by Jack Weyland
“A few technical difficulties.”
She ran back to the bathroom, closed the door, and locked it.
“Don’t worry!” I yelled. “I’ll have things fixed in no time. Do you want to help me?”
“Are you kidding?” she answered through the door. “Wearing a negligee? If I knew this is what we were going to do, I’d have worn thermal underwear and a backpack.”
“Wait in there until I call you. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said faintly, sounding as if she were about to cry.
“Do you want to read a magazine while you’re waiting?”
“I guess so.”
“It’s the special issue they do every year about pheasants.”
I slid the magazine under the door and went back to work. I found a summer fan and turned it on near the open door to try and clear out the smoke. Eventually I found the draft, opened it, and repeated the process of starting a fire again.Within a few minutes there was a small fire going, but the temperature was still below freezing. It would have to do. I couldn’t wait all night.
Back to the bathroom door. “Lara, the fire is going now. You can come out.”
“Can I finish this one article?” she asked.
I sighed. “I guess so—if that’s what you really want to do.”
I went back to the fireplace and threw another log on.
She opened the door and realized how cold it was in the room. There was a blur of white as she raced across the room and into bed.
“Ooooh!”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not going to tell you what a shock these cold sheets are.” She pulled the covers up to her chin. Then she looked at me and started to laugh.
“You look like a chimney sweep,” she grinned.
“Do you know it’s good luck to kiss a chimney sweep?”
“No way. You go wash your face and hands.”
“Yes, mother,” I said, heading for the bathroom.
“Oh Sam, toss me out that magazine, will you? I never knew pheasants were so interesting.”
When I returned, the room was just slightly warmer. I walked to the bed and sat down. “Lara, we should have our first family prayer now.”
“A kneeling prayer?” she asked, reluctant to leave the warm bed.
“Maybe not. How about a prayer with us just sitting here?”
After the prayer, she looked at me and smiled nervously.
“Sam, could we talk a little?”
“About what?”
“I don’t know—something—anything. I know—ask me anything about ring-necked pheasants.” She had the blankets pulled up to her chin with both hands.
I smiled. She nervously smiled back.
“I’ll be right back, I said suddenly.
“Where are you going, Sam?”
“Out to the car. I’ve got a tape of ‘Mystery Theater’ we can listen to.”
* * * * *
Sometime during the night, I woke up and put another log on the fire and then went to back to bed. Seeing a couple of glasses of water on the nightstand, I figured Lara had set them out after I’d fallen asleep so we wouldn’t have to get out of bed and get our feet cold. I took one glass and drank it. Since there wasn’t much water in it, I drank hers, too.
What a wife, I thought. She thinks of everything.
The next morning we lay in bed and talked while we waited for the room to warm up. Finally she turned to the water glasses. “Where are my contact lenses?”
“What?”
“I forgot my soaking case. I put one in each glass last night after you’d fallen asleep. What did you do with them?”
I shut my eyes and shook my head.
“Sam, where are they? I can’t see a thing without them.”
“I’m sorry to tell you this but—” I started to laugh uncontrollably.
“What happened? I don’t have another pair.”
“Lara, your contact lenses have . . . passed away.”
* * * * *
We left that morning for Idaho and a reception planned for that night.
“Hello,” Lara said warmly to the blur standing in front of her in the receiving line.
“Lara, why are you squinting so?” an elderly aunt asked her. “Please introduce me to your husband.”
“This is my husband.”
“Well, tell him who I am!”
Lara leaned over to stare at the face.
“Oh! This is my Aunt Lynne.”
Later that night, just after the reception was over, I heard two older men talking about us.
“They say he ate her contact lenses. Why would he do that?”
“Who knows about kids these days—always after some new thrill. It’s TV that’s done it—wrecked the whole generation.”
* * * * *
Chapter Fourteen
Don’t start a new business the same time you begin a marriage.
The next few months were characterized by my losing a little money each week, and Lara becoming a little more successful at her store. Before long her closet contained several dresses she’d won in the monthly contests.
By April she was paying for our food and rent and utilities. I was dumping all my money into my business and watching it slowly sink.
Our marriage floundered, too. Some couples, when they have problems, argue. Lara and I became polite.
Once when I was a young adult, someone told me that one of the presidents of the Church and his wife had never argued. In my post-mission enthusiasm, I’d vowed my wife and I would also never argue. In time this was altered to mean I would avoid even talking about problems in my marriage.
We quit talking about anything important. Instead we dwelt on the trivial.
“Sam, I’m going to take some of my things to the cleaners. If you have anything, I’ll take it for you.”
I looked up from my newspaper. “No thanks.”
“Don’t you have anything that needs cleaning?”
“I don’t know. If I do, I can drop it by tomorrow.”
“I’ll be happy to drop it by now.”
