AFTER A BRIEF TOUR of duty in the navy I entered college and almost immediately fell in love with a girl named Elizabeth, who was so cute, so smart, such a good dancer that I never quite believed my good luck. I had never really had a girlfriend before, and now I was dating an absolute prize of a girl. Not only that, I was in love with her, and she was in love with me. We knew immediately that our love was true. We spent every possible hour together, we began almost at once to make plans for a lifetime together. In fact, it wasn’t long before getting married had become our only topic of conversation, it was all Elizabeth and I ever talked about. We were crazy to get married, and we liked talking about it more than we liked almost anything else we did together. The Millsaps College campus stood on a hill, and everywhere, at least to our young eyes, romantic walkways wound through the dormitory grounds and golf course. Walks and buildings and the tomb of Major Millsaps himself were shaded by ancient pin oaks and lord knows what other big trees. There were plays and concerts and fraternity boys serenading the girls dorms, and wonderful weather, late-night coffee and eggs and earnest conversation in all-night diners. It was a wonderful place to fall in love.
I was just out of the navy, as I said but still aI was just out of the navy, as I said but still a kid, innocent as I could be. The navy had been my hope of a solution to leaving Itta Bena behind me, but it had not worked. I had been homesick for the whole of my enlistment. I hoped now that, somehow, college would supply what ships and oceans had not been able to do, the escape that geography had not cured. Elizabeth was nineteen. We both had terrible acne and were forever going to dermatologists for the latest treatments, including a painful process that involved freezing the skin with something in an aerosol can.
So we made plans to elope. There is no better logic to it than that. We talked about it so much we found ourselves with nothing more to do than to go through with it. After you’ve talked about marriage as much as we had, you eventually start repeating yourself. There is only so much you can say about marriage, finally. Elizabeth’s parents had the good sense not to encourage our marriage talk, and we took their hesitance and caution as a catalyst to romance. They didn’t approve of our marriage? Well then that made marriage all the more exciting, more necessary, even. With parents as disapproving as hers, we figured we were pretty much obligated to get married. Elizabeth was not old enough to marry without her parents’ permission in Mississippi, so when we found out that Livingston, Alabama, was our nearest possibility, we were set, nothing could stop us. We shopped for wedding rings, on our small budget, and finally found two that we could afford, simple gold bands for ten dollars each at a jewelry shop called Herman’s.
I also found a flower shop on Capitol Street and bought an orchid to go with the dress that Elizabeth had decided to wear. It was a purple flower, for twelve dollars. The white orchids were twenty dollars, and I could still kick myself for not spending the extra eight. This was the one place where I economized on romance, and it was a mistake. I think Elizabeth was disappointed when she saw that the flower wasn’t white.
The main intrigue, though, involved renting a car to drive to Alabama. I had no credit cards, of course, and a fifty-dollar deposit was required to secure the car. It seems a modest deposit nowadays, but it was a fortune to me then. Crafty and resourceful boy that I was—lovesick swain that I was!—I approached a guy in my fraternity who worked at Hertz and convinced him to rent me the car without a deposit. With a bit of sleight of hand on his part, the deed was done. I insisted that the car have air-conditioning. There was no need for air-conditioning, since the weather in April was still cold and rainy, but this was a luxurious detail of our romantic adventure that I did not want overlook, as air-conditioning in cars was more rare then than now and meant, to a boy from Itta Bena, anyway, the difference between romance and just a half-assed or desperate thing to be doing on the weekend. The car was a new Lincoln Town Car, an enormous car, the only one my fraternity pal had on the lot with AC, and it seemed conspicuous sitting in front of the fraternity house the night before the great elopement. The boy who arranged the rental didn’t ask why I needed air-conditioning.
