Part 11

Day 45

Jon's alarm jolted him out of slumber with its hateful buzz. Blinking his eyes into focus, he rolled away from his wife to slap the darn thing off. Whether he really wanted to be, he was awake right now; the adrenaline coursing through his system guaranteed that. It was the same alarm clock he'd had back home, and all through college and most of high school: a good ten years now of following him around and waking him up. By now the sound was hard-wired into his brain—and, evidently, into the noradrenergic pathway, judging by the boost of adrenaline that always seemed to strike whenever it went off. Why did that happen? How did that happen? Clearly, Pavlov was right, we are trainable—but of all the things... ?

For a moment he merely lay there, staring up at the ceiling. His left arm was still trapped under Caitlyn's body; in fact, she was cuddling it, the hand up near her face as though she meant to kiss it. They had slept this way, with only occasional variation, every night since their wedding.

It's Wednesday. Yesterday was our last day at Pastor Larson's college group, today it's my last Wednesday with Dr. Polkiss and Dr. Leyton, and on Monday I start the training program with Dr. Chandakar—a training program which requires me to be on-station at the luxurious time of 9:30 AM. Caitlyn and I will get to go to bed together. Caitlyn and I will get to wake up together. There won't be long periods of time when only one of us is in this bed. Jon, like Caitlyn, was a night owl; if left to their own devices they'd be awake until 2 AM and abed until 10—maybe later if anything frisky happened, which Jon was looking forward to. Right before bed or right on waking up were his favorite times to savor her body. Obviously, neither was an option when he was sleeping from 10 PM to 6 AM, she from 2 to 10. He had tried awakening her just to have his way with her, and she was always receptive (in a sleepy sort of way), but he always felt bad afterwards, like he was using her, and stopped doing it altogether. We wouldn't be here, in our own apartment, if not for my job, but it really is the worst thing that could possibly have happened to our sex life.

Carefully he began to work his hand free of her grasp. Caitlyn didn't waken.

When he had dressed he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked down at her. She was still curled up on her side, fringes of hair around her face, her mouth slightly open. She never snored. To Jon's knowledge, neither did he, but how could he know what he did while asleep? She looked peaceful. She was so beautiful to him.

He caressed her cheek with one hand. Caitlyn didn't waken.

The only thing that made it possible to leave was knowing that she needed him to—that their precarious existence here was made possible by his efforts. That, if he didn't, she would not be here to return to. And suddenly, it was okay to leave.

The day seemed to pass with the slowness of molasses. People came in, had their teeth fiddled with, left again; and he would check the clock and see, to his despair, that only five minutes had passed. He had enjoyed his time here, working with these people, doing this job, but now he was excited and ready to go. He didn't want to be here anymore. He wanted to be doing something different. He wanted to have more and better chances to spend time with his wife.

The only highlight was a call from Caitlyn. "I can't talk long, I'm between classes."

"Classes?"

"Silly, it's the first day of school. I'm at Shellview. Remember?"

"Jeez, I feel stupid. You told me that yesterday when we said good-bye to the college group. From now on you have orchestra rehearsals while they're meeting."

Her laughter, like a loving caress. "Yep. I'm on campus and I'm taking classes, because the school year started up again."

"How's it going so far?"

"It's fine. I'm in Jazz Theory, which is going to be cool, and I'm taking my Composition seminar. You know, the one I've been excited about taking ever since I started my Master's program?" He heard the teasing smile in her voice.

"I remember," he said. "I'm not forgetful, Caitlyn, just stupid."

A full-blown smile now. "Oh, is that what it is? Well, I'd better go then. I don't like talking to stupid people."

"Why'd you spend so much time with Harold then?" said Jon.

The instant the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. The previous night, Caitlyn had invited Harold to join them for a late snack at a coffee shop—with Jon's consent and presence, of course. He could tell Caitlyn had regretted the idea within five minutes of sitting down with him ... But she had her pride, and she would not give up on what she felt God was calling her to do. It was a sore spot with her now, and unless he was stupid he wouldn't bring it up.

