Chapter 9: Marriage

Thursday, 2 June 1955, Indianapolis, Indiana

Not everything went as smoothly as anticipated. Indiana required a blood test before a license would be issued and there was a three-day waiting period after they had a license. Rebecca broke out in tears when the county clerk refused to issue a license.

“We leave on our cruise on Saturday!” she protested.

“Have the ship’s captain marry you then,” the sympathetic clerk said. “You really should have thought about this before you decided to honeymoon.”

A visit to the travel agent Rebecca had used to book her passage to England confirmed that they could get passage together and upgrade to a double room rather than Rebecca’s single berth. But there were more problems.

“I was supposed to go to New York and Doc was making my travel arrangements from there,” Wesley said. “I don’t have enough money in my checking account to cover this ticket.”

At Rebecca’s urging, Wesley called Doc. Doc sent the funds to the travel agent via Western Union. Saturday morning, Wesley and Rebecca left by train to New York and Sunday afternoon they boarded the S.S. United States for Southampton, England. They were surprised to find that when Doc transferred the funds for Wesley’s passage, he had upgraded the two to first class. They watched from the deck as New York faded behind them. They were married at the Captain’s Table in international waters before dinner.

Rebecca’s menstruation had ended by the end of their second day at sea and for the duration of the four-day crossing, they spent more time in their cabin than on the deck.

Tuesday, 7 June 1955, SS United States at Sea

“You are so beautiful, my darling,” Wesley breathed. Rebecca blushed. It had been so daring—so naughty—to step out of the head and into their berth without a stitch of clothing on. For a moment, she thought Wesley would have another attack of hiccups.

“I feel terribly wicked, letting you see me naked,” she said. Gooseflesh had risen over her entire body and Wesley rushed to fold her in his arms before she could cover herself. “Am I a woman without morals?” she whispered.

“I am your husband,” Wesley breathed. “You are mine. And I declare this mode of dress to be acceptable in our marriage bed.”

“Then undress, my love. You are mine. And your wife wants to see you naked.”

Wesley blushed more deeply than Rebecca had as he slipped out of his pajamas. His erection wilted as his wife let her eyes rove over his body, but it quickly revived as she brought her naked body against his.

This, their second coupling, was easier than the first. Rebecca welcomed her husband into her body as he caressed and sucked on her breasts. Wesley enjoyed a slightly longer residence in her depths before he released his seed. He willingly held his wife in his arms for an hour after they rolled apart. She was happy that he neither rolled over and went to sleep, nor jumped out of bed to dress. She would gladly lie in his arms forever.

“How many children shall we have, Wesley, my love?” she whispered. Wesley sat straight up in bed.

“Children?”

“You do want children, don’t you?” Rebecca asked worriedly.

“Well yes, yes. Of course I do. I just ... I hadn’t thought. Do you think you might be pregnant now?” he asked.

“I’ve never been very regular,” Rebecca said. “Still, I just finished my period, so biologically it is highly unlikely.”

“Wow! A baby in you. Here. In this beautiful tummy,” he said, holding her against him and stroking her abdomen. It felt heavenly. Rebecca could feel Wesley getting hard again behind her. “At least one. Not more than ten,” Wesley said. “Unless you want more.”

“Wesley, you are actually excited about putting a baby in me, aren’t you? I can feel you.”

“Oh dear. It’s you that excites me, Becc. Holding you. Being naked with you beneath our sheets. Making love to you,” he said as he kissed around her shoulders and up to her ear. His hand moved from her stomach up to her breasts and he caressed her tenderly. “And children. I could be a father.”

“Even though it is unlikely today, perhaps you should practice making me pregnant again.”

“Yes. Yes, perhaps I should.”

Thursday, 16 June 1955, Europe by Rail

It took five days and nights from Calais, France to Brindisi, Italy by train. Another twenty-four hours elapsed on the cruise ship to Patra, Greece, by way of Corfu. Wesley had been almost too tired to appreciate the beauty of the islands and the villages that hung from cliffs that the ship passed.

He’d changed trains in Paris and Geneva, not understanding a word that was spoken around him and little of what was on the limited signage. He’d nearly missed his connection in Paris, but the porter on the second train spoke passable English and pointed Wesley to the correct train in Geneva. He changed again in Milan and was thankful that his years of Latin helped him at least interpret signs in Italy. The trains, however, had been horrid. Doc had told him a joke when they connected by telephone—an extraordinary extravagance in Wesley’s mind.

“In Switzerland, the trains run according to the clock. In Italy, they run by the stomach.”

He’d had two more delays changing trains in Florence and Rome and was a day late for the ship he’d originally been scheduled on to Greece. This resulted in a shouted conversation at the ticket window that neither Wesley nor the ticket agent understood, but participated in with great vigor.

“Perhaps I might be of assistance,” a voice behind Wesley said. Wesley froze at the sound of the British accent, his thoughts first turning to the vicious attack by Ryan McGuire. He turned, however, to find a short and somewhat stout gentleman in short pants and a pith helmet.

