Abit
When we got back from the lake, I parked the bus where we always did between gigs. As I pulled in, I could see how folks had trampled the grass in the meadow behind the store. That brought up good feelings, remembering our wedding day and all.
It was late—we’d stretched our few days off as far as we could—so no one else was around. I was just as glad; I wanted this time together to last as long as possible. We headed home in the Merc, and everything looked grand as our headlights flashed on our new home. When we got outta the car, Fiona let out a howl when she landed in one of them damn rosebush holes. Millie and I ran over to her, but she said she was okay. We’d soon plant our own bushes.
The feeling I got being in my own house with someone I loved—and who loved me—well, I couldn’t put words to it. After we unpacked the Merc, we walked through the house together, admiring each room and talking about our plans for making it even better.
The only thing I could find the least bit wrong with the house was the way it sat on the land, making it cold of a morning. The next day, when Fiona asked me to build a fire in the woodstove, I went out to the woodpile and kinda jumped back when I heard that old hag in my head, screaming her curses at us. When I finally got up the nerve to light that fire, we were both holding our breath. Then we started laughing, especially Fiona, who’d done some kinda ritual to cancel the curse. We enjoyed our morning coffee right by the stove, not a burn on us.
Della called from D.C. We spent time catching up, and she swore me to secrecy about the deal she’d worked out for Astrid and Dee. She never wanted them kids to know how it came about.
She also told me to go up to her apartment—I had my own key—because there was something nice up there. When I hung up, I got Millie in the Merc and drove over to Della’s. We ran up her steps and went inside, where I saw she’d laid out some photos from the wedding in the same order as the day had gone. I got a kick outta reliving such a fine day, and I particularly liked the last photos—the ones of the bench full of gifts for me and Fiona. We hadn’t seen them because we’d parked the bus outta the way and left for our honeymoon by a different route.
I took the boxes Della’d packed with all the gifts and drove straight back home, where I set them on my workbench in the barn. I pulled out each gift, one at a time, and imagined who’d given what. Not a one had signed their names, but I knew whose gift was whose as surely as if they had. Then I got Cleva’s pictures out and set the gifts out in a way that mirrored how they’d done it on the bench outside the store.
It was mid-afternoon when Fiona came home from her early shift, and I made her come out, acting like I was having trouble with something in my shop and needed her help. When we got to the door, I put my hands over her eyes.
“What’re you doin’, Rabbit?” she asked, giggling softly.
I didn’t say anythin’, just guided her in closer and took my hands away. She looked at the workbench, then up at me, then at the workbench again. She handled each one real careful-like, gently setting them back down, respecting the fine things they were.
Later that week when Shiloh and I were finishing up a sideboard, he got this smirk on his face. “So, how’s married life?”
That was such a stupid question, especially after only a coupla weeks, I chose not to answer and kept working. I could tell he was waiting for an answer of some sort, so I told him about the gifts people left us. He nodded in a way that said go on. Well, I sure wasn’t gonna tell him about our honeymoon, so I mentioned how I was still trying to get Fiona to laugh at my jokes (short of putting on that stupid hat again). “She laughs at yours. Why not mine?” I asked.
He thought a minute, pulling on his mustache. “Well, maybe this one will do the trick.” He started laughing before he even told it, so I figured it must have been one of his favorites. “This guy, Homer, goes to prison and in the mess hall, he notices that inmates are standing up and shouting out numbers. ‘Twenty-one,’ one guy says, and everyone bursts out laughing, cornbread crumbs flying across the tables. Another guy stands up and calls out, ‘Eighteen.’ Brought the house down, or I guess I should say brought the big house down. This goes on for a while, and finally Homer asks his cellmate what was going on. ‘Oh, we’ve all heard the jokes around here so many times, we’ve given them a number. When someone calls out a number, we think about that joke and laugh.’ Homer’s eager to fit in, so the next day after someone called out ‘Twelve’ and got a big laugh, Homer stands up and shouts, ‘Ten.’ Not even a smile from the crowd. Homer’s too embarrassed then, but later that night he asks his cellmate about it. ‘Well, Homer, some people can tell a joke, and some can’t.’”
Shiloh started laughing again. “V.J., I know you can tell that joke!”