Chapter 1

Like Everybody Else

George Foster hadn’t wanted a wedding reception. For that matter, if he could have had a marriage without a wedding, he would have gone for it -- would gladly have stopped off at a JP on their way to Canada. Sylvia, however, was a church-going woman. George figured that she would regard a church wedding as more binding than a visit to a justice of the peace. And, whatever he thought of the ceremony, binding is what he wanted. More binding than any of the weddings his father had had, anyway.

The reception in August of 1969 was something else, though. It was less Sylvia’s idea than her parents’. Still, her relationship with her parents was one of the things that George envied. For that matter, having a couple of parents was enviable. And, since he wanted to celebrate their anniversary in thirty years (her parents must have been married nearly that long), he figured they were the ones to ask. Better advice than his father would provide, anyway. Not that he would accept his father’s advice even on things the old man might actually know about. The reception no longer demanded his attention every moment; by now the serious drinkers were drinking seriously. He wandered over to where Sylvia’s parents were standing together.

“Congratulations,” her dad said.

“Thanks. And thanks for raising such a wonderful daughter.”

“I can’t take credit. It was all Gladys’s doing.”

“‘Each person can take 100 percent of the credit. Cash can’t be divided that way.’” There. Once upon a time, he’d listened to his dad.

Sylvia’s parents chuckled.

“Speaking of cash,” George said.

Sylvia’s dad looked annoyed but reached for his wallet. Hell! He and Sylvia were planning to drive most of the way across Canada. If he had been out of cash right then, they’d be in hot water. “Not that. Much more serious.” Her dad raised an eyebrow.

“You people have been married a long time. Long from my perspective, anyway. And, also, what you do is something Sylvia will respect. What I want to know is how you handle money -- not the details, not anything personal. But what do you do? Do you split all the expenses down the middle? And what if somebody is making more than the other?” Sylvia was going to cut her income to come with him. How should they calculate that?

“We don’t do anything special,” said her mother. “It’s just like everybody else.”

Now, George could tell her that money was something which only some people in the world -- not in Toledo, but in the world -- used. But broadening her horizons wasn’t the object of this discussion. “Good! What does everybody else do?”

“Well,” said her dad, “we have a joint account. One of us, which one has varied over the course of our marriage, pays the big bills -- mortgage, insurance, things like that. Gladys used to buy the kids’ clothes. We each buy our own. Is that what you mean?”

“That’s precisely what I meant. And Sylvia was aware of that?”

“Not much,” he said. “It wasn’t something worth mentioning. You know kids. Food comes from the ‘fridge; money comes from dad’s wallet. They don’t think of how it got there.”

“Sylvia knew I bought her clothes,” her mom put in. “We had regular fights about that.”

“Well,” George said, “I’m not going to raise that issue. Thanks. That’s what I wanted to know.” And it was. He and Sylvia could have one pot of money. With his salary -- not that the University would be paying him much, all the Yanks of draft age wanted jobs in Canada -- and his Grandfather’s trust and whatever Sylvia could make, they’d have enough. Maybe more than enough.

That was a real relief. He headed for the champagne, forgetting his promise to Sylvia to keep sober for the drive. Luckily, somebody proposed another toast just then. Couldn’t drink when you were being toasted.

Speaking of drinking, his dad reached Sylvia just a little ahead of him. For all his oft-expressed opinions of domestic champagne, he’d been consuming a lot.

“Well,” his dad said to Sylvia in his usual bray, “it’s good of you to marry him even though he’s running away. Usually women flock to the heroes, not the cowards.”

“Dad,” he replied, “I’m not running away. I’m taking a job in my profession. The job is in Canada. And, if that protects me from the draft, great.”

“Profession! A school marm. You should get out in the business world and actually earn your way. As for the draft, I’ve told you. We may have had differences, but I’m perfectly willing to call in some favors. You could get a commission in the reserves. You’d never have to risk your ass.”

“In the first place,” he replied, “there is something hypocritical in seeking a military commission for the purpose of avoiding military service. In the second place, that doesn’t answer all my objections. True, I don’t want to kill people. But I don’t want to wear a uniform, march in step, or salute people either.”

“What you really don’t want to do is risk your ass. Next time, dear,” his dad was patronizing Sylvia and coming on to her at the same time, “look for a real man.”

“I don’t want to kill people,” he said, “with one particular exception. And there isn’t going to be a ‘next time.’ This is ‘until death us do part.’”

His dad went away, looking unconvinced. Still, he went away. Some more people came by -- most of them being pleasant. Cheryl must have heard Dad’s comment. She had only nice things to say. She could be remarkably pleasant when she remembered the hatred they shared for their parent.

She joined the mob throwing bird seed on them as they ran to Sylvia’s car. He drove until they stopped at a convenient spot to remove the decorations from the car. Sylvia took the wheel.

He thought for a bit before telling her, “Well, you’d better look out for my health. You’d have to invite him to my funeral.”

“You don’t plan on seeing them again?”

“I’d be happy to go to his funeral. Tomorrow.”

