“I have to admit I’ve given some thought to tomorrow.”
“Well, stop thinking! Savour the moment!” She rolled her window down. “Put yours down, too. Feel the fresh air! Let the fresh air get rid of all your worries.”
I rolled my window down. The rush of cool air did feel good. Barbara held her face to the open window and let the wind blow her hair around. She’d been letting it grow longer so that it would fall below her shoulders on our wedding day. I hadn’t seen the wedding dress her parents had bought for her; the groom wasn’t supposed to see his bride in full regalia until the wedding ceremony when she came down the aisle. Now I would never see her in it. I felt a pang of regret that I wasn’t going to experience the dramatic feeling when I came out of the vestry with Reverend McIntosh and Claude, my best man, while Mrs. Wilson played the organ and Melanie, Barbara’s roommate from nursing school, started up the aisle with Sandra and Gloria and the bride behind her in procession. I’d been looking forward to that moment.
“Do you think your folks will be able to sell the wedding dress?” I asked.
“Who cares?”
“Right.”
“You know, there’s something about the dress I don’t like. That’s another reason I’m glad we’re eloping. The dress doesn’t look like me, somehow. Looks Elizabethan. It flattens me up front.”
“That’s the last thing we want.”
“What?”
“You flattened up front.”
“Oh, Jenkins, sometimes I think that’s all you care about.”
I tried to think of a rebuttal. It seemed prudent to let the comment go.
After a few beats of silence, Barbara said, “So you admit it.”
“I’m not going to get into a debate about which part of you I like best.”
“Speaking of parts …” She walked her fingers down the front of my trousers. “Oh, my!”
“Everything present and accounted for?”
She laughed. “Maybe we’d better concentrate on the road,” she said, taking her hand away.
“Maybe we’d better stop sooner than we said.”
“Whatever you like, Captain. You’re driving.”
We commented on things we saw along the highway—cows, a well-kept farm with a newly painted red barn, a forlorn-looking hitchhiker, a smashed-up jalopy, two crows picking at a dead groundhog. The sun had gone down by the time we approached the town of Beausejour. Barbara hadn’t spoken for a while. There was a row of cabins coming up on the right.
“What do you say we pull in here?” I said.
“What? Oh. I must’ve dozed off. The air—what did you say?”
“Shady Nest Cabins. Want to stop here?” I slowed down.
“And not go to Kenora?”
“No. We can find somebody to marry us in Beausejour.”
“You wanted to cross the border.”
“I’m getting a little tired.”
“I could drive. That snooze did wonders for me.”
“Let’s pull in here.”
“Looks a little run down.”
“But better than a motel, don’t you think?” I brought the car to a stop on the gravel shoulder of the highway.
“Okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“I want to be spontaneous. This is spontaneous.”
I drove in and stopped at a house that had a sign, Office, in the front window.
“Before we go in,” I said, “would you mind putting this on?” I took the box out of my pocket and opened it.
“Jenkins! It’s beautiful!”
“See how it matches the other?”
“Perfectly!” Barbara wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She took the ring out of the box and slid it onto her finger. She held her hand up. “Jenkins, they look fantastic together. God, I don’t know … do you really want me to wear it?”
“Please.”
“Before we’re married?”
“Yes.”
“This feels so bad!”
“Ready to go in?”
“I think so.”
I put the box back in my pocket and stepped out of the car. I looked around, as if I expected some kind of authority to swoop down on us.
“Would it be better if I went in alone?” I said.
“No. I want to be with you. I want to hear what you say.”
We walked up to the front door—the office door. I opened it and heard a bell ring inside. We entered. A tall, thin, bald man appeared. He wore glasses and one of those checked shirts that country folks seemed to prefer.
“Howdy,” the man said.
“Hi,” I said. “We wondered if you had a room—I mean, a cabin—available.”
Barbara held her ring-hand to her face in an obvious way.
“You can have your choice,” said the man. “They’re all available.”
“Do you have a Number Seven?” I asked.
“Yup. Would you like to see it?”
“That won’t be nec—”
“Could we?” said Barbara.
The man turned to a rack of keys and took down Number Seven.
“I’ll wait here,” he said, handing the key to me.
Outside, in the dusk, the numbers were difficult to see. There were five cabins on the left side of the property and five on the right. 10 was the first cabin on the right. We counted our way down to 7, the second from the end.
“Lucky Seven,” I said, opening the screen door.
“I didn’t think you were superstitious,” said Barbara.
“I’m not, really. But a little good luck doesn’t hurt.”
I had trouble with the lock, likely because I was anxious. It took some manipulating but, on the third try, the door opened. We went inside.
Except for a closet that housed a sink, a toilet and a shower stall, what we entered was one not-so-big room. It contained a double bed with an iron-rung head and foot, a night table beside it with a lamp that had a dented shade, one upholstered chair, a wooden kitchen table and two wooden chairs, an ice-box and a kitchen sink. On the kitchen table were a water pitcher and two glasses. Inside a cupboard beneath the sink were a few unmatched dishes and cups, a kettle, a teapot, and some cutlery. Barbara crossed the linoleum floor to the bed and pulled back the covers.
