Wait For Me Jack

by Addison Jones

2:43pm

  My goodness, her waist had never been so tiny – look at it, in her honeymoon outfit, the belted grey dress swinging just below her knee. Jacko could almost put his fingers around her waist, and she often guided his hands to do just that. He was looking thin too, in his cream khakis and white T-shirt under an unbuttoned flannel shirt. Just right for the drive north, in his dark green Singer 8 with the top down. There they were now, taking the turn off to Highway One at Olema, swooping down towards Stinson on an absolute peach of a summer day. This dark-haired boy in dark glasses and this Marilyn Monroe wearing a red Liberty scarf. Not talking, not laughing. They’d been married for nearly thirty-two hours now, and hadn’t a lot left to say. Or maybe it was just too noisy with the wind.

  Behind was their wedding day, that chaotic whirlwind of kisses, hugs, flowers, dancing, feeding each other cake, laughing, posing for the photographer. Those vows finally spoken, no words forgotten. The wedding had been imagined so many times, the event itself had seemed déjà vu. But they’d carried it off. Planned, paid for, executed – all by themselves, no parental help. What a team! They even remembered the names of all those relatives. Jacko and Billie had a great time. Or not – it didn’t matter, did it? It was over.

  Behind also, were those years of being other people, unaware of each other’s existence.

  Almost impossible to remember what it was like to not know each other now, but there you go. Those years had been lived, and they were part of the past now. No need even to look at them, if they didn’t want to. Goodness me, who would want to look at Redding or Sonoma, or anywhere at all in the whole damn valley?

  Okay, it was a fact that Jacko had been fooled by Billie at first – thought by her clothes, her shoes, her attitude, she was a Marin girl, or at least a Bay Area girl. But by the time her lowly birth had been revealed, it was too late, he was a goner. Oh, the plunge his heart had taken, as they drove up her mother’s street the first time. She’d directed him through leafy downtown Redding, then an avenue lined with large houses and wraparound porches, then told him to turn left at Sugar Street. A mean street, with car carcasses in most yards, skinny stray dogs and barefoot kids kicking a can. There was no sidewalk. Her mother lived in a wooden one-story, with yellowing grass growing right up to the door. He’d not said anything, just closed down his face.

  ‘So,’ she’d said, snorting with giggles. ‘So, tell me. Did you think you were marrying…up?’ Then she’d giggled harder as if this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Which in a way, it was. She’d been fooled by him too, but not minded.

  ‘Who said we were getting married?’ he’d replied.

  ‘Why, you did, Jacko MacAlister! Last night, don’t you remember?’

  ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘Did so.’

  ‘Did not.’

  ‘So.’

  ‘Not. And stop laughing like a hyena.’

  ‘But it is pretty funny, Jacko. I mean, here we are,’ she’d said, as he pulled into the driveway, crunching over something he hoped had not been alive. ‘Both trying to…well, to better ourselves, and who do we fall for? Why, practically our next door neighbour in disguise!’

  ‘Sonoma is not next door to Redding.’

  ‘It’s still valley. You’re not better.’

  ‘It’s in the north Bay Area,’ he said primly.

  Billie put her hand on his knee and stared him in the eye.

  ‘Okay,’ said Jacko. ‘It’s valley. But not as valley as Redding, you’ve got to admit. We grow grapes for wine. You grow…what?’

  ‘Almonds? Some cattle ranches outside of Red Bluff. We grow hamburgers.’

  ‘My point exactly.’

  ‘Oh, come on. We each thought we were other people. Serves us right for being snobs.’

  But Jacko hadn’t seen it that way. And his disappointment had not entirely dissolved, because she might never allow him to totally reinvent himself.

