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The Wilderness
Chapter One

By Kathryn Jay
Copyright © 2003

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I was 16 when I learned to drive, and I remember puzzling over the line in the Driver's Ed manual saying you should switch to low beams when meeting or following another car. When, I wondered, would you ever not be meeting or following another car? I have always lived in the east coast megalopolis that is the Boston-Washington corridor, an area so densely populated that it appears on satellite photos as a single blob of light stretching for nearly 500 miles along the eastern seaboard. The so-called rush hour runs 6-10 a.m. and 3-8 p.m. and seems to always be expanding. Carefully planned parks and state-mandated green space blunt the feel of claustrophobia, but the ever-spreading suburbs and lengthening commutes mean that life is, for the most part, car-based. Traffic was the pulse of my world. As a 16-year-old, I was excited to join the ranks of the licensed.

But what did they mean – switch to low beams when you're meeting or following another car?

It was nearly three years before I ever had occasion to use my high beams.

It was much the same with outdoor spanking, something I had dreamed about, imagined for years. Certainly by the time I had that coveted license.

But where? Had I ever been someplace deserted enough to relax without worrying who might interrupt? Not then. Not until recently, as a matter of fact.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First I need to tell you about Thursday night.

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Alex must have been listening for my car because he opened the door as my foot hit the pavement. He stood in the doorway, and as I trudged up the walk, he spread his arms. I'd have run into them if I'd had the energy. Instead, I fell against his chest, relieved almost to tears. Almost. "It's over, Alex. It's over." It was a statement of the obvious but I felt better for having said it.

"I know, sweetheart, I know," he said as he moved us into the living room, where he held me close and began a gentle swaying that might have been dancing, might have been rocking. Whatever it was, it was very soothing.

"I've missed you," I said, and I knew he'd get what I meant. I'd seen him only that morning, had seen him morning and night for the past umpteen weeks, but I had missed him. When I'm fully involved to my work, I have very little energy left for the personal me. There is only the professional me. But once that need is over, and it was over that Thursday afternoon when I finally got relief, I immediately need to refresh and reenergize. Professional me: gone. Personal me: front and center. And the first thing I always need is Alex.

"Arrgghh!" It was the most eloquent expression of frustration I could muster. "You know what I'm going to do tomorrow?" I asked, then ignored his muffled "yes." "I'm going to sleep until three o'clock."

"What's magic about three?" he asked. Amused. Indulgent. Still holding me.

"Because that's when Jerry Springer comes on. And I can't miss that. I'm going to get up to watch Jerry and eat Twinkies in bed." Well, okay, I wouldn't watch The Jerry Springer Show on a bet and I knew there weren't any Twinkies in the house, but I also knew that Alex wouldn't take me literally. He knows me too well. I meant that I was going to veg out, shut down, collapse. The rumble of laughter in his chest told me he'd understood.

"As appealing as that sounds, I have some other plans for you tomorrow." I kept my head firmly against his chest, letting the lub-lub of his heart drown out all the other thoughts in my head. "Don't you want to know what my plans are?" he prodded.

"Not really. Not going to do anything." I could watch days go past on the calendar in the mood I was in.

"I think somebody needs a spanking," he said into my hair.

"Nooooo." I heard the whiney note in my voice and stopped myself. I hate that tone. And he was right, which I hated even more.

I'd been on edge for weeks, burning the candle at both ends, as they say. But it was necessary. And I know Alex agreed, because he'd been remarkably patient as I'd dropped the ball repeatedly at home. Clothes went unwashed, bills went unpaid, rugs unvacuumed. I hoped the cat was emptying his own litter box, because I sure as hell wasn't. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd run the dishwasher, though I know Alex must have because I could always find clean glasses there. What is it about men not unloading the dishwasher? I mean the cabinets are there for a reason. But I didn't have any right to complain because he'd at least been loading it and running it, and I'd done neither.

In weeks.

