Love is a Wounded Soldier (11 page)

Unsure if we were dealing with a deaf man,
or merely a social Neanderthal, I dragged my heels a little in case he had
failed to hear us pull up or our car doors slam. Only after we stopped a few
feet away did he slowly lower the paper. He was a mustachioed, austere-looking man
who looked a young fifty. His intense eyes scrutinized us as we waited for him
to speak. He didn’t. I waited for him to offer a questioning look, at least,
but it seemed this man would have lost no sleep had we left without informing
him of our reason for disturbing him.

“Are you Samuel J. Lawrence?” I finally
ventured.

“Yup,” he said, and allowed another silence
to bloat.

“We were wondering if you’d be so kind as
to marry us,” I requested timorously. He seemed a little annoyed, but pulled a
date book out of his breast pocket and flipped through until he found the right
week.

“So, when would you like to get married?”
he asked, producing a pen from the same pocket.

“Right now.” I couldn’t think of a way to
soften my reply. He finally deviated from his stolid air and treated us with a
look of mild surprise that morphed into an amused expression.

“No, no, that’s not going to work,” he
said. “I have a dinner to be at in just over an hour, so that will take up the
rest of my day.” He referred to his book, “Tomorrow is a full day for me, so
Saturday afternoon is your closest option.” His tone didn’t leave much hope for
negotiation. Not willing to beg or bribe him, I was prepared to leave. But I
forgot to consider the strength of my ally against my own sex. Even the most
impassive man can be worked like silly putty by a beautiful woman, and I found
I had an eager volunteer capable of strategy and charm in my arsenal.

“But Mr. Lawrence,” Ellen reasoned, “we’ve
driven all the way from Coon Hollow to get married, and if we don’t get married
now, we’ll have to either go home, and drive all the way back here a different
time, or we’ll have to stay in a motel here for a few days, which we can’t
afford.” Her pleading expression suggested she was talking herself into a state
of tearful hysteria. “And Robbie has got livestock that will need tending, so
we can’t be gone for too long . . . I just don’t know what we’re going to do!”
she finally broke down and rummaged through her purse for a hanky, as I put my
arm around her and consoled her.

“Now, now. I think I may have enough to
stay in a hotel,” I comforted.

“But you can’t afford separate rooms,” she
sniffled, knowingly ignorant of how much cash I had wadded in my pocket. “What
will people
think
?” she sobbed, as though the thought of folks
questioning her virtue tortured her. I was about to lead her away before she
became an absolute wreck, when I saw Mr. Lawrence looking positively guilty
about the atrocity he’d unwittingly committed. Ellen saw it, too, through her
downpour of sorrow, and went for the jugular.

“Mr. Lawrence,” she supplicated, wiping her
eyes, “can you please do us this one favor? Please? It needn’t take long, and
we’d fondly remember your thoughtful kindness throughout our marriage.” She
articulated with an imploring earnestness that would have dissolved the most
calcified heart.

I watched, amazed, as the callous Mr.
Lawrence appeared ill at ease, his face betraying his shame.

“Well, uh, well, I guess it needn’t take
that long,” he parroted, trying to sound gruff, but succeeding only in sounding
strange.

He got off the swing and mutely walked
toward the door, rolling up his paper as he went. For most of the exchange, I
had been as duped as the Justice had been. Only near the end of Ellen’s
brilliant, manipulative charade had I finally caught on. I was still trying to
digest it all when Ellen prodded me to follow Mr. Lawrence. I looked at her,
and her tearless face split with a triumphant smile. She stuck out her tongue
at the oblivious Justice, and I had to disguise a laugh with a cough.

So, after taking a minute to recruit his
wife and son to stand in as witnesses, the good Mr. Lawrence married us in
short order. I think the whole thing moved along too quickly for Ellen or me to
have any sober second thoughts.

Before we left, I attempted to tip him out
of gratitude for his about-face, but he refused, rightly saying, “You need it
more than me,” and he then did his unenthusiastic version of wishing us well.

Ellen smiled and sweetly said, “Thank you,
you’re such a dear,” and I’d swear he reddened a little and his face
brightened.

