attentiveness. Carl never seemed bored or distracted. He didn’t bring a radio to help pass the time and he smoked only after a meal, hand-rolling his cigarette with the same meticulous patience as when he measured a cut or stacked a cord of firewood. She’d envied how comfortable he was in his solitude.
Their courtship had begun with cups of coffee, then offers and acceptances of home-cooked meals. Carl didn’t reveal much about himself, but as the days and then weeks passed Marcie learned he’d grown up in Whiteville, in the far east of the state. A carpenter who’d gotten laid off when the housing market went bad, he’d heard there was more work in the mountains so had come west, all he cared to bring with him in the back of his pickup. When Marcie asked if he had children, Carl told her he’d never been married.
“Never found a woman who would have me,” he said. “Too quiet, I reckon.”
“Not for me,” she told him, and smiled. “Too bad I’m nearly old enough to be your mother.”
“You’re not too old,” he replied, in a matter-of-fact way, his blue eyes looking at her as he spoke, not smiling.
She expected him to be a shy awkward lover, but he wasn’t. The same attentiveness he showed in his work was in his kisses and touches, in the way he matched the rhythms of his movements to hers. It was as though his long silences made him better able to communicate in other ways. Nothing like Arthur, who’d been brief and concerned mainly with satisfying himself. Carl had lived in a run-down motel outside Sylva that rented by the hour or the week, but they never went there. They always made love in Marcie’s bed. Sometimes he’d stay the whole night. At the grocery store and church there were asides and stares. Preacher Carter, who’d sent Carl to her in the first place, spoke to Marcie of “proper appearances.” By then her daughters had found out as well. From three states away they spoke to Marcie of being humiliated, insisting they’d be too embarrassed to visit, as if their coming home was a common occurrence. Marcie quit going to church and went into town as little as possible. Carl finished his work on the garage but his reputation as a handyman was such that he had all the work he wanted, including an offer to join a construction crew working out of Sylva. Carl told the crew boss he preferred to work alone.
What people said to Carl about his and Marcie’s relationship, she didn’t know, but the night she broughtit up he told her they should get married. No formal proposal or candlelight dinner at a restaurant, just a flat statement. But good enough for her. When Marcie told her daughters, they were, predictably, outraged. The younger one cried. Why couldn’t she act her age, her older daughter asked, her voice scalding as a hot iron.
A justice of the peace married them and then they drove over the mountains to Gatlinburg for the weekend. Carl moved in what little he had and they began a life together. She thought that the more comfortable they became around each other the more they would talk, but that didn’t happen. Evenings Carl sat by himself on the porch or found some small chore to do, something best done alone. He didn’t like to watch TV or rent movies. At supper he’d always say it was a good meal, and thank her for making it. She might tell him something about her day, and he’d listen politely, make a brief remark to show that though he said little at least he was listening. But at night as she readied herself for bed, he’d always come in. They’d lie down together and he’d turn to kiss her good night, always on the mouth. Three, four nights a week that kiss would linger and then quilts and sheets would be pulled back. Afterward, Marcie would not put her nightgown back on. Instead, she’d press her back into his chest and stomach, bend her knees, and fold herself inside him, his arms holding her close, his body’s heat enclosing her.
O nce back home, Marcie
Their courtship had begun with cups of coffee, then offers and acceptances of home-cooked meals. Carl didn’t reveal much about himself, but as the days and then weeks passed Marcie learned he’d grown up in Whiteville, in the far east of the state. A carpenter who’d gotten laid off when the housing market went bad, he’d heard there was more work in the mountains so had come west, all he cared to bring with him in the back of his pickup. When Marcie asked if he had children, Carl told her he’d never been married.
“Never found a woman who would have me,” he said. “Too quiet, I reckon.”
“Not for me,” she told him, and smiled. “Too bad I’m nearly old enough to be your mother.”
“You’re not too old,” he replied, in a matter-of-fact way, his blue eyes looking at her as he spoke, not smiling.
She expected him to be a shy awkward lover, but he wasn’t. The same attentiveness he showed in his work was in his kisses and touches, in the way he matched the rhythms of his movements to hers. It was as though his long silences made him better able to communicate in other ways. Nothing like Arthur, who’d been brief and concerned mainly with satisfying himself. Carl had lived in a run-down motel outside Sylva that rented by the hour or the week, but they never went there. They always made love in Marcie’s bed. Sometimes he’d stay the whole night. At the grocery store and church there were asides and stares. Preacher Carter, who’d sent Carl to her in the first place, spoke to Marcie of “proper appearances.” By then her daughters had found out as well. From three states away they spoke to Marcie of being humiliated, insisting they’d be too embarrassed to visit, as if their coming home was a common occurrence. Marcie quit going to church and went into town as little as possible. Carl finished his work on the garage but his reputation as a handyman was such that he had all the work he wanted, including an offer to join a construction crew working out of Sylva. Carl told the crew boss he preferred to work alone.
What people said to Carl about his and Marcie’s relationship, she didn’t know, but the night she broughtit up he told her they should get married. No formal proposal or candlelight dinner at a restaurant, just a flat statement. But good enough for her. When Marcie told her daughters, they were, predictably, outraged. The younger one cried. Why couldn’t she act her age, her older daughter asked, her voice scalding as a hot iron.
A justice of the peace married them and then they drove over the mountains to Gatlinburg for the weekend. Carl moved in what little he had and they began a life together. She thought that the more comfortable they became around each other the more they would talk, but that didn’t happen. Evenings Carl sat by himself on the porch or found some small chore to do, something best done alone. He didn’t like to watch TV or rent movies. At supper he’d always say it was a good meal, and thank her for making it. She might tell him something about her day, and he’d listen politely, make a brief remark to show that though he said little at least he was listening. But at night as she readied herself for bed, he’d always come in. They’d lie down together and he’d turn to kiss her good night, always on the mouth. Three, four nights a week that kiss would linger and then quilts and sheets would be pulled back. Afterward, Marcie would not put her nightgown back on. Instead, she’d press her back into his chest and stomach, bend her knees, and fold herself inside him, his arms holding her close, his body’s heat enclosing her.
O nce back home, Marcie
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