Each backpack contained three books made of construction paper, bound with tiny stitches. “Open the books,” she said. I opened one. My hands jerked. I let the book drop.
“It’s okay,” she said.
“I don’t want to tear it,” I said.
“You won’t.”
Every half-inch page, of which there were probably ten, had tiny scribbled lines on it. “I didn’t want them to get bored,” she said.
“Okay seriously, this is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen. Moby-Dick?”
“I know, I’ve never even read it. They have, though.”
That Janette had spent her childhood sewing books so that her dolls could be literate was too perfect.
If we weren’t meant for each other, nobody was.
I woke to the sound of the lawnmower. The clock said six A.M. After breakfast, John and Linda piled into their camper while we followed in the Buick. Janette looked at me and lifted her eyebrows.
“He’s not bad at all,” I said.
“Oh, I’m so glad. He did mow the lawn really early though.”
The campsite was already full when we got there. I met Janette’s brother, Jeff. Jeff’s wife pulled me aside. “So you’re going to marry my sister-in-law! What’s going on?”
How in the world had she gotten that idea? Did Janette say that? Is that what Janette wanted? Was that what was happening?
“Uh,” I said.
John appeared before I could answer and handed me a long, thick needle. “Help me sew up the cover on the camper.” I stitched away while kids I didn’t know yet laughed and ran through the trees.
I thought about what Jeff’s wife had said. I didn’t feel pressured by this intrusion from someone I’d just met. But now I was thinking about marrying Janette, which was wonderful and terrifying.
Throughout the day I shook a lot of hands and immediately forgot everyone’s name. Everyone was welcoming and kind.
That night Janette came into my tent and laid down, her head on my chest. My chest immediately lurched and bounced her head off for an instant. She laughed. “You’re not a great pillow.”
“I love you,” I told her for the first time. I’d met her only a few weeks earlier. And now I knew I loved her. How humbling to think that mere weeks before I’d been alone and unhappy, and now I was happier than I’d ever been, because of her.
“I love you too.” She felt my face in the dark. She had to know I had the biggest, dopiest grin on my face. And now I was even happier. That night, alone in my tent, I listened. I listened to my body; it clanged with desire, but it hummed with love. I listened to my mind—I’d often been forced to fight for the privilege of introspection by the blaring coming out of my mouth. For once, silence was more galvanizing than noise. Maybe our Plans of Salvation were aligning.
The next day we went to Bear Lake. I found myself next to John, ankle-deep in muddy water, moss trying to pin our toes to the earth. “This lake’s pretty nice,” he said. “We like it.”
“I like it too.”
“I’m glad. You know, Janette’s a good woman.” He stopped, looked like he had more to say, then jumped in the air. “I think a fish just bit my toes!”
Now was the time to ask him if I could marry her. We were alone. Now was the time.
But I didn’t. Then the fish bit my toes too and I screamed and we laughed and headed in to shore.
After lunch Janette and I went for a walk. Eventually we tired and sat on a half-rotten log.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Well, that’s not true. I’m sure. I guess I’m thinking we just need to make it official, right?”
She smiled. “Make what official?”
I started to get down on one knee, almost slipped, but caught the log and saved myself before falling over. I yelled when a beetle ran out of the log over my hand. After making sure the log was now empty, I took her hand in both of mine, kissed it, and said, “Will you marry me?”
The word “yes” is just a sound. It’s nothing without context. It can signal the end of a life, an exultation after a scored basket or a vanquished foe; it can answer questions or refute them; it’s an affirmation. Under the trees, leaning against a decaying piece of wood with the warm June sunlight filtering through the branches above, Janette’s “yes” was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. If there was a more exhilarating feeling, I didn’t think I could have survived it. There was a woman sitting in the forest with me, agreeing to share our lives. We would bear each other’s burdens. She would have our children and we would raise them together. Maybe we’d save each other’s souls if the church turned out to be the one true way. There was a woman whom I loved deeply and profoundly, and with one syllable she’d changed our lives forever.
At dinner Janette said, “I have an announcement. Josh and I would like to invite all of you to come visit us in Salt Lake at the end of the summer because….” Her voice broke. She took a deep breath. “We’re getting married!” Cheers from the crowd! Slapped backs! Handshakes! I accepted them all and realized that my face was starting to hurt. I obviously didn’t spend enough time smiling. When the furor died down John hugged me. “Janette is a wonderful woman. She’ll be a wonderful wife.” I realized that I never asked him for her hand. And I’d meant to! Why hadn’t I done it?
We went home the next day. Outside my parent’s house, Janette squeezed my hand. “Ready?” I was. My dad suddenly opened the door, took one look, and asked, “What’s going on?”
Cheers! Hugs! Slapped backs!
That night we all went to dinner at Elko’s one decent Mexican restaurant. How wondrous and unexpected to have something this special to celebrate after the previous year of such darkness.
At home, my mom came into the living room where I was reading A Confederacy of Dunces, which somehow I didn’t hear of until 2001. “Sit with me.” We sat on the couch. She said she was proud of me. That she couldn’t be happier.
