In the airport at Mexico City the next day, changing planes for the flight back to Midway Airport, I watched her bound back from the newsstand with two copies of the New York Times under her arm, and I realized how gallant she was. Running on the enormous energy generated by determination and willpower, she had turned what could have been a disastrous honeymoon into a happy one. My wild Rosemarie charged right through obstacles.
Even obstacles like me.
“Something wrong?” She shoved one of the newspapers into my hand. “You know what, Chucky? I think I’ve lost our baggage tickets.”
I was not permitted to touch these tickets, since it was assumed, almost by definition, I would lose them.
“I was watching this beautiful woman—”
“Fine, but that doesn’t find the tickets.” She was poking around in her purse, with increasing concern.
“I love you, Rosemarie. I’ve always loved you.”
“Yes, of course, dear.” She sounded just like her mother-in-law. “I know that, but I have to find our baggage tickets. You must have them.”
“I don’t.”
I was hurt because she didn’t seem to think that my protestation of love, a cliché in words but entirely new in meaning, was important.
“Ah, here they are! See I did find them without your help!”
I took her into my arms and recited the lines I had just prepared about her gallantry and about how she had made the honeymoon so special.
“You’re not going to make love to me right here in the airport, are you?”
“I’d like to, but I can wait till we’re home.”
We continued our embrace for the next moment or two.
“Am I glad”—she slipped away from me—“that I found these tickets! We’d have a terrible time at Midway without them . … And, oh, Chucky what you just said was beautiful”—she winked at me—“but I’m sure I’ve heard it from you before. Still, it’s nice to hear it again.”
Thus for my great reform.
Except that when I opened my eyes briefly during my nap on the flight to Chicago, I saw tears of joy flowing down her face.
Now there was one more bond tying me to my mysterious, appealing, vulnerable, and probably doomed bride. When we left Butterfield Country Club to drive to Long Beach I was tied to her by the bonds of church and of society, by the obligation we all have to protect the innocent and the persecuted, and by the loyalties of long and affectionate friendship.
Now I was bound to her by something much more terrible in its power.
Passionate love.