Elizabeth and I had been “doing it” in the backseat of borrowed cars for a year before this—usually right in the dormitory parking lot, in sight of other couples doing the same thing—and so even though we agreed that we would restrain ourselves sexually the night before the wedding, it seemed to me a waste of an expensive car to have it sit empty in front of the fraternity house all night, with nobody in the backseat. Once again, romance won out over practicality. We remained abstinent that night, so as not to make the weekend of the big event seem ordinary or typical of every weekend.
Everything was set. On Friday night we “signed out” of the dorm for Saturday with the excuse of going on an all-day picnic. This was the old days, when college girls were required to observe curfews and to account for their every minute. It was an awful system, but in fact it too was one of the details of the adventure that increased the romance. The more lies we had to tell, the more deceit the grown-ups demanded that we practice, the more fine the event. And frankly, I never once thought of our marriage as a beginning, only as an event, an adventure.
The blood tests were complete, the marriage license was purchased and tucked into the pocket of my suit coat, the rings were hidden, the orchid was disguised as a lunch and stored in a small box and refrigerated for the night in Elizabeth’s dormitory Frigidaire. Elizabeth’s dress was chosen, the car was rented and filled with gas, we were observing our hard celibacy. Everything was set. I marvel now that we got it all accomplished. I was terrible with details, and so I suspect that Elizabeth had taken charge of things up to this point.
The plan was for me to wake up at some specific early morning hour, before daylight, to dress in my suit, and to wheel the big car through the circular drive in front of Franklin Hall, the dormitory where Elizabeth would be waiting for me. She would jump into the car and we would drive away to Alabama to marriage and bliss. That was the plan.
The point of leaving so early was to prevent other students from seeing us all dressed up in our best clothes and an orchid corsage, and of course we didn’t want to have to explain the big new car. I had never driven such a fine automobile, or indeed ever ridden in one, and this too seemed a waste, to have no one to show off for. Still, secrecy was the key. What else would we look like but two people driving to Alabama to get married?—the whole point was to prevent anyone’s noticing. Or I suppose that was the whole point.
I had a hard time getting to sleep that night. I lay in my narrow bunk and listened to the sounds of my roommate’s sleepy breathing above me. I tossed about. I kept my hands above the covers. There was a light rain for a little while, and so I listened to that too and tried not to feel foolish about the air-conditioning that I had insisted upon. I went over the details in my mind, step by step. Sneak out, drive over to the dorm, wait in the parking lot, drive away, get married, got it. I got up out of bed once to check the marriage license in my coat pocket, to be sure it was there. I got up another time to be sure I had the road map that showed me how to get to Livingston, Alabama. I lay in bed. I realized I was very frightened. I thought, What have I done? I didn’t want to be married. I had no job. I didn’t know whether I loved Elizabeth. I thought, How have I come so far without having thought of these things?
Finally I did sleep, and then I woke early, wondering what time it was. I had only slept a couple of hours. I forced myself to lie in bed until near the time that we had agreed upon. I held my breath for fear of waking my roommate. I crept from my bed and found my clothing and dressed in the dark in my suit and tie. I had no luggage, we would be back before check-in that night. I supposed I was ready. I was going to get married. I went into the bathroom and wet my hair with water and combed it with my fingers.
Outside in the parking lot, when I started the car, the engine seemed so loud that I was certain all the lights in the fraternity house would come on and people would stick their heads out their windows and shout, “What’s all the commotion?” This did not happen. I sat with the engine idling. I didn’t turn on the headlights, not yet. I took deep breaths and then put the car in Drive and eased away from the curb, headed across campus for Franklin Hall.
Though there was some light coming into the gray sky, it was not much. I checked the car clock. I was right on schedule. It was a short drive to the dorm, and there was no other traffic on campus. I turned on the car’s lights and the whole world seemed to grow bright. The car was huge, as I have said. It was a cruiser, an aircraft carrier, at least to someone not accustomed to driving such a car. Actually I was not much used to driving a car at all.
