Joe’s, and rehearse for a wedding, all within the span of three weeks.

  I’m just going completely out of my mind, that’s all.

  And I’m loving every minute of it.

  God has always been good, but I’m finding myself saying “God is good” more often these days. Those kids have been amazing, Joe has been amazing, and, if I can brag a bit, I have been amazing, too.

  Actually, I have amazed myself in how I’ve been able to let go of things. I’m normally a hands-on person who owns and deals with problems on her own. Since Rodney died, it has just been me dealing with life head-on. Now that I have a “holy helpmate”—that’s what Pastor Reed calls Joe—I am finding that I can delegate responsibility pretty well. “Let go, let God” is an old phrase I didn’t understand until now.

  Joe and I are letting the good folks at Pilgrim do our wedding, and all we have to do is show up on time. We gave them our ideas for flowers, food, and the order of the service, and they have taken those ideas and run with them. And—and this is extremely important—it will save us a great deal of money. Like many churches, Pilgrim gets a healthy discount on flowers, and, like most churches, Pilgrim has a ready stock of women willing to cook a feast for the reception. Pastor Reed is personally handling the program, our regular organist has agreed to play for free as her wedding gift
to us ... the wedding is set.

  Right after we spent a few days in hazy, hot, and humid Roanoke upon our return from Canada, I set the honeymoon. We are going back without the kids for some alone time in the coolness at Murphy’s Unlimited, where we’ll build fires to keep each other warm. Even with the money we’re saving on my dress and the wedding, we cannot afford to fly back to Canada. Joe said he has looked into it and found that for the cheapest fares, we’d have to drive down to Charlotte, take a plane to Cincinnati, switch planes and fly to Ottawa, and rent a car for the drive to the lake. “You don’t want to know what that will cost,” he says, “or how long it will take.” Of course I ask, and when I find out it will actually take longer to get to the lake (and all that good loving!) if we fly, I say, “We’re driving. Get that van battery replaced.”

  Rose has been an absolute whiz with needle, thread, and sewing machine. The girls’ dresses of satin rose look amazing. And when I pose in my expertly altered dress for the first time in my bedroom at the apartment late at night after our Friday-afternoon wedding rehearsal (which went very smoothly since Pastor Reed was completely in charge), I feel right buxom. A new Victoria’s Secret bra, courtesy of Crystal, helps, too. I’m actually kind of chesty. I just wish Crystal were here to see it. She’s out ... somewhere. I hope she shows up on time for the wedding.

  “You look beautiful, Mommy,” Toni says. “Joe won’t recognize you.”

  “Especially when he sees your hair,” Rose says.

  I look at the bride in the mirror. I’m still a pretty woman. Not bad for a woman with three kids and three on the way ... and maybe a fourth if the honeymoon does what it’s supposed to do, I mean, I’m sure we’ll do what we’re supposed to do—

  “Mama?” Toni asks.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  “Rose has asked you twice to take off the dress,” Toni says.

  I look at Rose. “Sorry, I was just ... daydreaming.”

  I take off the dress and put on some sweats. I pose in the sweats, too, and I am still an attractive woman.

  “The dress is old,” Rose says to Toni, “and her hair will be new.”