“What cleaners are you going to?”
“Mr. Nifty. It’s the closest.”
“I prefer taking mine to Busy Bee.”
“Okay, I’ll take both of ours to Busy Bee.”
“That’s all right—you needn’t bother.”
“It’s no bother.”
No answer from me. I appeared to be interested in what I was reading.
“Why don’t you want me to take your clothes to the cleaners?” she asked.
“It’s out of your way. I know you’re very busy at work these days.”
She sighed. “I’m not at work now. I’m home, about to take some clothes to the cleaners. Just show me which of your to take.”
I finally looked up from my paper. “I think it’s better if you take yours to Mr. Nifty, and I take mine to Busy Bee.”
She stared at me as I burrowed deeper into my newspaper.
Finally she shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, Sam. ’Bye.”
Late one night as I slipped into bed after watching the late-night movie on TV, I could tell she was silently crying in the dark. I lay there and listened to her, hoping she’d quit so I could go to sleep, but she didn’t. Finally, I got up, went back to the living room, turned on the TV, and an hour later fell asleep on the couch.
But we didn’t argue. Isn’t it wonderful we didn’t argue?
The sad thing was that we never really defined the problem. Later she told me she thought I was unhappy I’d ever married her because she wasn’t like Charly. That wasn’t it. The problem was that I couldn’t take her success.
In time we learned to avoid talking about work. I sheltered her from my failures, and she kindly sheltered me from her success.
In May I decided that if the customers wouldn’t come to see me, then I’d go to the customers.
“Yeah, whadaya want?” the giant at the door growled.
“I’m with
Samtrex Home Computer Service.”
“So what?”
“You may have seen our ad in Saturday’s paper. I’d like to tell you about our new line of small computers.”
He swore, then asked. “What do I need a computer for?”
“You can use it to budget your money.”
“Budget money? Come in.”
The giant had a wife.
“You talk to her about budgeting!” he roared, pointing a hairy arm at his wife, a tired woman in a housedress.
Moving aside some clothes from the couch, I sat down, smiled hopefully, and began. “In this time of rapid inflation, I’m sure you know how difficult it is to effectively monitor where the money goes. The Sussex 4S-KB computer can give you instant feedback on the status of your various accounts. Let me show you how the budget program works. First you set up various accounts—a house payment account, a food account, clothing, utilities—”
“Snowmobile!” she yelled, glaring at her husband.
I stopped.
“He has to go out and buy a snowmobile! Doesn’t even talk to me about it. What a stupid thing to do!”
“Not if it gets me away from you during the winters!” he yelled.
“ . . . a snowmobile account.” I added. “With the Sussex 4S-KB home computer, you’ll gain control of your money—”
“Drapes!” he shouted at her.
“We need drapes,” she argued.
“We don’t need drapes! We got drapes!”
“You want gray drapes? You want torn drapes? You want people to see our torn gray drapes?”
“What people? Your mother, you mean? She’s not people!”
“ . . . the Sussex 4S-KB computer can also perform other essential services in the home.”
“Guns!” she shrieked. “How many guns you gonna buy? What do you need so many guns for? There are army posts with less guns than you got!”
I excused myself and left. They didn’t even notice.
“A six-hundred-dollar vacuum cleaner!” he shouted at her as I escaped.
* * * * *
A day later, in another section of town, the door was opened by someone I hadn’t seen since junior high school. Then he had been Punky Johnson. Punky sat next to me in math class in eighth grade. A good day for Punky was when he figured out what page the teacher was on.
He recognized me and invited me in. It was a large two-story house, elegant and tasteful.
“I don’t suppose you go by Punky anymore, do you?”
He laughed. “Not anymore. They call me Jim now. I run Johnson Construction. Ever hear of it?”
“Sure—you guys are working on every big project in town.”
He smiled. “We’re doing okay. Oh, this is my wife, Shelley. She was Miss Utah a few years ago.”
I stood to greet the stunning Mrs. Punky.
“Shelley, if it weren’t for Sam, I’d still be in junior high. He was the smartest one in math. Sam, what are you doing now?”
I cleared my throat, trying to decide whether to exaggerate or to outright lie.
“Well, I’ve got my own company now—Samtrx Computers. We sell small computers for the home—and for business too.”
“Hey, isn’t that great? I always knew you’d succeed. I’ll bet you’re really raking in the money, hey?”
No, I thought. Why do you think I’m going door-to-door?
“Picking up all the time.” I matched his grin.
“You know, I’d buy a bunch from you, I really would, but another guy beat you to it, from a company called IBM.”
A few minutes later, after being told what his gross income was last year, I left.
Life’s not fair. If a guy can make it who can’t even find the circumference of a circle, where’s the justice?
* * * * *
One day after work I visited Jon and Shirley. She was pregnant and looked more beautiful than I’d ever seen her before. She made the mistake of asking me how my business was going.
