Job: A Comedy of Justice (25 page)

I stopped to kiss her, to the amusement of a carload of men passing by. “Darling, more I cannot ask. Shall we pray together?”

“Alec, I would rather not. Let me pray alone—and I will! When it comes time to pray together, I will tell you.”

Not long after that we were picked up by a ranch couple who took us into Winslow. They dropped us there without asking any questions and without us offering any information, which must set some sort of record.

Winslow is much larger than Winona; it is a respectable town as desert communities go—seven thousand at a guess. We found there an opportunity to carry out something Steve had indirectly suggested and that we had discussed the night before.

Steve was correct; we were not dressed for the desert. True, we had had no choice, as we had been caught by a world change. But I did not see another man wearing a business suit in the desert. Nor did we see Anglo women: dressed in women’s suits. Indian women and Mexican women wore skirts, but Anglo women wore either shorts or trousers—slacks, jeans, cutoffs, riding pants, something. Rarely a skirt, never a suit.

Furthermore our suits were not right even as city wear. They looked as out of place as styles of the Mauve Decade would look. Don’t ask me how as I am no expert on styles, especially for women. The suit that I wore had been both smart and expensive when worn by my
patrón, Don
Jaime, in Mazatlán in another world…but on me, in the Arizona desert in this world, it was something out of skid row.

In Winslow we found just the shop we needed: SECOND WIND—A Million Bargains—All Sales Cash, No Guarantees, No Returns—All Used Clothing Sterilized Before Being Offered For Sale. Above this were the same statements in Spanish.

An hour later, after much picking over of their stock and some heavy dickering by Margrethe, we were dressed for the desert. I was wearing khaki pants, a shirt to match, and a straw hat of vaguely western style. Margrethe was wearing considerably less: shorts that were both short and tight—indecently so—and an upper garment that was less than a bodice but slightly more than a brassiere: It was termed a “halter.”

When I saw Marga in this outfit, I whispered to her, “I positively will not permit you to appear in public in that shameless costume.”

She answered, “Dear, don’t be a fub so early in the day. It’s too hot.”

“I’m not joking. I forbid you to buy that.”

“Alec, I don’t recall asking your permission.”

“Are you defying me?”

She sighed. “Perhaps I am. I don’t want to. Did you get your razor?”

“You saw me!”

“I have your underpants and socks. Is there anything more you need now?”

“No. Margrethe! Quit evading me!”

“Darling, I told you that I will not quarrel with you in public. This outfit has a wrap-around skirt; I was about to put it on. Let me do so and settle the bill. Then we can go outside and talk in private.”

Fuming, I went along with what she proposed. I might as well admit that, under her careful management, we came out of that bazaar with more money than we had had when we came in. How? That suit from
my patrón, Don
Jaime, that looked so ridiculous on me, looked just right on the owner of the shop—in fact he resembled
Don
Jaime. He had been willing to swap, even, for what I needed—khaki shirt and pants and straw hat.

But Margrethe insisted on something to boot. She demanded five dollars, got two.

I learned, as she settled our bill, that she had wrought similar magic in getting rid of that tailored suit she no longer needed. We entered the shop with $7.55; we left it with $8.80…and desert outfits for each of us, a comb (for two), a toothbrush (also for two), a knapsack, a safety razor, plus a minimum of underwear and socks—all secondhand but alleged to be sterilized.

I am not good at tactics, not with women. We were outside and down the highway to an open place where we could talk privately before Margrethe would talk to me—and I did not realize that I had already lost.

Without stopping, she said, “Well, dear? You had something to discuss.”

“Uh, with that skirt in place your clothing is acceptable. Barely. But you are not to appear in public in those shorts. Is that understood?”

“I intended to wear just the shorts. If the weather is warm. As it is.”

“But, Margrethe, I told you not to—” She was unsnapping the skirt, taking it off. “You are defying me!”

She folded it up neatly. “May I place this in the knapsack? Please?”

“You are deliberately disobeying me!”

“But, Alec, I don’t have to obey you and you don’t have to obey me.”

“But—Look, dear, be reasonable. You know I don’t usually give orders. But a wife must obey her husband. Are you my wife?”

“You told me so. So I am until you tell me otherwise.”

“Then it is your duty to obey me.”

“No, Alec.”

“But that is a wife’s first duty!”

“I don’t agree.”

