The Marital Corporation Ch 03

On the first night, Marge had seduced the young man. Peter discovered them fucking and expressed his concern about the boy's health.

Chapter 3

The next morning, Peter called Doc Mason and arranged for Kenny's physical examination. Then he called Marge, and told her about Kenny's appointment.

The lab reports came in on Thursday. Peter's hands trembled slightly as he opened the envelope. It wasn't until then that he realized how worried he had been.

The boy's blood tests, thank God, were negative!

Peter, meanwhile, learned that Bill Knowles from the yacht club had been in touch with the firm's senior partner, apparently to insure Peter's availability as a political candidate. During the regular Thursday morning staff meeting, old Marty Robbins, the senior partner with the grizzled features and unnatural looking hair, looked up from his notes and leveled the grimace that passed for a smile in Peter's general direction. In his ancient, wheezing voice, he said, "It seems that our junior partner, Mr. Baylis, is about to confer considerable honor on this firm. I've been reliably informed that a substantial number of Seattle's most prominent businessmen are urging him to run for the state legislature."

A small patter of applause followed that announcement, giving Peter time to think of a suitable response. "Thank you Mr. Robbins," he said in what he hoped was a humble tone, "but you'll understand that with the Carroway matter, the Frederick's tort action, and one or two other matters on my plate, frankly, I'm afraid I'll have to decline the honor."

That clearly had been the wrong thing to say. The old man had leveled his eyebrows in Peter's direction. "Like hell you will, Baylis!" he thundered. "This is the first time in the history of Robbins, Glat and Semens that any partner has been asked to seek political office. We'll make whatever accommodations in your schedule that may be necessary, but you will run! Is that clear?"

Peter swallowed hard. "Yes, sir," he said.

A message from Bill Knowles was waiting for him when he returned from the staff meeting. Still smarting from Robbins' peremptory command, Peter returned the call, thinking, as he dialed the phone, how far he had fallen since that awful day three years earlier when he had lost his job as an assistant Attorney-General. True, he had been hired almost immediately by the Robbins firm in Seattle because of his environmental law expertise, but he needed no reminders that the career path for a 52 year-old junior partner was narrow, indeed.

"Hi, Pete," Knowles said in his florid way, "What say we get together for lunch? Doc Porter wants to meet you, but I think it might be a good idea if just you and I got together first. Are you free tomorrow?"

"When is a lawyer ever free?" Peter muttered, as he leafed through his desk calendar.

He waited until the chuckles on the other end died down, then said, "Yeah, I'm OK tomorrow. But I won't have time to drive out to the yacht club."

"No problem, old buddy" -- the insurance salesman was taking charge -- "let's make it 1:00 at Rosy's. OK?"

Peter smiled. Rossalino's restaurant was just around the corner; he wouldn't even need to take a cab. "I'll be there," he said.

And he was. He was even a little early, which gave him time to reflect, with satisfaction, on the anxious pall which had been hanging over his house since Sunday. Not knowing whether a STD invasion had occurred was a sobering consideration for everyone except him, because he had the answer in his pocket, and he intended to keep it there until tomorrow evening.

His train of thought was interrupted. "Hello, hello. How's it feel to be a politician?" His host had arrived.

The men shook hands and ordered lunch. While they were waiting for the food to arrive, Bill Knowles apologized for calling Peter's boss, and explained why Peter had been selected to run against the incumbent legislator who represented the 43rd district.

"I won't bullshit you, Pete. You weren't anybody's first choice, or second for that matter. We asked three other guys before we got to you. We've almost run out of time. That's why I pulled out the stops and called your boss. I don't know what the boys would have done if the fourth guy on the list had said no, too.

"I realize this isn't very flattering, but what the hell? We're big boys, here." The food arrived. Peter was grateful that Knowles now had something else to do with his mouth. At times, silence is truly golden.

After the dishes were cleared away, Knowles lit a cigar. "Now, let's get down to business."

"OK," Peter said, "but tell me first, I thought the 43rd district was a safe seat."

Knowles nodded. "It is and it isn't," he said. "Old Jim Tolliver has held that seat so long he thinks he owns it. This isn't generally known, but the problem is a new interstate highway connection. Tolliver is chairman of the Transportation Subcommittee. We understand that MacKay Construction has cut a deal with him to condemn a new right-of-way 200 feet west of the yacht club." Knowles shook his head. "We tried to reason with the old bastard, and I understand some members even tried to match MacKay's offer, but he won't budge."