Thankfully, Caitlyn misinterpreted it. "Oh, is that's was bugging you? Jon, if you don't want me to do something, you can always just say that."

Yeah, but will you listen to me? He knew what she was like once she got an idea into her head. "I know."

"I said it before, Jon: you're my husband. There's no one more important than you. There's nothing more important to me than what you want."

After a moment's debate, he said it: "Except God."

"Well ... Yes. But, God wants me to be a respectful wife and honor you."

And if I want you to do something ungodly? This time he didn't say it.

"—Oh, I just remembered: Jon, someone asked me to play something next weekend."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. One of my friends here is having her wedding and they wanted... "

She'd been turning gigs down because of their inability to move her harp in any safe manner. "So we'll need..."

"I think we need a truck. I know you like your car, Jon, but ... I think we need to trade it in."

Funny how she springs this on me now—right after she said that, if I asked her, she would do it. But the thought had no real heat. Jon had known this moment was coming ever since they'd wed; they would need to be able to transport her harp somehow. And it would definitely be nice to have another source of income. "Then how about we go after I get home? You figure out what kind of truck we need, and once I get home we'll go after it."

"All right."

"We'll have to be quick, though—I have Octapella practice at 7:30."

"Ooo, an adventure," she said, the grin audible in her voice.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

And so they went. Jon got home, kissed his wife, and they went down to the car for the last time. Caitlyn was smart enough to suggest that they empty the car of personal possessions first, and they wound up carrying a surprising amount of stuff back into the apartment. A fair bit of it went in the trash—old receipts, loose Xeroxes, bits of fast-food detritus—but among other things, they found an entire compliment of maps which Jon's mother must have stashed in the car. Neither Jon nor Caitlyn used maps, but the things must've cost money and they weren't going to throw them away. And then Caitlyn thought that they might need proof of registration and other legal documents, and they spent another fifteen minutes ransacking the apartment to find where they'd put them. Finally, at 5:35, they were on their way, praying that the Toyota dealership would still be open.

They needed a pickup; Caitlyn had been there when her parents did the math, and remembered it well. Gabriel, her full-size harp, was 65 inches tall and 40 inches wide; they needed at least that much space in the bed. Fortunately, even short-bed trucks were that large, so they'd have some wiggle room. While Caitlyn's family bought Ford, Jon's family and friends had had good experiences with Toyota, and the Tacoma was certainly retailing for cheaper. The only thing left to discuss was whether to get a standard cab or a full-size; eventually, when children came along, they would need back seats, but Jon couldn't even picture any children he might have with her at this point; the idea seemed wholly abstract to him. What was certain was that it would be years yet before any offspring came along. So why spend money on seats they didn't need now, and maybe never would need if the truck was obsoleted before then. They decided to make the final decision once they got on-site and had seen what there was to see.

Two hours later, they had their truck.

The salesperson was friendly—too friendly; after a whirlwind tour of the lot, Jon was glad he'd brought a notepad, because he knew next to nothing about cars. If it went forward when he hit the gas and slowed down when he braked and turned when he steered, it was fine with him, but here was the salesman throwing a blizzard of options and suggestions at him: skid plates, wheel locks, chrome grille bumpers, "overfenders" (whatever the heck those were). Jon dutifully noted them all down and then took five minutes off to call his dad, the one person he knew who was knowledgeable about cars. His father's tastes ran more towards tiny, high-performance coupes (he was still ranting and raving about a Mazda Miata he'd owned until an oblivious driver had backed onto it in a parking lot), but nonetheless he was able to walk Jon down the checklist and, as Jon had expected, tell him that most of the offered items were completely useless, whether in general or to the Stanfords' particular needs. Jon came back to the salesman with a firm grasp of what he wanted and some good ideas on how to get it. ("Besides," Caitlyn whispered to him, "the one thing we really want is a truck cap to protect the harp, and they don't sell those here; you have to get them after-market.")