“But—This is madness! Are you leaving me?”

“No. Only if you divorce me.”

“I don’t believe in divorce. Divorce is wrong. Against Scripture.”

She made no answer.

“Margrethe…
please
put your skirt on.”

She said softly, “Almost you persuade me, dearest. Will you explain why you want me to do so?”

“What? Because those shorts, worn alone, are indecent!”

“I don’t see how an article of clothing can be indecent, Alec. A person, yes. Are you saying that
I
am indecent?”

“Uh—You’re twisting my words. When you wear those shorts—without a skirt—in public, you expose so much of yourself that the spectacle is indecent. Right now, walking this highway, your limbs are fully exposed…to the people in that car that just passed, for example. They saw you. I saw them staring!”

“Good. I hope they enjoyed it.”

“
What?
”

“You tell me that I am beautiful. But you could be prejudiced. I hope that my appearance is pleasing to other people as well.”

“Be serious, Margrethe; we’re speaking of your naked limbs. Naked.”

“You’re saying my legs are bare. So they are. I prefer them bare when the weather is warm. What are you frowning at, dear? Are my legs ugly?”

(“Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee!”)
“Your limbs are beautiful, my love; I have told you so many times. But I have no wish to share your beauty.”

“Beauty is not diminished by being shared. Let’s get back to the subject, Alec; you were explaining how my legs are indecent. If you can explain it. I don’t think you can.”

“But, Margrethe, nakedness is indecent by its very nature. It inspires lewd thoughts.”

“Really? Does seeing my legs cause you to get an erection?”

“
Margrethe!
”

“Alec, stop being a fub! I asked a simple question.”

“An improper question.”

She sighed. “I don’t see how that question can possibly be improper between husband and wife. And I will never concede that my legs are indecent. Or that nakedness is indecent. I have been naked in front of hundreds of people—”

“Margrethe!”

She looked surprised. “Surely you know that?”

“I did not know it and I am shocked to hear it.”

“Truly, dear? But you know how well I swim.”

“What’s that got to do with it? I swim well, too. But I don’t swim naked; I wear a bathing suit.” (But I was remembering most sharply the pool in
Konge Knut
—of course my darling was used to nude swimming. I found myself out on a limb.)

“Oh. Yes, I’ve seen such suits, in Mazatlán. And in Spain. But, darling, we’re going astray again. The problem is wider than whether or not bare legs are indecent or whether I should have kissed Steve good-bye or even whether I must obey you. You are expecting me to be what I am not. I want to be your wife for many years, for all my life—and I hope to share Heaven with you if Heaven is your destination. But, darling, I am not a child, I am not a slave. Because I love you I wish to please you. But I will not obey an order simply because I am a wife.”

I could say that I overwhelmed her with the brilliance of my rebuttal. Yes, I could say that, but it would not be true. I was still trying to think of an answer when a car slowed down as it overtook us. I heard a whistle of the sort called “wolf.” The car stopped beyond us and backed up. “Need a ride?” a voice called out.

“Yes!” Margrethe answered, and hurried. Perforce, I did, too.

It was a station wagon with a woman behind the wheel, a man riding with her. Both were my age or older. He reached back, opened the rear door. “Climb in!”

I handed Margrethe in, followed her and closed the door. “Got room enough?” he asked. “If not, throw that junk on the floor. We never sit in the back seat, so, stuff sort o’ gravitates to it. We’re Clyde and Bessie Bulkey.”

“He’s Bulkey; I’m just well fed,” the driver added.

“You’re supposed to laugh at that; I’ve heard it before.” He was indeed bulky, the sort of big-boned beefy man who is an athlete in school, then puts on weight later. His wife had correctly described both of them; she was not fat but carried some extra padding.

“How do you do, Mrs. Bulkey, Mr. Bulkey. We’re Alec and Margrethe Graham. Thank you for picking us up.”

“Don’t be so formal, Alec,” she answered. “How far you going?”

“Bessie,
please
keep one eye on the road.”

“Clyde, if you don’t like the way I’m herding this heap, I’ll pull over and let you drive.”

“Oh, no, no; you’re doing fine!”

“Pipe down then, or I invoke rule K. Well, Alec?”

“We’re going to Kansas.”

“Coo! We’re not going that far; we turn north at Chambers. That’s just a short piece down the road, about ninety miles. But you’re welcome to that much. What are you going to do in Kansas?”