Knowles spread the fingers on his right hand in a curious gesture. "If that highway interchange is built as planned, it will be the end of the club. That's why this election is so important to us."

There were many unanswered questions. Peter asked why the club didn't simply support Tolliver's opponent in the fall election, saying, "Look, Bill, surely you can find someone else, or at the very least, focus your efforts on defeating him in November."

Knowles smiled and spoke as he might to a dull child. "Pete, if we wait until fall, we get only one shot at him, and not a very good one, either, because that district hasn't elected a Democrat in 30 years. By tackling the old fart in the primary, we get two shots at him."

Chastened, Peter could only nod his understanding. He was ashamed to confess how little he knew about local politics.

Knowles continued, "As I said before, your campaign chairman is a man named Doc Porter. He doesn't come to many club functions, so you probably don't know him, but he's been running successful political campaigns for a long time. He's got some important money people lined up. With him in your corner, you're almost certain to go to Olympia next winter."

"What about issues?" Peter asked. "Aren't I supposed to have a quote legislative agenda unquote? Is my only purpose to prevent Tolliver from destroying the yacht club? What kind of a platform is that?"

Knowles laughed loudly. "Jesus Christ," he gasped, "You'll just have to make one up. If we'd known you had this sense of humor, you'd have been at the head of the list! Or at least number two. Wait until I tell the guys." Knowles added that Doc Porter would be in touch.

The two men shook hands again out on the sidewalk. As Peter watched Knowles walk toward the parking garage, he reflected somewhat bitterly that saving a millionaire's club had an ironic twist for him, and certainly was not the noblest or most exalted mission in life that a man might be called upon to perform.

Doc Porter wasted no time. He had called while Peter was having lunch with Knowles. An urgent message asking Peter to return his call was waiting on his desk.

Peter dialed the number. A woman, presumably Doc Porter's receptionist, answered. Peter explained who he was and that he was returning the doctor's call. In a moment, Doc Porter came on the line. "Mr. Baylis! Thanks for returning my call so promptly. I'm glad you did because we're in a bit of a squeeze, time-wise. Bill Knowles tells me you're thinking of running for the legislature. Splendid idea! We need new blood."

When Peter heard that, he was positive they had never met. "What sort of squeeze, Doctor?"

"We have to file before the close of business today to get you on the primary ballot. Can you meet me at the Clerk's office in the County/City building in an hour? It shouldn't take long."

"I don't know that it's necessary for both of us . . ." Peter began, but the doctor interrupted him. "Yes, it is," he said emphatically. "I've got the papers filled out, but we'll need your notarized signature and the $100 filing fee. By the way, you'll have to provide that. The law is very specific. I'll need to register as your campaign chairman. I presume that's the arrangement you worked out with Knowles?"

Peter assured him that it was. Then he reminded the doctor that the clerk's office was a large place, usually with dozens of people milling around. "How will I recognize you?" Peter asked.

"Look for a tall, skinny old man with white hair, wearing a plaid sport jacket."

They hung up. Peter checked his wallet to make sure he had enough cash for his cab fare and the filing fee. Despite nearly three decades as a practicing attorney, Peter was still surprised by seemingly arbitrary decisions in the Clerk's office. Some services could be paid by personal check. Other services could be paid by a check drawn on the firm's account. Still others required either cash or a certified check. Since time here was obviously was of the essence, he had to assume that cash would be required.

He told Miss Perkins he'd be out of the office for an hour or so, took the elevator down to the ground floor, and hailed a cab.

Thirty minutes later, he stepped out of another elevator on the 15th floor of the County/City building. The entire floor was occupied by the Clerk's Office. A temporary sign directed him to suite 1504.

He pushed open the double leather padded swinging doors, and immediately recognized Doc Porter, who was lounging comfortably against the counter, engaging a pretty young thing in casual and prolonged conversation, much to the vocal annoyance of the half dozen people lined up behind him.

