Chapter 12

Jenn's turn:

A month now. It's been a month since our actual wedding day. We haven't exchanged a cross word between us. I have cooked meals and seen him enjoy himself. HE'S cooked and afterward I swore that we needed salads and bike rides for a week afterward.

The house is spotless. I don't have to pick up after him. He doesn't have to pick up after me. We keep things taken care of between us. Of course the first day I walked into his house, it was clean. Now that it's OUR house, it's spotless.

My life. Since my car died on the interstate, it's been spotless. Bright. Happy.

At least the domestic part. Work is work. I'm doing nursing in the ICU, and right now, today, I have two patients, well, two and a half. We've got five in the ward, and two nurses, and this is the sad part of life because both of my patients are at the ends of long lives and honestly, I don't think either of them will ever live to leave my ward. Every few hours I usher in the limited number of visitors and I try to smile and be comforting and supportive because, heaven knows, my patients are more than the dear old lady in that bed.

That's draining. Even more draining when I come in for the shift and see that the patient in the room is different.

So I go home and Chuck gets to hold me. "Bad day?" he asks.

"Mrs. Johnson didn't make it."

"She was ninety-one, baby. Had her family there. Probably would've been better if they took 'er out of ICU."

"I know. Chuck, when I go, I want people to love me like that."

"You know they will, my Jenn. I love you like that."

He was caressing my head when I determined that he should be kissed. I need his kisses. He needs mine.

Right now I'm on my way home. I get home a half hour before he does. That means I get to do dinner tonight, at least the entrée. A couple of weekends ago we did a Saturday full of cooking, the idea being that we'd stock our freezer with frozen entrées that we could pop into the oven for dinner. Today it's lasagna.

What I'm saying is that life is normal, like in 'He'll be home at a quarter to five or I'll get a phone call' normal. A 'Don't do anything for dinner. Be thinking of a restaurant' normal.

And the gigglingly abnormal. "I'm on the way home, Jenn. Do I need to stop for anything?"

"Nope. We're good."

I'm trusting that Chuck would TELL me if he was bringing somebody home with him because when he walked in the door, I was standing behind it, slamming it shut and locking it and all I had on were my ear studs.

Well, it takes a while for the oven to properly heat a block of frozen casserole, the housework's done, and whatever could we find that's more entertaining?

"Where'd you come up with THIS idea?" he asked after his breathing stabilized.

"I take it that this was well received?"

"Guys dream about this, baby," he said.

"You could've said something, you know," I sighed. Darned right I sighed. I'm post-orgasmic and I'm being cuddled and kissed.

"No, I couldn't. It had to be spontaneous and voluntary on your part. That's part of the magic."

I giggled. "Chuck, my love, you're my magic. It's okay for you to ask..."

"And it's okay for you to improvise," he spoke softly. "You just keep making my heart pound."

I felt a tingle between my legs. "Something else got pounded, guy. I understand that I got you good!"

He's got me good.

All that good stuff, and then the phone calls started. Naturally, Bert, the ex, had my cell number. I answered one. Told him simply and as politely as I could muster that I did not want to talk to him now nor in the future.

Told Chuck. I'm not keeping anything secret from Chuck. Bert does not know where I live, at least that was what I thought.

Another phone call. I dodged it and blocked his number. Another phone call. From another number.

"No, Bert. Not now, not ever. Stop calling me."

Told Chuck.

"Let's go see my lawyer buddy and get a restraining order."

Lawyer buddy said it was easy to fill out the paperwork, but that Bert needed to be served. That's a problem. I don't think Bert has his own address. Since I let the apartment go (it was in my name) I don't know what he's doing for living arrangements. I imagine he might be crashing at a buddy's place, but I can't begin to list addresses.

"It's gonna be difficult," the lawyer said. "We'll post it and hit every address you gave me. Do you think he's dangerous?"

"I dunno," I said.

Afterward, in the car, Chuck said, "Range weekend. All the pistols. The shotgun..."

I sighed. "Chuck, I'm sorry. I didn't want this..."

"You didn't ask for it, princess, but here it is. He'll get tired..."

"I hope so."

"You don't think he'd..."

"I ... he had a rowdy period in his life, but he never put his hands on me. And it's been a year and a half since he got in a fight, at least one that I know of." I could see the wheels turning behind Chuck's eyes. "Chuck, I'm sorry about all this. I meant it when I said 'you and me, forever'."

"I love you, Jenn. This is scary, though."

"If he was the last man on earth, Chuck, I'd kill myself first. You've been better for me in a month than he was in two years." I felt my eyes get wet. I'm NOT a crier, but I felt the tears. "Chuck, hang on to me. Please."

His hand reached over, fingers open. I laced mine in his.

"It's too late," he said. "I'm irrevocably in love with you."

"Good!" I said.

