A Sacred Institution

  by Esther Friesner

  Leroy Wilberforce was a man of action, proud of his red-white-and-blue heritage, as solid a citizen as one could be without being made out of concrete from the neck down as well, and willing to go to great lengths to step into the spotlight if that meant showing folks they were hellbent (literally) on taking the wrong path. His detractors might call what he did a shameless publicity stunt, but of course they were in the pay of whichever foreign power had been rated Most Likely to Be Evil for that particular week. As his corps de spin doctors would be first and loudest to declare — on all major broadcast networks — it was not a stunt, but a statement.

  Silly detractors. Any fool could have told them — as Wilberforce himself did — that if some dumb kid from one of those pansy East Coast liburl arts colleges did something like this, it was a stunt, pure as the driven jackass, but when a man of Wilberforce’s attested patriotism and moral fiber married his dog—

  Yes, that’s right: married his dog. Married her all nice and legal and binding, according to the way the law in the small town of East Gila allowed. This is not to say that East Gila had a law on the books specifically permitting or encouraging a man to marry his dog, but neither did it have one saying he couldn’t. No one in East Gila thought much about it — or anything else except beer and why the hell Wal-Mart wouldn’t build within a hundred miles of the place, God knows they scattered their stores damn near everywhere else, like a frat boy’s seed — until the day that Leroy Wilberforce called up the mayor, one Mr. Octavio Perdenales, and informed him of the matter.

  Octavio didn’t know Leroy from Adam, personally, but he knew about him, all right. He read the newspapers. They were all full of stories about how this simple, downhome, good ol’ boy was about to toss his billcap into the ring for the upcoming gubernatorial election. And if it was a billcap that had seen less (a.k.a.: none) of the inside of a pickup truck cab than of a BMW, well, that didn’t matter a lick to Octavio. Mayor Perdenales was a small, smart fish in a small, rapidly drying-up pond and after he heard out Leroy’s request and the reasons behind it, he came to the following conclusions in his heart-of-hearts:

  This was one slick Anglo sumbitch.

  This s.A.s. was probably going to slick his way right into the governor’s mansion, the voting public being what it was, alas.

  That being the way the political wind was blowing (which accounted for the smell), it would be no skin off the civic nose of East Gila if the mayor thereof were to play a fast round of Posterior Pucker-Up with Mr. Leroy Wilberforce.

  Yeah, give the man what he wanted and the toadying might translate into an economic plum or two for poor East Gila post-Election Day. Maybe. Perhaps. Everyone knows you shouldn’t count your Wal-Marts before they’re hatched. Ah, but don’t play ball with someone like Leroy and Octavio was willing to bet dollars to dry wells that the smarmy bastard would smile, shake hands, say there were no hard feelings, then pivot ‘round on the tips of his ostrich-skin boots and use his clout to drop such a shitload of political wrath on East Gila that there wouldn’t be a tumbleweed left to mark the spot after.

  Mrs. Perdenales didn’t raise any stupid kids.

  It was a lovely wedding. The bride wore leather. In honor of the occasion, Leroy bought his dog a brand new collar, virginal white. She was entitled; she’d never been fixed, but she’d never been bred either, and whenever she came into heat she was kept so close under her master’s watchful eye that the fathers of teenage daughters everywhere should’ve been taking notes.

  Bluebell enjoyed her wedding day. She got an extra doggie biscuit and a free examination by one Mr. Damien Polacco, a representative of the American Kennel Club who pronounced her a fine specimen of the Black-and-Tan Coonhound breed, though not of Show quality. When Leroy asked him whether Mrs. Polacco was of Show quality it got a good laugh from the witnesses and a nervous one from Damien.

  Bluebell behaved like a perfect lady throughout the brief civil ceremony, which of course was performed by the mayor of East Gila himself for the benefit of the reporters and tv cameras. She barked up nice and loud by way of an “I do,” and she even wagged her tail lustily, so that none of the witnesses could doubt that she consented to this solemn union.

  No sooner had Mr. Perdenales pronounced the happy couple man and wife (the press ate up how Leroy let Bluebell lick his nose by way of a kiss-the-bride photo op) than the newlywed husband launched into his prepared speech about why he’d gone to all this trouble.

