Caleb Green tried not to stare at all the people sitting before him, but there was nowhere else to stare. It was his big day, after all, and they were mostly staring back at him. Weddings were a lot of things, but first they were storms of self-consciousness.

His hands were stacked in front of his manhood as instructed by the wedding planner. A bead of sweat clung to his hairline. Multiple other itches and cramps competed for his attention, but he ignored them on the same grounds he was ignoring the sweat. Once he tended to one, he’d have to tend to them all. 

A white tent had been erected in the backyard of Marsha’s parents’ farmhouse, pink lights strung in tight parabolas from the posts. A DJ booth was set up in the back, next to the dining tables with their pearlescent name cards and excessive silverware. A group of black-clad caterers idled just outside the tent, sitting on carry cases and staring at their phones. The glossy dance floor gleamed. The sun had begun its descent, but was taking its time, as if lingering to witness the ceremony.

Caleb and his crew of groomsmen had just made their entrance and were lined up at the front, awaiting Marsha, his bride-to-be, and her party of bridesmaids. He felt like a soccer player preparing to face a free kick, on the verge of flinching; the ball would arrive any second.

Caleb peeked elsewhere in the crowd. Various family members sat in the first couple rows, including his mother. When Caleb had called her up to tell her the news, she’d been surprised to hear her eldest son had a steady girlfriend, and even more surprised that the girlfriend had agreed to marry him. Eagerly agreed, even. She’d asked how he proposed. 

“Spontaneously,” he replied. 

When the three of them had organized a get-to-know-you lunch, she eyed Marsha suspiciously the whole time, waiting for the veneer to drop, for Marsha to reveal why she would marry someone like Caleb Green.

*

If Caleb Green had a pursuit in life, before Marsha, it would’ve been the ability to take a quiet breath, just once. He had a hyperactive stream-of-consciousness, and although he never got around to getting an official diagnosis, was pretty sure he fell somewhere on the obsessive-compulsive spectrum. When songs got stuck in his head, they stayed there for weeks and months. He could be heard humming Christmas carols in June. The tiniest uncertainties could paralyze him, like which fork to pull from the drawer, even though they were all the same. Large menus at restaurants soaked his armpits with indecision. He often ate vegetarian just to limit his options. 

Noise was the worst catalyst of his craziness. He detested noise of every kind. He hated the usual line-up – sirens, hammers, blenders, leaf blowers – but worse were the subtle noises that could go undetected for hours, seemingly in the background, but noises that once heard could not be ignored again – the tinkle of a radiator, distant traffic, a television he wasn’t watching.

Noise made his heart jackhammer like a lost hiker’s fists at a front door trying to get out of the cold. He purchased noise-canceling headphones, which helped when he wore them, but which accented noise by comparison when he took them off. He craved silence in his eardrums, silence of the mind, and occasionally silence of the eternal variety. He didn’t think he’d ever take his own life just for the empty quiet that death promised, but he nonetheless hoped to find a working compromise, and so he’d bought a small house in a rural area with an extra-long driveway. He soundproofed the walls of his house, having toured a music studio to get ideas. He found a job that let him work from home – he graded the writing component of the SATs. It was menial and uninspiring – Caleb got several raises but never a promotion — but in the right moments he could lose himself in the bemusing essays of college-aspirant teenage prose and feel okay about life. He lived and worked alone, and he was lonely, but his life was as still as he could make it.

The problem was that the more he craved silence, the more aware of noise he became, and the more he tried to quiet his mind, the more he realized how impossible the task. He couldn’t tell whether the Earth was a noisy place in general and or whether his mind made it that way. 

Being with Marsha turned down the volume. Caleb usually considered his mind’s eccentricities a private affair, something he rarely shared with strangers, but on their first date, at a farm-to-table pork roast, with communal serving bowls next to flickering soy candles on checkered tablecloths draped over picnic tables, he found himself unloading on Marsha everything he’d never known how to unload before. He unloaded so much on her he began to suspect she was somehow trying to pry it out of him. 

