The Pioneer Woman (20 page)

My stomach fluttered as I hung up the phone and resumed work on my collage. I decided to really go for it and pretend I was back in sixth grade, when I'd been given a similar “About Me” collage assignment by my teacher, Mrs. Stinson. Back then I'd spent over a week cutting the guts out of old ballet magazines, painstakingly gluing pictures of Gelsey Kirkland,
Mikhail Baryshnikov, and so many of the other ballet greats I idolized at that time, and adorning the cracks and borders of the collage with images of pointe shoes, tutus, tiaras, ballet bags, and leg warmers. Ballet had been my life then, just as it had remained all the way through school. It had been my one and only focus until boys came into the picture, and even they'd had to fight ballet for my time, energy, and attention.

I worked into the night, reminiscing about my past while constructing a collage about the man of my future, and felt pangs of bittersweet nostalgia for the way I'd felt in the sixth grade when I was making that ballet collage, and in seventh, and in eighth, when my only thought of tomorrow was which color comb I'd stick into the back pocket of my Lee jeans, back when my parents were together and in love. When I was so blissfully unaware that a splintering family could hurt so very much.

I worked and worked, and before I knew it, my collage was finished. Still damp from Elmer's glue, the masterpiece included images of horses—courtesy, coincidentally, of Marlboro cigarette ads—and footballs. There were pictures of Ford pickups and green grass—anything I could find in my old magazines that even remotely hinted at country life. There was a rattlesnake: Marlboro Man hated snakes. And a photo of a dark, starry night: Marlboro Man was afraid of the dark as a child. There were Dr Pepper cans, a chocolate cake, and John Wayne, whose likeness did me a great favor by appearing in some ad in
Golf Digest
in the early 1980s.

My collage would have to do, even though it was missing any images depicting the less tangible things—the real things—I knew about Marlboro Man. That he missed his brother Todd every day of his life. That he was shy in social settings. That he knew off-the-beaten-path Bible stories—not the typical Samson-and-Delilah and David-and-Goliath tales, but obscure, lesser-known stories that I, in a lifetime of skimming, would never have hoped to read. That he hid in an empty trash barrel during a game of hide-and-seek at the Fairgrounds when he was seven…and that he'd gotten stuck and had to be extricated by firefighters. That he hated
long pasta noodles because they were too difficult to eat. That he was sweet. Caring. Serious. Strong. The collage was incomplete—sorely lacking vital information. But it would have to do for now. I was tired.

My phone rang at midnight, just as I was clearing my bed of the scissors and magazines and glue. It was Marlboro Man, who'd just returned to his home after processing 250 head of cattle in the dark of night. He just wanted to say good night. I would forever love that about him.

“What've you been doing tonight?” he asked. His voice was scratchy. He sounded spent.

“Oh, I just finished up my homework assignment,” I answered, rubbing my eyes and glancing at the collage on my bed.

“Oh…good job,” he said. “I've got to go get some sleep so I can get over there and get after it in the morning….” His voice drifted off. Poor Marlboro Man—I felt so sorry for him. He had cows on one side, Father Johnson on the other, a wedding in less than a week, and a three-week vacation in another continent. The last thing he needed to do was flip through old issues of
Seventeen
magazine for pictures of lip gloss and Sun-In. The last thing he needed to deal with was Elmer's glue.

My mind raced, and my heart spoke up. “Hey, listen…,” I said, suddenly thinking of a brilliant idea. “I have an idea. Just sleep in tomorrow morning—you're so tired….”

“Nah, that's okay,” he said. “I need to do the—”

“I'll do your collage for you!” I interrupted. It seemed like the perfect solution.

Marlboro Man chuckled. “Ha—no way. I do my own homework around here.”

“No, seriously!” I insisted. “I'll do it—I have all the stuff here and I'm totally in the zone right now. I can whip it out in less than an hour, then we can both sleep till at least eight.”

As if he'd ever slept till eight in his life.

