by Jack Weyland
“No they don’t. I called—they said it was okay. Anyway, they’re having liver.”
“Dave, thanks—I know you’re just trying to help, but I can’t just start over again. It’s like asking me to go back to being seventeen and having to use Clearasil all over again.”
He looked at me as though I were crazy. “You would stand up Miss Peach Blossom?”
“I thought you said she was just a runner-up.”
“She was robbed—she should’ve had it. Look, just take her to dinner and a movie.”
Eventually he wore me down and I agree. After first taking a tour of his graduate research project, we went to his apartment, where I borrowed his razor and got cleaned up.
On my way out, shortly before five, he insisted I use his aftershave, called Tawny Leather. I was a little nervous and spilled half the bottle on my shirt.
“Don’t worry,” Dave reassured me, “it dries fast.”
I showed up at her door smelling like a tannery.
She opened the door. She was all curls.
“I’m looking for, uh, Miss Peach Blossom—uh, I guess I don’t know her name.”
“I’m Elizabeth,” she said softly with a nice smile. “Won’t you come in?”
I stepped inside and wiped my sweating face. The aftershave was causing a chemical reaction with my skin, turning my chest and stomach into leather.
On the wall was an original modern painting.
“Is the painting yours?” I asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“I mean, did you paint it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s nice—a clown, isn’t it?”
“No, a boat.”
I helped her on with her coat. “A boat?” I stammered, looking at the daubs of color, trying to find a boat. “Oh, sure, a boat. Well, we’d better be going.”
By this time my forehead was drenched in sweat, and my stomach and chest were itching like crazy. In addition, I was about to be sick from the smell.
As we walked to the car, I took several quick breaths in rapid succession to clear out my lungs. She looked at me with just a hint of apprehension.
Once in the car, I rolled down the window to dilute the smell. My chest and stomach were on fire. I realized I wouldn’t be able to stand it much longer.
“Would you mind if I took off my shirt?”
She continued to smile graciously, but edged toward the door just a little.
“Why?” she asked pleasantly.
“I spilled a bottle of aftershave on my stomach, and I think it’s reopening my belly button. I’ve got to do something.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, still smiling.
I rubbed my stomach. “I know what I’ll do. I’ll just go buy a new shirt. Okay?”
“You go ahead and do whatever you need to do.”
A few minutes later, I rushed into a clothing store and barked out orders to an idle clerk. “I want a shirt, white, fifteen-and-a-half neck, thirty-three sleeve, and a glass of water. Bring them to the dressing room right away.”
I hurried to the dressing room and took off my shirt. A few seconds later, he knocked on the door and handed me the shirt and a glass of water. I thanked him and shut the door. Using my old shirt as a washcloth, I rinsed my stomach and chest and face, then dried myself with my coat. In a few minutes, I was finished and went out to pay for the shirt.
“Was everything fine?” the confused clerk asked.
“Just fine,” I said.
I returned to Elizabeth, who was still smiling.
I asked her where she’d like to go to eat, and she gave me directions. I hadn’t recognized the restaurant from the name, but once we were there I realized I had taken Charly there once during the first few months of our marriage when we had lived in Provo. I almost expected her to come running out and hop in the car with us. In other words, it was crowded.
I parked the car and stared at the restaurant.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked after a few minutes of watching me sit silently with my fingers locked tightly around the steering wheel.
“I can’t go in there,” I stammered. “You see, I had a wife and we lived in Provo for a while. There are too many memories here—she died.”
“I know, Dave told me. Look, if you want to take me home, I’ll understand.”
I started the car. “This is no way to treat Miss Peach Blossom, is it? What a waste of a Saturday for you.”
“Don’t worry about that. I have tons of homework anyway.”
“We could drive south.” I suggested.” My wife and I never went south. Sometimes I just like to drive, don’t you? I mean, if you happen to play the guitar, we could sing and drive.”
“I play the piano and the trumpet.”
“Okay, bring your trumpet along.”
After picking up her trumpet at the apartment, we headed south.
It’s amazing how much volume one trumpet can make in a car.
At Spanish Fork, we switched places and she drove, while I tried my hand, or rather lips, at the trumpet. It sounded like a moose with asthma.
Later we found a little cafe and had supper. There I had a better chance to look at Elizabeth. She was the ideal LDS coed—beautiful, thrifty, clean, and reverent. She’d make a good mother to Adam, and she’d look good beside me in church. Someday perhaps I might even learn to love her.
Okay, why not? I’ll marry her. It’ll save me the hassle of dating a bunch of girls. Why not? Charly told me to go to Utah and find another wife. The only criteria she gave were to find someone who liked to cook and someone she could get along with.
Is it proper to propose on the first date? It would be nice to get it over with. I was in no condition for courtship anyway.
“Elizabeth, do you like to cook?”
“Sure.”
“Wonderful. And I’ll bet you like children too, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“I was sure you would. Do you know how to change diapers?”