  “My fellow Americans,” he said, “marriage is a sacred institution, or it was before those people started dragging it through the mud.” At this point, Mr. Polacco hastily left the premises, but no one really cared. “They try to confuse us, asking why marriage has to be limited, why it can’t be something besides the legal union between a man and a woman. Well, my friends, I guess we’ve all seen why that can’t be, why it shouldn’t be. If we turn a blind eye, if we start letting unsuitable elements tamper blasphemously with the blessed bonds of matrimony, if we let people enter into a holy union when they’ve got no more right to be there than — well, than a dog — then where will it all end?” That was where he grinned and rubbed Bluebell behind the ears. “I guess you’ve seen that for yourselves. If the law allows Bubba to have two daddies, what’s to stop some poor, helpless child from winding up with one daddy and one Doberman? That is not what marriage is all about! That is not what America is all about! None of those signs saying ‘George Washington slept here’ is hung up over a doghouse! Some folks out there are going to say that what I did today was foolish, ridiculous, downright stupid. My fellow Americans, I guess I don’t have to tell you what sort of people they are. All I can say is maybe they could stand to pick up some lessons in loyalty from Bluebell here, and some lessons in decency from right-minded folks like you. Because you know the truth, ladies and gentlemen: what I have done today, I did for America, for the sacred institution of marriage, but most of all—”

  He struck a dramatic pose to go with that dramatic pause. Everyone who could recall Leroy Wilberforce’s speech afterwards said he looked mighty good, all noble and with his mouth shut, but such folks were few and far between, mostly on account of what happened next.

  It was not what Leroy was intending should happen next. He was planning on holding his words and his pose just the few beats his acting coach had said would allow the viewing public to start thinking Now there is a man I’d be proud to have for my next governor. Or maybe even my next President! Just a couple of beats — one Mississippi, two Mississippi — and then Leroy could end his speech with that holiest of holy soundbites, viz.: “—for the children!”

  Poor schmuck never got the chance. Somewhere between one Mississippi and two Mississippi the aliens arrived. In Mississippi; Tupelo to be exact. Them and Elvis, what were the odds? A little thing like that tends to blow even the noblest pose and the surefire 110% patriotic soundbite clean out of most folks’ minds.

  As per their request — once said request could be heard over the screaming of the unprepared citizens of Tupelo — the aliens were given directions to Washington, D.C. There was some small effort to induce them to make a decontamination stop at NASA HQ, but this was quickly nipped in the bud using real teeth. (Not the aliens’ teeth, though. They didn’t have any as such. But they did have some mighty interesting zoölogical samples from other worlds traveling with them, and they had no hesitation whatsoever about using those critters to make a point. It was both cheaper and more discreet than unholstering their ray guns or warming up their city-leveling blaster-cannons.) The aliens presented bona fide scientific data proving that they were a damn sight cleaner than us, tidied up the spilt blood in a gentlemanly manner, and went to Washington.

  It turned out that they came from Corftaz, a planet whose distant galactic position was known to a handful of scientists but whose life-bearing potential had never been fully explored due to budget cuts in the space program. The funds thus diverted had gone to our previous President’s best efforts to relieve women of the need to worry their pretty little heads over the matter of being in charge of their own pretty little bodies. The aliens did not find this amusing as they had a great deal of respect for intelligence, initiative, and the god-ordained decree that there be full and equal partnership maintained between the sexes, lest the Dark Wave engulf the Universe.

  Well, wasn’t that a kick in the head.

  It turned out that the Corftazians hailed from a theocracy whose level of single-minded devotion made earthly Fundamentalists of any stripe look like pikers. What their god said, went. There was no appeal, because if anyone made so much as a peep of protest— Well, you will just have to imagine the sound a Dark Wave makes as it engulfs an Unbeliever, his planet, and a fair chunk of the surrounding solar system.

