In spite of the menagerie of false starts, foul ups, misfortunes and comedy of errors that plagued our wedding day, Mary Ann and I made it to the campus Church of Christ in time for our own wedding. We arrived at 6:57 in a compact Chevy owned by a girl named Marla, a fellow resident of the Rio Grande. Marla had seen us hurrying in the door as Mary Ann scrambled to her room to dry herself off and change into her wedding dress. Marla offered to drive us to the church, and we accepted without hesitation.
As we all stood assembled in the minister’s office, Lanny Henninger, a six-feet seven-inch giant of a man, asked me if I did, and I happily said I do. It wasn’t the first time I’d worn a suit, and it wasn’t the first time I’d dressed up to make those vows to Mary Ann. It was, however, the first time that our marriage certificate had borne the seal of the State of Texas.
The evidence of our wedding that night consisted of nothing more than the testimony of five witnesses, a marriage certificate signed by the minister, and two small Polaroid snapshots taken by a friend. It was, in the end, the wedding we’d wanted, the wedding that our circumstances allowed.
Thirty-five minutes after we arrived at the church the well wishes from our friends had been properly offered, the ink had dried on the marriage certificate, and the minister had led those assembled in a brief prayer asking God to bless our marriage. The minister couldn’t know how greatly God had blessed our marriage so many times before that night.
A yellow cab picked us up at the front door of the church and drove down the dark, slippery, freezing Austin streets to a restaurant where we shared a quiet celebration dinner. Just the two of us, no guests. It had been just the two of us the first time, but there had been no time for celebrating, there had been no place for a celebration. We had vowed to have both one day.
Later, the same cabby drove us to our new apartment on E. 22nd Street. As he pulled the aging Checker up to the entrance of the breezeway leading to our tiny, one bedroom unit in the small complex, I offered him a five dollar bill. The well past middle age cabby, Nat was his name, declined his fare. “You two kids have a wonderful life together,” he said, “and name one after Old Nat.”
We crossed the courtyard and climbed the ten iron steps leading up to unit #210. I turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and stepped inside to set down the blue suitcase we’d brought from the Rio Grande. Mary Ann’s wet clothes were packed inside with the few personal things we had needed for the day.
I stepped back outside the door, bent slightly to pick up my bride, and carried Mary Ann across the threshold. Just inside, I kissed my bride, the beautiful girl I still held in my arms. The night, I thought, had been a long time in coming. A very long time.
Mary Ann opened the paper bag she’d brought from the restaurant and placed a half-bottle of bubbly and the two champagne glasses from which we’d taken our wedding toast on the tiny dinette table adjacent to the kitchen. We would sit, finish the bottle and talk about what we had just done, jealously guarding the blessed quiet and privacy of the moment. We laughed and we cried, looked into the future and looked back into our past. We sipped the champagne, and savored the taste of life together. Monday, we knew, would come too soon.
• • •
I spent all of Sunday afternoon pouring over an old ledger book and journal. I was looking for something, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I believed I’d know it when I saw it. From time to time I went to the large living room window, pulled back the drape and looked down into the courtyard and along the left wall of the breezeway. At 4:10 p.m. I opened the front door and stepped out onto the walkway in front of our apartment.
I took a Marlboro from the soft pack in my shirt pocket, lit it with my Zippo and proceeded down the stairs. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something was making me feel uneasy. A look around wouldn’t hurt, and my legs felt cramped from all the hours I’d spent at the dinette table. In time, I knew, I would piece it together. In time it would come to me.
Mary Ann was asleep upstairs. This was the first chance she’d had to rest, really rest in many months. She hadn’t gotten up all day, and I wasn’t about to wake her. I looked in on her every little while. I was thankful that she was getting the rest she needed. I hoped she was dreaming of me.
I walked past the mailboxes built into the western wall of the breezeway, and was pleased to see that the manager had done as I’d asked. The sixth box from the right was labeled simply “#210.” No names appeared on the box. Of course, a determined person could have learned where we lived, but I saw no reason to make things easier than they needed to be.
I found the mailbox key on my key ring, pushed it into the lock, and turned it a quarter turn before the door came unlatched. I had never opened the mailbox before, and expected that the box would be empty. We had been residents of the apartment for less than 72 hours, and we had given our address to no one. No one.
A small, brown envelope was standing on its end in a vertical position inside the box. As I took it into my hand I noticed three things. It was typewritten, addressed to the both of us, and postmarked Atlanta, Georgia three days earlier.
There was no return address.
To be continued…
{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
How fun to discover you named your son after the Cabbie who made sure you had transportation the night of your wedding….cool, very cool.
I’m so hooked on this series that I now check FB every day – and sometimes 2x a day just to see what Prentice and/or Mary Ann have added to their story.
What is this all about? Are these people convicted (or never caught) criminals? I’ve read all of the episodes and I don’t get it. This is very strange behavior for two college age people. I am looking forward to the next one.
Well, I wish I had something clever to say, but it has been a long day and it is nice to read something tantalizing.