Our 1965 Ford Fairlane is the car Tim bought for me early this year. He sent pictures of the engine block being installed: in one Tina Painter from next door and her boyfriend, Rick, pose near the rented hoist. Rick feigns a dance with Tim’s shop broom; Tina laughs, her eyes bright.
At that time I lived in an Oregon dorm, studying through my freshman year at the Christian college from which most of my relatives graduated. I carried Tim’s pictures to class, passed them around to girls from my hall. “Your prenuptial gift!” they exclaimed, laughing like Tina in the photo.
After our July wedding in Washington state and my subsequent journey with Tim to the deep south, several Fairlane engine parts came to rest on newspapers at one end of our mobile home’s carpeted front room.
A grease-enhanced carburetor brandishes its top screw above the butterfly valve, peripherally taunting as I rummage kitchen crannies for ingredients. My wedding present Betty Crocker cookbook lies open to the recipe for tacos with homemade tortillas. Yum, I’m thinking. And, won’t Tim appreciate my skill in the culinary. And, we might have a night where everything intimate improves, becomes delicious.
My working six early mornings a week while Tim pulls 24-hour duty every three days hasn’t heaped us with hours for closeness. Couple that with our virginal status before marriage – two preacher’s kids wafting in let-it-all-hang-out breezes, while seeking semblances of propriety which for vague reasons emanated from our parents’ 1950s social assumptions – well, to top it off I thought we’d learned everything we needed in health class.
The cupboard door yawns wider but yields skimpy results. Flour, salt, no corn meal. Ugh. Whenever I get excited about a recipe, something’s missing. Oh, well. Since Tim and I both enjoyed flour tortillas with our Puyallup Fair tacos two years ago, I’m sure I can forgo the corn in this recipe. The skillet my parents gave us warms slowly on the gas burner. I hum.
Our first night, after the marathon of wedding events and cousins’ hugs, Tim and I at last lay together under covers in motel room dimness.
He tickled me. We giggled.
Our perfect moment. We were all right. Everything would flow from us, natural. We’d relieve stress together. No rush. No worries.
Since then, though, bedroom quests to recapture unhurried joy have felt like navigating an overwaxed roller rink. I expected to be choosing soda pop flavors from the snack bar, my face flushed, aglow. Instead Tim and I trip, slide, crash, and the floor is hard. Cold.
Something about my first tortilla looks a little off. Gloppy might be the word. The pan brimming hot oil waits for my addition of the dough via a taco shell shaper we received in our box of gadgety wedding gifts. Just slip the spatula quickly beneath the stuff, and get it in there somehow…
“It’s horrible!” I wail.
Tim sets down his lunchbox and jacket. He stands behind me, and we stare at the globulous mass in the oil that was supposed to be a crisp, tasty taco.
“I blew it. I shouldn’t've started. What’ll we eat?”
Disasters in the kitchen happen. Somehow we’ll manage. I’m overreacting because money’s tight, I know. Still. I seek his blue work shirt’s top button. Where the chest hair peeks over, curls. “I’m a failure, aren’t I?”
Tim doesn’t move. At last he glances ceilingward.
No tickles. I turn off the burners. “Say something!” I finally screech.
“I guess just throw it away,” Tim says.
My sandwich is dry, but Tim eats his easily enough and sends me a happier gaze. Whew.
“After we’re done, I’m calling about an ad,” he says. “There’s a 1968 Mustang for sale in town.”
“Another car? But you’re fixing the Fairlane, right? When payday comes.”
“Well, I think I’ve dug up all the available junk yard parts. Since I had to use the Fairlane’s fuel pump on the Falcon, it’s just taking too long to get the whole car running. Mustang parts, though, they’re popular. You can find those anywhere.”
Still confused, later that evening I write a check to a man and wife in their suburban garage, and afterward Tim drives the Mustang home. Steering the Falcon I hear from behind our new car’s brakes screeching the way I did over the ruined dinner.