“Nah…I'll be fine,” he said. “I'll see you in the morning….”

“But…but…,” I tried again. “Then
I
can sleep till at least eight.”

“Good night…” Marlboro Man trailed off, probably asleep with his ear to the receiver.

I made the command decision to ignore his protest and spent the next hour making his collage. I poured my whole heart and soul into it, delving deep and pulling out all the stops, marveling as I worked at how well I actually knew myself, and occasionally cracking up at the fact that I was doing Marlboro Man's premarital homework for him—homework that was mandatory if we were to be married by this Episcopal priest. But on the outside chance Marlboro Man's tired body was to accidentally oversleep, at, at least he wouldn't have to walk in the door of Father Johnson's study empty-handed.

 

I
WAS AWAKENED
at dawn to the sound of Marlboro Man knocking on the front door. A rancher through and through, he'd made good on his promise to show up at six. I should have known. He'd probably gotten fewer than five hours of sleep.

I stumbled down the stairs, trying in vain to steady myself so I'd look like I'd been awake for longer than seven seconds. When I opened the door he was there, in his Wranglers, looking impossibly appealing for someone so profoundly sleep-deprived. The sweetness of his gentle grin was matched only by his adorably puffy eyes, which made him look like a little boy despite the steel gray hair on his head. My stomach fluttered; I wondered if there'd ever be a time when it would stop.

“Good morning,” he said, stepping inside the door and nuzzling his face into my neck. A thousand tiny feathers tickled my skin.

Marlboro Man announced that he was ready to get to work on the collage; I smiled as we headed upstairs. I immediately made a beeline for the bathroom, where I manically brushed my teeth with Close-Up. Twice. I was wearing pajamas. My eyes were puffy. I looked like a woman twice my
age. When I finally walked out into the bedroom, primped as I could hope to be at six in the morning, Marlboro Man was standing near my bed, holding the two collages in his hands and looking them over.

“Oh, you're in big trouble,” he said, holding up the collage I'd made on his behalf.

“In trouble?” I smiled. “With you or Father Johnson?”

“Both,” he said, lunging at me and tackling me onto the bed. “You were
not
supposed to do that.” I laughed and tried to wriggle loose. He tickled my ribs. I screamed.

Three seconds later, when he felt I'd been adequately punished, we sat up and propped our heads against the pillows of my bed. “You did not do my homework assignment for me,” he said, grabbing the collage again and looking it over.

“I had insomnia,” I said. “I needed a creative activity.” Marlboro Man looked at me, seemingly unsure of whether to kiss me, thank me…or just tickle me some more.

I didn't give him a chance. Instead I picked up the collage and took Marlboro Man on a tour so he'd be prepared for our appointment.

“Here's a pack of cigarettes,” I said. “Because I used to smoke in college.”

“Uh-huh,” he answered. “I knew that.”

“And here's a glass of white wine,” I continued. “Because…I love white wine.”

“Yes, I've noticed,” Marlboro Man answered. “But…won't Father Johnson have a problem with that being on there?”

“Nah…,” I said. “He's Episcopalian.”

“Got it,” he said.

I continued with my collage orientation, pointing out the swatch of my favorite shade of turquoise…the pug…the ballet shoe…the Hershey's Kiss. He watched and listened intently, prepping himself for Father Johnson's upcoming grilling. Gradually the earliness of the morning and the
cozy warmth of my bedroom got the better of us, and before we knew it we'd sunk into the irresistible softness of my bed, our arms and legs caught in a tangled maze.

“I think I love you,” his raspy voice whispered, his lips nearly touching my ear. His arms wrapped even more tightly around my body, swallowing me almost completely.

We woke up just in time to make our 10:00
A.M.
appointment. Ironically, after all the last-minute cramming, Father Johnson barely asked us about the specifics of the collages. Instead we spent most of our time walking around the sanctuary and preparing for the upcoming rehearsal. As much as I loved Father Johnson, I was more than excited that this would be our last official meeting together before he finally got down to business and married us. We wound up passing our Father Johnson test with flying colors…feeling only slightly guilty that we'd cheated on our homework.

