Job: A Comedy of Justice (24 page)

“Mmm, I can’t rightly say that I am. I was baptized a long time ago, when I was too young to have much say in the matter. I’m not a churchgoer, except sometimes to see my friends married or buried. If I was washed clean once, I guess I’m a little dusty by now. I don’t suppose I qualify.”

“No, I’m certain that you do not. Steve, the end of the world is coming and Christ is returning soon. The most urgent business you have—that anyone has!—is to take your troubles to Jesus, be washed in His Blood, and be born again in Him. Because you will receive no warning. The Trump will sound and you will either be caught up into the arms of Jesus, safe and happy forevermore, or you will be cast down into the fire and brimstone, there to suffer agonies through all eternity. You must be ready.”

“Cripes! Alec, have you ever thought about becoming a preacher?”

“I’ve thought about it.”

“You should do more than think about it, you should be one. You said all that just like you believed every word of it.”

“I do.”

“Thought maybe. Well, I’ll pay you the respect of giving it some hard thought. But in the meantime I hope they don’t hold Kingdom Come tonight because I’ve still got this load to deliver. Hazel! Let me have the check, dear; I’ve got to get the show on the road.”

Three steak dinners came to $3.90; six beers was another sixty cents, for a total of $4.50. Steve paid with a half eagle, a coin I had never seen outside a coin collection—I wanted to look at this one but had no excuse.

Hazel picked it up, looked at it. “Don’t get much gold around here,” she remarked. “Cartwheels are the usual thing. And some paper, although the boss doesn’t like paper money. Sure you can spare this, Steve?”

“I found the Lost Dutchman.”

“Go along with you; I’m not going to be your fifth wife.”

“I had in mind just a temporary arrangement.”

“Not that either—not for a five-dollar gold piece.” She dug into an apron pocket, took out a silver half dollar. “Your change, dear.”

He pushed it back toward her. “What’ll you do for fifty cents?”

She picked it up, pocketed it. “Spit in your eye. Thanks. Night, folks. Glad you came in.”

During the thirty-five miles or so on into Flagstaff Steve asked questions of us about the worlds we had seen but made no comments. He talked just enough to keep us talking. He was especially interested in my descriptions of airships, jet planes, and
aeroplanos,
but anything technical fascinated him. Television he found much harder to believe than flying machines—well, so did I. But Margrethe assured him that she had seen television herself, and Margrethe is hard to disbelieve. Me, I might be mistaken for a con man. But not Margrethe. Her voice and manner carry conviction.

In Flagstaff, just short of Route 66, Steve pulled over to the side and stopped, left his engine running. “All out,” he said, “if you insist on heading east. If you want to go north, you’re welcome.”

I said, “We’ve got to get to Kansas, Steve.”

“Yes, I know. While you can get there either way, Sixty-Six is your best bet…though why anyone should want to go to Kansas beats me. It’s that intersection ahead, there. Keep right and keep going; you can’t miss it. Watch out for the Santa Fe tracks. Where you planning to sleep tonight?”

“I don’t have any plans. We’ll walk until we get another ride. If we don’t get an all-night ride and we get too sleepy, we can sleep by the side of the road—it’s warm.”

“Alec, you listen to your Uncle Dudley. You’re not going to sleep on the desert tonight. It’s warm now; it’ll be freezing cold by morning. Maybe you haven’t noticed but we’ve been climbing all the way from Phoenix. And if the Gila monsters don’t get you, the sand fleas will. You’ve got to rent a cabin.”

“Steve, I can’t rent a cabin.”

“The Lord will provide. You believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I answered stiffly, “I believe that.” (But He also helps those who help themselves.)

“So let the Lord provide. Maggie, about this end-of-the-world business, do you agree with Alec?”

“I certainly don’t disagree!”

“Mmm. Alec, I’m going to give it a lot of thought…starting tonight, by reading a Gideon Bible. This time I don’t want to miss the parade. You go on down Sixty-Six, look for a place saying ‘cabins.’ Not ‘motel,’ not ‘roadside inn,’ not a word about Simmons mattresses or private baths—just ‘cabins.’ If they ask more than two dollars, walk away. Keep dickering and you might get it for one.”

