| Biographical Fiction posted July 7, 2023 | Chapters: |
...15 16 -17- 18... 
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Chapter 17 of J. O. Baumgartner
A chapter in the book J. O. Baumgartner
Family
by Lyle Nußbaum
| Background Jubal, a mute reflects on his life from old age: the people and events that shaped him into who he is and helped him find his "voice" and place in the world. |
And Abram said unto Lot, Let there be no strife. I pray thee, between me and thee, and between my herdmen and thy herdmen; for we be brethren. Is not the whole land before thee? separate thyself, I pray thee, from me: If thou wilt take the left hand, then I will go to the right; or if thou depart to the right hand, then I will go to the left.
- Genesis 13:8-9 KJV
I moved into the house a week or two after my nineteenth birthday. I still worked at the sawmill five or six days each week, helping Obed and Vater with the timber. I would eat lunch with the family on those days. It was nice to be together as a family for those few hours each day; however, I was glad to leave the chaos of the children behind and return to the serenity of my home each evening.
Vater had aged a lot over the last few years: the wrinkles in his face had deepened, his eyes had a weariness about them, and he walked slower with a noticable stoop in his shoulders. His dark hair was flecked with grey around the temples and his beard had become more grey than brown. Unlike his father, he still has a full head of hair. He was a man nearing sixty, beaten down from the hardships that life had thrown at him and the arduous, albeit enjoyable, task of raising his nine children.
Obed was now a man of twenty-one. He was beginning to take on more of the physical responsibilities of the work at the mill. This allowed Vater to take on a more leisurely, managerial role, overseeing the orders and the quality of the work. Obed was a fast learner and loved working with wood. He was a dashing young man; dark hair and eyes so dark that at times they appeared to be black. He was strong, responsible, and determined to succeed at everything that he undertook. Obed, like me, had left the homestead almost two years earlier, moving into Großvater's empty shack. Unlike me, Obed had not taken to courting. His passion lay with the trees and the timber. Someday he may choose to pursue love; until that day, he was content in his life as a young bachelor.
Tabitha, too, had remained unattached. She was a woman of twenty-two, going on twenty-three that fall. She was a fair woman, with flaxen hair falling past her shoulders in thick curls, deep blue eyes, and skin as pale as porcelain. She was a short, buxom woman, strong and capable, a true southern belle. Tabitha had had a handful of suitors over the years, all of which she had turned away. She, like Iris, felt a responsibility to Vater and her younger siblings. She was a true servant at heart. She had sacrificed her own childhood to help raise the young children who had never known their mother and had looked to her to fill that void; she would sacrifice her own chance at marriage and a family of her own, if she must, to ease Vater's burden and see the job through. She continued to live in Vater's house many years after I left, helping to care for our siblings.
Abigail would turn eighteen later that summer. She, too, had taken on a variety of household responsibilities from a young age. She was thin and boyish. Her straight brown hair usually coiled into a neat bun at the back of her head. The face was gaunt, with brown eyes that seemed a bit too large for her face, a hawkish nose, and thin lips. She was plain to look at, almost sickly in appearance. What she lacked in beauty, though, she more than made up for with practical skills and character. Abigail was a talented seamstress, her long, thin fingers often displayed blisters and callouses from working diligently to complete projects of all kinds, just like Mutter and Großmutter Esther before her: piecing quilts, patching and adjusting clothing, and fashioning new clothing from bolts of fabric. She, also, had taken to writing poetry in her free time; her poetry was moderately good, though not particularly exceptional. Unlike Tabitha, Abigail was anxiously waiting for a suitor to take her away and start a family of their own. She had had no suitors yet but there was no question in my mind that she would make someone a loyal and capable wife, possessing humility, modesty, a strong work ethic, and a large portion of common sense; it was only a matter of time before some young man would recognize those qualities and take notice of her.