Marsha listened and nodded along and Caleb felt quieter having shared, and slightly numb, as if someone had suctioned his cortexes with a tiny vacuum. Caleb nibbled on pear and goat cheese salad while Marsha told him a little about herself in return. He tried to be as good a listener for her as she’d been to him, but it was hard to listen well when he kept wondering how well he was listening. She told him about her alcoholic/addict parents, who’d entered recovery before either she or her younger brother was born – her surprise pregnancy had probably scared them into it – but whose constant battle for sobriety had defined the family. Marsha remembered being shepherded to Al-Anon with her brother like most kids are to soccer practice. Marsha was on the verge of plus-size but wore her weight well. From certain angles she was even beautiful. Her big hands and feet could be intimidating, but her expressions were soft and reserved, as if she was afraid you were making secret judgments and wanted to deter you. 

Caleb was pretty sure Marsha fell in love with him because of the parallel between him and her parents, particularly her father: both he and Caleb had a mental condition whose management took precedence over everything else. One strove to stay sober, the other sane. Marsha knew how to be around a man like that, knew how to love a man who might only be able to love her back with limited resources. She accepted how often Caleb had to go and lay down, the fun nights he aborted to retreat to the quietest part of the house. She even seemed to welcome the occasions when Caleb got crazy, as she got to play caretaker. When Caleb recognized this about her, he had to make a strong effort not to take advantage of her generosity.

*

The wedding was going about as well as Caleb could possibly hope. The guests had arrived without bothersome delays. He’d arrived, too, a fact which, up until the moment he did, hadn’t been a certainty. Yet he’d been on time, early even. His suit fit. His crazy symptoms were present, admittedly, but didn’t feel excessive, at least not yet. Marsha had discreetly asked that no music be played before the ceremony, and that the wedding was taking place outdoors at the farmhouse, and not at a busy church downtown, was also a nod to his condition. Besides the hum of the audience, he could hear birds and trees and wind and it was soothing. His hair was cut, combed and gelled. In a few seconds or minutes Marsha would appear at the back of the tent, and across a carpet of rose petals she’d waltz toward him.

Standing in front of Caleb was the minister, wearing a collar and the humble smugness patented by religious authorities everywhere. He held a Bible from which several bookmarks protruded like tongues. The minister was trying to breathe through his nose but kept having to resort to the mouth.

Marsha’s parents, in agreeing to the farm in lieu of a church, had insisted on the ceremony being religious. She and Caleb had met with the minister several times before the wedding. In one of their first sessions the minister asked him what role God played in his life. 

“We’re assuming he plays one.” Caleb had never really said the word ‘God’ aloud before. The word felt funny leaving his lips.

“Indeed,” the minister said. “Marsha says you’re still learning to seek Him.” 

Caleb looked at Marsha beside him. “I might be, I guess,” he said. “She’s certainly making me think about it. I don’t think I’m being too genuine about it, though. I don’t know. Depends on what you mean by seeking. It’s possible I want to find God, but it’s just as possible that I’m seeking God to win Marsha’s approval, even though I know Marsha is probably only seeking God to win her parent’s approval, and her parents are probably only seeking God out of fear.”

The minister looked at Marsha, his lips twitching as if suppressing a non-Christian response. Marsha shrugged.

The minister could’ve backed out of the wedding after that, could’ve said it wasn’t a good fit, but the Snyders had been attending his services for many years, and after promises from Marsha that Caleb would stick to the script on the day itself, the minister said of course he’d do it.

*

Growing up, and having never known his mind any other way, Caleb had always assumed he was normal, that an incessantly racing and obsessive mind was just part of being a human being. After grasping just how Daytona his mind was, he’d thought about seeing a doctor. Every couple of weeks for many years he’d had this exact thought. A couple times he’d gone so far as to dial the number of a psychiatrist or a hospital before hanging up. He didn’t have the clearest narrative of his childhood. He knew getting help could only be a good thing in the long run, but he’d never lucked into the motivation. His mind was a bad thing, but it was never bad enough. It was always easier just to lie down and wait for the hive between the ears to stop buzzing so bad.

