~~~~~
It's Tuesday morning and the white plastic garment bag is hanging on the closet door, crowding her work clothes. Pam decides that she'll move it to the empty closet in the smallest bedroom as soon as they get everything else in there settled. Her completely impractical, brand-new silver shoes have been abandoned on the floor, almost close enough for her to reach one of them without rising from their bed. The cottony silence of falling snow, even louder than the music filtering into the bedroom, is pressing firmly on the walls of the house.
She rolls and reaches for Jim's side of the bed as she calls his name. There's a gap between the window frame and the blinds, where she can see the pale gray sky, out-of-focus and imposing.
"Yeah?" His voice seems to be originating from the same room as the music.
Pam knows that, really, it wasn't the after-Christmas sale at the mall that put the idea in their heads, even though that's how she'll probably end up telling the story. That part of it can be made pat, cute, someone else's business. She practices:
She'll say, perhaps today, perhaps years from now, that he found her standing in front of a three-way mirror, in a silver brocade and lace gown she had discovered on the sale rack in the back of the store. She had just been trying it on for fun, to kill time while he waited in the return line. She only glanced at the price tag because he raised his eyebrows and slowed down when he stepped around the corner. When she insisted she would never find a reason to wear it, he matter-of-factly suggested that it looked like a wedding dress to him. It was much too heavy to even consider wearing in late May, the date they had tentatively set. When she told him just that, he shrugged and asked her to turn so he could see the back again. She watched his eyes in the mirror as she pivoted on the ball of her bare foot.
"Where are you?" She realizes it was also because she feels awful about Angela, Andy, and Dwight. Or she feels awful for Angela, Andy, and Dwight. Or both. It's disturbing, depressing, and tied up in her head with her own past confusion, caterers, flowers, and choosing a song for her dance with her father.
"In my room. My old room," he corrects quickly. The history of their house seeps into his word choice. He calls their bedroom "Mom and Dad's room" sometimes, when they're shifting still-unpacked boxes around or contemplating paint samples. She's affected by the idea of him having a context, a place. And, really, it is a mom and dad's room, set at the back of the hall, larger than the other bedrooms, and with a door and a stillness that makes her feel like she should knock, even though her clothes are in the closet and the book she's reading is on the nightstand.
She shifts and runs her fingers through her hair, but makes no move to get up. "What is that music?" It was probably about Alex, too, who hadn't called or written to her once since she came home, despite his promise not to "abandon her in the wilds of Pennsylvania." If it was about Alex, then it was about New York, too, everything that did and didn't happen there. And she knows Roy is involved as well. Pam imagines that it will be a long before the things she chooses stop having something to do, at least in some small way, with her life with him. But -
"I found a box of my old tapes." Jim's voice is getting louder as he approaches. He stops in the doorway, already dressed in jeans, heavy socks, and a thermal shirt. She can tell he hasn't showered by the stubble on his cheeks and the wild, half-flat halo of his hair. He's smiling and holding a coffee mug in his right hand, his left in his pocket, pulling his jeans down low on his hip. "It's really bad out," he says and his smile just grows. "There's a drift halfway up the side of your car."
"Oh, great," she sighs, pulling the covers up higher.
He sets the coffee mug on the dresser as he passes. His rarely worn cufflinks are scattered there, along with his wallet, and a still-knotted necktie, subtle silver like her dress. He picked it out while she trailed him through the men's department with her garment bag half-open, so they could attempt to match the fabrics. She suggested his black suit and he agreed. They took turns calling their parents on the way out of the mall, Jim trying to sound casual but blushing furiously when he asked his mother if she and his father were free on Monday. As he passed the phone to her, Pam thought of Michael and the way he talked about Holly.
"I think you're missing the point here." Jim's voice is arid. He drops to his knees on the foot of the bed and crawls up her body, pinning her under the sheets. "There's no way we're going to work today."
She lifts her head to kiss him. He meets her halfway. "No way?" she asks. They hadn't been to work since the 30th, because of the new year and the vacation days they had scheduled back in November, shortly after she came home. Like everything else about them, the timing made a sort of irresistible sense. She thought of the breathless kiss that he gave her nearly three years ago; the way it pulled at something very basic and obvious in her that she wanted nothing more than to ignore.
"Not a chance," he kisses her again. He doesn't seem to be able to stop smiling, even as his tongue gently grazes her bottom lip.
