Love is a Wounded Soldier (9 page)

“Robbie!” she chided softly. “Of course
I’ll be your girl!” She moved in closer to me, her chin tilted slightly up as
her eyes invited my touch.

“That makes me a—a very happy man,” I
smiled at her, keeping my tone low, as she gently bumped the full bust of her
dress up against me, deliberately, carelessly, like a drunk might ease his car
against the bumper of another before coming to a stop. My hands gripped the
tops of her arms where they met her shoulders as I drank in the smell of her
perfume.

“You have strong hands, Robbie,” she said,
and I sheepishly relaxed my hold on her, scolding myself for handling a woman
with the same grip as I would a bull calf. She giggled.

“Kiss me,” she commanded, even as I was
wondering if I was the only one in the room thinking about that. My arms slid
down over silky waves of hair to rest on the small of her back. Hers rested on
my shoulders, around my neck, and I pulled her in with no resistance. Not
wanting to be presumptuous, I pressed my lips cautiously against her forehead,
pinning a few rogue hairs between them. I kissed her again and kept my lips
against her, holding her to me tightly. She moved her head back slightly and I
reciprocated, just far enough so our eyes could focus on each other.

“Robbie,” she whispered, the sweet ambrosia
of her breath battering my senses. She pushed her lips out toward me
expectantly.

“But your pa—” I protested weakly, not
wanting to cross any boundaries the preacher might not want me to.

“Robbie!” she breathed impatiently, and I
sensed this was not the moment she had planned for discussing ethical matters,
so I tentatively leaned forward and lipped the full, pink softness of her
mouth. My body almost shook with desire. My mind felt utterly helpless as it
got swept away in a current of passion, yet my body felt invincibly potent and
virile as I held her to me. Someone called that supper was ready, and we parted
reluctantly, breathlessly.

“Am I the only one feeling a little dizzy?”
she whispered to me as we walked to the kitchen.

“I do believe I’m a wee bit intoxicated at
the moment,” I said, letting out a boyish giggle that almost had me looking
around to see if there was a ventriloquist nearby. She laughed. She was
beautiful.

~~~

And so like a reckless garden our love
grew. Like spindly seedlings we sprouted branchlet and tendril that twined and
tangled hopelessly around each other, until our spirits were raveled together in
an inextricable embrace. Heedlessly our hearts intertwined, thinking never of
the agony separation might bring, but striving always to cling the more closely
to the other.

Spring conquered winter, and as the
schoolchildren shed coat and cap and sweater, so I bared my soul to Ellen until
it would have shivered, if not for the warmth of her acceptance. I bashfully
shared my journalistic aspirations with her, and rather than deprecating them,
she listened approvingly and smiled as she offered encouragement, and told me
of her unwavering belief in me. With her I could seemingly reveal more of
myself than I myself knew; sometimes it seemed just talking to her about
growing up with Moses, Ma’s death, or whatever, dredged up deep feelings from
my emotional well to the surface where I could see them and identify them for
what they were. And in anger or sadness, Ellen would always offer a comforting
word or touch that was like a cool hand to a fevered forehead, and she would
calm my stormy spirit with her quiet eyes. She became my confidante, the only
one I had ever trusted with thoughts I hardly trusted to say out loud when I
was alone.

Our courtship flourished into the summer
under the watchful eye of Preacher Moore. Too watchful, it sometimes seemed. At
times it felt we had little room to breathe, and even the time we spent alone
was rife with an inordinate number of “chance” interruptions that I found a
little aggravating. I put enough stock in my own character to be a little
insulted to think that the preacher didn’t trust me alone with his daughter.
Though his seeming distrust rankled me at times, one summer evening I did
receive a little glimpse into his mind, a glimpse that made me think of him
like less of a preacher, and more like an ordinary man.

~~~

I was picking Ellen up to go into town for
ice cream, and Preacher Moore was sitting on the porch, Bible in lap, sweaty
glass of iced tea in hand, as I stood waiting for Ellen to join me outside.