But with Marsha he finally had the motivation: he wanted to do it for her. With her he recognized that things could be better, that he could be a better man. But intensive therapy — there was little doubt, when he thought about it, that his therapy would be intensive — intensive therapy would require separating from Marsha. He couldn’t both commit himself to therapy and commit himself to building a relationship. He felt something like irony, thinking this, how he’d have to leave Marsha to get better, when Marsha was the thing he wanted to get better for. He regretted not getting help sooner.

Love, for Caleb, was as bad as noise. It was almost like saying yes to noise. Love required a thousand little decisions every day. Whether to call or text, when to call or text, what to say, assuming either happened. Nothing was easier to obsess about than love. Love was obsession, practically. He was pretty sure Marsha was better off without him, but Marsha couldn’t leave him for the same reasons he couldn’t consistently love her. She was the first-born child of parents in recovery, and, in spending so much of her life taking care of others, she hadn’t gotten the help she’d needed to learn to truly take care of herself. Caleb was a proxy for her parents. She’d please Caleb the way she’d never been able to please them, particularly her father.

Or not. Who was Caleb to guess the intricacies of love? Maybe their love was just love. 

As the early highs wore off, Caleb began to feel guilty for not being able to fully devote himself to Marsha the way she did to him. Managing his mind, his constant pursuit of silence, was always a bigger issue. He needed to manage his mind in order to be the kind of person she didn’t mind being around. He needed solitude and the hope of stillness it brought, but in seeking silence all he did was alienate her. The same feeling of irony hung in his gut, like a puddle on the playground that refused to dry. 

Eventually there came a week where he ignored her completely. He didn’t return her calls, emails, or texts. He didn’t know what to do, and the indecision made his bones feel like pretzels, like if he moved, he would snap snap snap into a pile of salty crumbs. She kept texting him and asking to come over and talk. The longer he waited to respond, the more wretched he felt. His phone blinked with incoming messages, but he didn’t dare pick it up for fear of what he might do or say. 

Finally, on a stormy Sunday evening, with raindrops pelting his roof like gunshots, he texted Marsha and told her she could come over. He laid out in the crudest terms possible what the conditions were. He just wanted to have sex, he told her. No talking. When it was over, she would leave again. 

Her reply dinged a few seconds later. I can work with that. 

She showed up a half-hour later. Her hair and shoulders were wet with rain. He felt like stabbing himself, seeing her face. “You’re not going to fuck me,” was the first thing she said, slipping off her shoes. “And we are definitely going to talk.”

“I’m very sorry,” Caleb managed to get out, standing with his back against the wall, as if to stay as far from her as he could. “I don’t know why I texted you all that. Yes, I do, yes I do,’ he quickly corrected. “I know why.” 

Marsha hushed him with a raised hand. She stood before him quizzically, head cocked to one side, as if staring at a sad painting in a museum. “Part of me doesn’t understand why I’m here,” she began. “But another part of me understands exactly why I’m here, and that part also understands you, and understands me, and understands how you and I could be really great together if we could stop worrying about how we got so lucky. Am I making sense?”

He peeled away from the wall an inch. “Maybe.”

“The only thing that’s keeping us from being happy together is learning to accept that we could be happy together.”

“I’m not sure I’m capable of happiness,” he said. “Even with you.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m really not. And if you really knew me, you’d stop saying that I am.”

Marsha thought for a second. ‘Forget happiness, then. Peaceful. You’re capable of peace, and we’re most capable of being at peace together.’

“I want to believe you.”

“There’s no rush.”

“Ah, but there is.” He pressed himself back against the wall. He turned his head so far to the right that his cheek touched the paint. His eyes squeezed shut. When the words came out, both of them were surprised. “Marsha Snyder, will you marry me?”

