THREE

Iris Pekanen pulled out a long dress from her closet, sniffed the armpit, brushed some lint from the velvet top and asked, “Honey, do you think I should take this along this weekend?”

Myron Pekanen, who had learned never to render a direct judgment on his wife’s clothes, demurred, “If you like.”

“I mean, do you think there would be an occasion to wear a long dress at the resort? We will be dining together, won’t we?” Her tinny voice rose with each interrogative, as it did at the end of every sentence, for that matter.

“I don’t know, I suppose so. ‘Pinky’ didn’t say. In fact, all I know about the weekend is that we are supposed to be there tonight and, according to him, ‘be prepared to enjoy ourselves.’” Pek held up a 1.75 liter bottle of Black Velvet Canadian, lovingly admired the label, and with an affection born of long years of intimacy, tenderly placed it into the suitcase. “I think I can handle that.”

“But what’s the restaurant like? Will the other wives wear long dresses? I mean, it’s a swanky place, after all.”

“I don’t know,” Pek grunted. “Maybe they will. But you know, even though it’s sort of expensive, it’s still a resort. I’ve never been in a resort restaurant yet where people get real dressed up.”

“Since your experience with resort restaurants only runs to ‘Shorty’s Muskie Heaven’ on Lake Winnibigoshish, I don’t find that too comforting. This is a ‘retreat center.’ All the big executives from Northwest Airlines and 3M come up for conferences. I don’t want to ruin your chances of being president of Hofstead Hail by showing up in something dowdy.”

In a brief spasm of mental ambition, Pek tried to think of anything his wife had that wasn’t dowdy. Giving it up, he wheezed a patient sigh, “Well, take it along, then.”

“But if I take that along, then I’ll have to take along other shoes and another bag.”

Without protest or a hint of recrimination, Pek said, “I’ll go down and get the big suitcase.”

An objective but unkind person may have wondered if thoughtful preparations would really make a difference for Iris Pekanen. She was a short and dumpy woman who had “let herself go” after the birth of her third child. A skilled glamour photographer might have been able to do something with her short, straight, mousy brown hair, but it would have strained his creativity. She used to wear contact lenses and used eye makeup to call attention to her bright, if tiny, blue eyes, but all of that just gradually became too much trouble. As an insurance salesman, her husband had to do his share of traveling, and, befitting his stature as the subject of many a dirty joke, he had never been faithful to her for very long. Of course, she didn’t know this, and the trusting soul was content with life. As she sucked in her breath and straightened her posture in front of the mirror, however, she decided that if she were going to be the wife of an executive, she really should look the part. Aloud, she declared to herself, “The diet begins on Monday!”

Pek, who returned with a huge piece of ancient Samsonite just in time to hear this proclamation, did not let it pass. Without cruel intent, but with no sensitivity whatsoever, he observed, “I’ve heard that before. It’s never worked before and I doubt if it will work now. You are what you are.”

In this case, the philosophy defined the man. Myron Pekanen clung tightly to the Greek dictum of “know thyself” and was never dissatisfied with the man he knew. He was of pure Finnish stock, the product of immigrants who had made the passage from Finland to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula to the farming areas of New York Mills, Minnesota. He was not tall, but was powerfully built and had a swarthy complexion that set him apart from the “Swede-Finns.” His dark eyebrows grew out of a forehead that seemed to have a perpetual swelling and made his dark eyes appear romantic, sensual, and, totally at variance with the facts, intellectually alive. It was an interesting face, but the wide, flat nose unconditionally disqualified him from ever being called handsome. He accepted this, just as he accepted his wife’s appearance. He knew she was dumpy, and merely assumed that she knew it too. If he could accept it, he figured she should also.

“No, really, Pek. I mean it. I want you to be proud of me.” Before her husband could respond with yet another insensitive remark, she continued, “I’ve always thought that Mrs. Hofstead carries herself with such poise and style. I want to be just like her when you are president of the firm. And I’m going to start being like that from now on, because you, dear, are going to be the one. I just know it.”

Her husband was studying which two pairs of identical brown socks he should toss in the suitcase. “Well, I suppose Hofstead could pick me to run the company. I could do it, you know.”