There wasn't much time for guilt, anyway; the wedding was five days away.

I
HAD A
list of wedding tasks a mile long: bridesmaid gifts, luncheons, catering decisions…and trying to keep everything happy and peaceful between my parents, who'd lost the ability to conceal the fact that the tension between them had reached an all-time high. Their marriage was hemorrhaging, getting worse every day. Any childlike notion I'd had that the hope and optimism of my impending wedding would somehow transform and rescue their marriage, would turn everything around, had turned out to be a foolish pipe dream. The plane had lost power; it was going down fast. I just hoped it wouldn't hit the ground before I walked down the aisle.

Marlboro Man's wedding preparations were equally complicated. Not only did he have to prepare for our three-week honeymoon by wrapping up a long list of ranch duties, he also had to finalize the honeymoon plans, which he'd handled entirely himself. He was also making regular trips to my parents' house, picking up bags and boxes of my belongings and moving them to the house on the ranch that we'd soon share as a newly married couple. It was a small bunkhouse, a little less than a thousand square feet, situated just behind the large yellow brick home we'd begun renovating a few months earlier. Since the little house hadn't been occupied in over twenty years, we'd spent our spare time over the past several weeks clean
ing it from top to bottom, replacing the tile floor, and redoing the tiny bathroom and kitchen so we could move right in after the honeymoon. The house was in a more centralized location on the ranch than the house where Marlboro Man lived when we met, and living there would allow us to closely monitor progress on the main house. Then, when we eventually moved into the main house, we'd have a nice little guesthouse out back—perfect for visiting grandmothers or siblings. Perfect for slumber parties for the kids.

This would be our new homestead—the thousand-square-foot bunkhouse and the larger, half-remodeled two-story home built next to it. The rusty, paint-chipped cattle pens out back. The old, but structurally sound, barn. The overgrown brush. The dead branches in the yard. The place needed work—constant work. It would be up to us to get it back to the way it needed to be.

But it was ours, and I loved it. Not having had any real experiences with a rural lifestyle, I looked at that homestead of ours as a little piece of paradise on earth—a place where Marlboro Man and I would live out our days in romantic, bucolic bliss. Where I'd milk cows every morning in my tiered prairie skirt, like the one I'd bought at The Limited back in 1983. Where the birds would chirp happily and visit me on the kitchen windowsill as I washed dishes. Where the sun would always rise in the east and set in the west. Where nothing disappointing or sad or scary or tragic would ever, ever happen.

At least I was right about the sun.

 

I
T WAS
wedding week—to date, the most important week of my life, miles above winning Miss Congeniality in the one and only pageant I ever entered. This would be the week where everything would really change. Gone would be the life I knew. Gone would be golf
course living, high-rise apartments, or city lofts. Gone would be parties. And cappuccino. And bookstores. But blinding love made it impossible for me to care.

I'd been reborn since Marlboro Man had entered my life; his wild abandon and unabashed passion had freed me from the shackles of cynicism, from thinking that love had to be something to labor over or agonize about. He'd ridden into my life on a speckled gray horse and had saved my heart from hardness. He'd taught me that when you love someone, you say it—and that when it comes to matters of the heart, games are for pimply sixteen-year-olds.

Up until then that's all I'd been: a child masquerading as a disillusioned adult, looking at love much as I'd looked at a round of Marco Polo in the pool at the country club: when they swam after me, I'd swim away. And there are accusations of peeking and cheating, and you always wind up sunburned and pruney and pooped. And no one ever wins.

It was Marlboro Man who'd helped me out of the pool, wrapped a towel around my blistering shoulders, and carried me to a world where love has nothing to do with competition or sport or strategy. He told me he loved me when he felt like it, when he thought of it. He never saw any reason not to.

