Chapter Twenty-four
TIM WAS waiting for us at baggage claim; he greeted us with a semi-forced smile, shaking Marlboro Man’s hand and patting him on the arm reassuringly. My new brother-in-law hugged me warmly and said welcome home, but I could see his worry in the air; it was thick and murky and charcoal gray, like an erupting ash cloud. The ride back to the ranch was mostly quiet, peppered with occasional anecdotes of our vomit-filled honeymoon and debriefings from Tim as to the gravity of the situation with the markets. They stayed in the moment, purposely avoiding the what-ifs and what-will-we-dos—concentrating instead on trying to get a grasp on how everything could have taken such a plunge in such a tiny breath of a moment. And—considering it came on the heels of such a celebratory, blessed event—how funny the timing was.
The sun was just dipping below the western horizon when we pulled up to our little house on the prairie. Despite the obvious turmoil I knew was swarming in the periphery, I couldn’t help but instantly smile when I saw our little home. Home, I thought to myself—a strange response, considering I’d never spent a night there. But, being back there, I felt the heartbeat of our love affair that had started on that very ranch, the drives we’d taken, the dinners we’d cooked, the nights we’d spent watching submarine movies on his old leather couch, which Marlboro Man had already moved to our new little house so we’d be able to enjoy it immediately.
Poor couch. It must have been awfully lonely without us.
Tim bid us good-bye after helping us carry in my three-hundred-pound suitcase, and Marlboro Man and I looked around our quiet house, which was spick-and-span and smelled of fresh paint and leather cowboy boots, which lined the wall near the front door. The entry glowed with the light of the setting sun coming in the window, and I reached down to grab one of my bags so I could carry it to the bedroom. But before my hand made it to the handle, Marlboro Man grabbed me tightly around the waist and carried me over to the leather sofa, where we fell together in a tired heap of jet lag, emotional exhaustion, and—ironically, given the week we’d just endured—a sudden burst of lust.
“Welcome home,” he said, nuzzling his face into my neck. Mmmm. This was a familiar feeling.
“Thank you,” I said, closing my eyes and savoring every second. As his lips made their way across my neck, I could hear the sweet and reassuring sound of cows in the pasture east of our house. We were home.
“You feel so good,” he said, moving his hands to the zipper of my casual black jacket.
“You do, too,” I said, stroking the back of his closely cut hair as his arms wrapped more and more tightly around my waist. “But…uh…” I paused.
My black jacket was by now on the floor.
“I…uh…,” I continued. “I think I need to take a shower.” And I did. I couldn’t do the precise calculation of what it had meant for my hygiene to cross back over the international date line, but as far as I was concerned, I hadn’t showered in a decade. I couldn’t imagine christening our house in such a state. I needed to smell like lilac and lavender and Dove soap on the first night in our little house together. Not airline fuel. Not airports. Not clothes I’d worn for two days straight.
Marlboro Man chuckled—the first one I’d heard in many days—and as he’d done so many times during our months of courtship, he touched his forehead to mine. “I need one, too,” he said, a hint of mischief in his voice.
And with that, we accompanied each other to the shower, where, with a mix of herbal potions, rural water, and determination, we washed our honeymoon down the drain.
I’M SORRY about our honeymoon,” Marlboro Man said when we woke up the next morning. It was 4:30, still dark outside, and we were wired, our internal clocks in a state of utter confusion. He caressed my side as I stretched and sighed. Our bed was so warm and cozy and dreamy.
“It’s okay,” I said, smiling. “I’m so glad we came home…I love it here.” Our bedroom was tiny, about nine feet by nine feet. It cradled us like a protective cocoon.
“I love you here,” he replied.
We stayed in bed the entire morning, purposely denying that a world beyond our cocoon even existed.
MARLBORO MAN and I settled in together, soaking up the first days of married life on the ranch that was my new home. He spent his days working cattle; his evenings figuring out the business ramifications of the imploding financial situation in which he and Tim now found themselves. I, on the other hand, spent my days getting organized and washing his muddy clothes, failing miserably in my attempts to remove the greenish brown manure stains and making plans instead to order a hundred pairs of the jeans he wore so I could just replace them every day. I saw no other alternative.
I unpacked my clothes gradually, hanging them in the tiny closet that Marlboro Man and I now shared and folding what wouldn’t fit in under-the-bed storage boxes. The myriad skin scrubs and facial creams and lotions I’d collected over the previous few years now filled my half of the large wooden medicine cabinet that hung on the bathroom wall over the single pedestal sink; my cookbooks—old and new—took their place on the shelves above the kitchen pantry.
We had no place to put the stacks of wedding gifts we’d received—the silver trays and crystal goblets and pewter meat platters. Marlboro Man’s mother came over to help me pack and consolidate it all for storage in the separate garage apartment adjacent to the yellow brick house—whose renovation plowed along daily.
In the evening time, I’d try to acclimate myself to the new kitchen setup: a four-burner portable gas range, a single-bowl stainless sink, a sparkly new economy-size fridge. I’d picked out a charming tile with watercolor cows sectioned off according to the cuts of beef, and all the words were in French—a last-ditch effort on my part to be worldly. The word BOEUF peppered our countertops. It made Marlboro Man laugh.
On our sixth night home, after subsisting mostly on cold sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, I boiled a chicken in the new Calphalon stockpot I’d received as a gift from my old college roommate, Jill, removing it with stainless tongs given to me by the mother of a childhood friend. When it was cool enough to handle, I meticulously picked the meat off the bone, unsure of how much fat and gristle to leave behind. I’d decided to inaugurate our kitchen with my mom’s Chicken Spaghetti, a comfort food I thought would hit the spot in our first week home. Cooking the spaghetti, I combined it with the chicken and added onions, green peppers, and pimientos from a jar. And to seal the deal as a domestic goddess, I added cream of mushroom soup, holding the two open cans over the mixing bowl for a good minute before the solidified soup finally plopped out, both in a cylindrical mass. Adding a splash of broth and a bunch of grated sharp cheddar, I stirred it to mix it up, seasoned it with salt and cayenne, then baked it in an earthenware pottery dish, courtesy of my mother-in-law’s first cousin. As it baked, the blessed casserole smelled just like it did when I was a child, which was likely the last time I’d eaten it. I marveled that the scent of a specific dish could remain in one’s consciousness for over two decades. Except for the dark brown hair and the crumbling marriage, I’d officially become my mother.
Marlboro Man, happy to have something warm to eat, declared it the best thing he’d ever eaten. I looked at the mess in the kitchen and felt like moving.
Marlboro Man and I watched movies that night. Our TV satellite hadn’t been hooked up yet, so he’d transported his movie collection and VCR from his old house. And I didn’t have to get up and drive home when they were over, because I already was home.