  You could almost hear the worldwide sigh of relief when their leader went onto explain that although they did have the technology to enforce mass conversions, their god actually found crusades, jihads, street corner harangues, and mass doorbell-ringings to be both anathema and obnoxious. It wasn’t exactly live-and-let-live, more like live-and-let-live-and-shut-up-before-you-make-the-Dark-Wave notice-you’re-out-there-acting-stupid. The Dark Wave fed on stupidity. Our scientists allowed themselves a superior smirk or two over the aliens’ quaint religious beliefs until the aliens’ leader, a female named Gorj, showed them photographic evidence of a cosmic singularity from beyond our budget-slashed ken. Yep, there it was: That was a Dark Wave, all right, a nd it did seem to exhibit certain idiosyncratic planet-engulfing behaviors that might lead a sentient race to certain conclusions.

  Besides, we didn’t have either the technology or the balls to try proving the Corftazians wrong.

  The Corftazians were made welcome. Once they explained that they had not come to Earth to enslave us, convert us, destroy our environment or selfishly exploit our precious natural resources (preferring to leave such matters to the local authorities), they were made sincerely welcome. They did not explain why they had come to Earth, and this remained a mystery for the duration of their visit. Some folks claimed it was because they’d gotten lost and Gorj wouldn’t ask directions, but as soon as everyone found out that Gorj was female, that allegation riled the hell out of all women and most sitcom writers, so it was allowed to drop.

  The Corftazians were easily accommodated since there was just one shipful to deal with. World leaders flocked to Washington to present their diplomatic credentials, and for awhile the Administration used the promise of an introduction as both stick and carrot until Gorj got wind of it and showed what her people could do with both a stick and a carrot. It was not pretty, and right after that every foreign head-of-state who wanted to meet the aliens got a no-strings-attached invitation.

  It was little things like this that endeared the Corftazians to the American public. Sure, they were aliens from beyond the farthest reaches of our galaxy, and yes, due to acute sexual dimorphism the females looked like purple Shar-Peis while the males resembled giant woodpeckers (no pun intended except in certain parts of the South where it was mandatory), but their demonstrated hate for political bullshit won our hearts.

  All hearts save one. Leroy Wilberforce hated those wrinkly, purple, feathery, foreign, who-invited-THEM boogers with a mad passion that knew no bounds. They had upstaged all his fine grandstanding (to say nothing of his gubernatorial dreams) and his anger was as hot as it was impotent. He had gone to considerable trouble and expense (white leather dog collars do not come cheap, you know) in defense of the sacred institution of marriage and no one cared. Very well then, bad cess to them: There was nothing for him and Bluebell to do but head over to the nearest purveyor of fine divorces and get one.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilberforce, sir,” said the clerk. “I can’t process this.” He shoved the divorce petition across the counter back into Leroy’s hands.

  “Why the hell not?” Leroy said. All right, shouted. Shouted with flecks of spit flying everywhere. “Unless someone switched states on me overnight, no-fault-no-wait-no-harm-no-foul divorce is legal here.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the clerk. His eyes glazed over as he went into Regulation Recitation Mode: “Immediate and legal dissolution of marriage is officially authorized in those cases where (a) there is no challenge from either party and/or (b) there are no minor children.”

  Leroy clenched his fists. Only the fact that a swarm of reporters was buzzing at his back kept him from reaching out and strangling this bureaucratic boob where he stood. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and in a dangerously calm voice said: “Do you know who I am?”

  “Oh, yes sir!” The clerk practically quivered with the desire to appear intelligent before the Press. “I sure do! You married your dog to keep marriage holy.” A bark from the floor made him lean over the counter and add: “Ooh, is that your wife? Can I pet her?”

  “Give me my divorce and you can date her,” Leroy shot back.

  The clerk flashed him a nervous grin. “I can’t do that, sir. The give-you-a-divorce part, I mean. You see, it hasn’t been seven years yet since you married her, and so—”

  —and so that was how Leroy Wilberforce learned that, hate them or not, he and the Corftazians had a lot in common. They too believed that marriage was a sacred institution. Very sacred. They believed that rushing into and out of marriage as if it were a revolving door was a slap in the face of Sanctity itself, which was both stupid per se and collaterally (vide supra, Dark Wave: Universe engulfed by; attraction to stupidity of).