Groceries magically replenished themselves; clean socks appeared in my dresser drawer. It was as if my mother had moved in to take care of me but didn't want to bother me with conversation.

To a degree, I convinced myself that Alex was doing it out of self interest and it probably made him appreciate me more. After all, he needed clean dishes and clothes, too. What made them my job? There were times I could almost feel a sense of feminist righteousness about the shift in responsibilities at home. I could dismiss his assumption of new chores as my due.

But I couldn't so easily dismiss the other things he did for me. I'd come home, exhausted and crabby, and flake out in front of the TV for a few minutes…and he'd pull my tired feet into his lap and give me one of his word-famous foot rubs. (World famous, really. I first learned of his incredible hand-foot coordination as we backpacked through Europe on our honeymoon, so he's done this on two continents.) Peppermint-scented lotion, too. Can't ignore that.

I also couldn't ignore the little day-brighteners that kept lifting my spirits each time I thought I'd hit rock-bottom. On any given day, I might find a sweet, loving note in my jacket or taped to my steering wheel, once even written in grease-pencil on my mirror (and cleaned up by the author that same day, thank you very much). I opened my work satchel one day to find a palmier, a crispy little pastry from a French bakery we sometimes stop at. It's so out of the way that it takes a deliberate trip, which means he'd really been thinking about me, but, true to form, he didn't make a big deal about it, didn't demand "credit" for having done a nice thing (the way I might have). He just tucked it into my case, knowing I would see it as soon as I got to the office – or at least as soon as I'd settled whatever new emergencies had arisen overnight – and for a minute I would relax and smile. Just like I would with the foot rub. I was staging a campaign from the office; he was building little way stations along the path.

Even the things he didn't do were helpful. He didn't call me at work, which I hate. He didn't put on that hurt puppy dog look, which can be really cute when I'm feeling playful but turns me into an animal-abuser when I'm on edge. He didn't complain.

I know I should have appreciated it more, but I also know he had a sense of what I was going through. Twice I'd awakened in the morning with my mouth guard in, which tells me that I was grinding my teeth hard enough or long enough to concern him. I started putting it in myself after that. It's been several years since I've been stressed enough to need it, but there are some things no human being should have to do for another person, and one of them is pry open clenched teeth to accommodate a hunk of plastic, ideally without rousing said person from badly-needed sleep. I took the hint. I put in my own damn mouth guard. It's a piece of plastic molded to fit the upper teeth and it's about the least sexy thing I can think of to wear to bed, but, to be honest, sex was not much of a factor for those few weeks.

For one thing, by the time I got home I was so exhausted that I just didn't have the energy for more than an affectionate hug. For another, well, when I'm that keyed up, sex is a way to burn off a little stress, but then I feel guilty that I'm not more involved, that I'm using Alex as a quicker, more convenient alternative to an hour at the gym. And the guilt just adds to the stress. But there's no way I can spend scarce emotional resources getting more involved when I'm in that state of mind. So we both pretend that I'm just too tired and Alex pretends that he likes to cuddle and who needs sex anyway? We've talked about the dynamics enough that we can joke about the situation, and usually these high-alert states only last a few days, two or three weeks tops.

This one lasted six weeks.

There's a certain irony to the fact that when you provide crisis support you're not allowed to have crises of your own, but that's the truth. Whatever else is going on in your personal life, whatever havoc might be wrought in the foundation or government agency you work for, you must come across as calm, competent, and in control as you provide services. I'm a pro. So I had sucked it up when National had pulled two of my best people for an overseas assignment, I'd soldiered on when Angie, the only other person qualified to lead a quick-response team, ended up in traction. But when some crazy fire bug started lighting up apartment houses all over the city, things began to fall apart. Nine times in the past three weeks I'd been called out in the middle of the night to be that first safety net as people realize that life as they knew it had ended and they were starting over with nothing but the clothes on their backs, sometimes not even that.

