The Righteous and the Wicked
by Heather Rolland
Ruth slid the menus down the long wooden table, careful not to grunt with the effort. The rain, relentless this month, wrought havoc with her arthritis, her left hip singing the blues something fierce. “Soup’s cheesy potato today,” she told the couple, and moved off, her long skirt swaying, her flat soled shoes silent on the flagstone floor.
Sam passed Ruth a tray with sandwiches and drinks on it. “Booth 3.” He spoke as he always did—measured, monotone. They were at work. At home he could raise his voice, or his hand, as necessary. Here at the café, though, his wife and everyone else were offered the same perfunctory courtesy.
She delivered the meal to the college students crammed into the booth and returned to the nook where the couple sat at the far end of the long table. The last time they came in for lunch, Sam had told them that this particular table was reserved for groups of 6 or more. The man had replied “if a large group comes in, we’ll be happy to move.” They did not move. Cheeky, Sam thought. Disrespectful. Sam expected to be challenged by young bucks, but this man was his own age. Salt in the wound.
“The usual?” Ruth asked them. The woman nodded. Ruth took her in, attempting to do the math. White wispy hair, escaping the salt and pepper ponytail, framed a youthful face. Ruth figured late 50s. The man must be pushing 70 at least. He was a regular; always friendly, never chatty. Often with a book, sometimes a medical journal. He had a frankly curious expression, the kind of face that made you want to tell your story, Ruth thought. Once, she found herself awkwardly close to him as he was leaving, his back turned to collect his hat, while she reached for a stray plate. She was surprised to realize he was half her width and barely scraped her height. Ruth was large—childbearing hips, the leader had said appreciatively all those decades ago. But Ruth was barren, hips notwithstanding.
This woman began joining him a few months ago. Sometimes she arrived first, catching Ruth’s eye and smiling self-consciously before sliding down the long bench to sit in the shadowy corner. Always lunch, maybe once a week, once every other week. They never finished their food, never ordered dessert. Ruth knew without seeing that they held hands under the table.
Intimacy belonged in marriage. The leader’s teachings, reiterated at every gathering, every evening prayer said so. Something about this couple, the way you could cut the air between them with a knife, just slice through it like ripe fruit and all that lay inside would be sweet and fresh. Ruth felt memories of Ben stir deep in her belly.
With Ben there had been jokes. There had been a lightness about it all. When he would take her to bed, he’d ask “righteous or wicked?”— their private names for the different positions they each preferred. They could just talk, the way lovers do, about nothing and suddenly it was a precious secret, a gem to be treasured and polished. Ruth felt the pang of missing Ben when she saw the couple and it rattled her. After the cancer took Ben, Ruth wanted to be alone, to savor the solitude and sit with grief for a while. But the leader created the match with Sam, and the only way to have some privacy was to be married: single people shared dorm rooms. And Sam was tall, and not as severe as some of the men in the community. Everyone pretended Ruth chose and accepted the marriage. It was better that way.
Today, the woman arrived before the doctor, clad in overalls. Her usual ponytail was replaced by a tangle of curls atop her head, wrapped in some sort of elastic. She was hesitating at the table when Ruth approached, coming close enough to catch the scent of laundry detergent and unscented soap. “You here to meet …” She trailed off, not sure how to refer to him, but Overalls rescued her from awkwardness by nodding and chuckling.
“He’s a doctor, isn’t he?” Ruth asked. Another nod, still smiling. Ruth peered at her, suddenly bold, and said, “He’s special.”
As good as she was at reading the customers, after all these years of honing her spidey sense about people who were not part of the community, Ruth just wasn’t sure about this woman and her companion. And suddenly she wanted to know. She wanted to understand.
“He’s very special,” Overalls beamed, meeting Ruth’s eyes for a moment. The curiosity was mutual.
Before she could ask another question, Sam rang the bell and Ruth moved off, her skirt swishing softly as she did.
Ruth served them, the ritual of menus delivered, tumblers of ice water on paper cocktail napkins. Both women pretended the brief exchange hadn’t happened. Ruth took their order, brought their food, cleared their plates.
Arthritis and rain and the couple’s fingers knotted together under the table jockeyed for position in her mind all afternoon. What was right and what was wrong and what just was. The leader, Sam, even Ben would have been quick to tell her what was wrong. She just kept rolling it around in her mind.
That night, Ruth slipped out of bed and stood looking out the window long enough for Sam to wake up and tell her to come back. She half turned, that damn hip making her wince. What if she said no? What if she got dressed and walked out the front door? What would that woman Ruth named Overalls do if her lover turned mean, because that’s what Ruth decided. That skinny old man and Overalls were lovers, Ruth was sure of it.
It was wrong, but Ruth was even more wrong for being jealous. That was it, she finally hit on it: jealousy. Overalls was going to be alone when her man left her to go back to his wife, or to die, or maybe both. Overalls would get to sit with that hurt as long as she wanted. No one would tell her when to marry, or who to lie with. No one would look at her with pity and side eyes for not having children. Standing there at the window in her nightdress, damp cold stealing in about the hem and chilling her stout ankles, climbing up thick thighs to harass her hip, Ruth knew what was right, what was wrong, and what just was.