As we breezed out the door, hand in sweaty
hand, I thought to myself that the old buzzard would probably still be sitting
on the porch, reading his paper, if we hadn’t interrupted.

We fairly ran to the car, and Ellen slid in
from my side. I slid in beside her, and we sat, staring into each other’s eyes
from inches away. We both burst out laughing.

“Mrs. Mattox, you are one sexy fox!” I
teased, trying to catch my breath in vain, because she invaded my mouth with
her lips and tongue, thoroughly convincing me that asphyxiation of this sort
was an invigorating way to die. When I finally came up for air, I laughed and
told Ellen, “If I don’t stop now, we’re going to have to tell our first child
he was conceived on Justice of the Peace Lawrence’s driveway, with Mr. Lawrence
himself glaring with righteous horror out the bay window!” A face had briefly
peered from behind the curtains, and I wondered whether he was waiting for us
to leave so he could resume his reading outside.

As we left, I looked over at Ellen. She was
so stunning, and I felt that sweet aching that love is. I felt the kind of love
that stirs and swells in you, corks your throat up tight, and pushes tears to
the corners of your eyes.

“I love you.” I snuck the words past the
cork in my throat. She turned to face me, her eyes glistening with dewy tears.
Her lips trembled happily.

“I love you, too, Robbie,” she said, freely
letting the tears chase each other down her face. It wasn’t a charade this
time.

Since we’d decided to spend our honeymoon
camping, and had no provisions and a limited amount of gear packed, we had to
make a stop at a general store to pick up some necessary supplies. I couldn’t
expect my new bride to live off the land, so I bought as much fresh food as I
thought we’d eat before it spoiled, some dry goods, a frying pan, and other
utensils I thought we’d need. I looked at my rapidly depleting roll of bills
and was glad we had decided to forego staying in a hotel.

We gassed up and headed back in the
direction of Coon Hollow. Confident I had a good eye for the lay of the land, I
had kept a sharp eye out for places that looked like promising campsites on our
way to Gatlinburg, and there was one spot that I had particularly high hopes
for, which was approximately halfway in between towns, I figured.

We bid farewell to city limits, and Ellen
commenced exercising her newfound wifely liberty, exploring my body with her
fingers, stroking and stoking the fires of desire until they burned white hot.
I reciprocated with my free hand, and this continued until we mutually decided
we needed to either find a suitable place to satiate our gnawing appetites, or
hold off and resume once we had a campsite established. It was with great
reluctance we agreed to abstain. The hour or so we would have to wait seemed to
be an eternity at the time.

I turned on the radio in an effort to
distract us. Clyde Daniels came on singing “Blue Eyed Girl,” and I turned to
Ellen and sang the song to her:

“Hand in hand we’ll walk along life’s
pathway, you and I,”

“You give me the kind of love that makes my
spirits fly,”

“When you smile like sunshine all my cloudy
feelings flee,”

“I was meant for you my love, and you were
meant for me.”

“Blue eyed girl . . .”

Ellen’s ear-to-ear grin seemed to indicate
she was both flattered and a little amused by my serenade.

Before long I began to feel we were getting
close to the area I’d mentally noted as a good camping spot. I slowed down and
examined every dip and knoll in the land. I wanted a place near water, and the
terrain looked liked it would support a waterway some distance away, on the
south side of the road, but it appeared that it would be difficult to get close
to the river with the car. I kept driving, and had almost given up when I
spotted what looked to be an old logging road, almost obscured by the
surrounding trees.

I carefully turned down it, crawling along
as though driving on ice. It was obvious the road was rarely, if ever used, as
the waist-high grass showed no signs of being driven on, and four-foot-tall
saplings grew sporadically in the way, bowing under the belly of the car as we
drove, only to whip up defiantly once we had passed.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Ellen
questioned me doubtfully.

“Don’t you trust me?” I laughed as I felt
my way forward, wincing when we’d hit a hidden rock or rut.