*

Caleb saw the minister stiffen. There was a hush and heads turned towards the back. Everyone stood up. A bird flew under the tent and demanded attention, but, as if realizing what it was interrupting, quickly exited and flew skyward again. 

Caleb told himself anew that the day was going well so far; he was entertaining no impulses to sabotage it. Concern about his behavior was not unfounded, but nothing would come of it. Better than the minister was the marriage counselor they’d seen. The counselor had assured Caleb that no, he didn’t have to separate from Marsha to get better, that steps could be taken on his own while still in the relationship. The counselor suggested meditation and yoga, and less soda and processed foods, and Caleb said okay, and without even realizing it he began to evolve.

Things got easier once engaged. Both he and Marsha felt the need to prove to the other that no mistakes had been made in their betrothal, and this invited all manner of respect and flexibility. Marsha felt this way because it was how she’d felt growing up with her dad. She’d had to prove to him that even if she’d been an accident, she’d been one worth having.

It was also harder being engaged. Caleb still didn’t know how to accept that Marsha might genuinely like him. Part of him was convinced she’d been coerced into marrying him for some dark reason he hadn’t figured out yet. She’d explained so much of her love for him in the context of her troubled father. Why? Caleb didn’t want her to love him, Caleb, because of trauma. They spent many nights holding each other on the couch, Marsha repeatedly promising him that she wasn’t going anywhere, that she felt the love for him in her heart.

On Caleb’s second or third visit to the Snyder home, he and Marsha decided to go for a walk after dinner. While rummaging under the front seat of her father’s truck for a flashlight, he discovered a felt bag containing an unmistakably-shaped glass bottle, half-full. When he slammed the door and turned around, Marsha was standing right there, and he could tell from her face she knew what was under there, too. She explained to Caleb what her father had explained to her, that alcohol hadn’t really been a problem for him, that his drug of choice back in the day had always been intranasal, that he was perfectly fine with a sip or two now and then, that the only reason he hid the bottle was to keep Judy from being tempted. And yet her father continued to attend meetings and spoke genuinely about sobriety and working the steps. Caleb said he understood and promised not to tell. He was willing to keep secrets.

There were other conversations to have before the big day, as well, and so they talked about kids. Marsha wanted kids. Caleb wanted kids, too, or said he wanted kids because Marsha did. But Caleb was afraid of children, particularly the idea of having his own. He was certain his children would be born with horrible diseases and disfigurations, that Marsha would die in childbirth, that he’d be forced to raise a child he hadn’t really wanted all by himself. 

“The greatest thing I could ever do for my kids,” he told her, “is not have them.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “If I’m crazy, and if I know that I’m going to pass on that craziness to my child, and if we admit that my craziness is a terrible thing, which it is, and then I still have that child, I might as well be a torturer. In a way it’s child abuse.”

“Oh please.”

“I’m being very sincere here. I would hate for my kid to turn out like me.”

Marsha took his hand. “But haven’t you turned out pretty well? You struggle with a lot, yes, but you’re self-aware, you take steps to manage your challenges, and you have a fiancé who loves you. I want a kid, Caleb. I don’t need a nursery full of them. But a single child would be nice.”

“And you need me to be the father.”

She took his other hand now, too. “Look, I can’t force you to want to be a dad, but I would appreciate it if you tried to want to be a dad. Remember how hard we worked to love? You can do it with kids, too. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think you could do it.” 

Caleb took a moment to respond. “Maybe you’re right about change. But, for now anyway, I don’t see myself changing about babies. Plus, we have ethical matters to consider. Have you considered whether it’s ethical to bring a child into an overpopulated world?’

“Since when do you care about overpopulation?”

“Since it became a convenient argument.”

Marsha nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Let’s just be done with it and go about our childfree lives.” 

“Shifting to passive-aggression, are we?”

“I was going for reverse psychology.”

“It’s working,” Caleb said. “I’m starting to feel incredibly guilty. Is that your plan? You make me feel so guilty about letting you down that I end up giving you what you want?”

“You’re not letting me down. You’re stating what you want. I appreciate the honesty.”