I wasn’t listening very hard as I was growing quite angry. Dicker with
what?
He knew that I was utterly without funds—didn’t he believe me?

“So I’ll say good-bye,” Steve went on. “Alec, can you get that door? I don’t want to get out.”

“I can get it.” I opened it, stepped down, then remembered my manners. “Steve, I want to thank you for everything. Dinner, and beer, and a long ride. May the Lord watch over you and keep you.”

“Thank you and don’t mention it. Here.” He reached into a pocket, pulled out a card. “That’s my business card. Actually it’s my daughter’s address. When you get to Kansas, drop me a card, let me know how you made out.”

“I’ll do that.” I took the card, then started to hand Margrethe down.

Steve stopped her. “Maggie! Aren’t you going to kiss ol’ Steve good-bye?”

“Why, certainly, Steve!” She turned back and half faced him on the seat.

“That’s better. Alec, you’d better turn your back.”

I did not turn my back but I tried to ignore it, while watching out the corner of my eye.

If it had gone on one half-second longer, I would have dragged her out of that cab bodily. Yet I am forced to admit that Margrethe was not having attentions forced on her; she was cooperating fully, kissing him in a fashion no married woman should ever kiss another man.

I endured it.

At last it ended. I handed her down, and closed the door. Steve called out, “’Bye, kids!” and his truck moved forward. As it picked up speed he tooted his horn twice.

Margrethe said, “Alec, you are angry with me.”

“No. Surprised, yes. Even shocked. Disappointed. Saddened.”

“Don’t sniff at me!”

“Eh?”

“Steve drove us two hundred and fifty miles and bought us a fine dinner and didn’t laugh when we told him a preposterous story. And now you get hoity-toity and holier-than-thou because I kissed him hard enough to show that I appreciated what he had done for me
and
my husband. I won’t stand for it, do you hear?”

“I just meant that—”

“Stop it! I won’t listen to explanations. Because you’re wrong! And now
I
am angry and I shall stay angry until you realize you are wrong. So think it over!” She turned and started walking rapidly toward the intersection of 66 with 89.

I hurried to catch up. “Margrethe!”

She did not answer and increased her pace.

“Margrethe!” Eyes straight ahead—

“Margrethe darling! I was wrong. I’m sorry, I apologize.”

She stopped abruptly, turned and threw her arms around my neck, started to cry. “Oh, Alec, I love you so and you’re such a fub!”

I did not answer at once as my mouth was busy. At last I said, “I love you, too, and what is a fub?”

“You are.”

“Well—In that case I’m your fub and you’re stuck with me. Don’t walk away from me again.”

“I won’t. Not ever.” We resumed what we had been doing.

After a while I pulled my face back just far enough to whisper: “We don’t have a bed to our name and I’ve never wanted one more.”

“Alec. Check your pockets.”

“Huh?”

“While he was kissing me, Steve whispered to me to tell you to check your pockets and to say, ‘The Lord will provide.’”

I found it in my left-hand coat pocket: a gold eagle. Never before had I held one in my hand. It felt warm and heavy.

At a drugstore in downtown Flagstaff I exchanged that gold eagle for nine cartwheels, ninety-five cents in change, and a bar of Ivory soap. Buying soap was Margrethe’s idea. “Alec, a druggist is not a banker; changing money is something he may not want to do other than as part of a sale. We need soap. I want to wash your underwear and mine, and we both need baths…and I suspect that, at the sort of cheap lodging Steve urged us to take, soap may not be included in the rent.”

She was right on both points. The druggist raised his eyebrows at the ten-dollar gold piece but said nothing. He took the coin, let it ring on the glass top of a counter, then reached behind his cash register, fetched out a small bottle, and subjected the coin to the acid test.

I made no comment. Silently he counted out nine silver dollars, a half dollar, a quarter, and two dimes. Instead of pocketing the coins at once, I stood fast, and subjected each coin to the same ringing test he had used, using his glass counter. Having done so, I pushed one cartwheel back at him.

Again he made no comment—he had heard the dull ring of that putatively silver coin as well as I. He rang up “No Sale,” handed me another cartwheel (which rang clear as a bell), and put the bogus coin somewhere in the back of the cash drawer. Then he turned his back on me.