Peter approached the tall, gaunt old man with white hair and highly visible white eyebrows rising above a florid complexion. He scarcely needed to notice that the man was wearing a jacket that looked more psychedelic than plaid, to know he was looking at Doc Porter.

The old man saw him coming through the door, and waved his arm. Peter hurried to his side. "I was holding your place," he explained complacently, looking down on Peter through heavily lidded eyes. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "You are Peter Baylis, aren't you?"

Peter nodded.

"OK," the old man nodded. "Sign here, here, and here," indicating three blank lines on as many sheets of paper. As a lawyer, Peter disliked signing things he hadn't read, so he started skimming through the documents, but Doc Porter murmured, "I do believe there are people waiting in line behind us," so Peter hastily scrawled his name in the appropriate places, and opening his wallet, handed five $20 bills to the clerk.

Doc Porter's eyes widened when he saw the cash. "I forgot to tell you about that," he said apologetically. "Evidently, they've learned never to take a check from a politician. Saves embarrassment all around." Peter smiled his relief. Despite his formidable appearance, the old man had a sense of humor.

Doc Porter then filed a document identifying himself as chairman of Peter's campaign committee. After that document was accepted, the two stepped aside and belatedly shook hands.

"I hope you realize I know nothing about local politics," Peter said hesitantly.

The old man nodded. "In a way, that's very good," he said. "Cuts down on the time you'd otherwise have to spend unlearning things. There's nothing I hate worse than a man without experience whose mouth and balls are bigger than his brain. From what I have seen so far, yours seem to be in about the right proportion."

They arranged to have lunch on Monday to begin planning Peter's campaign. Doc Porter's office was in the next block, so he waved goodbye and strode away while Peter stood on the curb hailing a cab.

Later, as he drove home through the late afternoon rush hour traffic to his home on Queen Anne hill, Peter morosely reflected that his life seemed to be spinning out of control.

Instead of the placid law practice and early retirement he had envisioned while in law school, he had been pushed out of a comfortable niche in the Attorney General's office, and forced to accept a junior position at Robbins, Glat and Semens at an age when some of his classmates were beginning to think about retirement.

As he waited for a slow light to change, he realized with a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that his budding political career was much less accidental than Bill Knowles had indicated. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that his boss, Marty Robbins, had initiated his candidacy because of the obvious advantages to the firm in having a vulnerable and easily manipulated junior partner -- especially one with his credentials with the environmental community -- involved in state politics. As he considered that possibility, he could almost hear the old man urging his candidacy on Knowles.

And if that were the case, he could have no illusions about his future -- or expect any mercy -- should he fail to win the primary election!

The light changed, and Peter forced himself to think about other changes that were occurring in his life, seemingly at a relentlessly accelerating rate. He was still dwelling on a possible future relationship with Anne Schaefer, and Marge's blossoming affair with a boy young enough to be her son when he reached for the garage opening switch clipped to his sun visor.

Marge and Kenny were sitting on the sofa, holding hands and watching Oprah when Peter entered the living room. Both looked satiated; extremely tired but very happy. The letter in Peter's pocket was obviously old news. Mentally, Peter smacked his forehead. Marge was no dummy. Of course, she would have had Kenny call Dr. Mason's office for information. There was no doubt how they had celebrated the good news.

Peter went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine he had been saving for a special occasion. He carried the bottle and three glasses to the living room. Then he filled the glasses and passed them around.

Looking at Kenny, he said, "Kenny, here's a toast to your new life. It's almost a miracle you've got it back. I hope you make the most of it."

Marge murmured, "Hear, hear!" Kenny looked uneasily at the floor, his ears a bright red.

"I mean it, son," Peter said earnestly. We'll do whatever we can to help, but it's your slate; only you can write on it. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Kenny slowly nodded. "I don't hardly know what to say," he said. "Marge tole me how you guys live and everything. Sounds pretty wild to me." He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "I mean, I don't mind or nuthin', but if anyone else had tole me about it, I'd 've said they was full 'o shit. Know what I mean?"

Peter nodded, wondering how to explain the inexplicable to an 18 year old. Unexpectedly, Kenny helped him.

"Are you guys married?" he asked.

Ah, Peter thought, so that was his frame of reference. "Yes, but not the way you think," he said. "That is, we had a regular ceremony, but we've rewritten our contract, so we're no longer married in the ordinary sense.