And yet the amazing tonnage of automobile was as light as a feather. I had not driven a car with power steering before. I could spin the wheel with one finger. I was floating on air, I might as well have been. It was a balloon. It was the Goodyear blimp. Alongside it, with me at the wheel, the helm, I might have said, everything else was small and insignificant. No longer was I frightened of marriage. No longer did I consider my joblessness or whether I was in love. Clearly I had made a wise decision. I was the master of my fate, possibly of the universe. I cornered, I signaled, I turned, I checked the gauges, I applied the brakes. In ecstasy I even blew the horn, a great blast that might have been Gabriel, come to wake the dead. What luxury, what ease of handling! Power steering––I hadn’t even asked for power steering, and yet here it was, right along with air-conditioning. Like a dream! I believed that I was a shrewd businessman, I believed I would make a good husband.
I wheeled confidently into the circular drive in front of Franklin Hall. I soared in. I sailed in. I glided in for a landing. The car was not only wonderful looking, it was not only wonderful to drive, it smelled wonderful. A brand new air-conditioned, power-steeringed sort of smell. I breathed the good new air into my lungs and felt new and handsome and full of good health.
I parked and turned off the headlights. I looked up toward the front door of the dorm, at the end of a long climb of steps, under Greek columns. The porch light burned in the mist. I waited. Soon I would be driving this fine machine to Alabama. I was getting married. In a car like this, marriage would be easy. I hoped Elizabeth didn’t insist on driving. Well, no, she couldn’t. They told me that at Hertz. Only me and my wife could drive the car. Oh yeah, she would be my wife on the way back. It was getting a little complicated for me. The problem was, Elizabeth was not there. She was not standing where she said she would be. The front door was not opening. Where was Elizabeth?
I was confused by this. I hadn’t turned off the engine. Mist had gathered on the windshield, so I searched around for the wiper button and finally found it and cleared the front window. I sat with the car running and the wipers going. The weather was chilly and wet. The light rain had picked up a little. I thought of turning on the car’s heater. It was cold enough for a heater. I did not turn it on. If I had done so, I would have had to admit that the air-conditioning was a mistake. I would have to admit I was a fool.
I sat in the car and looked out the window, up the long flight of steps to the columned verandah of the dorm. I studied the front door and expected it to open. It did not open. I kept looking at the door. I was willing this door open, and still it did not.
There were many cars parked in the lot. I had parked along the curb, set for a quick getaway. I thought maybe I should just park in a proper space. After I had waited awhile longer, I pulled the Town Car into an empty parking space. I backed in, so that I could keep my eye on the door of the dorm. Still she didn’t come. I shut off the engine and started to wait. Any minute, I thought, Elizabeth will come out. She will be beautiful and flustered. She will be wearing the purple orchid, or maybe still carrying it in the Kentucky Fried Chicken box where she had hidden it. We would kiss and laugh. I would say, “Where were you? I thought I would have to get married without you!” We would congratulate ourselves in this way on the accomplishment of our intrigue. We would drive into the morning and the rest of our happy lives.
I waited and waited, and still she did not come out.
At first the eastern sky glowed vaguely, then streaks of faintest pink showed in places against the rain clouds, then even that disappeared. Behind the canopy of clouds the sun rose. Now the sky had grown fully light. The rain had stopped but the morning was a lightening shade of gray. I felt foolish and exposed, sitting in this unfamiliar car in front of the girls dorm at this hour on a Saturday morning. It was near time for breakfast to be served in the student union. Shit. Where was she? I wonder now why it did not occur to me that this was a sort of reprieve. I could go back to the fraternity house. I could return the car, save no telling how much on mileage, maybe not have to pay the daily rate, if the right guy was on duty. I didn’t think any of these things, though. They never occurred to me. I wonder now what our lives would have been like if I had remembered my fears as I had lain in the bed in the night and realized I might not love this woman, or rather that I had no idea what love was.