We got home, entered into delightful domesticity. Still, in the back of my head I had a feeling of unease, and it's the first time I've had that feeling since I first snuggled into Chuck's arms.

Over dinner, he read my eyes, I guess.

"We'll get through this, Jenn," he said.

I felt the implied 'if that's what you want to do.' "I love my new life, Chuck. I know it's strange to some ways of thinking, but we've got a little more than a month together, and I love you. Real love. The forever kind. And I don't want you going through a lot of crap because we're together."

"Look, babe," he said, "I made the vow with you. We're a unit. All the way across the board, from this kitchen right out into the whole wide world."

"I'm not paranoid, Jenn, just prepared," Chuck says. "Home invasions in the news. Not in our neighborhood, but who knows? And last summer up the street, there was a break-in. Cops showed up to investigate afterward. Consensus seems to be that the old couple had a grandson who knew what sort of things they kept in their home. They went out one evening, came back to find the back door broken in. It's my house. I will do what I can to protect it. Hiding in the closet is an option, but not the ONLY option." He watched my face for reaction. "And now I have YOU to protect. It's a sad man who won't stand between those whom he loves and those who would harm them."

I hear him say things like this, about life and security and such, and I don't get that 'poser' vibe nor the 'macho' vibe. I get the 'mature and competent' vibe and the 'I love you' vibe.

So Saturday morning we're at the local range. Chuck is a member of the club and Saturday mornings the place is somewhat busy, causing me to feel kind of shy because I'm the only 'two 'X' chromosome' type in the crowd. Chuck doesn't flinch. Everyone he recognizes gets the 'Hi, Bob! Meet my wife, Jenn!" treatment.

I recognize one shooter in the bunch besides Chuck. It's one of the guys who was at the rifle match.

"Hello, Chuck. Hi, Jenn," Jerry said. "Practicing?"

"Just exercising and refamiliarizing with some of our things," Chuck said.

"Don't let 'er practice, Chuck. If she practices, she's gonna embarrass a lot of us."

"Thank, you, Jerry. I think."

"Jenn, you just do it. A lot of those balloons on the firing line need a bit of deflation." He smiled. "Funny! I'm an old guy, and even with all this women's lib stuff, it still hurts to get beat by a girl."

We did practice. I haven't done a lot of pistol shooting, so we went through a couple of boxes of cheap ammo to familiarize me with the four different pistols we own, then Chuck and another guy worked with me on accuracy.

"Ignore what you see in the movies," Aaron said. "If you can use two hands, USE two hands. We're talking about defensive range here, so we'll practice at seven yards." They set me up some human-sized silhouette targets.

"Don't try to get cute," Chuck said. "This isn't shooting at little black dots and you don't shoot to wound. Aim for the center of the chest."

I tried a few rounds. Just like they said, I saw something: Good grip, and ignore the rear sight. Put the front sight on the target and pull the trigger.

Chuck and I both took a half an hour to work on that rifle thing. I got a lot of stares when Chuck rolled out the shooting mat and I wiggled down into the prone position with that little black rifle.

Got a lot more stares when the range went cold and we retrieved the target. It's only a hundred yards, so the target is reduced to simulate 600 yards. Giggle. Ten round string. ALL in the black. four nines, five tens. One X.

Chuck chided me. "Use your spotting scope. When you KNOW you had a center hold and your shot is off, ask yourself: Wind? Light? And adjust your sights. You could've gotten a lot more X's if your group was centered."

"Yes, Master!" Giggle. It's a shooting joke. Chuck's official marksmanship classification for rifle matches is 'Master'.

Next ten round string, all tens and X's.

We popped open the cleaning box and cleaned all the weapons while we were still at the range. Was good that way. Lots of conversations. Meet people with common interests.

We stopped at a barbecue joint on the way home, did the drive-thru, left with a pound of brisket and some baked beans and potato salad. Dinner was pleasant. Saturday night, we took in a movie, ate bad fast food.

Sunday is church. Yes, I know ... could sleep late. Don't. Get up. Go to church.

After church, another phone call. Unrecognized number, but in this area code. A hang-up. I didn't call it back.

Monday was nominal. I was lucky. Agency nurses usually get to do weekends and weird shifts, and honestly, I can do it, but I do so much enjoy life with Chuck. I would think long and hard about having to work a schedule that conflicted with his. He and I have talked. I don't HAVE to work if I don't want to. Still ... paychecks...

Tuesday was different. When I checked in at the nurse's station, there was an envelope with my name on it. Didn't look official at all. My printed name on the front looked vaguely familiar. It did show me as Virginia LeBert, though, so I thought ... Chuck's had flowers delivered up here for ME. Wowed the other staff something fierce.

And then I opened it. From Bert.

"How long has this been here," I asked the outgoing ward clerk.