Ambrose was only thirteen when I moved out of the house. He had inherited Mutter's fiery red hair. His brown eyes were surrounded by a sea of freckles. He was a tall, thin boy. His voice had changed within the last six months and scraggly red fuzz was beginning to form on his upper lip. He was a somber child, rarely smiling, though he had a large beaming smile when he chose to display it. Ambrose was a contemplative thinker; he lived to read, especially the Bible. He could be found in all manner of places in times of repose with his nose buried in a book. At an early age, he had declared he would become a preacher someday. This pleased Großmutter Ruth; her husband's vocation would continue through their grandson; Mutter would have been proud, too. Most days, he could be found reading the Scriptures and pondering the meaning behind the verses, asking Vater and the older siblings our opinion on the texts, and even discussing them to great depths with Pastor Weiss over lunch. He showed a great aptitude for Biblical understanding at a young age. Vater found value in his persistent study; however, like Obed and myself, he would soon be required to learn the family trade in the mill, no one was exempt. It never hurt a man to have an understanding of a physical trade as well as philosophical and spiritual knowledge. Vater was quick to remind Ambrose that Jesus had been trained as a carpenter before he became an itinerant Rabbi and Paul worked as a tentmaker as he evangelized the Gentiles.
The twins, Abner and Absalom, were eleven. They were impish boys, caught in the awkward stages of prepubescence. To look at them, it was almost impossible to determine which was which, a circumstance that they took advantage of on several occasions. They had the same towheads and dazzling green eyes. Absalom, though, was always the brasher of the two. He would devise daring feats and devilish games, then convince Abner to assist him in such fantastic revelries. Absalom and Abner kept Tabitha and Vater on their toes with all of their wild shenanigans: climbing trees, throwing rocks at birds, trying to ride the cows like horses, or balancing precariously on a fallen trunk suspended over the rock-strewn creek below. Absalom caused Abner, the more reserved of the two, to be punished on more than one occasion for his participation in such schemes; Abner would often express remorse when caught but Absalom lived without regrets. The only physical difference between the two was a jagged, pink scar on Abner's forearm right below the elbow, the result of a fox bite. Absalom had found a fox den containing three kits and had convinced Abner to pick one up. Abner obeyed without thinking through the possible consequences and was promptly bitten by the baby fox, taking a small chunk of flesh out of his forearm.
Rebekah would soon be ten. She was the spitting image of Mutter, a miniature representation with her bright red hair and dazzling green eyes. She was a happy child, with a beautiful smile, yet quite a handful to raise. I am sure that every time Vater looked at Rebekah, memories of Mutter flooded his mind, reopening the wounds of loneliness, yet salving them with the ghost of her presence always near. Because of her appearance and being the youngest daughter of the family, Vater favored Rebekah. He was slow to discipline her, a habit that led to trouble later on. Rebekah knew that she was pretty and used that to her advantage any time she could. She was a thinker, a planner, a schemer. Any time she could wheedle her way out of work, she was sure to do so. As she blossomed into womanhood, I foresaw that this could lead to trouble. For now, though, Tabitha was beginning to teach her how to cook and Abigail instructed her in needlework, neither of which she seemed to enjoy and pursued in a lackluster manner; both of the older girls were trying to steer Rebekah away from vanity and keep her on an honorable path through life. Though the twins kept Tabitha on her toes with their physical, athletic antics, Rebekah posed a different challenge, trying to instill a good character into a spoiled, selfish child. While Tabitha charged herself with caring for all of the younger children, she definitely favored Benjamin, the boy she had raised since birth.
Benjamin was only seven and a half when I left home. He was a dark and brooding child. He had been a large baby; now he was slightly on the small side, though his thinness made him appear taller than he was. He was a sickly child, having frequent stomachaches that often kept him from eating much. His dark brown hair and eyes appeared even darker when contrasted with the pale, emaciated flesh of his face. Tabitha had become like a mother to him. Because of his sickness, she coddled him as if he were her own son and he followed her around constantly, rarely leaving her side. Benjamin had a love and devotion for Tabitha that he shared with no one else, not even Vater. He was the youngest of the family; Rebekah being the closest in age despised him and did very little with him. In fact, she resented him because he took some of the attention she desired away from herself. However, Rebekah was Vater's favorite and Benjamin was Tabitha's special child so they both had a doting parent to themselves, like Jacob and Esau. Because of the age difference, I think Benjamin was a lonely child. I cannot say I knew him well, there were eleven years between us.
I was leaving this family, although I would continue to see most of them on a daily basis. My thoughts, though, were beginning to turn to a family of my own. Iris and I had been courting for almost three years now. I had just turned nineteen; she would soon be twenty-one. I decided that the time had come for me to ask for her hand in marriage. Before I could do that, however, there were a couple of things I felt that I needed to do.