“Looks clean enough,” she said.
“Not exactly a honeymoon suite,” I said.
“But this isn’t a honeymoon.”
“Hey, what about the honeymoon plans? The reservation in Banff?”
“The last thing we need to worry about right now.”
“Okay. So. We’ll take it?”
“I’d say so.”
“Okay, I’ll go and pay and get our stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Our pretend stuff.”
I returned to the office.
“We’ll take it,” I said.
“For how long?” the man asked.
“Uh—tonight—one night.”
“That’ll be six dollars.” He wrote a 7 on one page of a ledger and handed a pen to me. “Need yer name and address right there. Where ya from?”
“Winnipeg.” I looked up and saw the man’s stern face. “We just got married.”
“I knew that,” the man said without a hint of a smile. “I took one look at the two of yez and I said, ‘Them’s newlyweds.’”
I scribbled my name and address on the page, hoping they’d be too illegible to decipher. I took six dollars from my wallet and laid them on the page.
“Good night,” I said.
“Don’t let the bugs bite,” the man said.
I went out, got into my car and drove it into the grassy space between Number Six and Number Seven. I tried to be conspicuous as I took my suitcase out of the trunk, but I didn’t look back to see if the man was watching. I imagined him and his wife looking out at me and the wife saying, “There, you see? He does have a suitcase.”
I hesitated at the cabin door. There was a strange cart-before-th
e-horse feeling about what we were doing. Going to bed together before we were married after all the plans and promises. It was as if I’d been progressing along a Monopoly board, doing all the right things—not buying property and paying rent, but dating, going steady, asking the father for her hand in marriage, popping the question, setting a wedding date, resisting temptation—when suddenly I’d landed on a square that changed my course: Go to bed. Move directly to bed. Do not pass through the church. Do not collect wedding presents.
I took a deep breath and entered the cabin. “We’re registered,” I said.
Barbara was sitting on the bed, still in her clothes. She stared at the suitcase and said: “Do you have pyjamas in there? I’ll bet you have pyjamas in there.”
I locked the door. Barbara had pulled down all the blinds. I placed the suitcase on the bed beside her and snapped it open.
“Shirts,” said Barbara. “Underwear. Rye whisky. No pyjamas! Congratulations. What’s in the box?”
I opened the box and showed her the contents: rows of little silver boxes. I took one of them out and opened it.
“Oh,” she said.
“You’ve seen these before.”
“At school, yes. In a clinical setting. How come you brought so many?”
“I just grabbed the box. You know I was in a hurry.”
“You’ve got enough there for an army.”
“Or a very active honeymoon.”
“There’s that word again.”
“Sorry.” I pocketed the silver box of three and put the rest back in the suitcase. “Do you want a drink?”
“Yes, please. I’m parched. You don’t have any ginger ale, do you?”
“No. I thought we could get some at the motel … if we stopped at a motel.”
“Do you think Mr. Nest has some?”
“Old Shady? I didn’t notice any soft drinks in the office.”
“I’ll go and ask him.”
“No, no, I will.”
“And ice?”
“And ice.”
I went back to the office. The bell brought the man to the counter, likely expecting new business. His expression said, Not you again.
“I wonder,” I said, “do you happen to have any ginger ale?”
“We don’t sell soft drinks.”
“Do you know where I can get some?”
The man looked at me for a moment. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll see if I have any.”
“And possibly some ice, please?”
The man scowled and went behind the scenes. I thought I could hear conversation. The man came back with an Eaton’s shopping bag and he showed me the contents: two bottles of ginger ale and some ice wrapped in a towel.
“Thank you, this is wonderful,” I said. “How much do I owe you?”
“Consider it a wedding present.” As before, the man’s expression was deadpan.
I returned to Number Seven. Barbara, still in her clothes, stood beside the table holding the bottle of rye. She’d poured liquor into the two glasses.
“Whoa, those are big drinks!” I said. “Hardly any room for the ice and the ginger.”
“I don’t know anything about pouring drinks. If these are stiff ones, that’s good, isn’t it? I feel like getting drunk. What’s in the towel?”
“Ice. And he gave us the ginger ale on the house.”
“Ahhh—wasn’t that nice of him.”
I found a bottle opener among the utensils and opened one of the bottles. I put an ice cube in each glass and topped each up with ginger ale.
“Here’s to a most beautiful blushing bride,” I said.
We clinked glasses. With her free hand, Barbara wiped away a tear.
“Why’d you have to say that?” she said.
“Sorry. I thought I should say something.”
She drank half her drink, gasped for breath and coughed. I drank slowly.
“I’m still glad we did this,” Barbara said.
“So am I.”
“My mother’s going to be livid.”
“Hang your mother.”
“I’ll drink to that!” She finished her drink. “Mm-mm good. Not too strong at all. Pour me another.”