At last the front door of the dormitory opened. Well, all right, I thought, all right, let’s go, let’s get a move on, let’s get on down the damn road. I leaned forward and looked through the windshield. Someone came out the door of the dormitory. Who was it? It was not Elizabeth, it was two other girls, on their way to breakfast. Saturday breakfasts were especially good at our college cafeteria. You could get omelets and waffles. I scrunched down in the front seat of the car and hoped they would not see me. It was no use. They had to walk very close to the car. They saw me and recognized me. They gave me a puzzled look and waved, and so I waved back, but that was all. They went on to breakfast. Oh man, come on Elizabeth, please just come on.
The sun was very high now. The clouds were breaking up a little. I turned off the windshield wipers. I had forgotten they were on. Many girls came out of the dorm on their way to breakfast now. Millsaps is a small school, so I knew most of them. Some of them noticed me, most did not. They were sleepy, the car was gaudy but unfamiliar. One was a girl I had dated for a while before I met Elizabeth. She was what used to be called perky, so she bent down in her sassy way and looked boldly into the car to see just what the heck was going on here. She recognized me. She came over to the car and made small talk. She said, “Whose car?”
I said, “I don’t know.” I thought she didn’t seem as perky as she did when we dated. She just seemed bitter.
She said, “You don’t know?”
I said, “A friend. It belongs to a friend.”
She said, “Really? Who?” She was getting a little perkier.
Maybe I just never noticed the bitter, brittle edge that perkiness carries with it.
I said, “It’s sort of a secret.”
She looked at me like, Grow up, asshole, and walked away from the car toward the cafeteria to order a Mexican omelet, or a banana and whipped cream waffle, or some other damn thing that made me dislike her in the first place. Perky bitch. Perk my ass, why don’t you.
I could not imagine what had happened to Elizabeth.
For a long time I was worried about her, afraid something really had happened to her. Then I started to get irritated, then pretty mad. I was sick of this shit, actually.
The more girls who crossed campus on their way to breakfast, the less worried and the more hurt and pissed off I began to feel. “Left standing at the altar” was the phrase that kept coming into my mind.
I waited longer. I even talked to several more girls. I found myself flirting with one of them.
She said, “Are you and Elizabeth still going out?”
I said, “Who wants to know?”
She said, “Well, maybe I do.”
I said, “Ask me no questions I’ll tell you no lies.” God.
Still Elizabeth did not show up. I waited and waited.
Then I did a foolish thing. I got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk and out onto the wet lawn and through the grass all the way around to the back of the dormitory. The grass was still wet from the rain, and my feet were cold. I was looking for the window to Elizabeth’s room, on the second floor. Never mind that half the student body had already seen me wearing a suit and sitting in a strange car. I could have gone to the front desk and had Elizabeth paged, I suppose.
But something told me that throwing pebbles at her window was the right thing to do, under the circumstances. Without giving words to the thought, the intuition, I believed I was trying to resurrect by a romantic act the romance with which our elopement had been born. Only in that way could I possibly live with what I still supposed I intended to do, once she got her butt down the stairs and into the car, to get married I mean. Otherwise, it made no sense at all. Without romance it was merely a bad idea, her parents were merely right. I found a few small stones and tossed them up at a window on the second floor of the dorm. I thought it might be the right window. It doesn’t matter, in any case. The rocks came nowhere close to the spot that I was trying to hit. They bounced irrelevantly off the brick wall. The only result of the attempt is that now my feet were wet and I was angry and felt like a greater fool.
I went back to the car and sat in it. I turned the heater on high and took off my shoes and put my feet under the blower. I folded my arms across my chest. All right, I would wait.
Now the girls I had seen earlier started to come back from breakfast. Some of them spoke to me again and walked on by, back to the dorm. Others snubbed me, this second time around. This was too much. This was insulting.