“I don’t know,” Wesley said. “My train was late and I missed my boat yesterday. I’m trying to get to Athens. I would appreciate any assistance you might offer.” The Englishman turned to the ticket agent and quickly explained the situation to him in Italian. When the situation was explained, the agent threw up his hands and nodded. In a few minutes, Wesley’s ticket had been changed and he joined his new companion as they walked calmly to embark on the ship.

“Here you are,” the Englishman said. “I’m Jeremy Percival, at your service. Had to learn Italian when I was stationed here during the war. Perhaps you would join me for dinner. The galley on this ship serves the best lasagna in the world. You can’t get better in Italy.”

“Wesley Allen. Pleased to meet you. I’ll be happy to join you. Shall we say seven?”

“Excellent.”

The two had a lively time at dinner. Wesley was not yet comfortable with telling ‘the lie’ as he referred to his cover story, but he plunged ahead.

“I’m a musician participating in a summer exchange workshop in Northern Greece,” he provided. In his mind, he carefully defined the words to mean the work that he would actually be doing. He would be exchanging musical information with his colleagues. Jeremy accepted the story at face value.

“I’m on holiday,” the Englishman said. “Here to Patra and then to Athens where I’ll board another ship to take me to Crete. I’ve three weeks there to do a walking tour of the island. I’ll fly back to London, from Athens, but on the way here I flew to Rome so I could have this crossing. Just for the lasagna.”

Wesley restrained himself from criticizing the amount his companion drank and thoroughly appreciated the lasagna. At least he was assured that there would be no alcohol on their expedition.

He and Jeremy boarded the same train to Athens. Wesley was surprised by the suspicion with which he was greeted on the train. Jeremy seemed not to be greeted with the same caution.

“Your spies were caught trying to fix the elections here,” Jeremy explained. “All Americans are viewed as spies first and tourists second. How about giving us a tune on that instrument you carry across your back? Music soothes the savage beast as they say.”

“I’m recovering from an arm injury,” Wesley said, “but if you think it will help I’ll certainly play.” He unstrapped the guitar case and began picking a few chords. His shoulder had mostly healed and he suffered only from lack of practice for the past two weeks. Once he began to play in earnest, however, the people in his car warmed quickly. A man pulled a small concertina from a case and joined Wesley. They made a good duet.

It was a sad occasion when they reached Athens and all parted to go their separate ways.

Friday, 17 June 1955, Athens, Greece

Wesley dragged his suitcase and guitar out of the train station in the glare of the Mediterranean sun. Greece! He was here at last. The Acropolis. Mars Hill. The footsteps of the Apostle Paul. All were waiting for him to see. He set his bag down on the step next to him and a man reached over to pick it up.

“I have it,” Wesley shouted, grabbing for his bag.

“It’s okay, Wesley,” Doc said from the other side. “This is Marcos, our driver.”

“Oh! Doc, you both startled me.”

“Good trip? Anything we should know about?” Doc asked.

“I don’t believe so. I didn’t see anything suspicious. Not that I would have understood anything that was said around me,” Wesley laughed. “Did you expect that I would be followed?”

“On a journey like this, I expect it at every turning,” Doc said. “Marcos, this is Wesley Allen, our colleague.”

“Happy to meet you, Mr. Allen,” Marcos said. They got into the taxi where Margaret was already waiting. “Do you want to see Athens before you get to the hotel? Just watch!”

The cab swung recklessly down street after street. Some, Wesley was certain were pedestrian walkways, but the cab simply bounced over the steps. Wesley exclaimed at each new vista that Doc, Margaret, or Marcos pointed out. Doc also explained that Marcos would drive them to the Metéora in the morning. Wesley sincerely hoped there were roads. As pleased as he was to see Athens, he was even more pleased at the prospect of a bed for the night and was surprised that the small hostelry where they were housed belonged to Marcos and his wife who greeted him.

Wesley was unable to keep himself awake, even through dinner, and excused himself to go to bed.

Music filled his head and he slept dreamlessly until roused early the next morning.

Saturday, 18 June 1955, Kastraki, Greece

Wesley looked once more toward the Acropolis as they loaded the Jeep for the trip to Metéora. He had stepped into the past. He would discover the very roots of civilization. Rome conquered the world. Greece civilized it.

As the Jeep rumbled along the open road, Wesley looked out at the foreign countryside. The crystal blue Aegean was just visible off to his right and rugged mountains rose on his left. At least Rebecca is in a country where they speak English, he mused. He imagined her in a verdant countryside as the land around him turned arid and desolate. Perhaps, after all, she was closer to civilized roots than he was. But wherever she was, he would be in one way or another. They were married and separated all too soon. The two nights they spent in London filled his mind and he smiled.

Wesley was lost in his thoughts but gradually recognized Margaret smiling at him across the backseat. He realized he’d been humming and singing wordlessly to himself. He had no idea for how long. Margaret reached out to pat him maternally on the leg.