I’d gone too far. She looked at me strangely—the same way I’d looked at Mary Beth when she clung to my elbow and talked about marriage. I’d better not make the same mistake.
“Any particular reason for these questions?”
“Oh, no,” I said quickly.
A little past nine, I was standing with her at her door. “Elizabeth, can I see you again?”
“I guess so,” she answered.
“How about every night next week?”
“Sam,” she said, her forehead wrinkling for the first time that night, “I’m waiting for a missionary.”
So what? I thought. I’ll just dazzle her with the old charm and in a month we’ll be engaged.
“Oh, that’s nice.” I smiled. “When does he come home?”
“Six weeks.”
That’s enough time, I schemed.
“I’ll bet you’re anxious to have him back after such a long time. Of course, he’s grown so much on his mission, and you’ve changed too, haven’t you? Still though, maybe you’ll still have something in common, even after two long years.”
“I thought you should know about Scott.”
“I’m always interested in missionary work,” I said enthusiastically.
She sighed with relief. “You’ll think this is funny, but when you started asking me all those questions about children, I thought you were going to ask me to marry you.”
“Really?” I laughed with her. “I just want us to be good friends. I guess it’s obvious I need practice dating. Can we go out until Scott gets back?”
“I guess it’d be all right. For one thing, nobody’s ever asked me to play my trumpet on a date. Are you sure you like it?”
“Oh, yes!” I said warmly. “Next time, though, could you bring a mute?”
My parents were up when I got home. Since I was whistling as I walked in, they turned off the TV and followed me into the kitchen.
“I’m going to get married again,” I announced as I took som
e milk from the refrigerator.
“Oh?”
“Does she know that?” my father asked.
“Not yet—I have to proceed slowly. She’s waiting for a missionary, so I have to let it sneak up on her, so she’ll fall in love before she gets her guard up.”
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” my mother said. “What’s she like?”
“She’s very beautiful.”
I found some cookies in the cookie jar, grabbed a handful, and sat down at the table.
“What else can you tell us about her?” my dad asked.
“She’s a music major. That’s good, isn’t it? It’ll save putting out money for piano lessons for Adam, if he wants them. She likes to cook. She loves children and knows how to change diapers.”
“What’s her name?” my dad asked.
“Elizabeth.”
“Her last name?”
I dropped my cookie on the table. “I guess I don’t know. I’ll find out first thing tomorrow. I can ask Dave.”
“How old is she?”
“I’m not sure, but she goes to the Y.”
“You’ll find all this out before you marry her, won’t you?” my dad asked.
“Yes, don’t rush into anything,” Mom added. “You need time to adjust first.”
“I’ll adjust later—her missionary is getting back in six weeks. I want to have the wedding invitations out by then.”
“You sound very confident,” my father observed.
“My mission taught me about goal setting. Plan your work and work your plan. In two months we’ll be married and Mom won’t have to work so hard around here.”
“I think this is much too soon for you,” Dad said, “but I’ll trust your judgment. At least there’s one good thing about it.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“If you do get married, you’ll quit building those planes at night.”
* * * * *
Chapter Three
They say Mexico City sits on top of layers of past civilizations. As soon as one culture died away, the next one built over it, with no thought of what was past and what was present and what was needed for the future. They should have separated what was dead from what was living. They should not have moved so fast in building on the warm ashes of the past.
“Hi, I’m Sam. I’ve come for Elizabeth.”
A freckle-faced girl let me in and told me her name was Cathy. She motioned for me to sit down. There was a guy with her in the living room.
“This is Ben,” Cathy said. “He just got back from his mission, and he’s showing me some pictures. Liz will be a while so we’ll let you look too. Did you go on a mission?”
“Yes.”
“When did you get back?” Ben asked.
“Six years ago.”
She whistled. “That long ago? So you must a lot older than Liz.”
“Six years older.”
“You really don’t look that old,” she said.
“I take Geritol,” I joked.
They don’t like me just because I’m a little older, I thought. It isn’t fair—I’m as immature as they are.
“What have you been doing since you got off your mission?” Ben asked.
“Computers and flying,” I said, stretching the truth to make a good impression. “I fly every Saturday.”
“Are you a student at the Y?”
“No, I work in Salt Lake.”
“Where?” Cathy asked.
“The University of Utah.”
There was a long pause and then she asked, “Don’t they have any girls up there?”
“Elizabeth’s cousin lined us up last week,” I explained.
“You know she’s waiting for a missionary, don’t you?”
“Yes, she told me,” I said brightly. “That’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Did she tell you her missionary is my brother?” she asked.
“Isn’t that wonderful?” I repeated, my needle stuck.
“So naturally I’m wondering why you’re here this weekend.”
I looked at my watch and wondered if Elizabeth would ever come.
“Oh, look at this picture! Ben, I bet there’s quite a story behind this picture. Tell us about it.”