“I know, Mom. Me too. I can’t believe this has happened.”
“I knew it would. I always knew it would. You’ve got to start listening to your old mother.”
“It’s my New Year’s resolution.”
“Good.”
“For 2002.”
I didn’t tell her that, happy as I was, I was scared. How could I say that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to support Janette, or our family? How could I tell her that, although I felt like I was now strong enough to grit my teeth and move forward, all on behalf of Janette’s love and support, that I still wondered if it would be enough?
Later, I did tell her about the 401(k) story. “Oh yeah. It’s all we girls ever think about. Modest 401(k)s.”
Janette was cooking dinner for us. This was a dangerous proposition; Janette cooks and bakes as if she’s trying to fatten you up before eating you. It was two weeks before our wedding.
“There’s a good chance that our kids would have it,” I said. “You know that.” Janette had a niece and a nephew with Tourette’s. Having the disorder on her side of the family increased the chances that we’d pass it on.
“You don’t understand how it can be,” I said. “When it’s really bad. I’ve had friends that just weren’t able to be around me anymore. I lost my best friend. A girl I planned on marrying. They couldn’t take it. You haven’t seen it like that yet.”
Janette smiled. “I’ll understand once it happens. Then we’ll deal with it. Now shut up about it.”
“Are you sure you can do it? What if you can’t? I don’t want this to happen and then just be alone again.”
“No, I’m not. How could I be sure?” she said. “But I believe in you. How can I be sure about any of that tonight? It hasn’t happened yet. I don’t think it will.”
“But doesn’t that scare you?” I jerked my head back and whipped it forward.
When I stopped, Janette touched my face. She looked at me just the way Fern looked down at Wilbur the pig when he was in the stroller in Char
lotte’s Web. “Committing to spending the rest of my life and more with someone is scary enough without guessing at all the things that might happen. So stop.”
“But don’t you—”
“If I did, I’d say so. Here’s what I’m sure of: When I’m with you—when I’m with you and things are bad with your tics—it’s hard. It hurts because I love you and I don’t like to see your pain. But it’s not nearly as bad as not being with you. I’ve spent most of my life without you and I know what I’m talking about. Now be quiet. I’m done with this conversation, which means don’t bring it up tomorrow. We’re getting married two weeks from now, so smile and deal with it. You proposed to me, remember?”
I remembered.
On the morning of our wedding I met Janette at her parent’s house. Despite all of the doctrine that gets filed under weird and superstitious, nobody ever told me that I shouldn’t see Janette before the service. We drove to the city of Bountiful. Janette grew up in the Ogden temple district, but it was closed for cleaning, so she chose Bountiful. I’d predict that even if you think the religion is the height of absurdity, you’d still find something to admire about Mormon temples. The Bountiful temple is a pristine white, with light shades of gray being the only other colors on the walls, both inside and out. It rests at the foot of the Wasatch Mountains. Gorgeous flower beds line the walkways to the doors, and the whole place is even cleaner than Disneyland. From the center of the towering building, a spire reaches upward, topped with the angel Moroni, blowing his horn to announce that we’re in a sacred place.
Inside, we each went to our own changing rooms. We donned the traditional white robes of the faith, which are only worn in the temple. Soon we were seated next to each other in one of the eight “sealing rooms.” These are rooms where couples are “sealed” together for time and all eternity. If you’re sealed to your family, you’ve effectively achieved the pinnacle of what we’re here to accomplish on earth. If you’re sealed and then you both live righteously until you die, you’ll be together after death. If not, well…that’s more complicated.
Janette and I knelt on opposite sides of an altar and held hands. Behind each of us was a wall covered by an enormous mirror. Over each other’s shoulder we could see endless reflections of ourselves, drifting out into eternity together. The officiator turned to me.
“Will you take Janette as your companion, for time and all eternity?”
“Yes,” I said. There was that word again. That simple sound. It sounded like nothing and meant everything.
He turned to Janette. “Will you take Josh as your companion, for time and all eternity?” There was an endless pause. Janette was crying. “Yes,” she said at last. I’m sure that people also get left at the altar at Mormon temples, but it’s hard for me to picture.
The officiator smiled. “In the name of Jesus Christ, in the presence of these witnesses and the families who love you so dearly, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
“Are you okay?” I whispered to Janette after the kiss.
“Yes,” she said. “I never thought it would be my turn,” she said. “I love you.”
In many ways, a Mormon ceremony isn’t that different from a traditional wedding. The major differences are that we wed in the temple, wear peculiar clothes, and there’s no “until death do you part.” Janette changed into her wedding dress and I got into my tuxedo. A photographer took way too many pictures over the next ninety minutes. Oh, and of course, the luncheon afterward wasn’t exactly a bacchanalia. As revels go, it was about as thrilling as eating a box of Wheat Thins with a glass of water. But Janette and I weren’t there for the party.
We were there because now there was such a thing as We.