It was wedding week. My mom, happy to grab any opportunity to avoid the strife and stress in her own marriage, occupied herself in the last days by helping me tie up the final loose ends of a country club reception. Betsy came home from college for a whole week so that she and my mom could cut squares of red and blue bandana fabric, fill them with birdseed, and tie them into parcels with twine. They retrieved beautifully wrapped gifts from the local gift shops and helped me open them one by one. And they helped me coordinate gifts for my three bridesmaids, one of whom was my sister, of course, and they kept Mike—who, due to the rush of activity, was well on his way to a manic episode—entertained. They made sure hotel rooms were in place for out-of-town guests. And they did my laundry.

Meanwhile I decided to get a facial. I needed a little pick-me-up. I
needed to lie in a dark room away from the doorbell and the telephone and the flowers, away from red bandana squares and twine. Even then, in my midtwenties, I knew when I was in danger of becoming overwhelmed. I knew when I needed to decompress. A treatment room at a day spa had always been the answer.

I scheduled an hour-long exfoliating facial, more for the length of the treatment than the treatment type itself, and I loved every second of it. The aroma of essential oils filled the room, and soft African spiritual music played overhead. With ten minutes remaining, Cindy the Aesthetician whipped out a special bottle of fluid. “Now this,” she said softly, opening the lid of the bottle and reaching for a large cotton swab. “This…is
magic
.”

“What is it?” I asked, not really caring about the answer as long as I could stay in that chair a little longer. The African music was working for me.

“Oh, it'll just give you the slightest little healthy glow,” she answered. “People won't even know what you've done, but they'll ask you why you look so great.
Perfect
for your wedding week.”

“Ooooh,” I said. “Sounds great!” I settled farther into the comfortably padded vinyl chair.

The cotton swab softly moved across my face, leaving a pleasant coolness behind. It swept over my forehead, down my nose, on the sides of my cheeks, and across my chin. It relaxed me and I melted. And slowly, I began to fall asleep. I considered reupping for another hour.

But then I felt the burning.

“Oooh,” I said, opening my eyes. “Cindy, this doesn't feel right.”

“Oh, good,” Cindy said, sounding unconcerned. “You're starting to feel it now?”

Seconds later, I was in severe pain. “Oh, I'm
more
than feeling it,” I answered, gripping the arms of the chair until my knuckles turned white.

“Well, it should stop here in a second…,” she insisted. “It's just working its magic—”

My face was melting off.
“Ouch! Ow! Seriously, Cindy! Take this stuff off my face! It's killing me!”

“Oh, dear…okay, okay,” Cindy answered, quickly grabbing a soaked washcloth and quickly wiping the nuclear solution from my skin. Finally, the intense burning began to subside.

“Gosh,” I said, trying to be nice. “I don't think that's something I want to try again.” I swallowed hard, trying to will the pain receptors to stop firing.

“Hmmm,” Cindy said, perplexed. “I'm sorry it stung a little. But you'll love it tomorrow morning when you wake up! Your skin will look so fresh and dewy.”

It better,
I thought as I paid Cindy for the torture and left the tiny salon. My face tingled, and not at all in a good way. And as I walked to my car, the floodgates of wedding worry opened once again:

The facial had done little to decompress me.

That night, Marlboro Man and I had a date. It was the Thursday night before our wedding, and the rehearsal dinner was the following night. It would be our last night alone together before we'd say
I do
. I couldn't wait to see him; it had been two whole days.
Forty-eight excruciating hours
. I missed him fiercely.

When he arrived on my parents' doorstep, I opened the door and smiled. He looked gorgeous. Solid. Irresistible.

Grinning, he stepped forward and kissed me. “You look good,” he said softly, stepping back. “You got some sun today.”

I gulped, flashing back to the agony of my facial that afternoon and fearing for the future of my face. I should have just stayed home and packed all day.