Caitlyn did most of the bargaining; she had much more practical knowledge of trucks—not to mention loans and APR financing and things like that. As it turned out, there was little point in trading in Jon's 13-year-old Celica, as it was barely worth anything. This, as Caitlyn pointed out, would give them greater automotive flexibility, though Jon thought the greater insurance payments might cause problems later, not to mention the issue of finding it a parking space. Nonetheless Caitlyn insisted on putting as much down as possible on the truck, which she checked with him on because (as she put it) "that thins out our bank account just a little." Then she used a calculator; for what purpose, he had no idea. The poor salesman looked flummoxed, and who could blame him: here was this girl, 5 foot 3 on a good day, who seemed to know his job better than he himself did.

In the end, the check written and the papers signed, all that was left was for Jon to drive the thing off the lot. And that in itself was an adventure.

"Uh, Caitlyn ... I've never driven a truck before."

"It's not that hard. It's just a big car."

"It's a lot bigger than anything I've ever driven before," he said. He liked his Celica. It was small and unassuming. It wasn't large and overbearing and didn't reek of testosterone. A pickup truck involved more masculinity than he really cared for; after all, men did some pretty stupid things sometimes. Like drive trucks.

"You'll be fine," Caitlyn said, giving him a proud smile. "You can handle it."

"Yeah, assuming nobody sees me in the cab and snickers."

"Oh, come on," Caitlyn said, grinning. "Don't you want to be seen driving a big, strong, manly truck?"

"Not particularly. Why'd you have to decide on playing such a big, strong, manly instrument?"

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Ultimately, it wasn't too much harder than he'd expected. The V6 gave a lot more power than Buffy's four-banger, but the greater weight of the truck helped even things out. Nonetheless, the gas pedal was rather more sensitive than he was used to, and he knew the truck would be jumping a little bit until he got the hang of it. The most disconcerting part was the larger size of the vehicle, but he'd driven his parents' van enough times to have some capability with a larger car. It would take some time before he got the truck's various corners perfectly aligned in his mind, but he was confident he could do it.

Still, it wasn't Caitlyn driving their very-brand-new car off the lot and worrying about whether she was going to accidentally hit something with it.

They stopped at a McDonald's for dinner. Jon parked very carefully and then joined his wife inside. As they sat down, he realized it was basically the first time all day they'd had time off together. "So," he said. "How was your day?"

"Well," said Caitlyn between a handful of fries, "we just bought a truck, so I'd say it's been pretty eventful so far." She grinned.

"Any specific details on this wedding you're playing at?"

"Not really. They gave me the music they want played, and half of it I've done before and the other half doesn't look hard. It's at a church in Westhaven and they want me there at 2 PM, so we'll probably want to leave here at about 1 just to be safe. And we can do it! We have a truck!"

"How much are they paying you?"

"About standard rate. $300."

"Not bad. That's another, you know, fifteen or twenty dinners at McDonald's."

He hadn't meant anything by this, but to Caitlyn it had a sobering effect. "Yeah. Accountant or not, they never told us just how fast it goes. Three hundred dollars seems like a lot of money, but when you get down to it..."

"Especially in light of the, you know, $10,000 we just put down."

"At least the monthly payments are lower that way."

"Yep. We should probably focus on paying that off ... You know, if we have any spare money after rent and utilities and living expenses and whathaveyou."

"What, you mean, send in extra money?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, you're probably right..."

There was a short, comfortable silence. Jon put his arm around her, drew her close; she rested her head on his shoulder, he on the top of her head. How many times had they sat like this over the year-and-a-half of their love?

"We never do this anymore," she said. "We never just ... Sit together. We're always busy. Or, you know. Doing it."

"Yeah. Not that there's anything wrong with doing it."

"No, of course not." He heard her smile. "But it's nice to do other things too."

They stayed like that for a little while, but it was hard to eat and they separated again.

"How was school?"

"Oh ... You know. School."

"Still excited about your classes now that you've had them?"

