NOT the Cleavers!
A short vignette about the family Jones and how they are not the Cleavers.
Disclaimer: If I owned Indiana Jones we wouldn't have had to wait twenty years for the fourth movie and Marion would've been in them all.
Although crying could mean happiness, in all his live Henry "Indiana" Jones had never heard of a case where Mac and Cheese with hamburger move a person to tears of joy, and he'd heard of some pretty 'interesting' things. No, crying over food was a bad. Marion, his wife of less than a years, but love of his life, stood over the stove, back to him, her body quietly shaking. She was dressed perfectly – her shoes were dyed to match her navy 'day dress', crisp white apron strings were tied around her slender waist. Without seeing her face he knew it would be made up as perfectly as her hair. She would be wearing pearls. Indiana didn't quite close the door, he didn't want to give her a fright, or announce himself quite yet.
The second they'd gotten back from their twenty years over due honeymoon she'd donned this get up. He was willing to be she'd not left the house all day, and yet she was dressed to receive the president. He didn't like that, this was not the Marion he married, the Marion he loved more than words; his devotion was why he'd never said anything to her, but the dress was stupid. And she was constantly cooking. Breakfast had seven courses; dinner was on the table seconds after he got home. There were fresh cookies – all the time. She'd gotten a cookie jar and he'd never seen the bottom of it! He loved a good chocolate chip cookie as much as the next guy but it was insane. When she wasn't cooking she was cleaning. In pearls. She called him dear. The world was not as he'd imagined, and he wasn't thrilled with the surprise.
"Marion?" he asked, announcing himself, closing the door. She jumped, yet did not face him.
"You're home early." She said, tears in her voice.
"Marion, why are you crying?" he asked, dropping his bag by the door and approaching her.
"I'm not crying." She said, he made her turn, the puffy eyes and runny nose were gave her away.
"Remind me to start playing poker with you, you bluff terribly." He said flatly, she straightened his tie.
"I'm fine Indiana."
"No you're not, people who are fine don't cry over American Chop Suey. You're unhappy, now how can I help?"
"I'm not unhappy, I'm fine, I just want to be a good wife for you, you're the Assistant Dean now. You should have a good wife; I want to be a good wife." He felt touched, the gesture was sweet, and painfully out of character.
"Marion, I love you more than life itself, which makes you the perfect wife, you just have to be yourself and love me – and nothing else. If I had wanted a 'good professor's wife' I would've married a long time ago – but I didn't. I wanted you." His words came from his heart and touched hers. She began crying anew, but the tears were different. They embraced.
"So I can start wearing pants again?" she asked into his shoulder.
"Yep." He replied, face in her hair.
"Make up optional?"
"You're better looking without it."
"Can I stop cooking?" she pulled away and gave him a look, testing his resolve.
"Cereal makes a fine breakfast, and I can cook dinner too – you're not alone anymore, I can help. Not to mention you'll make me fat with all your cookies and fine meals." She kissed him, and didn't stop until Mutt walked in the door, and then promptly walked out again, gagging. They laughed. So, they weren't the idealistic Cleavers, but the Joneses were a family in their own style, and that was the best.
The title should be said in the style of Baby Sinclair from Dinosaurs. This story stems from a fic I enjoyed, but something about a line about being a 'professor's wife' got me thinking. Firstly, my mom's a professor's wife and if you think she'd be a proper domestic like diva you've got another thing coming. Marion doesn't strike me as the 1950s domestic goddess – she's a good mom, yes, but she'd not the stereotype, her style is her own, just like Indiana Jones isn't the average professor. This idea of independence in mind I thought about the action – conscious disconnect that Marion would face, the fifties were not necessarily the rosy time we remember. If she tried to live under the pressure of being some goddess of homemaking – pressed aprons and fresh cookies, she'd have to go against some of (what I find to be her coolness) independence and disregard of social roles. She's a fighter and a thinker. Not saying that there aren't kickass homemakers, but they choose to be, they are not forced into their role (I would hope that this is true in this day and age.) Okay I'm getting off my soap box now, thanks for reading this.