I am a social worker by profession, a humanitarian by inclination, a manager by necessity, and sometimes a victim of circumstances. But with the arrest of the suspected arsonist and the return of the two other team-leads, life showed the potential of returning to normal that Thursday. I had spent the morning dealing with the several families displaced by the most recent fire and the afternoon passing on case histories to Carl and Marcus. Then they'd sent me home with affectionate pats on the head and told they didn't want to see me for a week. Humph! A week. They didn't seem any the worse for their deployment and they'd always worked exceptionally well together, and really, a week sounded like a pretty good start to me.

A spanking, on the other hand, didn't seem like an especially good idea. "It hurts," I complained, stepping back to look at Alex.

"I know. That's part of it."

It was probably the sympathy and understanding in his manner that made me lash out. "No, that’s not part of it! That's all of it! And I'm not going to let you. I just need some sleep. Leave me alone." Why, when I'm struggling to keep my head above water, would I refuse a lifejacket? As though putting one on would make me look weak. Much better to drown with pride, right?

The sudden flash of warning in his eyes had me taking a reflexive step back at the same time I tried to pretend I hadn't said those words. Alex didn't play along. "Defiance?" he asked. A single, taunting word, but one that called up a searing memory of the only true punishment spanking I ever experienced. Painful – yes, spankings are always painful – but that one had been terrifying. Enough that despite all the comforting, despite all the reassurance and discussion, I knew I didn't ever want that kind of spanking again.

As a prelude to sex, I love a good spanking. As a stress-reliever and mood-adjuster, I sometimes need a good spanking. But although I can admit that I deserved that punishment spanking, I will do everything in my power never to earn another.

It had all started out stupidly, too – with a lie, as so many awful adventures do. I had gone to a seedy little bar with some friends after work. Although Alex had never said I shouldn't (or couldn't), I knew it was the kind of thing he would not endorse if we talked about it. So we didn't. Meaning, I didn't – tell him, that is. Just left it out of conversation when we talked that night, tried to put it out of my mind.

Instead, like something out of a Dostoyevsky novel, little reminders of my secret excursion kept showing up: a matchbook, a message on the answering machine from one of my partners-in-crime, my own guilty countenance in the mirror. They seemed to plague me until I was wracked with guilt and angry with Alex for having that control over me. How dare he make me feel guilty! When, several days later, he said casually, "So I gather you went to Flannigan's on Tuesday. How was it?" I should have been relieved. I should have told him that I was feeling uncomfortable about keeping it from him but that the more time went by, the more difficult it was to fess up.

That's not what I did.

For reasons I still don't fully understand, I denied it and saw the puzzled shock on his face. A neighbor had seen me, he pointed out, reasonably. "Must have been mistaken," was my only defense. His expression became more intent and I'm sure the guilt was clear on my face. He picked the matchbook out of the trash and dropped it on the dresser. "Flannigan's" was printed boldly across the front. Damn. I had thrown it away but not emptied the trash for the week. Clinging vainly to the only story I had, I refused to admit the truth, even with the evidence in front of me. Worse, I denied that he had the right to correct me for it.

That denial, born of cowardice, is what did me in. Instead of a quick, cleansing spanking that would have ended with apologies and reassuring hugs, we had embarked on what I can only describe as an ordeal: what seemed like hours spent seething in the corner, a spanking, a return to the corner where I spent my time damning him to hell instead of admitting my own error, more spankings with increasing intensity, until finally I had admitted the truth we both knew – that I had lied to him and that it was his right to correct me for it.

We talked about it a lot at the time, and I know it was as emotionally demanding for Alex as it was for me. He questioned himself, me, our marriage, and the rotation of the earth during that two-hour ordeal. For what? Only I knew the answer to that and it was weeks before I could admit it even to myself: for pride. If I had acknowledged the truth at the first question, we probably would have just discussed it – how he felt about me going into bars without him, how I should have used better judgment about the kind of bar I go into, why concealing things is a bad idea. There likely wouldn't have been a spanking at all as we were still new at the whole marriage thing and still feeling our way about our places in it.