"Well ... I know how much work they're going to be. But it should still be fun. I mean, I was excited to take them because I want to learn what they teach."

"Any cool new people?"

"Mmm, not really. Just the same old. It's not that big a Music department. Besides, they're ... Well. I mean, it's kind of like being at the college group, you know? They're so young sometimes."

"Yeah."

"They're all like, you know, 'I got so wasted last night' or 'Dude, this girl's totally coming on to me' or 'How do I get my boyfriend to stop staring at other girls' ... And I'm sitting here thinking about how to optimize the car payments. It's a different world."

"That doesn't have to be an obstacle. You can join their world."

"Yeah..."

"Isn't that how you felt when you were friends with the Cranes and the Chamberses?—that they were in a different place from you?"

"Yeah, but ... Well, number one, they're not anymore. We've joined them. And, number two, I don't really want to go back. What the kids talk about seems so ... Shallow."

He smiled. " 'Kids.' You do realize they're probably older than you. I mean, you skipped how-many grades?"

"Yeah ... And, I mean, there are some older people there too, but ... I don't feel like I fit in with them either. They have kids and stuff." She sighed. "I guess I'm just an outsider."

He put his arm around her shoulders again. "We all are. You and me and Brandon and Meredith and everyone. That's why we're such good friends. That's why we love each other."

She turned to look at him. "You? You're not an outsider."

"Maybe not anymore," he said. "But that isn't because I met people who just magically let me in. I learned. I learned how to be ... How to get along with people. How to, you know, present myself. So that people didn't want to kick me out. And I learned how to be comfortable and not kick myself out."

"Really?" she said. "How do you do that?"

"Well..." He shrugged uncomfortably. "First, you have to stop judging people. I mean, yeah, these kids in your class sound kind of immature, but you have to be willing to give them a chance anyway. Second ... Well, you just gotta open your mouth. Let things come out."

She grimaced. "Whenever I do that, I sound like an idiot."

"I know. That's part of the learning. Everyone starts that way. But either you keep going and learn how to stop sounding stupid, or ... You stop talking."

"Guess which one I picked." She grimaced again. "I think changing myself would be a lot easier if it didn't involve, you know, changing myself."

"Yeah. But even if it's hard, it's worth doing."

"I always ... I mean, I'm there, and, I always have chances to meet people and make new friends and..."

"Well ... If at first you don't succeed, right?" Inspiration struck: "—Or, think of it as turning the other cheek."

"To the people? I mean, I've barely talked to them."

"To yourself."

She was silent.

"If it's important to give other people a second chance, how much more important is it to give yourself one? If it's important to love other people, how much more important is it to love yourself?"

Caitlyn gave a sad shake of her head. "Loving yourself isn't easy."

"I know. You'd think they'd've taught us these things."

"But at least I have you to love me," she said. "That helps."

"Well," he said, smiling, "I'm glad to be useful."

When they got home, they draped themselves over the couch by silent agreement; Jon knew she must be trying to preserve the mood, and was content to do the same. For a short time they merely sat together, his arm around her waist and her head on his far shoulder; when they kissed it was gentle, without urgency. He was reminded of the early days of their love, when everything about her was new and every day dawned with the promise of discovery, when at any point he might learn more about her or find out something new. There had been an innocence to those times that he found he missed. Today...

"I wish we'd had more time," he said. "I wish we'd been able to ... Explore more. Before we got married."

Caitlyn looked up at him. "Jon, I wasn't going to have sex with you before we got married."

"I know," he said. "I just meant ... I mean, there's other stuff that, kind of ... Leads up to it."

"That counts as 'sex' in my book," she said. "Foreplay counts."

"I know. I remember." A wry smile. "But, seriously, Caitlyn, what happens if I do this?" He moved his hand from her stomach to her breast.

She shrugged. "You can do that."

"But is it a big deal? Is it something that ... I mean, remember how big a deal it was for me to, to rub your back, or to touch your bare stomach?"

"I think I see what you mean," she said.

"I just wish we could've ... Spread it all out a bit more."

