How had I moved from a lowly Naval Bosun's Mate, driving an admiral's wife and friends around Charleston Harbor to a developing professional about to marry the prettiest girl in Arkansas in the space of less than two years? I tried to think. That wasn't what I did best, but it helped pass the time. The effort proved too great, and I fell asleep again.
Later, I tried to pick the guitar like Doc Watson. That didn’t
work. Then I tried to write down my thoughts like John Steinbeck
might. That didn’t work either. I tried some calisthenics but that made my head
hurt. Was I a failure at everything? Why would anyone want to marry me, especially
such an “aggravating beauty” as I had landed—or was about to land? What if she
changed her mind at the last minute? It would just show that she had come to
her senses at last. Nobody would blame her.
Was there hope for me? That freeway, I thought, that ran to
Lonoke would lead straight on to the east coast if one didn’t stop. From there,
a man could escape to France, where I heard they had wine with breakfast. And
here I was, fixing to be stuck in Arkansas the rest of my life. Or was I? One
simple missed turn and the whole world awaited me. Maybe Brenda's mother, Hazel, was correct in worrying that I might not show.
Then the vision engulfed me: the smell of her full and flowing
hair after she had washed it, the taste of that first kiss, the faint freckles
under her eyes, the feel of hands when they held my arm, and the excitement in
her voice when she told about going out on a snowy morning with her daddy, pretending
to be rabbit hunting.
Oh, what the hell?
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| You might better be getting your mind right. |
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