"This may be hard to believe, Kenny, but there was a time in this country, and not very long ago, either, when women weren't allowed to vote; married women couldn't own property, and the standard marriage vows required a woman to love, honor and obey her husband."

"Christ," Kenny said, "I didn't know that."

"Today, if you asked the question," Peter went on, "most people would agree that it's wrong for one human being to own another, which is basically what the laws of dominion provided. However, traditions die hard, and although the laws of dominion have been abolished, much of the sense of them remain in the way men and women relate to each other.

"Luckily for us, we realized in time that the old traditions were stifling our marriage and poisoning our relationship. We had a choice. We could split, or we could rewrite the contract.

"It would possibly have been easier to split, but I think we both realized that in the long run, we each faced a probable series of poi- soned relationships with new partners, and were unlikely to improve on what we already had. We wanted to stay together. The trick was making what we had work."

"I don't understand. What did you guys do?" Kenny asked.

Peter tried to think of an appropriate metaphor. "Let me put it this way. Suppose the owner of the boat you swiped had seen you guys jump aboard and drive off. How do you think he would have felt?"

"Mad, really mad; maybe a little scared, and real nervous."

"OK, how did you think I felt when I saw you with Marge the other night?"

Kenny darted a nervous look to Marge for comfort, then turned back to Peter. "About the same, I guess."

"That boat is a thing. What is Marge?"

"I see what you're sayin'," he said slowly.

"Well, that's the basic idea. We had to accept the fact that neither of us is a thing. We're people. Does any of this make sense?"

"I guess so," Kenny said doubtfully. "Where does this leave me?"

Marge laughed, while Peter mentally lamented his lost youth. "I don't know," he said. "We'll have to see."

The phone rang. It was Anne, asking for Marge.

She spoke briefly into the phone, then covered the mouthpiece and said, "The Schaefers would like us to come to dinner tomorrow. OK?"

Peter nodded a quick agreement, and Marge relayed the message.

The question of sex didn't come up again until bedtime. Kenny looked mournfully at Marge, apparently hoping to get lucky again, but she shook her head. "It's Pete's turn tonight," she said. "Don't get greedy."

Later, in bed, after a long, slow, and very satisfying climax following nearly an hour of exquisite foreplay, Marge lay warmly wrapped in Peter's arms. His hand automatically cupped a full breast, his fingers absently plucking at an elongated nipple. The street light provided the room's only illumination, and when she spoke, Peter saw only her faint silhouette against the window.

"Pete, tell me the truth; does my fooling around with the boy-toy bother you?"

"I don't think so," Peter said slowly, "but I envy his youthful stamina!"

"He's got a lot to learn, lover," Marge whispered. "But if you don't mind, I think I'll go tuck him in." He felt, as if touched by a butterfly wing, her lips delicately brush his. "See you in a while," she said as she glided ghost-like from the room.

He felt an instant pang of unguarded jealousy, anxiety, or self-pity, he couldn't be sure which, and resolutely set himself to challenge it. Despite his brave words to Kenny earlier that evening, he knew he was steeped in monogamous traditions that lurked just beneath his conscious level, and required constant vigilance to suppress.

He had thought, as he rearranged his mental furniture, that he would fall quickly asleep. Instead, however, the thought of Marge and Kenny locked in a passionate sexual embrace less than 30 feet away was such a powerful aphrodisiac that he became instantly, insist- ently, erect. Knowing that sleep was now out of the question, he indulged himself in an imaginary visualization of the pair making love while he stroked himself.

Remembering what Marge had told him about her first accidental sexual encounter with Kenny, he pictured her leaning over the tub, holding Kenny's young root tightly in her fist. Clinging to that thought, he slipped out of bed, and padded into the bathroom, where he emptied himself into the sink as he imagined Kenny had poured his seed into her hand.

Then he returned to bed. This time, he slept.

Peter was mildly annoyed the following morning to see his wife and young Kenny behaving like a pair of honeymooners. He could well understand how the youngster might get carried away -- perhaps even think he was in love -- but when he saw Marge putting morsels of cinnamon toast between Kenny's lips and otherwise fawning and cooing over him, some of the negative feelings he had experienced the night before began recurring. "Hey, guys! Let's cool it!"