  For lo, the Corftazians’ god had decreed unto them that marriage was not a revolving door but an airlock. You had to give it a fair chance to do its job. If you didn’t, you died. Anyone caught arguing this latter point publicly got on-the-spot firsthand proof of a messily fatal nature. The Corftazians, like Leroy Wilberforce, did not like having their inarguable beliefs field-tested and they had the technology to back up their opinions.

  While Leroy, like some modern day Achilles, had been sulking in his split-level fake Tudor-style tent, the aliens had become familiar with the Earth custom known as “divorce.” To be honest, they had divorce in their culture too, but there were certain unique rules governing the process:

  1. You had to remain in the marriage for a minimum amount of time which translated into roughly seven Earth years.

  2. You had to give the marriage your full, exclusive attention in matters emotional, spiritual, and physical, insofar as this lay within your power.

  3. All disagreements within the marriage were to be settled solely by the free and courteous exchange of observations and opinions.

  4. Failure to observe any or all of the above guidelines would result in the offending party’s precipitous removal from the marriage, society, civilization and breathing.

  5. If, upon the strict observance of all of the above guidelines, both parties still found themselves to be incompatible, the divorce would be granted.

  It was pretty simple, but the same sentiments had already been uttered long before the Corftazians landed in Tupelo by one Mrs. Robert Hockmeyer of Twin Oaks Trailer Park on the Jersey shore, thus:

  “Bob, you bastard, get back in here! Walk out on me and you are a dead man! And if I so much as smell a hint that you’ve been doing that truckstop slut again, I will cut them off and feed them to you for breakfast. Then I’ll kill you! Oh, don’t you dare raise a hand to me, Mister, I’ll rip off your arm and beat you over the head with it, and if I hear you call me that name one more time, you’re gonna find your tongue torn out and stuck somewhere that’d make a monkey blush! Now get your fat ass back to bed and give Mama some sugar.”

  Mrs. Hockmeyer has nothing else whatsoever to do with this narrative.

  Unlike Mrs. Hockmeyer’s husband Bob, Leroy did not take any of this lying down. He raised a stink of fearful proportions and great dramatic effect, taking full advantage of the presence of the reporters. He inveighed against these intergalactic so-and-so’s just barging in on America and laying down the law according to their beliefs, uninvited. (At this point two of the local reporters with families still living on the Rez laughed so hard that they had to step outside for a minute or twelve.) It was a good speech and a good news story, aired live and kicking even as a fuming Leroy ordered Bluebell back into the car and drove the little missus home.

  Two months later, the still-hitched couple got to enjoy a delayed, unexpected, but nonetheless memorable honeymoon in Washington, D.C. They did not get the Lincoln bedroom, since Leroy did not belong to the Incumbent’s political party and that would have looked funny, but the diplomacy of sleeping arrangements was not the first thing on Leroy’s mind.

  There was no arguing the fact: The man was not lucky when it came to the Corftazians. Gorj and her wife, Nista, just happened to be watching the news when the network aired the story of Leroy’s thwarted divorce. The clip they ran included his angry speech about busybody aliens. Gorj shrugged it off, but Nista was the sensitive type and began to cry.

  “No little Terran pissant upset my wife!” Gorj exclaimed, and stormed off to talk to the President.

  You can imagine Leroy’s reaction when he was hauled before the aliens, though the hauling was done by way of an engraved invitation to a White House garden party rather than by truncheon-wielding bullyboys. While the guest of honor’s wife peed in the flower beds, the President took an almost sadistic pleasure in pointing out to Leroy that yes, Gorj was a female married to a female. He just wanted to see how far he could make Leroy’s jaw drop.

  “But — but that’s — that’s wrong!” Leroy cried. It was a cry that took the form of a whisper, lest the Corftazians overhear and take bloody umbrage. They had chosen to attend the garden party in company with the same zoölogical specimen that had snapped the heads off those germ-obsessed eager beavers from NASA. Leroy did not want to end up like them. The alien beast was about the size of an adult hippo and it looked cranky as hell, though Bluebell was not devoured when she sniffed its butt in a neighborly manner.

 

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