But I hadn't admitted the truth, and my lies fed his anger. And his anger fed mine. In the hours we spent comforting each other that night – and he'd needed comforting as much as I had – the best I could do was explain that I just hadn't been ready to admit my actions or the lie, so I had used every excuse I could think of to stall. And I came to understand that if I had told him I needed time, he would have given it to me. Saying he had no right – the defiance itself – is what spiraled the situation out of control. If I understood anything at the end of that day, it was that he took that right and obligation seriously.

No, I wouldn't put that to a test again. So on Thursday I did what I should have done at the stupid argument about the bar years earlier. I backpedaled.

"No, no. I didn't mean I won't allow it. I meant I don't think it's necessary. I think I can get past this without a spanking. That's all. I just need a drink and some sleep. Please?" I tried my best winsome, eye-fluttering plea, but he just smiled, the way you might smile at an eight-year-old child begging to see an R-rated movie.

"Sweetheart, the way you're arguing with me just proves my point. You're balancing on a razor edge here, scared to come to me, scared to turn away. Let's fix it. Okay?"

And as simply as that, I went to him. Because it was as simple as that. Yes, I was afraid, not just of the pain – God, why does it have to hurt so? – but because I was afraid of what might be left once the manic-drive of these past few weeks abated. It was one of the things we've never really talked about because it sounds so silly even when I think it: I'm afraid that when the crisis is over, I'll disappear. Aren't people supposed to outgrow that kind of magical thinking at age seven or something? I mean, here I am, a fully functioning, competent adult, and I'm afraid I'll disappear. Even though I've never said it out loud, it's one of the things Alex seems to know intuitively. He probably wouldn't phrase it the same way – at least, I hope not – but the crash at the end is scary, and the longer I've been going, the scarier it is.

That six-week cycle was as long as I'd ever had to maintain that pace. The crash at the end was terrifying. Let's fix it, he had said. So I went to him.

Trust is a wonderful thing.

And the crash at the end wasn't really so bad because I had Alex to cushion the fall. The release wrung from a good spanking is always more satisfying than I anticipate. Of course, the flip side of that coin is that the pain during the spanking is sometimes more excruciating than I remember, but since the release lasts longer than the pain, I know I'm coming out ahead. Maybe I should write that down and sign it as a reminder the next time Alex tries to convince me to come get a spanking I don't really want.

But that night he was as gentle as he'd ever been. Well, as gentle as one can be when holding someone down and slapping her bottom until it is bright and sore. The tears didn't take long to surface. They were nearly there when I walked through the door. But it is easier to let go during a spanking, and to a degree I did – not all the way, though, and I could feel the difference. All the right elements were there: loving husband, overwrought me, a ton of emotions needing release, good long spanking, lots of tears. But something was off.

Maybe part of my mind was still back sifting through the cases that I had handed over to Carl and Marcus earlier in the day. Maybe I really was just too overtired to get fully engaged. But I think a big part of the problem was that I hadn't begun to focus on the right issues. It seemed to be all about stress and exhaustion. It wasn't until later that I began to realize how frustrated and guilty I was feeling about Alex and about how I was taking advantage of him. That doesn't seem to make a lot of sense, does it? I feel guilty about letting you down so I'm going to punish you by continuing to do it. That's crazy on the face of it. But that's not really it. It's more like: I feel so bad about neglecting you, neglecting our relationship, that I shouldn't be forgiven. And if I tell you, if I even acknowledge it, you'll forgive me. So I have to bury it. So I did. And because those issues weren't touched, there was a part of my heart that wasn't really available. The tears weren't yet dry on my face when I found myself thinking, again, that Twinkies and Jerry Springer sounded pretty seductive.

That I wasn't with the program must have been pretty clear. As he gathered me to him in what should have been a cleansing aftermath, Alex all but cooed at me. "Sweetheart, what's the matter? What can I do for you? How can I help?"