After ninety minutes of eating and laughing and reminiscing about That Time When Someone Did Something Funny, we got in the car and pointed it toward Moab, where we’d spend our honeymoon. I quickly pulled in to a car wash. We’d requested that our families not toilet paper our car, or write on the windows with soap, or tie cans to the bumper. They had mostly complied, but there were some balloons glued to the windows, and well wishes soaped on the windshield. As the car was pulled along the conveyor belt and under cover of soapsuds, we started pawing at each other as the brushes scrubbed the windows and doors. “Do you want to go check into a hotel for an hour before we go?” I asked hopefully. “Or do you think you can make it to Moab?”
“Let’s drive,” she said. “Every mile can be like a countdown.”
“I want another car wash,” I said.
“No, let’s go.”
When we got to the Archway Inn in Moab we learned that my grandpa had paid for our room. It turned out to be the handicapped suite. None of it mattered. We shut the door and flew at each other. After that first energetic night I declared that the theme of our honeymoon would be “For the strength of youth.” This was also the name of the church’s youth progress program. I thought this was hilarious. Janette didn’t laugh quite as much, although that night she proved herself to be a quick study in extreme irreverence.
Over the next two days the seasons could have changed and we wouldn’t have noticed. We only left the hotel twice. Once was to eat and then to buy food to take back to our room. The other time was to recharge during a viewing of Tim Burton’s Planet of the Apes. We were so goofy and delirious and happy that the movie actually seemed good. That’s how perfect it was.
That’s how perfect We were.
* Hunter S. Thompson’s mom was a librarian.
CHAPTER 8
153.6—Truthfulness and Falsehood
616.692—Infertility—Popular Works
636—Dogs
021.65—Library Science
We were at my family’s house in Nevada. We’d gathered there for Christmas and were still there on December 31 for Janette’s birthday. We’d spent the day trying to see who could eat the most junk and introducing Janette to “the Food Game,” a childhood favorite. You blindfold someone and then feed him the most disgusting concoction possible. Anything in the kitchen was fair game, if it fit on a spoon. Janette refused to play, but laughed dutifully when my sister Lindsey bested a mouthful of peanut butter, clam juice, thyme, two jalapeño seeds, and the fat from a strip of bacon.
Later, I gave Janette her birthday present. She could tell it was, obviously, a book. She hid her disappointment well and chirped, in a bright voice a full register higher than usual, “I know what this is!” She tore the wrapping paper off and said, “Oh.” I wondered if she was taken aback, but, no, she was smiling. On the cover of the blue paperback, two chubby babies sat on two blocks. She held it up for my family to see. One Thousand and One Baby Names!
“We’re going to start trying,” I told everyone.
“Name it Frank whether it’s a boy or a girl,” said my dad.
We were two years into our marriage. The first few months had been about as storybook as it gets. We’d wake up and smile at each other. She’d go to work and I’d go to school. When she came home we’d make dinner or go out, and smile at each other some more. We had weird upstairs neighbors: One, Ollie, spent his days in the shared basement laundry room, making wooden gargoyles. We enjoyed wondering when he would murder us. We’d go to the grocery store and buy trashy romances and read them to each other, trying to distinguish “anguished groans” from “urgent gasps.” Her Texas Ranger was the first. I wasn’t able to work much because of Misty, and my first semester of post-wedding school was unsuccessful—ultimately the tics were too challenging for me in the classroom. But for that first year being together was enough.
And I could talk! I decided to stop getting the Botox injections after we’d been married for eight months. I wasn’t having verbal tics, but the physical tics were getting worse. I’d traded the obnoxious but painless noises for scratching my face and chest, slapping and punching myself more often, biting my tongue more severely, etc. I’d have chosen another hernia from screaming over hitting myself one more time. I hoped t
hat if the milder vocal tics returned they would vent some of the pressure in a less destructive way. It was a thrill to talk to Janette with as many words as I wanted.
On Sundays we went to church. When I was voiceless, I couldn’t use noisy tics as an excuse to stay home. But I found that worshipping with Janette made worshipping easier. I could pray when I prayed with her. I felt more sincere because she was completely sincere.
When my voice returned, it wasn’t long before I was called to teach lessons in elder’s quorum. Two Sundays each month, I taught the doctrines of the church. My lessons always ended with my testimony: variations on “I know the church is true.” And the more I said it, the truer it became. Any concerns I had about the differences between knowledge and belief faded. When I lived as if I believed, belief was easier to come by.
It gave me peace.
At the end of that year we started trying to get pregnant. We weren’t honeymooning anymore, but we were still getting after it with a wonderfully taxing frequency. We designed a fertility schedule that looked fun on paper. Once we were a few months into the experiment, it was still fun, but the best part of sex is the spontaneity. It was never better than when we were overcome and just had to have at it. But we had to plan the pregnancy attempts. Nothing was less arousing than an X on the calendar; during that first year of trying we lived in a state of constant “counting down” according to a menstrual cycle. Always waiting. Always wondering. Now we had an unwelcome bedroom companion: trepidation.
A year of unsuccessful trying later Janette said, “If we ever have a daughter, I really hope she gets your calves and my personality.” We’d moved from the sure thing to the distant and hypothetical: If we ever…