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."
