Job's wife begins to feel the seven-year itch, and: Job's wife redecorates, and: Job's wife keeps her mouth shut

Job's wife begins to feel the seven-year itch

When Job asked for wedding cake, she said, Wait,doesn't any gateau served at a wedding count as wedding cake?

Job meant almond cake, white cake layered betweenwhiter buttercream trailing white ribbon-streamers

bridesmaids pull for good luck. But Job's wife has no friends.Job works odd jobs, side gigs, nights and weekends.

If you miss me, pray, Job says. Instead, she unwraps the foiland peels back parchment to find the top tier spoiled.

So soon? Is their marriage freezer-burned blue with mold?Outside, a raccoon swallows the last slice they were told

to save, for what? What if this life is all she can expect?Even the plastic couple, knee-deep in blight, genuflect

as if to adore. They are no one special, not even the dumbbride, whose painted face rubs off under her greasy thumb.

Job's wife redecorates

She fills the family wall with stock photos,replaces pine with white moldingsmooth-finished studs she findswith empty hands, palming plaster

until a soft buzz in her elbowlets her know after so much lossthere's still some life in this place.It's how she found Job,not the only man who ever loved a woman

until her womb tied in knots,a man who made her more wife than woman,a man who was hers. So many babies,

she ran out of fingers to count them on,egg-bound with grief, her belly bloatsround and high as Job's want.She will drill her body into drywall

and open small rooms by tearing down others.At night, she watches hgtvin flannel pajamas trying to decidewhich walls around her might be load-bearing.

Job's wife keeps her mouth shut

when her husband offers to cut downthe red maple using only his hands andhis teeth and the bow saw bought at the discount hardware store. Job tireseasily, gets out the mitre. Job breaksthe safety guard but keeps going. You willlose your hand, his wife says, but Job knowsthat's not how this story goes and he is right.Job's wife is cheap and wants the tree downso she can see out the window to all shedoesn't have: a swingset, a trampoline, a koipond and pool, and a fleet of rhododendronspurpling roof-high. Job's wife joins the otherchurch moms to make blessing bagsfor the homeless, Ziplocs filled with socks,crackers, and juice she intends to giveto the needy but feeds to her children instead.They are hungry and impatient. Who are youto tell her she doesn't need? All winterJob's wife shovels and salts and raidsthe bags, and by spring only the socksare left. She is half-homeless living inher minivan between school runs andswim lessons and dance team. Is it ever enough?Job lowers the blade and from one tree hecreates hundreds of sticks. When their childrendie, he will promise his wife others as ifchildren are leaves. Job's wife doesn't wanta stick person family like the white stickerson the back of your car. She wants fullbodies, girls in triangle dresses and boysshaped like other little boys. The slimmed treelets more light into the house, but it isn't enoughnot when the sirens shoo them into the tornadoshelter in the basement where Job promisedto spray but forgot, so the two of them smashspiders with dollar flip-flops while windsstrong enough to mill off a hero's headripple their shorn maple. We all know Job's no hero, but safe in the darknessunder their driveway, she can still findsomething to love in the sweep of his arm,how it deads one bug after another withno worry of what's to come...