Sam passed Ruth a tray with sandwiches and drinks on it. “Booth 3.” He spoke as he always did—measured, monotone. They were at work. At home he could raise his voice, or his hand, as necessary. Here at the café, though, his wife and everyone else were offered the same perfunctory courtesy.
She delivered the meal to the college students crammed into the booth and returned to the nook where the couple sat at the far end of the long table. The last time they came in for lunch, Sam had told them that this particular table was reserved for groups of 6 or more. The man had replied “if a large group comes in, we’ll be happy to move.” They did not move. Cheeky, Sam thought. Disrespectful. Sam expected to be challenged by young bucks, but this man was his own age. Salt in the wound.
“The usual?” Ruth asked them. The woman nodded. Ruth took her in, attempting to do the math. White wispy hair, escaping the salt and pepper ponytail, framed a youthful face. Ruth figured late 50s. The man must be pushing 70 at least. He was a regular; always friendly, never chatty. Often with a book, sometimes a medical journal. He had a frankly curious expression, the kind of face that made you want to tell your story, Ruth thought. Once, she found herself awkwardly close to him as he was leaving, his back turned to collect his hat, while she reached for a stray plate. She was surprised to realize he was half her width and barely scraped her height. Ruth was large—childbearing hips, the leader had said appreciatively all those decades ago. But Ruth was barren, hips notwithstanding.
This woman began joining him a few months ago. Sometimes she arrived first, catching Ruth’s eye and smiling self-consciously before sliding down the long bench to sit in the shadowy corner. Always lunch, maybe once a week, once every other week. They never finished their food, never ordered dessert. Ruth knew without seeing that they held hands under the table.
Intimacy belonged in marriage. The leader’s teachings, reiterated at every gathering, every evening prayer said so. Something about this couple, the way you could cut the air between them with a knife, just slice through it like ripe fruit and all that lay inside would be sweet and fresh. Ruth felt memories of Ben stir deep in her belly.
With Ben there had been jokes. There had been a lightness about it all. When he would take her to bed, he’d ask “righteous or wicked?”— their private names for the different positions they each preferred. They could just talk, the way lovers do, about nothing and suddenly it was a precious secret, a gem to be treasured and polished. Ruth felt the pang of missing Ben when she saw the couple and it rattled her. After the cancer took Ben, Ruth wanted to be alone, to savor the solitude and sit with grief for a while. But the leader created the match with Sam, and the only way to have some privacy was to be married: single people shared dorm rooms. And Sam was tall, and not as severe as some of the men in the community. Everyone pretended Ruth chose and accepted the marriage. It was better that way.
Today, the woman arrived before the doctor, clad in overalls. Her usual ponytail was replaced by a tangle of curls atop her head, wrapped in some sort of elastic. She was hesitating at the table when Ruth approached, coming close enough to catch the scent of laundry detergent and unscented soap. “You here to meet …” She trailed off, not sure how to refer to him, but Overalls rescued her from awkwardness by nodding and chuckling.
“He’s a doctor, isn’t he?” Ruth asked. Another nod, still smiling. Ruth peered at her, suddenly bold, and said, “He’s special.”
As good as she was at reading the customers, after all these years of honing her spidey sense about people who were not part of the community, Ruth just wasn’t sure about this woman and her companion. And suddenly she wanted to know. She wanted to understand.
“He’s very special,” Overalls beamed, meeting Ruth’s eyes for a moment. The curiosity was mutual.
Before she could ask another question, Sam rang the bell and Ruth moved off, her skirt swishing softly as she did.
Ruth served them, the ritual of menus delivered, tumblers of ice water on paper cocktail napkins. Both women pretended the brief exchange hadn’t happened. Ruth took their order, brought their food, cleared their plates.
Arthritis and rain and the couple’s fingers knotted together under the table jockeyed for position in her mind all afternoon. What was right and what was wrong and what just was. The leader, Sam, even Ben would have been quick to tell her what was wrong. She just kept rolling it around in her mind.
That night, Ruth slipped out of bed and stood looking out the window long enough for Sam to wake up and tell her to come back. She half turned, that damn hip making her wince. What if she said no? What if she got dressed and walked out the front door? What would that woman Ruth named Overalls do if her lover turned mean, because that’s what Ruth decided. That skinny old man and Overalls were lovers, Ruth was sure of it.
It was wrong, but Ruth was even more wrong for being jealous. That was it, she finally hit on it: jealousy. Overalls was going to be alone when her man left her to go back to his wife, or to die, or maybe both. Overalls would get to sit with that hurt as long as she wanted. No one would tell her when to marry, or who to lie with. No one would look at her with pity and side eyes for not having children. Standing there at the window in her nightdress, damp cold stealing in about the hem and chilling her stout ankles, climbing up thick thighs to harass her hip, Ruth knew what was right, what was wrong, and what just was.
Heather Rolland, based in upstate New York, writes flash fiction, short stories, and essays. Her work has been published by Agnes and True, Pinky Thinker Press, Red Noise Collective, Sky Island Journal, carte blanche, Prose Online, The Raven’s Perch, and Drunk Monkeys. Her work has been nominated for inclusion in the Best of the Net anthology and the Pushcart Prize.