After cautiously driving nearly a half
mile, we finally emerged into a large meadow. The absence of any mature trees
left me at a loss to determine whether the road continued through the meadow,
so I just followed the path of least resistance up and over the rise, to see if
the road continued elsewhere on the other side. It didn’t seem to, so I parked
as close to the tree line as possible and shut off the engine.

It was so quiet. I could hear water flowing
somewhere. The heat had finally begun diminishing, but it was still sultry. The
waning sun shone through a membrane of haze. I glanced at Ellen, worried she
might be weary of our little adventure already, but she just smiled like the
good sport that she was and said, “Let’s go!”

We eagerly collected our things. Ellen
helped load me like a pack mule; there seemed to be a few things dangling on
every side of me, hanging from my neck, shoulders, anywhere something could be
draped. She took what she could, and we both stood staring at the dense
underbrush. We could see maybe 10 feet into the tangle of grass, foliage, and
vines.

“Follow me,” I ordered, forging ahead into
a jungle of green. Every step was a fight. I tried to trample as much of the
underbrush as possible and break off obstructing branches for Ellen, but it
wasn’t much easier going for her than me. I attempted to follow the easiest
path, but there really didn’t seem to be one. Once, I heard her yelp as I inadvertently
allowed a branch I’d pushed past to spring back and hit her. I couldn’t turn
around, but I shouted an apology, and she assured me it had hit her neck, not
her face. After 100 yards or so, the terrain began to decline, and I could see
the brush thinning ahead. The downward grade made it harder to maintain my
footing, and I had to battle to keep the dead weight that surrounded me from
pushing me headlong down the hill.

We finally arrived near the river. Large
trees were sparsely scattered on the grassy bank. I dropped my bags, almost
dropping with them, and turned and looked at Ellen. My little trooper mustered
a smile, albeit a much grimmer one than she’d displayed twenty minutes before.
She looked down at a family of burrs matted in her hair, surrounded by a small
nest of twigs and leaves. I pulled a caterpillar off my own head, and we both
laughed quietly, as if to say, “This would be hilarious if this were someone
else we were watching.” I wiped the torrent of perspiration from my face, and
saw my wife was positively drenched as well.

“Well, I guess it can only get better,” she
said, and we both chuckled.

There was a spot, a long stone’s throw
upstream, where the grass clothed the riverbank until almost the water’s edge.
A small, flat clearing at the top seemed to be a likely spot to pitch a tent,
so I hoisted my baggage and led the way over there. I noted the shallow, rocky
stream bowed sharply at that spot, jutting like the belly of a pregnant woman.

“I think we stop here,” I said, dropping my
gear and rubbing the places the straps had dug into.

“I feel disgusting!” Ellen exclaimed. “And
I smell!” I walked over and kissed her wet, salty mouth.

“Ew, I’m dirty!” She moved away, not
knowing whether to be upset or laugh.

“You still look beautiful,” I told her,
mostly telling the truth.

“I need a bath. I feel like diving into the
river right now!” I didn’t have to be a woman to know what she felt like. Dust,
dirt, and forest debris clung to my wet skin and seemed to crawl into every
crease and crinkle in my body. And she’d been wearing a skirt. Her legs must
have been stinging, because I could see angry little scratches on them, but she
didn’t complain. I looked at the river. It appeared we’d found an almost
perfect place for bathing. It was tempting to strip down, dive in, and rid
ourselves of the sweat and filth, but I knew how easily we would get distracted
by each other then, and since the sun was taking a bow, I decided if we wanted
to avoid setting up the tent and gathering wood in the dark, we’d better focus
on that first.

“We need to get the tent set up before it’s
dark,” I told her. She grimaced a little, but nodded and started taking the
tent pegs out of the bag.

I took the hatchet that I kept with the
tent and headed over to a nearby tree that had conveniently died several years
before. The little hatchet had seen better days, and so instead of hacking
through entire branches, I notched them and tried to break them off. The sweat
poured off me in buckets. When I finally had enough wood for two armfuls, I
took it back to where Ellen sat waiting for me to help her put up the tent.
That only took a few minutes, and after I gathered a few rocks for a fire pit,
I started a tidy little blaze.