“It’s a disaster.”
“How are you and Lara getting by, then?” she asked.
“She’s making money like crazy,” I said. “She’s assistant manager now, you know.”
“No wife of mine is ever going to work,” Jon said emphatically.
“It’s only temporary.”
“I’m not surprised you’re losing money,” Jon said. “This is probably the worst time in history to start a business. Inflation, recession. It’s the politicians that’ve done it. The way things are today, it wouldn’t surprise me if you went bankrupt.”
Shirley sent him a warning glance.
“Jon, it just takes a little time to get a business going,” she said, trying to soften Jon’s impact.
“But what’ll he do if his business fails before then?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s not just the money. I’m losing my self-confidence.”
“I knew a guy like that once,” Jon said. “Couldn’t do anything right.”
“Jon!” Shirley complained.
“I was just telling about a guy I knew once.”
“He doesn’t need to know. He came here for some encouragement from us.”
“It’s not my fault he starts a business in times like this, is it?”
A few minutes later, Jon took out his checkbook. “I want to buy something from you for thirty dollars. That’s all we’ve got left this month.”
“You don’t need to do that,” I said.
“What can I buy for thirty dollars?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. We have an instruction manual for one of our computers that costs about that much.”
“Good, I’ll take it.”
“But it won’t do you any good without the computer.”
“I’ll put it in my bookcase—the one I built.”
He handed my the check. “Now let me show you the crib I made for my son when he’s born.”
* * * * *
A few days later, with no business all day, I closed up early and went home. Lara was still at work and Adam was with my parents. I walked into the silent apartment, looked at the stack of bills lara would end up paying then went into our bedroom and knelt down, feeling very depressed.
The pattern of my life is to do everything on my own until things are so fouled up that I’m in a hopeless trap; then I ask God for help.
“Remember me? I’m the guy who only comes to you when things are impossible. Well, it’s that time again.”
I’d prayed about it before—little thirty -second vignettes in a routine list of requests to “bless my business to do well.”
This prayer was different because I first told Him what the problem was, then told Him what I was willing to do, and then asked for what I needed Him to do. The difference was what I committed to do.
It was a long prayer, and even though I don’t know if He has an interest in small computers, I took Him in as a partner.
When Lara showed up with Adam, I didn’t tell her anything. My outside reason was I didn’t want her to worry.
She brought home a dress she’d won. It was very nice and I hated it.
* * * * *
In church we were model newlyweds. Bright, cheerful in a crowd, we both tried desperately to find safe, trivial topics when we were alone together.
We attended a Sunday School class in family relations. One day the bishop came to talk to the class.
“Most of the problems in a marriage revolve around poor communication. Much of the time I find the wife wants to come in for counseling, but her husband won’t admit there’s even a problem.”
On the way home, Lara asked, “What would you think about our going to the bishop?”
“What for?” I asked.
“Our problems.”
“What problems?” I snickered. “We don’t have any problems. We don’t even argue.”
“We never talk anymore.”
“We’re talking now.”
“Sam, just tell me what�
��s wrong. Is it something I’m doing wrong?”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“You’re saving stamps, aren’t you,” she said.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re holding in all your frustrations, like saving trading stamps, and someday you’re going to redeem them all at once. I read about it once.”
I scoffed “You read too much—there’s nothing wrong. Everything’s fine.”
The best way to describe our life was perfunctory. Everything we did was perfunctory.
* * * * *
It was on Friday night in May when the stamp redemption center opened for business.
“How’d it go today?” she asked after supper.
“Fine,” I said bleakly.
“Sam, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said, feeling heroic.
I lay down and played with Adam while Lara read a book.
Adam went outside to play on his swings.
She set down her book and turned to me. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. Today Steve asked me to manage one of his new stores. It would mean a fantastic raise.”
“And you told him no, right?”
“I told him I’d talk to you about it.”
“All right, tomorrow you can tell him no.”
“Can we at least talk about it?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“We need the money now, don’t we? At least until your business gets going.”
“The answer is no.”
“I’ll arrange things so it won’t take any more time.”
“One store manager in this family is enough,” I grumbled.
“Are you against it because I’d be earning more than you?”
I exploded. “A ten-year-old kid with a lemonade stand is earning more than me!”
She looked at me in shock. “I thought things were going okay.”
“Do you want to know the sum total of today’s business? A lady came in looking for directions, a man came by asking for a donation, and two kids came in asking if I had R2-D2 in the store!”
“Sam, why haven’t you told me this before?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Why not? Is it the man’s place to worry? I’m a part of this marriage too. Why won’t you let me into your life? You walk around being so noble all the time, but it leaves me on the outside of your life. You’re supposed to talk to me. I love you. The only reason I’m working is for you.”