Cathy eyed me suspiciously as Ben gave a tract-by-tract account of what it was like to live in far-off Ohio.
Finally Elizabeth showed up, looking like Goldilocks with a trumpet case.
“I have a mute,” she said first thing.
“What are you two going to do on your date?” Cathy asked as we started for the door.
“Make beautiful music together,” I said, winking at Cathy.
* * * * *
“Isn’t it amazing that we both have such an intense love for music?” I asked as we browsed in a music store.
“Do you play any musical instrument?” she asked.
“No, but I love music.”
“What kind of music do you like?”
“I like all kinds of music!”
“Oh, look, heres a nice Brahms concerto,” she said, picking up an album.
“Especially I like Brahms,” I added. “Here, let me buy it for you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that.”
“Nonsense, I want to make you happy,” I said, picking up the album and carrying it with me as we continued.
Eventually we arrived at the instruction books for various instruments. While she looked at the books, I looked at her. She was the kind of a girl on could spend hours just watching, except it made her nervous, so I limited myself to looking when she wouldn’t notice. It wasn’t lust—more like visiting an ancient shrine dedicated to beauty. I could have easily knelt at her feet and given an offering of roses, but generally this is not an accepted activity for a date.
“Sam, if you love music so much . . .”
“I do! I love music!” I blurted mindlessly.
“Then you should learn to play something. What if I teach you a song on the piano?”
“You would do that?” I bubbled, thinking of all the practice time we’d have together, during which I could arrange for her to fall in love.
We looked through several piano books trying to find a song that would sound impressive but wouldn’t be too much work.
“I”ve got it!”
The page was a forest of notes; it was called “Solfegietto” by C.P.E. Bach, whoever he was. Maybe the initials stand for certified public educator. Anyway, who cares?
“I couldn’t ever play that,” I said.
“Sure you can. Look—there’s only one note playing at a time. I’ll teach you.”
We picked up the book and browsed some more, eventually passing the guitars and banjos.
“Banjos!” she said. “Sam, do you like banjo music?”
“Are you kidding?” I said, eagerly taking one from the shelf. “I love banjo music!”
“Me too.”
“I think it’s amazing how much we have in common,” I said, plotting again.
She picked up another banjo and struck a chord. A big broad grin spread over her face. I struck a chord on my banjo.
“I’ve got a terrific idea,” I said. “Why don’t we each get a banjo and we’ll take lessons together and learn to play “Duelin’ Banjos.’”
“We can’t do that, Sam.”
“Why not?”
“Look at the price tag.”
“It’s all right. I can afford it. This is going to be so much fun. We’re going to be banjo pickers!”
The ecstatic salesman spent fifteen minutes teaching us a few chords and selling us an Earl Scruggs Self-Paced Banjo course with lesson manual and record. The bill came to two hundred seventy dollars. A small price to pay for a wife like Elizabeth, I thought, wondering if her missionary was having a nice day.
We went on campus to a music practice room and started on the piano first. Sitting next to her, smelling her perfume, and watching her curls sway as she moved her head made it difficult to concentrate.
“You’re very beautiful,” I said.
“Thanks,” she answered lightly, tossing it off. “Now I’ll play the first four notes here, and you play them here, one octave down.”
“It looks impossible.”
“It isn’t. We just have to take it one note at a time.”
“One note at a time,” I repeated, looking at her. “That’s what I’ll keep telling myself.”
My strategy was just that. She would fall in love with me if I just didn’t spook her.
One week was gone and I was out nearly three hundred dollars.
Cathy became progressively more hostile each time I came to take her roommate out. The next time I showed up she had a large picture of her brother on the coffee table and a calendar with the days crossed off. A large heart circled the day The Missionary was scheduled to return.
By the end of the third week, I had about played out any supposed common interests Elizabeth and I might have had. It was a gamble but I decided that she should meet Adam. Maybe he could win her over. I set up a date for Saturday.
That Thursday a lady who said she was a single adult representative in the ward phoned. She told me that the single adults were having a dance on Saturday and wanted to invite me, especially since I’d never yet been to any of their activities.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to attend, but thanks for inviting me.”
“We have a band,” she said enthusiastically.
“Well, I’ll see how things go,” which meant, no way.
Saturday afternoon I picked Elizabeth up in Provo, drove to Salt lake City, and stopped by home to have her meet my parents and to get Adam.
The script for the evening was simple enough. We would go to a family restaurant, order a family meal, and get along like a happy family. Adam would be delightful. Afterwards, with tears in her eyes, she would tell me that this sweet boy needs a mother. I would drive to the temple grounds where we would walk. Gazing at the setting sun, I would close the deal by proposing. She would accept, and on the way home I would pull out some samples of wedding invitations and have her decide so we could get them in the mail to her missionary.
After that, I would need a little time to sort out my feelings—because I didn’t love her. It would be like marrying the Statue of Liberty.
The whole thing had become an exercise in goal setting. Plan your courtship—courtship your plan.