I couldn't tell him; I didn't really understand it myself. "I guess I just need more time to unwind, honey. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be difficult." When burrowing deeper into his arms did nothing to fill the amorphous need, I tried to beg off. Sleep, that's what I needed. And by the time he got home Friday night, I'd be fine, I told him.

It was a day for unusual progressions. "I told you we have other plans for tomorrow, and they do not involve Twinkies or Jerry Springer." Shoot, that did not sound encouraging, however nicely it was said.

"What are your plans?"

"Our plans," he corrected, "are to get up early, be on the road by 6 a.m. and spend the afternoon hiking to a fairly remote campsite."

Just shoot me in the head and be done with it! "Oh, Alex, you can't be serious! There's no way! I'm operating on minimal sleep as it is. I'm not up for this. I'm not ready. I don't have the time or energy to even pack. Maybe in a few days." Please, God, make this go away. Neither God nor Alex seemed to be listening.

"It's all set, Megan. I've been planning this for some time. As soon as you were sure Carl and Marcus would be back, I firmed up the details. The weather's right. You're packed. We're packed. Tomorrow's the day. You can sleep from now until 5:30 or so; you can sleep in the car. That's almost 18 hours, and I can't believe you'll be able to sleep that long."

"But you didn't tell me."

"Yeah, well, you haven't been all that available lately. I've got to pick my moments. This is one of them." Said very matter-of-factly, his words still had the power to intensify the guilt.

We'd barely spoken in some time. That's not true. The truth is, I'd stopped listening. It was more of a one-way data dump. I would come home and rail about incompetent contractors and ungrateful clients and impossible deadlines, and Alex would make sympathetic noises until I'd let off some steam, then he'd steer me toward dinner and shower and bed, and the next day we'd do it all over again.

I'm pretty sure I'd have noticed if he'd told me the mortgage had gone into default or he was going to join the circus or space aliens had set up their headquarters in our kitchen. Or that we were going backpacking. I'm pretty sure. But not certain.

"I don't want to go," I did my best to keep my own tone matter-of-fact, but there was probably no hiding the sulk.

"I'm sorry," he said without a trace of sympathy, "did you get the impression you were being given a choice?"

He was clearly waiting for an answer, but I couldn't give it. No, I was obviously not being given a choice. God damn it! I fumed silently until he caught my chin – a move that always makes me feel about five years old – and repeated, "We're going. Departure: 0600. ETA at trailhead: 1330. We're packed. We're going. Adjust the attitude."

I swallowed the urge to say something clever (okay, nasty) about high-handed military tactics and forced marches, and focused on the only part of that pronouncement that I could touch safely. "Seven and a half hours? Where're we going? Timbuktu?"

But instead of getting an answer, I was bundled off to bed, the sole consolation being that Alex joined me even though it was the middle of the afternoon and he couldn't possibly have been tired. There's something very reassuring, when you've got a stinging bottom, about snuggling up against the guy that gave it to you. For all the stuff that was still mixed up in my head and unsettled in my heart, I appreciated the effort. More than that, I appreciated that Alex had at least made a dent in my turmoil. I did feel better than I had when I came home. I just didn't feel great. Maybe my expectations were too high.

Safe in Alex's arms, with his breath warm against my neck, I tried to explain a little of it, despite the pull of oblivion. "Why didn't you do this weeks ago? I know I haven't been doing my share at home. I haven't been much help at all. I haven't been very available."

"Hey, you were there in the ways you could be. And, frankly, you'd never have made it through the last three weeks if you'd been relaxed. You need that coiled tension to handle ten things at once. You just need enough relaxation to ease you down off that precipice so you can get some sleep once in a while. You need enough balance that you don't kill someone," he teased. "You might feel like it, but you don't do it. I was just trying to take the edge off without destroying you concentration." That's what the foot rubs and the "love you" notes had been about, taking the edge off.

I tried to snuggle deeper into his arms. It wasn't possible, but I didn't let that discourage me. "You know me really well."

"Yep," he said, a little smugly.

 

To Be Continued...

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