She smiled. "We could've waited to have sex."

"Pfft. Yeah right."

She kissed his cheek. "Yeah. And I think I understand your viewpoint a little more. Back before we got married, I never understood why ... I mean, yeah, I enjoyed what we did together—what you did to my body, the way you made me feel—but it wasn't really anything special. I didn't know it could be special. And now I see that you were trying to teach me that. And ... I kinda wish I would've let you."

He kissed her forehead. "Yeah, but, what would you have done if I'd tried to go all the way?"

She smiled. "Told you to put your pants back on. Politely, of course." She reached up to stroke his face. "And that's one reason I am glad we waited—so that I never had to tell you that."

He smiled back, and kissed the palm of her hand. "How come you never ask me for backrubs anymore?" he asked.

It was a jump, but evidently her thoughts were in the same place his were, because she followed it. "I dunno. I don't need them as much, I guess." She smiled. "You relax me."

"And besides, your mother isn't around to stiffen you up."

"That too. I'm also not practicing the harp as much. That's eighty pounds balancing on my right shoulder—it's a lot of stress."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I dunno, just wondering. I hadn't done it in a while and I like doing it."

"Even with all the other stuff you get to do to me?"

"Even with all that. Caitlyn, I love you. Every part of you is wonderful to me."

She smiled and kissed him again. "Every now and then, you remind me of why I married you."

She lay on her stomach on the couch, as she had so many times before, and Jon straddled her hips. Her skin was warm to his touch; they had always joked about his poor circulation, but Caitlyn didn't have that problem, and even during the first dates there had been some "heat redistribution" from her to him. He gave her a preliminary once-over with his hands and then began working his way up her spine in deep, firm strokes, kneading the tension from her muscles. His thumbs were strong by now, but he remembered when a prolonged session would leave him sore. Of course, Caitlyn was also a lot more stressed out back then; now her muscles felt like butter, pliant and not requiring much work. Where once he had had to battle knots of tension, today they just seemed to melt away.

"Mmm," she said, a verbal smile.

Backrubs had been one of his few excuses to touch her bare skin, though she'd never allowed her shirt to get rucked up very far. Once, it had been a big deal; today, if he asked her to take her shirt off entirely, she probably would. He decided not to. There was something to be said for innocence.

"Never mind the bedroom stuff," Caitlyn said. "You're doing this to me every night."

"I would love to," he said.

"Mmm ... And I might even have some ways to reward you."

He heard the promise implicit in her voice, and deliberately ignored it. He didn't need any thanks for loving her; it was what he had been made for. "Whatever you want is fine with me."

He had never been allowed to massage her legs before—too much potential for sexual content—and once he had finished with her shoulders he began working down them for the first time. There were jeans in the way, there was not much to see; and Caitlyn was quiescent under his hands, not displeased but clearly not excited either. This was new territory, and there were things he would need to learn.

She finally spoke when he got down to her feet. "Where are you going?"

"Just ... Exploring. Are your feet ticklish?"

"I dunno."

"Do you like foot massages?"

"I dunno."

"Hence the exploring."

"Okay."

He helped her out of her socks, sitting cross-legged at the other end of the couch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her turn over so that she was lying on her back, looking up at him.

Hers were the first feet he had ever paid attention to. Her skin was pale and soft (as ever it was), and her toes small but well-shaped. He noticed immediately that her smallest toenails were somewhat misformed, almost rectangular in shape like his were—was this a human-wide thing, or just them? Her feet were a little cooler than the rest of her, but dry, and without smell. They were beautiful to him—small and somewhat delicate, but not without strength.

When he looked up, she wiggled her toes at him with an amused smile on her face. "Finding anything interesting?"

"Well, I found these feet," he said. "Also, some toes. I'm still investigating."

"Oh? You think there may be more to find?"

"Quite possibly," he said with a smile. Hands were sensitive; he knew that from first-hand experience. And, considering the evolutionary etymology of feet, he didn't see any reason why they should be any different.

