I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.
Ray and Livy are precious.
The Magic of A Good Man
The Honeymoon
Dear Livy,
For me, you are the best thing that's ever happened.
Your gentle smile, the light in your eyes.
The touch of your hand, the warmth of your body.
The way we can talk for hours.
And speak to one another without saying a word, by look alone.
All these years, I have loved loving you.
And being loved by you.
It has been the greatest joy of my life.
"Tomorrow I'll get anything you want to stock the kitchen."
He will never know how he had managed the rest of the evening.
Bringing in the cake, heating up the casserole in the oven.
Laying out some sliced white bread.
Setting the simple table.
Livy filling a jug with water, him setting out the butter.
All virtually without more than a word or two spoken between them.
Because he just can't think of anything else to say.
Is certain anything would only make her disappointment, her discontent, worse.
And he knows she must be thinking her . . .
". . . receptive . . ."
. . . decision to come out here and marry him has been a mistake.
And now they both have to decide how to make it work.
I don't know how to do this.
Because it is said and done.
I wish I hadn't . . . no, what would have happened to her if I had?
And The Good Book says it's a permanent . . .
Maybe not in Denver.
. . . arrangement.
Even if . . .
"I don't really know how to cook."
. . . it may not be exactly traditional.
". . . idea. Having someone to cook and clean for you. Create a home. So you can take care of those crops."
"Oh. Yes. Of course."
"I mean, I could. I've just never really tried-"
Oh. Okay.
I guess well-to-do educated Denver ladies have . . . options.
And he finds himself again trying to make her feel reassured.
"I can cook a fair bit."
Eggs, mostly. Toast. Stew.
A piece of meat until the pink's gone out of it.
Season.
Salt.
Pepper.
Beans.
Cornbread.
And . . .
"My sister could come over and teach you, I think."
. . . he knows Martha would love a star student to tutor-
"Oh, no, it's fine. You know, I don't think it should be too hard."
And he realizes she's trying to prove herself, not be a bother.
Not to her father.
Her new husband.
Or anyone.
Especially those that might find out she has no cooking skills, homekeeping skills possibly.
That she's not built for this kind of life.
That she's only fit to think.
And be taken care of.
Unless she actually needs to be taken care of.
And then she's sent away.
"I can get a book from the library."
Sure. We can do that.
"Is there a library?"
Oh yes, ma'am. We have books out here. We can read.
We can write too.
"Oh yeah. In La Junta."
Look, I'm even wearing shoes.
"That's an hour away."
"Yeah. About that."
Have you logged how far away Denver is yet? By miles? Minutes?
And he regroups.
It has been a long day for them both.
And after a good night's sleep, . . .
"The reverend said you've had lots of schooling."
"I was in graduate school."
. . . things might look brighter.
". . . archaeology. My college thesis was Heinrich Schliemann's excavation of Troy."
There are a whole lot of words in that statement he doesn't understand.
More than less.
But one thing he does latch onto . . .
"Is he German?"
"Yes."
"Is he a Nazi?"
. . . is the way the name she mentioned . . .
"No."
. . . sounds suspicious.
"He lived in the 19th century."
I suppose that was the one before this one.
But maybe a trip to the library in La Junta wouldn't be such a bad idea.
And then he decides . . .
"No, I can-"
"It's okay."
. . . to focus on things he can understand.
He gathers up the dishes, takes them over the sink.
And lifts the silver platter the P&Ps gave him.
". . . cake nearly every week. This one's, uh, chocolate, I think."
That he's been saving just for this occasion.
"Can I cut you a slice?"
And his new wife gently . . .
"No. Thank you."
. . . rebuffs him.
No, of course not.
Do women in Denver not eat?
"We'll save it then."
At least until next week's cake.
"Ray?"
I'd like the sound of the way she says my name.
If she did.
"Um, I was just wondering . . . why you agreed to this?"
Oh.
And she really truly does want to know.
Because she doesn't.
Why on earth would a man want to marry a woman he doesn't know.
Sight unseen.
That's carrying a baby that's not his.
Without any promise of a coming together between them.
At any time at all.
He doesn't truly understand.
Not all of it.
Not yet.
But he does know what he can share for now.
"When the reverend come out to see me and told me about your . . . situation, I thought, maybe it'd be . . . God's will."
He conveys this while blowing out the candles he had lit and then nervously placed on the fireplacemantle.
Completely unable to set a romantic dinner for his new wife.
Only hours into meeting her.
So he doesn't see her face as she digests his tepid response to bringing a complete and utter expecting stranger into his house to be his wife.
But he hears the words she speaks.
The tone in her voice.
"God's will."
And he knows, for her, he's said the wrong thing, done the wrong thing.
Again.
And he can't stomach any more disappointment, any more unspoken rejection of everything about him and his life here.
The life he's always known, the only life he's ever known.
So he swallows it all down, everything he can't manage anymore for the while.
"You want anything else?"
"No. Thank you."
Nothing from me.
I understand.
And so he flees.
"Well, farmers get to bed early."
At just before eight.
Though he would have stayed up with her all night.
"You have everything you need?"
"Yes. Thank you."
Every night.
"Well, goodnight."
"Goodnight."
If she had wanted him to.
Hidden away in his boyhood room he carefully uses his best penmanship to record their nuptials in the family Bible.
He's not feeling too great about it.
But it is what he'd, she'd, they'd, agreed to.
And there's time, that's the thing he must remember, keep forward in his mind.
Time.
She's only just got here, she's been through the upheaval of all of her life.
It would be impossible to insist she adapt immediately and without struggle or strain.
He hears her heels clicking up the stairs, along the hallway, approaching his closed door.
Stopping.
And he tenses, listening.
Wondering if there was something he can do, should do.
Wondering if there was something she wants him to do.
"I don't want to be alone tonight. Everything is so new, so frightening. Will you stay with me? We can just . . . talk."
"Yes, Livy. I'd be happy to."
Hearing her move on to his parents'- her room.
Quietly close the door.
He breaths a sigh of what he thinks might be relief, possibly a touch of regret.
And, he figures again, maybe all they need is time.
And a miracle.
He lays in bed afterward, staring up at the ceiling.
it has gone as bad as it possibly could have, he has no doubt of that.
Perhaps a little better since she didn't cry during or have to be literally dragged into or from the church.
But it is obvious she has no desire to be here, would rather be anywhere else.
And it is understandable.
She is a woman of culture, of class.
Schooling.
College, even.
Master's degree.
He thinks that is the second part of college.
He doesn't want to ask.
He's never even been to primary school.
He and Daniel and Martha had been taught at home.
Mama had taken reading, Martha, when she got old enough to know enough.
Daddy, arithmetic, addition and subtraction, money.
Enough to get by, enough to get them started.
But Olivia, Livy, well now, she is something different.
Listening to the radio, he knows archaeologists travel the world, dig up things from the past.
He doubts a woman who would study something like that wouldn't particularly dream of coming to live on a farm in rural Colorado.
And now . . .
Goodnight.
Livy.
. . . that is exactly what has happened.
Ray is absolutely respectful and considerate of those around him. To a fault, really.
And I also think he just has a touch of a smart mouth (aka, oh, yes, ma'am, we read and write, I have shoes) to him that he shared with his siblings. And it went out of him a little when Daniel died and the loneliness began to overwhelm him.
It can also turn a smartypants into a bitter old man if life goes hard enough.
Even if he doesn't actually say it out loud.
Which would be a tragedy.