I checked for safety and waited while a group of eight or more girls crossed the driveway in front of me, and then I pulled out of my parking spot and drove across campus, back to the fraternity house. There was no telephone in Elizabeth’s room—there were none allowed in any of the girls’ rooms—but I knew that there was a pay phone in the hall on the floor where she lived. Each night after our lovemaking in borrowed cars she called me from this phone and we talked. I had the number, and so now I called it from the fraternity house. A few boys were awake, moving around the house in their underwear, but no one seemed to notice that I was dressed in a suit. I stood in the hallway with the black telephone to my ear and listened as the dormitory phone rang many times. Literally, thirty or forty times. There was no answer.
I went back out to the Town Car and drove over to Franklin Hall again. I was sure she would be there waiting, I was sure of it. But when I looked up at the steps, toward the front door, she was not. I parked again and sat and looked at the dormitory doors again. She did not come out. Other college boys drove in and picked up their Saturday morning dates and drove away. I didn’t need the heater any longer, at least. It would be a mild day. My feet were dried out, pretty much.
I drove back to the fraternity house and called again. I let the telephone ring many times. I let it ring so many times that it would have been impossible that somebody should not have picked it up. Finally, somebody did answer the phone, some girl, I forget who. I asked to speak to Elizabeth.
There was silence for a very long time while she was going to get Elizabeth. She was gone so long I was afraid she had lied to me and had simply gone back to bed.
Then a sleepy voice came on the line. “Hello?” the voice asked, a quiet question. This was Elizabeth. She sounded like a person who had not expected to be waked up so early on a Saturday morning.
I said, “Elizabeth, where are you? What’s the matter? I’ve been waiting for hours.”
THERE IS NO NEED to draw this out. We drove to Alabama that day, and we were married by a Baptist minister, with the minister’s wife as our witness. Afterward we stopped at an out-of-the-way place called the Lakeview Motel, where the door to our unit kept springing open at odd times. We made love as many times as we could—this was our first crack at sex in a bed or in a prone position—and then we watched a television show called The Defenders. It starred E. G. Marshall and Robert Reed, and the plot that night had something to do with LSD, which I was hearing about for the first time. By eleven o’clock my new bride was back in her dormitory bed, and I had returned the car to Hertz and was not charged for an extra day. I walked back from the Hertz place to the fraternity house in the middle of the night, about twenty blocks. You might not think so, but I was happy. I was married. I was in love. I was pretty well pleased with myself for the way things had turned out. Maybe this makes no sense, I can’t analyze it even these many years later.
One thing, though, that I can see now, as I have already said, I did not see then. I had not had to get married. This fact simply never occurred to me. During the awful hours when Elizabeth slept and I waited, I did not want to get married, that much was pretty clear even then. And if I had had more sense I might also have figured out that oversleeping was Elizabeth’s way of saying she wasn’t so sure this was such a great idea herself.
Romance had set my course. Maybe that’s the only answer. Herman had sold us the rings. The flowers were bought. The car was rented. The blood tests, the marriage license. We had talked so much about marriage. We had dreamed of small apartments together. We had talked about flowers on the breakfast table, about pets, and about children, especially about children. We said we would have a boy named Robert and we would call him Robin, after Christopher Robin. We would have a girl named Rebecca, and we would call her Becky. Elizabeth wrote a magical little children’s play for one of her Elementary Education classes and named the two principal characters Robin and Becky. This was our secret joke together when the play was produced on campus. We railroaded ourselves with romance.
Elizabeth and I had three children. There was never a Becky. One son we named Robin. Another we named Erik, and he recently became the father of my first grandchild. One died a few hours after his birth twenty-some years ago. Jesse was the baby’s name. And Robin—well, never mind for right now what happened to Robin. What eventually happened to Elizabeth and me was pretty typical—the alcohol, the betrayals, the divorce—though God knows why lives are comprised of such events, the good or the evil. And who could ever have imagined, when I was buying a ring from Herman or choosing the wrong color flower or finessing the fifty-dollar deposit on an air-conditioned Lincoln Town Car, and otherwise sealing the lid on romance, that life would turn out in this way. I didn’t see it coming. I still feel blindsided by my own innocence. So much depends on romance. Sometimes that point comes right home to me.