Homefires Read Free

rapids carrying me away from rationale, away from me, whose velocity pinned me to that seat like a gnat against a cyclone. I don’t know where it came from, the strength to say “ stop, Kirk.” Probably from the deep down me who knew I could hide from Daddy and the world but not from Him. It was a mere wisp of sound Kirk seemed not to hear.
    The next “ No, Kirk. Stop!” carried more momentum and he halted as if startled from a feverish trance to sudden wakefulness. Kirk quickly disentangled himself, apologized profusely, then spread-eagled his arms and plastered his red face to the steering wheel for a long time. His abashment matched my own.
    Later, we talked. Both virgins, we agreed that neither wanted to consummate our union outside of marriage. From that time, despite incredible chemistry between us – his look or
touch always melted my bones – we honored our commitment to chastity.
    Today, on our wedding day, my eyes misted at the wisdom of that decision because what had developed between us was love in its purest form.

    Golden afternoon sunlight spilled over the heart pine vestibule floor, where Daddy fiddled with his blue shirt ruffle. “Does it look too sissy ?” he muttered out the corner of his mouth, his features stricken with apprehension.
    “You look just like a movie star,” I whispered, “Only better-looking.”
    He relaxed, became Daddy again. Strong. The rock beneath my wobbly, stilettoed feet.
    I clutched his arm and felt his hand squeeze my icy fingers. Lordy, was I nervous. Then I saw the groom’s party enter the front of the church, filing to stand before the pulpit. Horace “Moose” McElrath, a barrel of a fellow with corkscrew dark curls and eyes so smiley half-mooned I had yet to detect their color, took his honored place at Kirk’s side. As usual, his turkeynecking chuckle – always present when Moose was nervous – pressed a very latent giggle button deep inside me.
    Daddy felt me shaking and gazed worriedly at my lowered head. “You okay?” he asked, patting my hand. I drew in a deep breath and brought the uncharacteristic mirth-seizure under control, nodding.
    Then I really focused on Kirk. Another fierce thrill flared through me. Lordy – how did I ever not think him handsome? His loosely waved, wheat blond head glistened, awash with afternoon sunrays pouring through stained windows. From that distance, past one hundred heads, with me nearly hidden behind attendants, his gaze sought me out, found me. The connection – hokey as it sounds – szzzzzz ed.
    In a single heartbeat, I was back on my porch, nearly two years earlier , that evening Kirk’s contraption had idled to a halt before my mill village house, where I rocked and sang gustily along with Fats Domino’s Blueberry Hill drifting through my bedroom window. Moose, my friend from English class, hopped off the passenger seat and chatted with me when I moseyed to the
curb – actually a front yard easily spanned in four giant steps – to join them. I quickly labeled the wiry, sun-bleached guy the Quiet One, who sat behind the wheel of his peach flat, his gaze studiously transfixed to something beyond that bug-splattered windshield.
    “What you guys doin’?” I’d asked.
    “We been fishin’,” Moose replied, grinning.
    “Catch anything?” I slid a glance at the Quiet One.
    “You kiddin’?” Moose yuk-yukked. “We eat all our Vienna Sausages and crackers and drunk all our Cocolas, then left. Lookin’ fer girls, hey, Kirk?”
    The Quiet One merely grunted. Or did he? Feeling bad for Moose, I quickly said, “Moose, did you ever learn how to conjugate them danged verbs?” We laughed and guffawed over that because Moose usually copied my homework paper.
    The driver of the vehicle remained statue still, arms akimbo, eyes straight ahead like a horse wearing blinders. Frozen, yet relaxed in an odd sort of way. Curiosity ambushed me.
    “Who’s he?” I asked Moose, not caring what the other guy thought since