At the outskirts of town, halfway to Winona, we found a place shabby enough to meet our standards. Margrethe conducted the dicker, in Spanish. Our host asked five dollars. Marga called on the Virgin Mary and three other saints to witness what was being done to her. Then she offered him five pesos.

I did not understand this maneuver; I knew she had no pesos on her. Surely she would not be intending to offer those unspendable “royal” pesos I still carried?

I did not find out, as our host answered with a price of three dollars and that is final,
Señora,
as God is my witness.

They settled on a dollar and a half, then Marga rented clean sheets and a blanket for another fifty cents—paid for the lot with two silver dollars but demanded pillows and clean pillow-cases to seal the bargain. She got them but the
patrón
asked something for luck. Marga added a dime and he bowed deeply and assured us that his house was ours.

At seven the next morning we were on our way, rested, clean, happy, and hungry. A half hour later we were in Winona and much hungrier. We cured the latter at a little trailer-coach lunchroom: a stack of wheat cakes, ten cents; coffee, five cents—no charge for second cup, no limit on butter or syrup.

Margrethe could not finish her hot cakes—they were lavish—so we swapped plates and I salvaged what she had left.

A sign on the wall read: CASH WHEN SERVED—NO TIPPING—ARE YOU READY FOR JUDGMENT DAY? The cook-waiter (and owner, I think) had a copy of
The Watch Tower
propped up by his range. I asked, “Brother, do you have any late news on when to expect Judgment Day?”

“Don’t joke about it. Eternity is a long time to spend in the Pit.”

I answered, “I was not joking. By the signs and portents I think we are in the seven-year period prophesied in the eleventh chapter of Revelation, verses two and three. But I don’t know how far we are into it.”

“We’re already well into the second half,” he answered. “The two witnesses are now prophesying and the antichrist is abroad in the land. Are you in a state of grace? If not, you had better get cracking.”

I answered, “‘Therefore be ye also ready: for such an hour as ye think not the Son of man cometh.’”

“You’d better believe it!”

“I do believe it. Thanks for a good breakfast.”

“Don’t mention it. May the Lord watch over you.”

“Thank you. May He bless you and keep you.” Marga and I left.

We headed east again. “How is my sweetheart?”

“Full of food and happy.”

“So am I. Something you did last night made me especially happy.”

“Me, too. But you always do, darling man. Every time.”

“Uh, yes, there’s that. Me, too. Always. But I meant something you said, earlier. When Steve asked if you agreed with me about Judgment Day and you told him you did agree. Marga, I can’t tell you how much it has worried me that you have not chosen to be received back into the arms of Jesus. With Judgment Day rushing toward us and no way to know the hour—well, I’ve worried. I do worry. But apparently you are finding your way back to the light but had not yet discussed it with me.”

We walked perhaps twenty paces while Margrethe did not say anything.

At last she said quietly, “Beloved, I would put your mind at rest. If I could. I cannot.”

“So? I do not understand. Will you explain?”

“I did not tell Steve that I agreed with you. I said to him that I did not disagree.”

“But that’s the same thing!”

“No, darling. What I did not say to Steve but could have said in full honesty is that I will
never
publicly disagree with my husband about anything. Any disagreement with you I will discuss with you in private. Not in Steve’s presence. Not anyone’s.”

I chewed that over, let several possible comments go unsaid—at last said, “Thank you, Margrethe.”

“Beloved, I do it for my own dignity as well as for yours. All my life I have hated the sight of husband and wife disagreeing—disputing—quarreling in public. If you say that the sun is covered with bright green puppy dogs, I will not disagree in public.”

“Ah, but it is!”

“Sir?” She stopped, and looked startled.

“My good Marga. Whatever the problem, you always find a gentle answer. If I ever do see bright green puppy dogs on the face of the sun, I will try to remember to discuss it with you in private, not face you with hard decisions in public. I love you. I read too much into what you said to Steve because I really do worry.”

She took my hand and we walked a bit farther without talking.

“Alec?”

“Yes, my love?”

“I do not willingly worry you. If I am wrong and you are going to the Christian Heaven, I do want to go with you. If this means a return to faith in Jesus—and it seems that it does—then that is what I want. I will try. I cannot promise it, as faith is not a matter of simple volition. But I will try.”