“You know what I want right now? You.”

“Not right now, Caleb.”

“Yes right now, Marsha. You know what the silver lining in our kid discussions is? That I’m seeing you as someone different again. We spend so much time together I sometimes can’t tell where you end and I begin. But now we’re fighting and I see you as an adversary. You’re a sexy separate again. Someone to conquer.” He ran his fingers along her hemline. 

“You know how I know I’m a little sick in the head, too?” Marsha asked. “Because your crazy theories and arguments kind of turn me on.”

“You’re attracted to truth, is what you’re saying.”

“I’m attracted to you, is what I’m saying.”

“I don’t think we should reconcile too quickly, then. Stay semi-mad at me.”

“So we can have angry sex?”

“Maybe.” They kissed, but Caleb pulled away. He looked at her. “Did you stage this whole argument just to get me to have sex with you? Am I being set up?”

“You’re on to me, Caleb.”

“I knew it. You’re ovulating.”

She sat astride him. “What if I am? Do you want me to stop?”

*

Music played, and small children patterned the aisle with a fresh round of petals. Marsha’s bridesmaids followed, navigating the uneven ground in their heels before drifting off to the left. Finally, Marsha and her father, arm in arm, step by step. 

Marsha wore a strapless dress, and she smelled like everything pheromonal that Caleb had ever wanted, and he knew he should’ve felt lucky. She had a real smile and a true heart. But he felt intimidated instead, burdened by the idea of having to be good enough for her for the rest of his life.

The minister raised his hands and the ceremony began. Everyone recited their lines. Various audience members gathered their dresses and straightened their ties and came up to the front to read this or that passage or poem. There was talk about eternal love and happiness. 

*

A few days after the wedding, they flew to France for their honeymoon. They walked centuries-old avenues until their feet got sore, perused family-owned antique shops and spent money they didn’t have, ducked under the canvases of cafes when the warm rain started to pour. They sat on benches and admired all the different expressions of life in all the people that walked by. There were small arguments, and at least one big one, but very quickly neither Caleb nor Marsha could remember what about. Caleb lost his wallet in the dining car of a train. When he returned for it, it was there, but his cash was gone.

They talked about the wedding, the guests that showed up, the ones that didn’t. They talked about the food, how the macaroni and cheese bar was such a hit, how one of the caterers had hooked up with her cousin. They admired their rings. Marsha thought she might have to get hers adjusted when they got back.

In Belgium, they listened to the twinkle of a cobblestone square as the sun set, took slow bites from meals they ordered without understanding the menu, dropped spare Euros into open instrument cases. Much of the trip was surprisingly boring – the long train rides, the dinners when conversation ran out, the empty afternoons with nothing to do. They had plentiful sex, but less out of lust than to alleviate a feeling they weren’t ready to name yet. 

Caleb both hated and loved it. He hated that the noise of the train’s wheels still made him want to jump off. He hated that he had to disassemble the clock in their hotel room lest the persistent tick keep him up all night. He hated that for all the purity of his love for Marsha, he still couldn’t express it unpolluted by insecurity.

He loved that he didn’t feel alone. He loved the dog-like tenacity of the train as it chugged and howled across Germany. He loved the fresh pasta bowls with garlic and basil and butter. He loved what he was beginning to understand. It was a lot harder to love someone when you thought they were perfect. Imperfections were the honey, in a way, and he loved that they’d accepted each other’s. Or were starting to, anyway. But more than anything, maybe even more than he loved Marsha, he loved that he had chosen to love.

About the Author:

Ian Johnson is the author of The Bounce and the Echo – Dying to Love a Game (ATM Publishing, 2019), and the forthcoming novel The Commencement Version (Brandylane Publishers, 2024). His work has appeared in Bright Flash, Hoopshype, The Penman Review, Rind Literary Magazine, Across the Margin, and more. He teaches middle school English in Richmond, VA, and can be found at ianjohnsonbooks.com.

*Feature image by Bianca Van Dijk from Pixabay