First, I went to my father and informed him of my intentions. His face broke into a wide smile and he embraced me enthusiastically. "Jubal, my son," he whispered in my ear, "I am happy for you. Iris is a good woman; I am sure she will be a loving and faithful wife to you." It had been a long time since I had felt this much love from Vater; I was glad that he approved of my chosen path and that it brought him such joy. He gave me one final pat on the shoulder and sent me on my way, shouting, "Good luck!"
I rode into town unannounced, hoping to catch Mr. Weiss alone. I stopped by the undertaking building but a sign on the door said it was closed and the door was locked so I continued down the street to the church. Mr Weiss' horse was tied to the rail outside; there was no indication that anyone else was inside with him. I slowly walked up the stairs, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants, trying to regain my composure as my heart rose into my throat, and opened one of the double exterior doors. The sanctuary was naturally bright from the sunlight coming through the tall windows that lined both sides. I noticed Mr. Weiss standing behind the lectern, his eyes directed downward, vigorously writing. He had not noticed my entrance; I rapped my knuckles gently on the doorframe. He raised his eyes and met mine, surprised by the disturbance. Then he smiled kindly, waved me in, and motioned to the empty pews, saying, "Jubal, it is good to see you. Take a seat and I will be with you shortly."
I walked halfway up the aisle, taking a seat in the pews to my right, nervously fidgeting with my hands in my lap. I watched as he scribbled a few more lines. My heart was beating furiously; a queasiness began to churn in my stomach. Mr. Weiss had always been a kind man; I had never been uncomfortable around him before. However, the nature of what I had come to ask was beginning to wreak havoc on my nerves. My face must have shown my unease because, once Mr. Weiss set down his pencil and walked toward me, he asked with a hint of concern, "Are you feeling alright, Jubal? You look pale and the sweat is pouring from your forehead by the bucketful."
I nodded, taking a handkerchief from my pocket and nervously wiped the perspiration from my brow.
"I'm glad to hear it," he said, taking a seat in the pew beside me. "To what, then, do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
I turned in my seat to face him and took out my slate and chalk. I carefully wrote while trying to keep my hand steady, "Sir, I would like to speak with you about your daughter."
"What about her?" he questioned with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, as if he already suspected what I meant but did not want to let me off the hook so easily.
I quickly erased my previous sentence and clarified, "Actually, sir, I have come to speak to you about us, Iris and myself. As you know, we have been courting for quite some time now and I would desire your blessing for our union."
"Are you asking for my daughter's hand in marriage?" he asked with a hint of laughter, trying unsuccessfully to contain his glee at my unease.
I nodded my head sheepishly.
"Well, son," he replied, "Iris will be the one to have the final say on that matter but, as far as I am concerned, you would make an excellent son-in-law. You are a fine young man of great character. I know Iris speaks highly of you and I personally hold you in the highest esteem. If I had not felt that way, I would not have allowed the courtship to continue." He took my hand firmly in his and then embraced me as a son. To be embraced and accepted as a son by two fathers in one day is quite an exhilarating experience. Tears of joy began to fill my eyes and, looking into Mr. Weiss' eyes, I saw the same. When he released my hand, I quickly wrote, "Thank you, sir." We sat and talked for a while before he returned to writing his sermon for the week. I left the sanctuary with a feeling of joy bubbling up within my chest, happiness exuding from every pore.
Two blessings had been given, only Iris' answer lay ahead, with the power to raise me to the highest heights of great exhilaration or hurl me to the deepest depths of despair. Instead of each step becoming easier, I found it actually became more difficult. The closer I came to obtaining the sought after reward, the more it would hurt if I failed in my endeavor, the further I would fall. When we had begun courting, Iris had said she was not ready for marriage yet. Would she be ready now? What would her answer be? Iris held the keys to my happiness or despair. The only way to resolve these questions was to ask her but all the details had to be worked out just right before I offered my proposal to her.
A few weeks later, the perfect opportunity presented itself. I had been invited to play my fiddle for a town dance in Vanceburg, a town fifteen miles northwest of Lebanon. Khan did not go to dances so Iris and I would be alone. I planned every detail carefully and prayed feverishly for good weather and an affirmative answer.
The appointed day finally arrived. I harnessed Balaam to the open carriage. Then, dressed in my finest suit of clothes, I placed my violin case in the back of the chaise, carefully cushioned between two blankets. I quickly went to Vater's to pick up a picnic basket that Tabitha and Abigail had prepared in advance for me. As I headed into the house to retrieve the victuals, Vater unhooked Balaam and brought out Sampson and Delilah, as clean and spotless as a virgin snow. I wanted to protest but he quickly convinced me that these beautiful beasts were more fitting for the occasion than a lowly mule. I thankfully embraced each one of the well-wishing participants and then drove the carriage to the Weiss' home.