“Of course you could, dear.”

“I mean it,” Pek added as he folded up a pair of brown slacks identical to the pair he had on and selected two blue button-down shirts to put into the suitcase. “I’ve doubled the number of policies sold in this five-county area. I went out and sold hail insurance where they had never even bothered to go before. I’ve made a lot of money for the company, and Hofstead knows it. He said he was still interested in making money, and I think I’m the one to do it.”

Iris, selecting a month’s supply of costume jewelry to put into a velvet-covered box, asked, “Of all the others he said he would consider, who, other than yourself, of course, do you think has the best chance?”

Pek sat down on the bed and absentmindedly began to play with the nap of the velvet bedspread. “Clarence, for sure. It’s gonna be Clarence. I can make Hofstead more money, but you know him. He has these ‘other considerations’ that he keeps talking about. I point out how we could increase our sales by just cranking up the pressure on some of these farmers who are underinsured and he just says there are ‘other considerations.’ Clarence is dull and just a little lazy, but he has been with Hofstead for over thirty years. He can be sure that Clarence will never have an original idea and therefore he can run the company from Florida by making one telephone call a month. That’s what he really wants anyhow.”

“Oh dear, that means that I’ll probably have to spend more time with that tedious Joey Sandberg. What a dumb name for a sixty-year-old woman! Is it short for Josephine or something?”

“Actually, I think it’s short for Joanne, which any woman should certainly prefer. But I can’t see where you’d have to cozy up to her. Would you prefer it if Borghild were made president? Then you could get together with the number one company spouse and compare recipes with Harry Kvamme.”

This rare display of wit made Iris smile as she asked, “Do you think there’s any chance of that?”

“Nah,” Pek snorted, “Hofstead’s too smart for that. He knows how valuable she is. If me or Clarence or even Gary were made president, she would still be there to keep the company going, no matter what. That’s what I would do. She’s already almost a co-president who works for peanuts. I’d keep it that way.”

“But what about Gary Swenson?” Iris tentatively asked.

“Gary Swenson, Young Gary,” Pek repeated, the sarcasm heavy in his voice. “I don’t know. He’s young. He is always doing something with that damn computer of his. I swear, I think he takes that Powerbook with him even when he goes to the john. And you can just tell that Hofstead finds that impressive. I’ve gotta admit that he has put up some good numbers since he joined the company, but I sometimes wonder if he just uses that computer to make the numbers say anything he wants them to. But I can’t see Hofstead picking him ahead of Clarence.”

“Can you see him picking him ahead of you?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure of one thing. Gary can see himself being picked ahead of both of us. And Borghild? Well, if Young Gary gets picked as president, she better learn how to run computers better or he’ll get rid of her.”

Iris sat down next to her husband and put her arm around his neck in a clumsy attempt at intimacy. “Honey, do you think there is anything that we can do to influence this decision?”

“Nah,” Pek replied, disentangling himself with a minimum of grace. “I’m not sure I even want the job. But maybe I should, if only for self-preservation. I could run it better than any of them, I think, but I’m not sure I could work under somebody like Young Gary. I think I’ll see if I can get a private word with Hofstead sometime this weekend. He likes to snowmobile and that’s provided as part of the ‘Winter Wonderland Weekend.’ I know the territory around Vergas. Maybe I can get him alone and make my pitch.”

“Well, I’ve always thought that Martha has rather liked me,” Iris optimistically proclaimed as she closed her suitcase. “I’ll have to drop a few hints to her about how the insurance company would be in good hands with you.”

“All right, but don’t use that expression.”

“What?”

“The ‘good hands,’ you know, for insurance.”

“Why not?”

“Never mind,” Pek sighed. “Are you packed and ready to go?”

“All ready. Do I look presentable?”

“About as presentable as you’ll get, I suppose. I’ll put the big suitcase in the car so we can leave as soon as your mother gets here.”

“Wasn’t it sweet of her to agree to come and spend the weekend with the kids? We really ought to spend more time with her.”

“One of us should, anyway,” Pek mumbled.

“What did you say, Pek?”

“I just said, ‘Yeah, we should.’”