“Let’s have the next one in bed.”
“I wish I had a nightgown.”
“You can wear one of my shirts.”
“It’s okay. I’ll get under the covers. Would you turn away for a minute while I—”
“I thought you might do a striptease.”
“Oh, sure. For you and Shady? As if this isn’t nerve-wracking enough. Turn your back, okay? And could you improve the light? You know, the ambience?”
I poured a new drink for her and topped up my own. Keeping my back to her, I turned off the kitchen light, making the room dark. I went into the bathroom, turned on the light and positioned the door so that it was maybe three inches ajar.
“Pretty good,” Barbara said. “Okay, I’m in bed. I just threw my clothes on that chair—I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” My heartbeat accelerated. We are really going to go through with this.
I turned to see that she was lying in the bed with the covers pulled up to her chin. She had her pillow folded double to prop up her head so that she could sip her drink. I saw her clothes, not in a heap but folded. Her bra was lying on top, so white, so virginal, so empty.
There was a knock on the door.
“Oh, no!” I said. “We’re being apprehended already!”
“Who—”
“The police!”
“It couldn’t be. Go on, answer it. Whoever it is knows we’re here.”
I had the presence of mind to open the bathroom door so that the room was brighter. I opened the main door and through the screen I saw the man from the office, holding a tray.
“Hello there,” I said.
“The wife sent over some baking,” he said. “Matrimonial cake.”
“Oh! That’s very kind of you—and her. Thank you.”
I opened the screen door. The man gave me a baking pan that contained the cake cut into squares.
“You can leave the pan in the sink,” said the man. “’Night.”
“Good night and thanks!” Barbara called from the bed.
The man didn’t answer. He turned and walked off toward the house. I closed the door and locked it.
“Isn’t that sweet!” said Barbara.
“Sweet? I think he expected to catch us doing it. The guy’s a pervert.”
“You’re crazy.”
“He knows we aren’t married.”
“Oh shush. Give me a date square—that’s what I call it. Date square to celebrate our hundredth date.”
“Is it?”
“Who’s counting? Must be close, though.”
I found a plate and took three pieces to her. She sat up, holding the covers over her chest.
“Thank you,” she said, and she puckered her lips.
I kissed them lightly.
“Now, come to bed, would you?”
Taking her lead, I opted for modesty and went into the bathroom to undress. The whole escapade felt rather sordid, but I had to admit I had a fiancée who could surprise me. To think that all the months and months of patient petting, of postponing the ultimate, are about to end! I opened the door, stepped out and turned to adjust the ambience.
“I must be delirious,” Barbara said. “I see a naked man in my room.”
I pretended to strut, like a proud rooster, but she averted her eyes and took a long pull of her drink. I slipped into bed beside her.
“This bed is terrible,” I said. “The mattress dips in the middle.”
“Soundsh good to me.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Jush feeling good.”
She set the drink on the night table. Turning to me, she slid down into a lying position. I reached for her and, as best I could, executed a horizontal hug.
“Oh, ouch!” she said.
“What?”
&n
bsp; “You squished my boob.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You can kish it better.”
She pushed the covers down to her waist. I groaned with appreciation, seeing her this way for the very first time. I kissed one breast.
“Thash nice,” she said, “but ish the wrong one.”
I leaned over her to get at the other. For the very first time, I took her nipple into my mouth and gently sucked. It felt lovely.
She rearranged herself under me.
“Wait,” I said. “I should put one of the things on.”
“You didn’t do that yet?”
“Couldn’t you see I didn’t?”
“I washn’t looking.”
“Why not?”
“I jush didn’t want to shee it right now, okay?”
“I don’t—okay. I’ll just be a minute.”
“I wish you’d done that before.”
I got up, went into the bathroom and took the little silver box out of my trousers. I’d been planning to try a condom on before the wedding night but I hadn’t done it yet. Who would’ve dreamed I’d need one three weeks before the wedding? To hear my buddies talk, it was a simple procedure; in fact, they never really talked about putting one on, so I assumed it was easy. I took one of the three out of the box and judged how best to start. Whoever designed them couldn’t have factored in a young man’s nerves. I took a deep breath and started.
“Jenkins?” It was Barbara. She thumped on the door. “Jenkins! Let me in!”
The condom half on, I opened the door. She pushed past me and sat on the toilet.
“Get out, would you?” she said in a frantic voice. “Out of the bathroom! Please! Quick!”
I did as I was told. She slammed the door and turned a tap on.
“Barbara?” I said. “Barbara, what’s wrong?”
“My visitor!” she cried. “My monthly visitor! It’s come days early!”
>
A Millionaire’s Family
I make myself another large manhattan and return to Barbara’s Time Capsule:
I should tell you that, although we were virgins, we had fooled around a lot. Not as much as some couples, but you know. We’d done our exploring. We knew we had the right equipment. Whenever we did fool around, it felt exciting and sexy. We could get pretty worked up. Feeling we were doing things we shouldn’t be doing made it even more exciting.
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