  Oh, what did it really matter? Now they were going to a place where no one knew them, and they could be whoever they wanted. If he was lucky, no one there would find out he’d been fired. For Christ sake, how could any man spend his days describing plastic roses and toilet seats, and still respect himself? It had been a silly, boring job – vastly demeaning. Ahead was their new life. Their bright and shining brand-new life! It waited for them 600 miles away in Smithton, a small industrial city in Oregon. Jacko had already rented and furnished an apartment. Well, just the bed, really. He wanted them to choose the rest together. He’d been dreaming of this shopping trip for weeks. He liked simple lines, lots of beige and white, or just unvarnished pine. No more of that dark colonial furniture favoured by his mother. No patterned wallpaper. And please, no collections of china animals! He already had his eye on a certain dining table and chairs. Would Billie want them too? He snuck a glimpse at her profile – she was so damnably sexy. Like a doll, with her red lipstick and heart-shaped face. Even her knees, just poking out of her skirt, were adorable miniature knees. The most feminine knees he had ever seen, and they were attached to his very own wife. Imagine that! It did seem a kind of dream or miracle. They’d need shelves for his Modern Library books, and Penguins too – but he’d make those himself some weekend soon. He’d draw up some plans.

  The road opened up, flat and straight for five miles, and Jacko accelerated till the engine made that satisfying sound he called the Singer scream. It would break his heart to be in the passenger seat.

  ‘Billie?’

  ‘What is it, my Jacko pie?’

  ‘Nothing. I love you.’

  ‘You’d better.’ She smiled.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got it bad,’ he said, focusing on the road so she couldn’t see him smiling too.

  ‘And bad ain’t good.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  The lines were song lyrics and an old joke now, but they giggled anyway as if they were hearing them for the first time. Boy oh boy, life was good. Jacko squeezed Billie’s knee, and she covered his hand with her own, while leaning just close enough so her left shoulder brushed his right shoulder, closing the circuit, amplifying whatever erotic music played in each of their pounding hearts. To their left was the Pacific Ocean, wild and empty. The road was empty too, and they each thought to themselves:

  Whew! It’s over, thank God. Lucky us.

  The way they looked at it, they’d accidentally discovered a new country, one that millions of innocent people never got a chance to see. No matter what happened from now on, no matter what horrible things life threw at them, they would be behind this buffer of…well, a happy marriage. Corny but true. What if they had missed this? As long as they could access this current that was travelling down his arm and hand, into her knee and leg and entire being, nothing could hurt them. Not really.

  Last night had been their wedding night, but they’d been too overwrought to treat it as such. In any case, he’d been making love to her whenever he could, sometimes both of them falling off her single bed. He rarely slept all night with her, but hadn’t minded. He’d quite liked those solo journeys back over the Golden Gate Bridge, then slipping into his own single bed, the cool sheets keeping him awake till he drifted off to the memories of what had just occurred in Billie’s bed. Strange, how it kept feeling new; every damn time seemed different, almost like a first time. Strange also, how much he’d missed her at night, those three months prior to the wedding when he’d been working in Oregon. He’d written, and so had she. He wrote with a fountain pen. She’d sent letters typed at work.

  Marcus Whitman Hotel

  Beaufort, Oregon

  June 3rd, 1952

  Darling –

  I love you. I miss you! Drove over from Smithton this a.m. Will be working with O.L. Bloomer for a few days on the Philpott murder case. He is a very bitter, profane little man who thinks that no one at the paper is any good unless they are about to quit, or even better, have just quit, or best of all, been fired. I was tempted to tell him the truth about me and Perkins PP, but decid
ed it was too risky. Clean start, that’s what we need.

  Did I mention I love you? I will love you forever and ever and be the best husband on earth. I still can’t believe you want to marry me. I can’t believe how much I miss you! I’ve rented us the sexiest apartment you ever saw. I wish you were here right now. I wish you were here, and wearing that yellow dress with the roses and all the buttons so I could unbutton them slowly. You wouldn’t have to do a thing. Then I would get you under the covers and keep you warm. I love you. I miss you! Oh yeah, I already mentioned that, didn’t I. See, missing you is making me BORING.

  J’amour tu boucoup,

  Mon cherie,

  Jacko

  Ps If you think Redding is bad, you should see some of these hick towns.

