I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.
Ray and Livy are precious.
The Magic of A Good Man
And The Way Home
Dear Livy,
As long as I live, I will never forget the first time I saw true joy and excitement on your face.
The light in your eyes, the white of your teeth as you broke into a real smile.
Your laugh, it lightened you so much.
With my dying thought, I hope to remember that moment.
That moment.
And so many others.
". . . ease off slow."
Truth be told, he has to restrain himself from grabbing at the wheel, the stick shift, anything that might help him help her not drive off the road and crash into the field.
At first.
Not because she can't drive, necessarily.
Just because . . .
"Give it a pump."
. . . he isn't used to anyone driving the Beet Box other than him.
And Livy herself, . . .
". . . before?"
"No. I never needed to in Denver ."
. . . laughs . . .
"This is easy!"
. . . with joy.
It takes a minute for her to work it out.
But once she does . .
"May I keep going?"
. . . he's pretty sure . . .
"Yes. Sure."
. . . she isn't going to stop anytime soon.
He teaches her about the gas gauge.
". . . split second, then it shoots right back up there to full."
"We're at half a tank!"
And she sounds so confident, so proud, so pleased at her ability to succeed in this driving lesson.
So at ease here, with this, with the truck, with him.
That he just bets she'll remember that gauge trick quicker . . .
". . . can's in back, just in case."
. . . than he did when he first started driving.
Her buoyancy is infectious, her laugh, her smile.
He finds himself smiling along with her, chuckling along.
Heart pounding, feeling a little wild, and lightheaded there in the passenger seat.
With Livy, his wife of almost an entire day, beside him, driving, hands on ten and two, rigid and alert.
The top drawer student.
Easy delight coloring her up-until-now so subdued character.
Before she gets distracted.
"-at that. Are they Japanese?"
And Ray's forgotten to be afraid of her.
"Watch the road."
At least for the moment.
". . . Amache."
"That's an internment camp."
She doesn't sound pleased, but what can he tell her?
". . . -handed."
So many men, potential workers, off to war.
Women remaining behind to keep the homesteads running.
"The government needs the food so they send the workers."
They're paid, Livy.
They're not slaves.
Everyone has to do their share, right?
For the Cause.
And he tries to keep hold of . . .
"They work your farm?"
"Our farm."
. . . delicate bond they might be forming.
Plus, . . .
Our farm.
Us together.
. . . it feels good to say it.
You and me.
After that, she's little quieter, getting used to driving, he supposes.
Every so often tapping the gauge, as if to remind herself as to the trick of the Beet Box.
He doesn't say much either, content to sit next to her.
Watch her drive.
Watch the fields.
And think to himself . . .
This is nice.
. . . that he's feeling hopeful . . .
She seems happier.
. . . of the success of the day.
Maybe we'll take a drive tomorrow too.
She doesn't ask to go to town for the rest of the week.
Doesn't ask for books or driving or anything.
She also doesn't get up and make breakfast.
And Ray doesn't eat lunch.
And she only offers up the most barely edible . . .
". . . -kay?"
"Yes. Thank you."
. . . of suppers.
Ray doesn't say anything about it.
Their so delicately cultivated equanimity not worth risking just because . . .
". . . beets . . . always . . . taste like this?"
. . . she hasn't adequately washed the beets.
"Oh, um, well, . . ."
And the remaining dirt grits in his teeth.
He teaches her how to use the clothes washer.
The wringer.
Helps her put the first set of laundry on the line.
And shows her how to iron the wrinkles out of, not into the shirts.
At least the Sunday best.
And he tries . . .
". . . do in Denver?"
"Oh, uh, ladies from my father's church came in to cook and clean after my mother got sick."
"And before that?"
"I was always at school."
. . . not to ask too many questions that might be considered judgmental.
He shows her the cleaning supplies they have.
". . . -ax and bleach. And elbow grease."
And tries . . .
"What's elbow grease?"
. . . not to become too disheartened by her lack of experience.
"It's just a joke. It means to work hard."
"Oh."
And sense of humor.
Saturday night rolls around and when it's time for Ray to head up to bed . . .
"Church is tomorrow. I thought if you were feeling up to it, we might go."
. . . he manages to timidly broach a new subject with her.
"Oh. Yes. Of course."
And Livy doesn't look particularly thrilled at the prospect.
He knows sometimes she doesn't feel well in the morning, hears her upchucking.
He supposes that's why she doesn't get up until late.
But she often doesn't show strong emotion, or any type of emotion at all, other than driving the Beet Box.
He supposes it's just her way.
But here, now.
She seems to be feeling something.
Even though she attempts to hide it from him.
"I don't know what kind of church you have been used to going t-"
"Oh. It doesn't matter," she interrupts, light overtone belying an undertone of sudden of strain that hasn't been there previously all evening.
"Church is church."
And he doesn't know whether that's a true agreement or not.
"Alright then."
But he decides it isn't worth risking . . .
"Goodnight, Livy."
"Goodnight, Ray."
. . . discontenting her further.
Thanks to the silent readers of this story.
I appreciate you very much.
:)