We went to a movie, Marlboro Man and me, longing for the quiet time in the dark. We couldn't find it anywhere else—my parents' house was bustling with people and plans and presents, and Marlboro Man had some visiting cousins staying with him on the ranch. A dim movie theater was our only haven, and we took full advantage of being only one of two couples in the entire place. We reverted back to adolescence, unashamed, cuddling closer and closer as the movie picked up steam. I took it even further, draping my leg over his and resting my hand on his tan bicep. Marlboro Man's arm reached across my waist as the temperature rose between us. Two days before our wedding, we were making out in a dark, hazy movie theater. It was one of the most romantic moments of my life.

Until Marlboro Man's whiskers scratched my sensitive face, and I winced in pain.

When we returned to my parents' house, Marlboro Man walked me to the door, his arm tightly around my waist. “You'd better get some sleep,” he said.

My stomach jumped inside my body. “I know,” I said, stopping and holding him close. “I can't believe it's almost here.”

“I'm glad you didn't move to Chicago,” Marlboro Man whispered, chuckling the soft chuckle that started all this trouble in the first place. I remember being in that same spot, in that same position, the night Marlboro Man had asked me not to go. To stay and give us a chance. I still couldn't believe we were here.

I went straight upstairs to my bedroom after Marlboro Man and I said good night. I had to finish packing…and I had to tend to my face, which was causing me more discomfort by the minute. I looked in the bathroom
mirror; my face was sunburn red. Irritated. Inflamed. Oh no. What had Prison Matron Cindy done to me? What should I do? I washed my face with cool water and a gentle cleaner and looked in the mirror. It was worse. I looked like a freako lobster face. It would be a great match for the cherry red suit I planned to wear to the rehearsal dinner the next night.

But my white dress for Saturday? That was another story.

I slept like a log and woke up early the next morning, opening my eyes and forgetting for a blissful four seconds about the facial trauma I'd endured the day before. I quickly brought my hands to my face; it felt tight and rough. I leaped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, flipping on the light and looking in the mirror to survey the state of my face.

The redness had subsided; I noticed that immediately. This was a good development. Encouraging. But upon closer examination, I could see the beginning stages of pruney lines around my chin and nose. My stomach lurched; it was the day of the rehearsal. It was the day I'd see not just my friends and family who, I was certain, would love me no matter what grotesque skin condition I'd contracted since the last time we saw one another, but also many, many people I'd never met before—ranching neighbors, cousins, business associates, and college friends of Marlboro Man's. I wasn't thrilled at the possibility that their first impression of me might be something that involved scales. I wanted to be fresh. Dewy. Resplendent. Not rough and dry and irritated. Not now. Not this weekend.

I examined the damage in the mirror and deduced that the plutonium Cindy the Prison Matron had swabbed on my face the day before had actually been some kind of acid peel. The burn came first. Logic would follow that what my face would want to do next would be to, well, peel. This could be bad. This could be real, real bad. What if I could speed along that process? Maybe if I could feed the beast's desire to slough, it would leave me alone—at least for the next forty-eight hours.

All I wanted was forty-eight hours. I didn't think it was too much to ask.

I grabbed my favorite exfoliating facial scrub, the same one I'd used all the way through college. Not quite as abrasive as drugstore-brand apricot scrubs, but grainy enough to get serious and do the trick. It had to be the magic bullet. It had to work. I started by washing my unfortunate face with a mild cleanser, then I squirted a small amount of the scrub on my fingers…and began facilitating the peeling process.

I held my breath. It hurt. My face was in a world of pain.

I scrubbed and scrubbed, wondering why facials even existed in the first place if they involved such torture.
I'm a nice person,
I thought.
I go to church. Why is my skin staging a revolt?
The week of a girl's wedding was supposed to be a happy time. I should have been leaping gleefully around my parents' house, using a glitter-infused feather duster to sparkle up my wedding gifts, which adorned every flat surface in the house. I should have been eating melon balls and laughing in the kitchen with my mom and sister about how it's almost here! Don't you love this Waterford vase? Oooh, the cake is going to be
soooooo
pretty.