(What was I going to do in Kansas? Open an ice cream parlor…bring my dear wife back to the fold…prepare for Judgment Day—) “I’m going to wash dishes.”

“My husband is too modest,” Margrethe said quietly. “We’re going to open a small restaurant and soda fountain in a college town. But on our way to that goal we are likely to wash dishes. Or almost any work.”

So I explained what had happened to us, with variations and omissions to avoid what they wouldn’t believe. “The restaurant was wiped out, our Mexican partners were dead, and we lost everything we had. I said ‘dishwashing’ because that is the one job I can almost always find. But I’ll take a swing at ’most anything.”

Clyde said, “Alec, with that attitude you’ll be back on your feet before you know it.”

“We lost some money, that’s all. We’re not too old to start over again.” (Dear Lord, will You hold off Judgment Day long enough for me to do it? Thy will be done. Amen.)

Margrethe reached over and squeezed my hand. Clyde noticed it. He had turned around in his seat so that he faced us as well as his wife. “You’ll make it,” he said. “With your wife backing you, you’re bound to make it.”

“I think so. Thank you.” I knew why he was turned to face us: to stare at Margrethe. I wanted to tell him to keep his eyes to himself but, under the circumstances, I could not. Besides that, it was clear that Mr. and Mrs. Bulkey saw nothing wrong with the way my beloved was dressed; Mrs. Bulkey was dressed the same way, only more so. Or less so. Less costume, more bare skin. I must admit, too, that, while she was not the immortal beauty Margrethe is, she was quite comely.

At Painted Desert we stopped, got out, and stared at the truly unbelievable natural beauty. I had seen it once before; Margrethe had never seen it and was breathless. Clyde told me that they always stopped, even though they had seen it hundreds of times.

Correction: I had seen it once before…in another world. Painted Desert tended to prove what I had strongly suspected: It was not Mother Earth that changed in these wild changes; it was man and his works—and even those only in part. But the only obvious explanation seemed to lead straight to paranoia. If so, I must not surrender to it; I must take care of Margrethe.

Clyde bought us hot dogs and cold drinks and brushed aside my offer to pay. When we got back into their car, Clyde took the wheel and invited Margrethe to ride up front with him. I was not pleased but could not show it, as Bessie promptly said, “Poor Alec! Has to put up with the old bag. Don’t sulk, dear; it’s only twenty-three miles to the turn-off for Chambers…or less than twenty-three minutes the way Clyde drives.”

This time Clyde took thirty minutes. But he waited and made sure that we had a ride to Gallup.

We reached Gallup long before dark. Despite $8.80 in our pockets, it seemed time to look for dirty dishes. Gallup has almost as many motels and cabin courts as it has Indians and almost half of these hostelries have restaurants. I checked a baker’s dozen before I found one that needed a dishwasher.

Fourteen days later we were in Oklahoma City. If you think that is slow time, you are correct; it is less than fifty miles a day. But plenty had happened and I was feeling decidedly paranoid—world change after world change and always timed to cause me maximum trouble.

Ever seen a cat play with a mouse? The mouse never has a chance. If he has even the brains the good Lord gives a mouse, he knows that. Nevertheless the mouse keeps on trying…and is hauled back every time.

I was the mouse.

Or we were the mice, for Margrethe was with me…and she was all that kept me going. She didn’t complain and she didn’t quit. So I couldn’t quit.

Example: I had figured out that, while paper money was never any good after a world change, hard money, gold and silver, would somehow be negotiable, as bullion if not as coin. So, when I got a chance to lay hands on hard money, I was stingy with it and refused to take paper money in change for hard money.

Smart boy. Alec, you’re a real brain.

So on our third day in Gallup Marga and I took a nap in a room paid for by dishwashing (me) and by cleaning rooms (Margrethe). We didn’t intend to go to sleep; we simply wanted to rest a bit before eating; it had been a long, hard day. We lay down on top of the bedspread.

I was just getting relaxed when I realized that something hard was pressing against my spine. I roused enough to figure out that our hoarded silver dollars had slipped out of my side pocket when I had turned over. So I eased my arm out from under Marga’s head, retrieved the dollars, counted them, added the loose change, and placed it all on the bedside table a foot from my head, then got horizontal again, slid my arm under Marga’s head and fell right to sleep.