She emerged in a sky blue sundress, a
matching ribbon in her hair, a veritable vision in blonde and blue.

I turned to follow her, and he said,
“Robert.” I stopped, and he motioned her on toward the car. She continued
walking, and when she was a dozen paces away, I responded, “Sir?”

“You treat her like a gentleman,” he said,
in a gruffer tone than I’d ever heard him use on anyone. I could feel my face
get warm, wondering if he’d witnessed a stolen kiss, though any onlooker would
surely perceive Ellen to be a most willing accomplice.

“Yes, sir, I’ll be sure to,” I tried not to
stammer. I stood there, kneading the air with my right hand, as I tried to
determine whether that was the extent of his admonition, or if more waited in
the wing.

Sensing my unease, he cleared his throat as
though rasping the edge off his voice, and attempted an inspiriting smile.

“I was young once, too, you know,” he said
mellowly, and I understood he was trying to tell me that he was “a man of like
passions” as me, and knew the feeling only a man knows, when his lips fuse with
those of the woman he loves. He knew the rush, the surge of blood to the parts
of the body with the poorest decision-making ability. He knew the strongest man
can be brought down by the weakest woman, and the purest of intentions can be
tainted in a moment of infatuation.

Understanding then that he identified with
the temptations of someone in my position and stage of life, I bid him good-bye
without rancor and joined Ellen in the car. We were both silent until we
reached the road. She looked at me quizzically.

“So, what was that all about?” she asked.

“He told me to treat you like a gentleman,”
I replied soberly, still ruminating about our little chat.

“Shouldn’t he have told you to treat me
like a lady?” she rebutted. We burst out laughing.

“I guess if I’m to treat you like a gentleman,
you should scoot on over up against the other door,” I suggested, bumping her
laughingly. She had snuggled up right beside me as soon as we got out of view
of her front porch.

“Oh, I’m sure you sometimes give your
gentlemen pals a good ol’ smack on the knee like this,” she said, grabbing my
free hand and slapping it down on her knee. She brazenly guided my hand above
her knee, where the mischievous breeze had been given free rein to work her
hemline halfway up her thigh. She laughed unblushingly, the wind catching her
mirth and doubtlessly carrying it over the nearest hill to deposit it as
velvety flower petals in some wild meadow. My mouth joined her in laughter, but
my mind was sidetracked by the smooth softness of her skin, and I was
fascinated that her upper leg was tanned to almost the same extent as her face
and arms. I wondered when and where she sunbathed, and admittedly, got a little
carried away in pondering the exact extent of her enhanced pigmentation. I
jerked my wandering mind back on track in unison with the straying car.

She wanted a kiss now, and since the words
of her father had been replaced with the whistling of the wind, I eagerly
obliged, trying to keep at least one eye on the road, and mind and machine
between the ditches.

~~~

Each day that passed only solidified the
certainty in our minds that we wanted to be with each other forever. And the
more we talked about living “forever and ever” together, the less content we
were to be apart.

So, we talked to Ellen’s pa about getting
married in the fall after the harvest was over, but he was of the persuasion
we’d be much more ready for that sort of thing the following spring, and
despite Ellen’s pleas, he remained resolute.

Our impatience only intensified as rumors
of conscription circulated, and we both knew I was a prime candidate to be
drafted. Europe had been wracked by conflict since 1939, and Britain’s tired
war machine struggled as it carried the lion’s share of the task of defeating
Nazi Germany. Japan was flexing its military might in the Pacific, and so the
United States engaging in World War II appeared to be more and more likely with
every passing day. As we heard the news from overseas, U.S. participation
seemed to be an inevitability, and we became more and more anxious to get
married.

Our restlessness only grew, and in the dead
of summer, when there was little to do but watch crops grow and pray for rain,
we decided to make one last appeal to Mr. Moore to give his blessing and let us
get on with the life together we both desired so badly.

