A Cup of Comfort for Couples (25 page)

Maybe that is why Harry insisted the walls in our condo be painted white and he is reluctant to hang anything on the walls. His room now does not have a particular smell, but when I snuggle into one of the sweatshirts cast off on the bed, I breathe in traces of his Paco Rabanne Eau de Toilette. sometimes we push the
PC World
,
Popular Mechanics
,
Car
& Driver
, and
Men's
Health
magazines on the bed against the wall, lie down, and watch a DVD movie on his computer.

One night I rested there, icing a bruised shin.

“Would you like a cookie with your coffee?” Harry asked from the kitchen.

While I waited for him, my gaze drifted over the flickering screen, the desk lamp that bends down too low, the picture of his father half hidden behind a cup stuffed with ballpoint pens, the box that covers part of the window. And I felt transported to a time when we were still girlfriend and boyfriend, when I woke up early and lay next to him, contemplating his bedroom: the naked floor-to-ceiling windows, the sleeves of his suit jackets queued up on the coat rack, the bare walls, the king-size mattress on the floor.

It dawned on me then that, in the little room next to the kitchen, Harry had preserved his “this-is-how- I-live” identity, not hindered by my decorating efforts or the family that has grown up around him. I recoiled at how often I had been tempted to reach in, pluck paper after paper, and drop it in a plastic bag. I was grateful I had never torn this room apart in a frenzy of homemaking, had not destroyed the habitat of the twenty-five-year-old I fell in love with. He still lives among all those boxes. It is his room.

—
Annette Gendler

Wildly in Love

W
ith my husband by my side, safety is never an issue. Michael could get us out of a tight situ-ation with such ease and finesse that we'd be out of danger long before I'd realized any peril had existed. The day Michael looks alarmed, we are guaranteed goners. Michael exemplifies “the three Rs”: rugged, resourceful, and risk taker — qualities I find endearing in people other than myself.

Marrying a scuba diver, mountain climber, and cross-country hiker granted me a thrill by associa-tion. For eight years, I've encouraged his free-spirited activity, flashing him the thumbs up from the safety of the shoreline, the window of a luxury cabin, or the well-traveled pathway at the foot of the mountain. While he dives into the throes of adventure, I dive under a throw made of chenille to read a great book until Michael returns to share his close encounter with the protective mother bear and her cubs; the treacherous mountain trail with a drop-off, where his foot wandered a bit from the path; or the copperhead that slithered under his boot. I acknowledge a twinge of jealousy when listening to what I could've seen firsthand.

“Did you enjoy your leisurely bath?” he asks, with too much emphasis on the word “leisurely.”

“Well, yeah, I guess it was okay,” I say.

“Good. I'm glad you could relax while I was scaling the cliff.”

The need to correct his false perceptions of my complete safety within the cabin's walls overtakes me, and I point to my calf. “See that?”

“What?”

“That cut. Used a new razor in the tub. Bled all over the place.” I throw him a sideways glance. “Thought I'd need a Band-Aid.”

“Hmm, that so?” he says while making a high-protein drink to reload for his next death-defying feat.

“Yeah. And my pumice stone . . . I swear it has teeth.”

He ignores me while he checks his hiking gear.

Annoyed, I thrust my hand near his face. “Have you ever tried to give yourself a manicure without the proper tools?”

He fails to respond to my plight, obviously not recognizing my challenges when holed up in the mountains. Then, suddenly, I'm bored with myself.

“Would you like to join me on a hike tomorrow?” he asks. “Maybe we'll see a black bear.”

The excursion sounds outlandishly dangerous. It's not that I don't like nature; I do — from a distance. I could sit and look at wildlife for hours as long as a screened porch, an Adirondack chair, and a café latte are involved. I'm not one to find excitement as the lone person in the forest, noting changes in the wind currents, identifying different types of animal scat, or acknowledging various species of plant life while I'm carrying nothing more than a canteen of water and a granola bar in the event that unforeseen circumstances force me to spend the night in the woods. Instead, I stay indoors and indulge in niceties for myself while Michael partakes in his dangerous, testosterone-packed jaunts. After all, if I'm going to be a young widow, I need to stay somewhat attractive.

Yet, when I look at my husband's peaceful demeanor, I feel the urge to mingle with the fragrant rhododendron, stumble upon a refreshing waterfall, and gaze admiringly at a wide-eyed doe with her wobbly legged fawn at her side.

Michael says, “Today, a man spotted a bobcat.”

With those words, a snarling cat perched atop a rock and ready to strike an unsuspecting hiker replaces my image of the precious fawn. “Bobcat? Aren't those dangerous?”

“Can be.” He looks at me. “If you're worried, maybe you should stay here.”

And I do. All week. As we leave the luxury cabin to return home from the mountains, I vow that next time will be different, promising to let myself go forth into the wild.

I should not have made that vow aloud.

Upon our return to Missouri, my husband suggests that we ease into my promise with a simple canoe trip down the Meramec River. I agree to go, even though rain is forecast. After all, I don't want to look like my same old, unadventurous self.

The ninety-minute drive allows time for contemplation. “What if we capsize?” I ask.

“Then we get wet,” he says.

“But what happens to our belongings?”

He laughs. “They get wet, too.”

I realize I can't stoke concern where there is none, so I stop asking questions.

Upon our arrival, we go to the canoe rental office, where the woman not only charges us thirty-eight dollars to risk our lives but also insists that we sign a hold-harmless waiver, relinquishing them from any liability for our bad judgment.

“It's early in the season and the river is high, but the water's still within the riverbanks,” the woman says.