When I arrived, Mr. Weiss greeted me warmly and Mrs. Weiss offered a pleasant greeting accompanied by a knowing smile. I fought to control my emotions, afraid that they would expose my intentions before we began the journey. Suddenly, the door burst open; Khan rushed outside, running to the horses that, startled by the sudden movement, had retreated a few steps before I reined them in. Ignoring me altogether, he approached the horses and, gently stroking their necks and manes, he greeted his friends enthusiastically.
Several minutes passed before Iris emerged from the house, slipping her left hand into a lacy, white glove that extended halfway up her forearm. She wore a gorgeous purple dress, tight around the waist and flowing loosely from the hips, giving her frame a lovely hourglass shape. The dress was sleeveless and the shoulders were almost bare; the whiteness of her skin was breathtaking. Her hair was pinned up at the back of her head and fell in delicate curls around her ears and nape; a jaunty lilac hat sat perched like a tiny ship on the waves of her tresses. She was absolutely stunning, the personification of beauty itself. I had never seen anything so lovely in all my life; I could not take my eyes from her. For one brief moment, as I gazed, shell-shocked, at the captivating creature before me, I forgot my anxiety; it rushed back with a vengeance, though, as I considered my unworthiness of such a fine specimen of womanhood.
I do not know how long I stared at her like that but it was long enough to be noticeable. Mr. Weiss audibly cleared his throat, bringing me back to myself. Iris flushed slightly under my gaze, the color rising conspicuously from her chest, seeping into her face. She offered me her gloved hand, commented on the horses, and said coyly, "Are you ready to go, fine sir?"
I nodded, jumping to the ground, ashamed that she had caught me in my observations of her. Taking her small hand in one of mine, I helped her up into the carriage, placing my other arm briefly around her waist. She smoothed her skirts as she eased herself onto the bench seat in front of the carriage. I worked my way around the front, readying the horses, and playfully shooing Khan away. Then I climbed up beside her, took the reins in hand, and we waved our adieu to the Weiss' and began our trip to Vanceburg.
We bounced along the lonely, rutted path that ran between the two small towns. Conversation was nearly impossible when I was driving the team so Iris talked and I listened, not nearly as attentively as I tried to make it appear, since my mind kept drifting further up the road to the conversation we would have there, a discussion she was not yet aware we would have. After a while, Iris grew quiet, inched closer to me, and rested her head against my shoulder, her hand placed delicately in the crook of my elbow. I could smell the floral scent of her perfume, the smell of lilacs or lavender, I am not sure which. I smiled to myself thinking that she had coordinated her aroma with the color of her dress. When the breeze blew just right, a loose strand of Iris' hair would flutter across my face, tickling my nose, brushing my cheek. We rode along in silence for a while, enjoying the welcome warmth of the sun on our skin, the beautiful view of rolling hills and lofty trees as they passed by, and the sweet comfort we drew simply from one another's presence.
When we had traveled ten miles into our trip, I pulled the carriage over to the side of the path, lashing the horses to a gigantic chestnut tree. Iris looked at me with surprise in her eyes, asking the question without uttering a word. "Picnic," I wrote on the slate as nonchalantly as possible, motioning to the seat behind us. She glanced back, saw the basket for the first time, and smiled an endearing smile. I got down from the wagon and carefully chose a spot in the shade of three elm trees, on a crest of a hill fifty feet from the road. I returned and helped Iris out of the buggy. Then, with Iris on one arm and the picnic basket on the other, we strolled arm in arm to the blanket that I had prepared.
There was a picturesque view from the spot I had chosen: the sunlight reflected off a not-so-distant lake, the sky was full of fluffy, white clouds, the kind you only see in paintings, and the tree leaves swayed softly in a gentle breeze. Everything about the setting was perfect; God had granted the first request of my prayers. Without the cooperation of the weather, my plans would have been for naught. I prayed a silent prayer that my second request would be met, as well, and Iris' answer would be favorable.