~~~

A cool, steady rain had refreshed the
countryside the past two days on the Thursday morning Ellen and I picked to
make one final supplication to her father.

Having decided it might be best to discuss
it in the sanctuary of his office, I picked her up in the middle of the morning
and we apprehensively drove to the church, prepared to do battle. Ellen rode
placidly beside me, mostly holding her peace, her jaw set stubbornly, as if
girding her will up for the impending confrontation.

We parked the car outside the church and
hurried in, even though the rain was now spotty. The preacher looked over his
reading glasses at us as we walked into his office. He pushed himself away from
his desk and wordlessly motioned at a pair of empty chairs.

“Good morning,” he said, taking his glasses
off and rubbing his eyes as he stretched back in his chair.

“Morning,” we both responded, taking our
seats. We sat silently for a moment, no one quite sure who should speak first.

“I presume you two aren’t here for spiritual
counsel,” he commented dryly.

“Daddy, please let us get married,” Ellen
began. “Everyone’s talking about the draft, and we just can’t stand the thought
of Robbie being sent off and us still not being together.” She beseeched him
with her eyes.

“Ellie,” he said firmly, “I’m not changing
my mind on this. I think you two will be a lot better off if you wait until
spring. You don’t know each other that well yet. You need to give yourselves
time to really find out not only who the other person is, but who you are
yourselves. Marriage is forever. You don’t want to be rushing into forever.”

Seeing his resolve, Ellen changed tactics.

“But Daddy,” she said innocently, “you
wouldn’t want us to fall into sin, would you? The Bible says it’s better to
marry than to burn, and next spring is such a long time to wait, isn’t it,
Robbie?”

I nodded cautiously, squirming awkwardly as
I tried not to look like a carnal heathen who was burning with lust for his
daughter. I knew her statement was a risk; if he was a man anything like me,
her last argument would cement his decision against us. He would feel he was
being manipulated to change a principled decision to one based on emotion, and
would resent that.

He was like me. His eyebrows raised a
little, and while his voice kept an even tone, the rigidity in his face showed
an inward struggle with anger.

“Ellen,” he said, leaning forward now,
hands folded on his desk, “you are a grown woman now, and Robert is a man. A
good man, too. You are at liberty to decide as you wish, but know that I will
not wed you personally, allow you to marry in this church, or give my blessing
for you to marry before next spring. Jacob worked 14 years for his bride, and I
don’t recall him complaining that he was “burning.” Do you?” He could wield the
Sword of the Spirit as deftly as anyone, and it appeared even if he was bested,
his position was fixed and steadfast.

“Alright Daddy,” Ellen said, her words
suggesting capitulation, but her face was devoid of surrender. She stood up and
gathered herself together.

“Come here,” he said, looking softer now as
he reached across the table as if he wanted to make peace. She leaned forward
stiffly, gave him a hug, and kissed him coldly on the forehead. I nodded at him
as we left, realizing I only said one blessed word the entire time.

She held her chin high as she marched back
to the car. Angry tears pounded at the windows of her eyes.

I maneuvered the car off the lot and slowly
drove through the slop the road had become, resigned to waiting until spring to
be married. The clouds had broken and a warm breeze had begun drying the thin
tops of the car ruts into lighter-colored crusts.

“Where’s the nearest Justice of the Peace?”
Ellen was the first to break the silence.

“Umm . . . Gatlinburg, I guess,” I said,
while my mind furiously assessed the implications of her question.

“Well, I think we should see if they have
any weddings for sale in Gatlinburg this afternoon,” she said, glancing at me
to gauge my reaction.

“So you want to elope. Today.” I slowly
thought out loud.

“No, I don’t
want
to elope,” Ellen
said loudly, “but if I’m going to marry you before they ship you off to the
other side of the world, we’re going to
hav
e to elope.”