Well, how lucky can we be? I have the urge to say. I hadn't even thought of the possibility of a flood. She warns of the fast-paced current, fallen trees, and other assorted debris around which we will need to navigate with help from the river patrol. The words “fallen trees,” “debris,” and “river patrol” clog my mind. I'm now convinced I will battle the evils of the underworld, but unlike Beowulf, Gilgamesh, and Dante, I will not emerge a better person for it.

My anxiety level subsides a bit when I see the orange life vests. The color is fitting, I think, seeing as I'm a prisoner on the river for the day.

After realizing I'm the only adult holding a vest, I say, “You can't be too safe, you know.”

“Good idea,” Michael says.

I examine it with hesitation. “Has this been washed?”

“You mean this year?”

“I take that as a no.”

We board an old, rickety bus that once passed inspection for the safe transport of children to school. Now, it hauls half-crocked adults to the river's edge. I eye the bus driver with suspicion after noting the colored sketch of two frothy beer mugs posted above the rearview mirror. Everything will be fine, I assure myself, while a nearby cattle dog sits on his owner's lap, eagerly waiting for the bus to pull out. Obviously, the dog has done this before. I'm jealous that his doggie life vest complements his fur. “Isn't that cute?” people say as they pass the dog. They fail to acknowledge an orange vest on a middle-aged woman.

As we travel down Possum Hollow Road, I over-hear snippets of conversations about snappers and snakes. I try to distract myself by looking out the windows. Abandoned shanties, rusted-out camper shells, and dilapidated chicken coops remind me that we are far from my comfort zone. I don't know whether to be disappointed or relieved when we make it to the riverbank.

I search for the safest canoe, but I'm not sure what to look for. Perhaps the one without a hole? Michael makes our selection and ties our cooler to the boat with a bungee cord. What if I fall in? I wonder. Why didn't he bring one long enough to secure me to the canoe? Are a sandwich and a bag of chips more important?

He instructs me to sit in the bow, and he sits in the stern, promising to do most of the work. Michael tells me to watch for snags. Snags? I can't admit that I don't know what they are, but I decide these snags are more daunting than, let's say, a sweater snag or a snag in my stockings. Within moments, our canoe nearly topples from my lack of proper attention, and I realize that the snags are nothing short of underwater land mines.

“So how far are we canoeing?” I ask.

“Ten miles,” Michael replies.

“Joking, right?”

“No.”

“How long will it take?”

“Four to six hours . . . unless we're in a hurry.”

I let out a nervous laugh that echoes off the limestone rock formations. I wonder how I will sit like a soldier for that long, since I'm afraid to move the slightest degree to the left or right for fear of tipping the canoe. Settling the best I can, I stare at the dirty water that surrounds me.

“Could have cleaned the place up a bit,” I say.

My husband chuckles as we pass a bobbing kitchen chair and a porcelain toilet on the left bank. Pointing to the toilet he says, “Let me know if you need to stop.”

There is no way I can admit that I need to use it.

Soon we pass two rafts tied together — twelve women in all. Their hoots and hollers tell me they are here by their own volition. One woman asks the others, “If you could be the opposite sex for the day, what is the first thing you'd do?”

I secretly ponder this question, and my husband eventually asks, “Well, what would you do?”

“Fart in public,” I announce, and Michael tells me that life on the river suits me well.

I straighten on the bench, basking in my new image as a river rat, when a strange sound draws my attention. “What was that?” I ask.

Michael points to the riverbank, where a herd of cattle stand both in and out of the water. No wonder the cattle dog needs a life vest. The cows are snorting, moving a little too close to the canoe.

“We're fine,” Michael assures me, but for the next few miles, I watch for angry cows, snakes, snappers, wayward fishing lures, and drunken boaters. Just when I decide the dangers on the river are behind us, the sound of thunder erupts.

I look at Michael to gauge his concern. “Hmm,” he says, “guess it's time for you to paddle.”

Lightning. Aluminum boat. Water. I begin paddling . . . quickly.

Michael has yet to show signs of real concern, which provides some relief. As the wind whips up a cool breeze, the rain pours from the sky, and the lightning crackles overhead, I search for anything that might delay our arrival to the landing. The rain pelts my skin, and the canoe begins taking on water, negating my efforts to keep dry for the past eight miles, and I begin laughing. Michael asks me why I'm laughing, and it suddenly occurs to me that it has been a long time since I let myself go.

“Can't a girl laugh when she's paddling for her life?” I ask.

For the next two miles, the storm worsens and the river rages, but it doesn't matter if we capsize, if a snake slithers on board, or if we're rammed by an angry steer. I realize that I'm having fun and, more importantly, I'm helping to save Nature Boy's life (a story my husband will deny every time I tell it). Salvation soon appears at the takeout landing — the old, rickety bus with the beer-touting driver who will deliver us safely to our car.

Once aboard, Michael glances at the lightning strikes behind us. “That was a little too close.”

“Now you tell me,” I say.

On the way back, I listen to people brag of cheating danger, and I know I can do the same.

Once home, I relay our harrowing adventure on the Meramec to the children, wherein they reply, “That's nice, Mom. But what's for dinner?”

Michael looks at me and says, “Yeah, what is for dinner?”

“Whatever you decide to make will be fine. I need to book our reservations in the mountains before the cabins fill up.”

“We could always use a tent, you know,” he suggests.

“Why don't we compromise? A pop-up trailer . . . with a full kitchen.”

“Sure.”

“Toilet and shower?”

“Absolutely,” he assures me.

“Washer and dryer?”

“Uh . . . no.”

I sigh. “I suppose I'll survive. Barely.”

Michael puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. “I've been thinking . . . How about a little white-water rafting this year?”