"This is a pleasant surprise," Iris said, looking up at me from her place on the blanket where she sat busily smoothing her dress. I nodded and occupied myself with unpacking the foodstuffs that my sister's had prepared: ham sandwiches, apples, hardboiled eggs, a canteen of sweet sassafras tea, and an elderberry pie for dessert. This last item I had requested specifically since elderberry pie was Iris' favorite. When she saw the pie, she gave me a look of utter astonishment and exclaimed, "What is going on, Jubal? What is the occasion for such revelry? Why all of this pampering?"
"Let's enjoy the meal together, first," I wrote, "then we can talk.
She reluctantly agreed, although impatient to find out what I was getting at. We bowed out heads and Iris prayed, "Lord, we thank You for this beautiful day that You have given us to enjoy. We thank You for the wonderful food that You have provided for us. Bless the hands that prepared it. Thank You for the gift of friendship. Thank You for this time of fellowship, time that we can spend in communion together. I thank You for Jubal, Lord, his thoughtfulness and tender care. May You continue to bestow Your blessings upon us. Be with us throughout this day. Keep us safe in our travels today. May what we say and do be pleasing to You. In the name of Your son, Jesus Christ, amen."
I kept my head bowed a moment longer, appending a silent prayer to God for the coming conversation.
I sat down near Iris, passing the dishes to her. We ate slowly, luxuriating in the flavorful food and the beauty of nature all around us. When I had finished my repast, I stretched my legs out and propped myself up on my arms, one of which I casually placed behind Iris' back; she leaned back against my shoulder, her head resting against my chest. "Can we talk now, Jubal?" she asked playfully, "I am absolutely dying to know what is on your mind."
I bent my head forward and lightly kissed the top of her head. Taking her shoulders gently in my hands, I eased her off my arm and reached for my slate.
"It is not so much what is on my mind as what is on my heart," I wrote on the board. "I like spending time with you, Iris. In fact, I cherish the time that we spend together. When I am with you, I feel safe, secure, and happy. You give me a sense of value that I rarely feel otherwise. You make me a better person."
"Jubal, I enjoy our time together, too," she replied, laying her hand gently on mine. "I feel safe with you, too."
I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and held her close for a while, tears forming in my eyes. When I let her go, they were streaming down my cheeks. "What's wrong?" she asked with a look of concern, brushing the tears into my beard with her delicate fingers.
"I am afraid I may lose you," I hesitantly wrote, afraid to look at her, for her to see the fear in my eyes.
"Why would you think that? she questioned, lifting my chin to peer into my face, a look of alarm entering her eyes. "I am not going anywhere," she assured me.
The conversation was beginning to go in a direction I had never intended. I had not meant to frighten her. While her answer assured me, her alarm frightened me. I quickly tried to placate her fears. "I am glad to hear that, Iris," I wrote, "though I cannot say that I truly understand why. You are a lovely woman, as regal as a queen and as stunning as a goddess; yet, you choose to be with me. I cannot wrap my head around it; I do not deserve your time or affection."
She took the chalk from my hand, abruptly ceasing my part of the conversation. With a look of consternation, she berated me, "Jubal Baumgartner, you vainly flatter me and unjustly demean yourself! I am not a queen; I am the daughter of a minister and undertaker. We are not wealthy; I am not above you. As for my beauty, we are young, you and I, and that youthfulness will fade, exposing our true characters, which will remain in the timeworn shells of our physical bodies. You are a man of character, Jubal, which is why I like you. You are a kind and gentle man, a man of compassion. You are a hard worker, an attentive listener, a true servant of God. Now kindly explain to me what all this nonsense has been about."
Iris was obviously exasperated, her face was flushed and her chest was visibly heaving. She handed the chalk back to me and awaited my response. I took it gingerly and wrote, "I am sorry that I upset you. I guess I am just nervous."
"What is there to be nervous about?" she asked, her tone softening, sensing my apprehension. "You can be honest with me, Jubal. You can trust me."
"Then I will cut to the chase," I wrote, "The fact of the matter is that I love you. I love you, Iris," I emphasized. "I enjoy our time together, especially times like this when we are alone, you and I. I would like to spend the rest of my life with you if only you will agree to such an arrangement. Will you marry me, Iris Weiss?"
From the look of shock that slowly spread over Iris' face, an uninformed onlooker would not have known that we had been courting for close to three years. She gave me a dazed look, blinking through tears, and raising her gloved hand to her open mouth. My heart was beating so quickly I was sure I would go into cardiac arrest. She had not said a word; with each passing second, I died inside, repeatedly. Then a soft, sweet sound came to my ears, breathing new life into me, Iris' whispered reply, "Yes."