“Should I expect that we’ll never visit my family either?” Sylvia asked.

“That’s another kettle of fish,” he said. Her parents had been especially helpful. Besides, it depended on what she wanted. Then he had another thought. “Though I might not want to leave Canada. Depends on the law. Anyway, I liked your parents. Maybe they’ll visit us in Regina.”

“I liked your sister, too.”

“Cheryl is a lovely person when you see her briefly and fairly seldom. She can get on your nerves, too. But she is nothing like our parents.” Though Cheryl liked Mom a lot more than he did, she didn’t share her faults.

He wondered how to approach the subject of the shared pot of money. When Sylvia had drawn the higher income, it would have been impossible. But he would be in that condition within weeks. For that matter, neither of them was drawing any pay just then. His trust paid monthly, but it was the only source of funds right then, even theoretically. And they were married now. Maybe Sylvia took it for granted.

Canada didn’t look any different from New York State. Not that he had really expected it to. Saskatchewan would be a little different, though.

They changed off driving, occasionally. They ate at a diner which could have been in the USA. His iced tea was served already sweetened, over sweetened for his taste, but that was probably a peculiarity of the diner. He got tired, and -- more dangerous when you’re driving -- sleepy. Besides, this was a honeymoon. Sylvia was pleasant company in the car, but conversation wasn’t his idea of a honeymoon. “About time for a stop?” he asked her. “Want to look for a motel?”

“Sure ... Look, this is the same as always, right? I pay half. How do you want to handle this at the motels?”

Well, the problem of how to bring up that question was solved, and -- no -- Sylvia didn’t assume they’d have one pot of money. “Well, in the first place, that isn’t really fair.”

“How so?”

“Look.” He had gone through all the arguments in his head. “You won’t be able to get a teaching job in Regina, right?”

“I’m fairly certain I won’t,” she said.

“And, even if you could, it would probably pay less. So, what you are putting into the family coffers isn’t just whatever you’ll be earning in Regina. You’re also contributing the difference between that and what you’d be earning in Boston. You’re putting that out to keep the family together.”

“Okay.” She sounded tentative.

“And, in the second place, I talked with your parents at the reception. What they have is a joint account. This ‘George pays half -- Sylvia pays half’ was fine when we were living together. We’re married now, and maybe we should have one pool of money, too.”

“We split expenses down the middle when you were a grad student, and I was a teacher. Now that you will be a paid instructor and I’ll be back to waiting tables, you think we should pool our money?” she asked. That wasn’t quite it.

“Well, that’s one way to think about it. I was mostly thinking of being married. I don’t have experience there. Of course, you don’t either. But you have seen a much better marriage up close than I have. I figured that we might copy something from them.”

“George, have I ever mentioned what a generous guy you are?”

He wasn’t being generous at all. He just wanted to be married. “Just being sensible. I want this marriage to last, figured that we might copy one which has.”

“‘Sensible’ isn’t my description. But you are a generous man. Will you marry me?” Now she asked. She could have asked back then. Instead, he had had to get down on his knees; even then she’d only agreed because she had been embarrassed.

“Can’t. I’m already married. Anyway, you had your chance to ask.”

She laughed. “You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”

“Nope! All this talk of Woman’s Lib -- but when push comes to shove, you let the man ask the hard questions.”

“Women need to be liberated, but it’s the man who needs to be hard. Motel!” The juxtaposition of the two ideas was accidental, but suggestive. And this was a honeymoon, after all.

He took the cloverleaf to the motel and registered. Once their bags were in the room (the man at the desk had called it a cabin -- it didn’t look like a cabin to George), they took a walk around outside. There wasn’t much to see, but they’d been sitting down far too long.

“Morning love?” he asked Sylvia when they were back in their room. He wanted their first sex as a married couple to be special. Tonight, it was too late to be special.

“Sure!” she said. “Is checkout at noon?” Which sounded as if she wanted it to be special, too.

“Checkout’s at noon, but you can sleep in the car.”

The outside air had been just the right temperature; the inside was too cold. He turned down the air conditioner before stripping off his one suit. His relief must have been evident to Sylvia. “Just be glad we didn’t go formal,” she said. “You’d have loved wearing a monkey suit.”

“A tux would have been worse, but not for very long. I should have changed before we got in the car.” Twenty-twenty afterthought.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t want to rummage through the suitcases. Mistake. Still feeling tired?” He wasn’t much of a masseur, but Sylvia usually enjoyed his attentions. He moved from her back to her feet. Her butt was probably as numb as his was after the long drive. He spent a lot of time there, partly to work out the numbness, partly because he liked Sylvia’s butt.

He liked other parts of Sylvia, too. When he was spending more time on her vulva than on her butt, she rolled over. She kept her legs spread, though, so he kept up his attentions. He also took the opportunity to kiss her lovely soft belly. Delightful as that was, it brought him close to her breasts. Now, those really needed kisses. He hadn’t kissed them all day, had hardly felt them. He teased himself, and -- he hoped -- her, by working up to them very slowly.