He began to knead the musculature of her foot—the long muscles along the inner arch, the broader ones along the flat. He wasn't as familiar with the anatomy of her foot; actually, he wasn't very skilled at massage in general: all he had to go on was a few Internet articles and some hands-on experience with Caitlyn. The end result was that he was condemned to a lot of fumbling around at first.

When her feet seemed as relaxed as they were going to get, he shifted gears to his fingers and fingernails. If the skin was really as sensitive, then liberal application should yield something nice ... And indeed, she seemed pleased with the attention.

And yet... "Jon, are you ... Are you going to spend a lot of time down there?"

"Why?"

"Well, it ... It just seems ... Sort of ... Weird."

"Why, do you not like it?"

She shrugged. "It's not ... There's nothing wrong with it. It's just ... Are you supposed to like my feet?"

" ... Am I not supposed to?"

"Well ... It's not exactly what I imagined."

"What do you mean?"

"I just ... Do you remember what Pastor Pendleton said, about good things sometimes leading us astray?"

He sighed. Not this again. "Caitlyn, is there anything in Scripture that says that I'm not allowed to like your feet?"

"Well, no, but—"

They were saved from this morass by the ringing of Caitlyn's cellphone, buried somewhere in her backpack. Wordlessly Jon stood up and found it for her. The tag on the little screen sent a stab of ice through him: Mom.

Caitlyn stared at the screen for maybe two seconds before answering.

"Hello? ... Yes ... Yes, hi, Mom. Umm. Hi ... What's going on?"

Jon sat back down on the couch, a feeling of dread in his gut. As far as he was concerned, Linda Delaney's presence never heralded anything good.

"Yes ... Yes ... Well, I have a wedding to play that weekend, so it has to end before ... Okay ... Okay, that's fine ... Well, if they want me back— Hold on." She took the phone away from her mouth and turned to face her husband. "Yes?"

"You don't have to say Yes," he said.

"Jon, they're asking me—"

"I know they're asking you. If they asked you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?"

She gave him a look of affection and exasperation mixed. "I hardly think playing at a church service is jumping off a bridge. Mom says they miss me."

"That's all well and good, but you have to think of yourself. You know how hard it is for you to say No."

"Yes, but is this the place to start? This is my church, Jon. We've barely gone to church since we got married. This is important to me. And besides ... This is my gift. This is what God blessed me with. He didn't give me these talents just so I could please myself; He gave them to me so that I could share them with others."

He said nothing. After all, didn't he feel the same way? That, if someone needed him, he should be there for them, and never count the cost? It was the other thing that bound him to Caitlyn, to Brandon and Meredith and Zach and Christa and all those other outsiders: the idea that some things, some needs, were more important than his own happiness. Way more important.

"Then I'll be there," Caitlyn said. "But only for that, all right? If there's something else they want me to do, I want to hear about it by next Monday. You're lucky my friend is getting married on Saturday, or we wouldn't be able to come at all." Jon smiled at her; this was a definite shift in tone from the somewhat-limp assertions of personhood she had used to make. "And if there's something else you want to do, I want to hear about it by next— Oh. Okay. Okay ... Umm. Well. Hold on."

She turned to Jon again. "She wants us to come to dinner on Friday."

Jon covered his face with his hands. "Didn't we have this fight already?"

"Jon, she's my mother. She says she misses me. She says she wants to make peace between us."

The ache in her voice pierced him, but he made himself ignore it. Would she sound the same about me? "She wants to use you, Caitlyn. You're not a person to her, you're just a thing she uses to feel better about herself. And if you don't let her, she'll just beat you up until you fall in line. What did we get married for, if not to get you free of her?"

"We got married because we love each other," she shot back. "And because we want to share our lives together. Because we want the same thing from our lives, and the best way to get those things is together."

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

"And one of the things I want in my life is my mother's presence," Caitlyn said.

"I understand that."

"Do you? Jon, if I asked you to cut loose from your mother, to just never speak to her again ... How would that make you feel?"