"Yes. Yes. Yes!" she said repeatedly, each time her voice gaining volume and determination. She rose to her knees, throwing her arms around me in an all-encompassing hug that nearly knocked me over. Tears of joy fell from her grey eyes, grey like rainclouds, I thought. I swept her up in my arms, elated, a resurrected man. I gladly kissed the tears from her cheeks and twirled her around in circles, acting like excited children. Finally, I set her feet on the ground. She ran her fingers affectionately through my hair.
"Did you really think that I would refuse you after we have courted for so long?" she asked me and I nodded in reply. "I would have ended the wooing long ago if I had no intentions of marriage; there would have been no purpose in prolonging something that I had no intention of ever becoming a reality."
I smiled and wrote, "That did not mean that you would be willing to marry yet. What about Khan, are you ready to leave him? He was the reason you were not ready before."
"Khan is ten; he will be eleven within the year. He no longer requires constant supervision. He is a mild mannered child and not troublesome; mother and father will be fine without my assistance."
I took Iris' hand and we strolled through the grass, unconcerned for the grasshoppers and butterflies that we were scaring up in our wake. I picked a bouquet of wildflowers for Iris, which she accepted with a merry laugh. We were on top of the world, oblivious to everything around us. The joy that we had had previously paled in comparison to the ecstasy we felt now.
After a while, we returned to the picnic basket, cleaned up the dishes, folded up the blanket, and prepared to continue on to Vanceburg. I helped Iris back into the carriage. The rest of the trip, she talked joyfully about the future, our future together. I listened intently, nodding my head, occasionally throwing glances at her euphoric face. Her face shone like the face of Moses descending from Mount Sinai after viewing the burning bush. I had thought her more beautiful than anything I had ever seen before when I picked her up that morning; now she was transfigured, nothing less than angelic.
We arrived in Vanceburg and I played my fiddle. I do not remember much from the festivities that night. If Iris had refused me that day, I do not know if I could have mustered the strength to play at all. However, since she had given me an agreeable answer, I was in heaven; I feel like I played better that night than I had ever played before. I watched her moving with the music, stomping her feet, clapping her hands, her purple dress seductively swaying with each movement. Several young men from the town offered to dance with her but she refused them all, proudly informing them that the fiddler was her fiancé. She broke several hearts that night, I am sure, but saved me from the indignity of my own jealousy, groundless as it may have been.
The return trip was late. The night was dark and overcast so I drove slowly, trying to avoid any violent jarring caused by the ruts in the road. Iris slept peacefully by my side, undisturbed by the bumps and jolts. Her head resting on my shoulder, her features ethereally illumined by the pale light of the moon and stars occasionally breaking through the gathering clouds. Halfway home, it began to rain. The wet drops falling on her face awakened her. She grabbed the blankets from the back seat, throwing one around my shoulders and wrapping herself in the other, placing it over her head, no longer concerned about flattening her hat or mussing her hair, so that only her face was exposed to the raindrops.
She leaned against me. I placed my arm around her shoulder, drawing her to myself, protecting her from the elements, shielding her with my body, as much as possible. Soon, her arms were wrapped around me, her head pressed firmly against my chest. We held each other in a tight embrace. I felt the softness of her body and the warmth that she emitted. I knew she was listening to the rise and fall of my breathing and, most likely, the steady beating of my heart. We rode along like this for the rest of the journey. When we arrived at her house, we were both drenched to the skin, the blankets had only postponed the inevitable. I helped her out of the chaise and accompanied her to the door. Under the shelter of the porch roof, I kissed her gloved hand. She removed the glove, ran her hand through my waterlogged beard, and kissed me lightly on the cheek. "Thanks for a wonderful evening," she whispered in my ear. "I love you, Jubal." With those words, she disappeared into the house, giving a lighthearted but tired wave goodnight. I was glad to see that the rain had not ruined her day or dampened her spirit.
I am not sure which of us was more elated that night, Iris or me; all that I know is that I was experiencing a heightened sense of every pleasurable emotion at once, resulting in complete euphoria. The thought of sleep was far from my mind. As I drove home, I thought that life could not get much better than this and that my life would be full of eternal bliss after tonight, no more problems, no more worries. I was right about the first assumption but it did not take long for the latter to be exposed as an unrealistic dream. No one could have foreseen the trial by fire through which we were about to pass.
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Post Number 50 A Milestone Post |
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