Chapter 1: This Marriage Stuff

Sylvia had occasionally enjoyed George’s descriptions of the initiation ceremonies or scarification rituals which some primitive societies used to mark the passage into adulthood. In August of ‘69, she figured that wedding receptions were modern America’s version, honed over centuries to maximize the pain.

She hadn’t wanted a wedding reception, really. Her parents should have been glad that she and George weren’t costing them a bundle; instead, they wanted to put on a reception. And her friends, much less George’s, were pleased to have free drinks. They were treating the champagne like beer, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t warned her parents.

She was leaving the champagne alone, easy when you weren’t supposed to drink the toasts. And she hoped George was, as well. The last thing they wanted was to start their life in Canada with a DUI arrest.

George’s family were being polite to hers -- and studiously ignoring each other. She met his father and his mother. She also met his father’s third wife and his mother’s second husband. Now, she liked George’s sister, and, for a wonder, he seemed to like her, too.

“Well,” his father said to her as the reception was winding down, “it’s good of you to marry him even though he’s running away. Usually women flock to the heroes, not the cowards.” George could hear that -- a quarter of the room could hear that, and George was standing quite close.

“Dad,” George 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.” (Which, Sylvia noted, was one of George’s words. He might not get along with his father, but he’d picked up some traits.) “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,” said George “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.” Whatever that statement did to clarify his motives, it settled another question. George was dead sober.

“What you really don’t want to do is risk your ass. Next time, dear,” (Sylvia suddenly wondered if he had forgotten her name) “look for a real man.”

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

His father smirked and left them. Soon, they had to leave, too. Their friends had brought some bird seed (rice being environmentally unsound) which they threw over them. George drove the first shift. It was her car, but she’d thought that driving away with her at the wheel wouldn’t be the right image to leave with his family.

They stopped well outside of town to strip off the sign and old shoes. They weren’t going to drive across Canada with a “Just Married” sign on their trunk. She took the wheel.

When she had got into the driving, George said, “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?” She wouldn’t argue against that decision.

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

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

“That’s another kettle of fish. 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.”

George was driving again when they got near Ogdensburg. He filled the tank up, using his credit card. “You’d better be driving when we cross the border,” he said. “The registration is in your name.” She got behind the wheel. She mentally rehearsed her story as to why she was Sylvia Foster, while the license, registration, and passport were all in the name of Sylvia Jennings. New brides couldn’t be that rare. As it happened, the border guards weren’t interested in any of that. She and George passed thorough the checkpoint unchallenged -- almost unnoticed.

They stopped at a diner. Again, he paid for it.

“About time for a stop?” he asked hours later. He was at the wheel again. “Want to look for a motel?”

“Sure.” She turned her attention to the roadside signs, but the mention of a motel had reminded her of something they hadn’t settled. “Look, this is the same as always, right? I pay half. How do you want to handle this at the motels?”

“Well, in the first place, that isn’t really fair.”

‘Not fair’? She thought she had been generous. It was traditionally the groom’s responsibility to pay for the honeymoon, not that they were being traditional, not that her family had paid for the wedding service. They’d paid for the reception, which was probably one hell of a lot more, but that was their idea. Anyway, where had he gotten the idea that this wasn’t fair? “How so?”

“Look, you won’t be able to get a teaching job in Regina, right?”

“I’m fairly certain I won’t,” she said. Though what this had to do with paying for a motel room, she couldn’t see.

“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.”

She liked his saying that they were a family. They were, if for less than a day. Anyway, she couldn’t object to his saying that her suggestion was unfair to her. This was still the George she had known. “Okay.”

“And,” he went on, “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?”

“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?”

“Just being sensible. I want this marriage to last, figured that we might copy one which has.”

“‘Sensible’ wasn’t my description. But you are a generous man. Will you marry me?”

“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?” Okay, he had been the one to propose. She hadn’t even been thinking in terms of marriage and was surprised that George was. But he was quite prepared to leave her for this job. She’d had enough of his being in another country.

“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,” she pointed out. Then, “Motel!”

The sign was on the interstate. Interstate? interprovince? Anyway, the sign was on the divided expressway, but they had to take an exit to get to it. They checked in and walked around the tiny settled area. They both had kinks from sitting in the car for hours.

“Morning love?” George asked. He preferred mornings. And he made every effort that she would enjoy them, too.

Why not? This was a honeymoon, after all. “Sure! Is checkout at noon?”

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

The room was a typical motel room, chilly with the air conditioner on high. It probably had been needed in the August afternoon; it was superfluous at eleven o’clock. Despite that, George stripped off his white shirt and suit pants with a sigh of satisfaction.

“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.” He had hung up his suit coat and his tie in the car.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t want to rummage through the suitcases. Mistake. Still feeling tired?”

She was still feeling something, and his massage helped. He rubbed her back, and then started on her feet. His hands traveled up her legs, then he gestured for her to turn on her face. Well, her ass had been working a lot more than her feet had. He actually gave a full massage there before his hands strayed.

She rolled over on her back so he could have easier access to the parts he was caressing. Besides, she wanted some attention to her breasts. He approached these very slowly, kissing up her stomach. When he got there, though, he made it worth the wait. He kissed a trail up the bottom slope of her left breast. Then he tongued her nipple to firm attention before he sucked it. Fire burned within her.

When he turned his attention to her right breast, he spent the longest time licking the crease which was normally on the bottom of it. That was while fingering her lower lips. When he finally sucked on the nipple, he stroked across her clitoris at the same time. She soared.

When she came back, he covered them both with the sheet and blanket. He held her in a tight hug. “Good night, my love,” he said. And a very good night it was.

She woke in the spoon position. His hand was cupping her right breast. His prick was hard against her ass. He had to be awake; his hand didn’t take that shape unless he were conscious. Now, his prick could be hard when he was dead asleep. “Let me take a bathroom break,” she said softly. He took his hand and arm away.

This was, she remembered while sitting on the toilet, the first morning of her honeymoon. She finished up everything she could do before her shower. Then she went back to rummage through her bag for a shower cap. He was lying there ogling her in the buff.

Well, why not? This was a honeymoon. “Want to share a shower?” she asked. Rhetorical question. He took off his glasses and got out of bed to join her. His prick was already pointing out -- if not yet up.