"So what are we going to do today?" she asks, grinning, laying her hand on his cheek and guiding his forehead down to hers. He chuckles in response. She turns her head toward the music. "What is this?"
"Soul Asylum." He kisses her cheek. "It's 'Sexual Healing.' Haven't heard it in years."
She wraps her arms around him and pulls down, forcing him to stop supporting his weight. "You do have a plan for today, don't you?"
He gets his arms around her and the blankets and rolls, pulling her and half of the bed clothes on top of him. "Mm-hmm," he says against her mouth, sliding his big, warm hands up the back of her t-shirt. His fingers are dry and rough at the tips from the winter air. In a voice that still doesn't fail to inspire a very immediate, specific response, he whispers in her ear, "There's so much shoveling to do."
"Oh my God," she says wearily, sitting up, straddling his hips, and pulling the sheets and blankets from between them.
"But you look so cute in your big sweaters." He gives her a sportsmanlike slap on the bottom, moving as if to dislodge her from his lap. "Let's get to work."
She presses him back to the bed. "I'm going to drop you into a snowbank."
"Oh, don't start if you can't finish it, sister."
"Sister?" she snorts and pulls her t-shirt over her head, purposely overarching her back, tossing the blue scrap of cotton somewhere near the hamper. She delights in the casual slide of Jim's gaze off of her face and the way that his hands rush up to meet it. "Pretty sure it's illegal to marry your sister." She looks up at the ceiling and hums, shifting her hips into his response to her warm weight on his pelvis.
He groans and laughs. "Then why didn't the guy at the courthouse stop us?"
"It was all of your salesmany charm, I think." She tugs his shirt up and kisses his chest. "I was ready to tell everyone today. I thought we could bring in a cake, or something."
He lifts his arms so she can take his shirt the rest of the way off. She sits back to survey her work - his hair messier still, the smile on his face, the silver glow of his wedding band in the fine gray light of the room, nearly hidden by the soft flesh at the top of his palm and the curl of his fingers on the pillow next to his head. "Five bucks says that Phyllis assumes you're pregnant."
She widens her eyes and lightly smacks her forehead. "I totally forgot to tell you -"
He doesn't flinch; just rolls his eyes and settles his hands into their accustomed place on her hips. "We're really going to have to finish up that spare room, then."
"Ten bucks says Kelly cries."
"Sucker bet," he scoffs. His hand, the metal of his ring slick on her skin, slides easily up her leg, between her body and the boxer shorts she's wearing.
Her jaw loosens, but does not drop, as his thumb grazes the skin high, high up on her thigh. She's still able to speak. "I can't quite believe we did that," she remarks, leaning into his touch.
"I can." He shifts his hand and she holds on to his shoulders, her hair falling in both of their faces.
Aunt Morgan took everyone's picture on the courthouse steps with her new digital camera, a Christmas gift, carefully working her way through all of the standard wedding photographer combinations that she could think of - bride and groom, bride and her parents, groom and his parents, grandparents, the officiant, and so on. Pam was wrapped in a shawl her mother bought in Ireland and Jim's arms in almost every picture.
"Really?" He hums an affirmation as she undoes his jeans. "Why?"
It takes a minute for his answer to come, as he seems to be lost under her hands. Finally, his head beginning to arch deeper into his pillow, he manages, "You looked beautiful in that dress."
She laughs into the soft skin below his navel.
~~~~~
Wearing Jim's socks, heavy boots, long johns, jeans, a camisole, her most comfortable sweater, and her old winter coat, Pam staggers down the buried front step and muddles through the calf- and often knee-deep front yard. The sky is clear, brittle, and rosy pink in the west, night coming on early. Her breath forms white clouds as it leaves her body. She exaggerates her exhalations to admire their delicate detail. Jim, her husband, she reminds herself, for the sake of being reminded, is clearing the front walk, the scrape and click of his shovel and his breathing establishing a steady rhythm above the silence.
She looks up and down their street and, though most of the walks and driveways have been cleared, no one is in sight. It feels, in fact, as if there is no one but them for miles around. She turns and begins to clear the step.
~~~~~
Story Notes:
This is respectfully dedicated to Blanca, both for inspiring me with her own well-written response to BeckySue's challenge and for providing such helpful and kind comments on my draft. It has been a pleasure corresponding with you these past couple of weeks.
Chapter End Notes:
Title comes from the e.e. cummings poem commonly called "somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond."
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
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