  Perkins’s Petroleum Products

  22 Battery Street San Francisco 6, California

  June 15th, 1952

  My Dearest –

  Have so many things to tell you, I don’t know where to begin. First of all, Mr Corey received a memo from Mr Richmond about me leaving and in turn Mr Corey wrote head office, and the company is giving me a send-off office party on the 25th, and a wedding present! So, Darling, I guess that’s their way of apologising. Didn’t I tell you they’d be sorry? Fools, firing the best man they had, just because you made a few mistakes anyone could make. You’d think they couldn’t afford to lose a few grand! But they are all being so sweet to me, and therefore you. You are missed! I told them about your new job, obviously – and they are all very impressed you are now a reporter. I fibbed a bit and said you were the crime reporter. Well, you kind of are sometimes, right?

  Last night Louise got home about 2:00 in the morning, so of course we stayed up and talked until about 4:00. She had a wonderful, wonderful time, but darn Chuck, he never committed himself.

  I dreamt about our apartment. Know the address by heart. To be truthful, am scared to death to start cooking for you for fear none of my recipes turn out. Please have patience with me and pretend I’ve never cooked before and am just learning. (Which is the truth almost.)

  Received wedding invitation from your college friend Stan for the 16th or 17th of October to a girl of the name DeLang. I do not know what to get them so will leave it up to you.

  Made an appointment for our blood test on Wednesday as that takes 24 hours to get the results and we have to have that before we apply for a licence. What red tape, huh!

  Mom will be down a week from this Friday.

  Hurry home,

  Billie

  PS. Am taking car to the garage tomorrow for a lube job and new oil filter.

  And now here they were, about to live together. An hour later, they pulled into the hotel Jacko had booked: Agie’s Guesthouse in Jenner. He figured they’d take their time going to Oregon, like a proper honeymoon.

  ‘Name please?’ asked the landlady primly.

  ‘Mr and Mrs MacAlister,’ said Billie, feeling her face heat. ‘My husband made a reservation a while ago.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs MacAlister.’

  ‘My husband is just coming now. With our suitcases,’ she said. ‘We just got married,’ she added quickly. ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, I was aware of that. Congratulations.’ Then she smiled finally, handed her a key and said: ‘There you go, Mrs MacAlister.’

  Jacko had a bottle of champagne. The bottle was too warm, and the landlady brought a bucket of ice. It was not an ice bucket, but a normal bucket, and when he plunged the bottle in, the ice completely covered it. He hoped it chilled quickly so they could drink it quickly, get under the sheets quickly. A double bed! By God, marriage was a fantastic institution. They tested the bed, immediately fell into a clinch so tight each almost swooned. And yes, it felt different yet again. Were they different people now they were married? Would it just go on and on changing, or would it now solidify? They kissed deeply, legs scissoring, and Jacko’s plans to do things in the proper order went out the window. Off came the clothes, and within seconds they’d set the springs to squeaking. They tasted of sweat and salt and of each other.

  ‘Billie, why don’t you have a bath first? Leave the water, and I’ll get in after you.’

  ‘Okay, honey. I do feel sticky.’

  ‘You complaining?’ in a cornball John Wayne voice.

  Billie knew Jacko was teasing, that he was not really being vulgar, he was being ironic. But it was too convoluted, and she couldn’t think of a witty reply. She hated this slowness, this literal mindedness in herself. She made a vow: Learn to be funny. Practise sarcasm. Meanwhile she overcompensated by being affectionate, and gave him three kisses.

  She ran the bath, thinking all the while: This is how married people are, how they talk, how they take it for granted they’ll share bath water. But she was modest still, and closed the door. She undressed and looked at herself in the mirror, thinking of the Sutro Baths with Jacko last summer. What a show off he was, with his fancy diving. Funny how when you loved someone, their showing off wasn’t annoying. Wasn’t it great, the way her red bathing suit fit her? Snug but not pinching. And she was pleased with the way her body looked now, as she slipped into the bath water. Ran her hands down her legs, feeling for bristles she might have missed. None. Good.

  He was on his back, eyes closed. It was just them at last. Last night Billie’s sister, some of her bridesmaids, her mother and his mother (widows, the pair of them), and Ernie and Bernice had all visited them in their hotel suite, as if it was an ordinary room on an ordinary night, and they’d come to admire the view and say goodnight. They’d even brought bottles and glasses. What a hoot! But not a second of privacy.

