Love is a Wounded Soldier Page 8

  As he boxed them up, we inquired as to where we could find a marriage license vendor and Justice of the Peace.

  “You can buy the license right here,” he told us, and reached under the counter and pulled out the necessary forms. As we filled them out, he told us the Justice had probably gone home for the day, but said we could try him at home, and gave us clear directions to his house. He went even further by providing a hand-drawn map after I had paid. Grateful for the help, we offered redundant thank-yous, and he followed us to the door and continued to shower us with gems of advice even as we walked toward the car.

  “Nice old fella,” Ellen commented as we seated ourselves in the car and waved to the smiling man still standing in the doorway of his shop.

  “Um-hmm,” I grunted, already studying the map he’d drawn on the back of a used envelope.

  Finding the Justice wasn’t as easy as it had sounded, but we found him. He lived across town, on a twisted, almost hidden little road aptly named Serpent Drive.

  The neighborhood had a distinguished, yet congenial air about it, like a silver-haired grandfather figure. Stately houses rested in the shade of towering elm trees on spacious, well-manicured lots.

  We found house #217 and parked in front of a two-story brick house that looked generations old, but well kept. In front of it was not so much a porch, but a portico. Giant white pillars stood in front like sentries. An open newspaper and a pair of legs appeared to be rocking the large white porch swing.

  Ellen and I exchanged uneasy looks as we both waited for each other to open their door first. I took the initiative and she followed, and we almost tiptoed uncertainly up the walk. Even as we mounted the steps, the newspaper continued to obscure the face of the gentleman on the swing.

  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.

  Ellen produced some towels and soap, and laid them on a blanket near the water’s edge. I boldly removed my clothes and laid them on a rock. I felt a little self-conscious as Ellen took time from removing her shoes to unabashedly gawk at her recent acquisition.

  “What, you never seen a naked man before?” I laughed.

  She blushed and shook her head as I dove into the cool, refreshing water. It was clear, clean, and just over waist deep. I dunked my head and scrubbed my hair. It felt so invigorating to wash the smell of sweat off. I wiped the water out of my eyes and hair with my hands, and as I watched Ellen undress, it felt as though the real wedding ceremony was just beginning. I felt strangely like a groom standing at the altar, waiting to receive his bride. Just I doubt any groom waited with the same degree of carnal anticipation that I did, watching my bride reveal herself bit by bit. She unbuttoned the front of her dress tantalizingly and let it to fall to the ground. The sun hung low now, and the fractured light the trees let through bathed her body in its dusky glow. She shyly removed her undergarments, and finally, there she stood, as beautiful as I had imagined. Perfect. Innocen
t. Magnificent. Mine.

  She daintily stepped into the water and slowly waded toward me. She was so beautiful I could have cried. The look on her face matched my feelings. With the desire in me raging, my patience evaporated, and when she was an arm’s length away, I rushed her with such force I almost bowled her over. I couldn’t swallow her in my arms soon enough and I pressed her soft body against me and kissed her forcefully.

  “You’re drowning me,” she laughed softly when I relented.

  “First things first, Robbie,” she whispered, slipping a bar of soap into my hand. “I need you to wash me.” She punctuated the statement with a look that drove me wild. I gave her a washing that the word “thorough” cannot even begin to describe. My gleeful hands roamed her body, giving special attention to the parts that made her close her eyes and moan appreciatively. And then, after I’d teased myself half crazy, we wrapped our arms about each other and waded to the shore.

  We stood on the rocks and took turns drying each other off. The energy built between us like static electricity as we used the towels to rub each other into a frenzy.

  We stepped onto the blanket and sat down, the thick carpet of grass cushioning us from the ground. Her slightly damp hair flowed over her breasts and hung down to the middle of her flat, firm belly. Tresses, I thought as I kissed her deeply, pushing her down onto the blanket. She fell back, the golden halo of her hair framing her face and veiling her body with soft strands that made me shiver when my skin touched them. My unskilled fingers gained confidence as she groaned with pleasure at my kiss and caress.

  “Have me,” she mouthed more than spoke. And there in the fading light, she gave herself to me. I thought it might feel awkward, but it didn’t. We were one flesh, and I held her as naturally as the valley cradled the river beside us. As the river lapped the bank, the waves of passion built in me, culminating in an orgasmic tsunami, wave, after wave, after wave. I fell back, panting, feeling like I’d poured all my love and energy into her. Yet, as I lay beside her, I felt she’d given me back a deeper kind of strength.