  This place was so romantic, she thought. This night. This was the romance that the wedding night should have held. She got out of the bath, almost pulled the plug then remembered. Decided to make a few repairs before summoning that handsome husband of hers – creamed some lotion into her skin, and while waiting for it to soak in, brushed her hair. Applied some lipstick, sprayed some Evening in Paris. Wiggled her boyish hips to the song in her head, ‘The Tennessee Waltz’.

  Suddenly, a loud pop and glass breaking.

  ‘Godfuckingdamnit! Billie! Billie, Billie!’

  She stood there, naked and greasy, frozen at the sight of her new husband with blood pouring from his face.

  ‘Bill. Hon. It’s okay. The bottle exploded.’

  ‘Golly! Let me see,’ she said, coming closer.

  ‘Don’t! Put something on your feet first.’

  He lowered the hand holding a pillow case to his chin. Billie’s face told Jacko what he suspected.

  ‘Okay, better find a doctor,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ said Billie, as she pulled on underwear. She was worried, but she was also thinking that she’d never seen Jacko with quite this expression. He really was just a boy! Part of her wanted to giggle. And then the giggle really did sneak out. She coughed to cover it, and commanded herself not to look again till the giggle was gone.

  Jacko’s face was starting to throb, and as he felt for glass shards in his forehead, he couldn’t help ogling his wife’s breasts. There they were, struggling against her bra, which was so pointy it looked dangerous.

  The drive to the doctor’s office was fraught.

  ‘Billie, shift down!’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Shift up, Billie.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Speed up a little, honey, cars are behind us.’

  ‘Okay.’ And then: ‘Sorry.’ Tears spilled down her face.

  ‘Oh come on. Nothing to cry about.’

  ‘I. Am. A. Good. Driver,’ she said softly, managing just a syllable at a time.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I drive all the time.’

  ‘Not in this car, you don’t,’ he sulked. Handkerchief held to his head, blood-soaked.

  ‘Whose fault is that?’

  No answer. Was this their first fight? It was their honeymoon, and they were bickering and bloody. Ah, and there was the sun s
etting to their left. All that beauty wasted, because now they hated each other. Especially, there was nothing erotic between them with Jacko in the passenger seat. Billie thought: Oh heck. Now what should I do? Jacko wondered what Ernie would do, if Bernice drove his car like this. He couldn’t imagine Ernie feeling this bad, or Bernice driving this badly.

  And then they reached the little hospital, and they were talking to the nurse, then to the other people in the waiting room. Just small talk at first, then Billie listened while Jacko told the story of the exploding bottle for the first time. Everybody laughed. How funny, to be getting stitches on the most passionately romantic night of their lives! How amusing to be arguing about her driving his car! But wasn’t that life for you, one step forward, two steps back. Something had to go wrong, and it may as well be a bottle exploding. Everyone had their own stories about disastrous honeymoons. One fellow patient told a story about running out of gas on the way to his own wedding, and hitchhiking in his tux. Billie stopped thinking how wrong everything was, and started to be proud they had joined this fraternity of adults who took small catastrophes in their stride. Someone called it a hiccup. As if their smooth lives had literally jerked in a spasm. Ouch! Oops! Then normality and easy breathing again. Have a cup of coffee, and here, have a swig of this too. Need a smoke? Here’s a light.

  And then more time passed, and they were back in their lovely hotel room. What else could they do, but curl up to sleep like two overexcited, exhausted toddlers. Billie’s last thought was one of wonder. So far, marriage was not what she’d anticipated. Not even a teensy bit. This didn’t dismay her, though it did make the future feel like a bowl of Jell-O now. What on earth would happen tomorrow? And the day after that?

  Jacko snored beside her, smelling of antiseptic, and looked for all the world like a sixteen-year-old. She curled up next to him, and fell sound asleep.

  One Year Earlier

  Billie makes Coffee for Jacko

  Friday February 12, 1950, San Francisco