The Marital Corporation Ch. 02

Synopsis: Marge and Peter Baylis, and their attractive guests, Ann and Gordon, rescue a young waterskier while cruising in their sailboat, "Love Boat." The young man has just told Peter the boat he and his were using wasn't theirs.

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Peter looked more closely at the young man. "What do you mean, the boat wasn't yours?"

The boy stared back. He seemed defiant, but Peter thought he was really frightened. Then the young man looked away. "I don't know their names," he said. "Those guys picked me up in Bremerton; I got an aunt I never seen in Port Angles, and I was hitching up there, but they wanted to stop here on the way; one of them knows a girl here, or something.

"Anyhow, we seen the boat. Nobody was around, so what the hell? The skis was just laying there. Neither of the other guys knew how to ski, so I said I'd show them. Then they come too close to you guys, and with my luck, I had to let go just in time to hit that damned log."

The others were quiet as Peter weighed the boy's statement. "For some reason, I believe you," he said. "I hate to do this," he added, "but I've no choice. I have to turn you over to the authorities. Grand larceny, even for a joy ride, is a serious crime."

Marge's face was strained as she stared into her husband's eyes. "Do we really have to turn him in? Couldn't we just pretend we found him in the water? I don't think he's a criminal. I think he's just a little boy who's lost his way."

Gordon and Anne had a private conversation. Then Gordon turned to Peter. "I don't mean to butt in," he said, "but we sort of agree with Marge. You're a lawyer. Isn't there some way we can avoid making a federal case out of this?"

"It's not that simple," Peter said. "I'm surprised the Coast Guard isn't already out here looking for him. Someone may have seen us pick him up, but whether they did or not, I don't intend to jeopardize my license by aiding an escaping criminal."

Seeing the downcast expressions surrounding him, and hearing the self-righteous tone of his own voice, Peter added, "Look, there's no sense going on about this. We'll go to the town dock. Then I'll go see the sheriff or town marshal or whoever is in charge of law enforcement, and find out if they're looking for Kenny. If they are, we'll have to hand him over. If not, well, that's a different story. Is that fair?"

The gloomy expressions lightened considerably. Only Kenny seemed doubtful. "But I didn't do anything except take a ride with those guys," he said sadly.

Peter said, "I believe you. Maybe they will, too."

Peter looked around. Love Boat had drifted a few hundred yards downwind since recovering Marge and the boy, but they were still clear of other traffic. Peter ducked down the companionway and started the engine.

Within minutes, they were tying the boat up to the town dock. "You folks wait here," Peter said, slipping on his shoes. "I'll find out whether our young friend, here, is a wanted man."

He climbed the ladder to the dock and walked across the rough plank dock until he reached the street. Virtually no one was on the street. Peter paused at a corner drug store and asked for directions to the police station.

The clerk sent him two streets over to a crumbling old brick building. He opened the door, and walked to the desk where the duty officer sat.

"I understand there was a joy riding incident today out in the bay," Peter said.

"I ain't so sure it was joy riding, but we got them young fellas back there." The officer motioned behind him with his thumb.

Peter opened his wallet and showed the officer his Bar Association credentials. "I wonder if I could interview them?"

The policeman grinned knowingly. "I don't think they got much money, but I don't see why not. Do you mind if I pat you down? Our metal detector's been on the fritz since last Tuesday."

Peter ignored the implication that he was soliciting business, and nodded. After a perfunctory search, the officer led him back through a barred door to the three cells that constituted the Kingston lockup. "You can sit here and talk to them through the bars," he said. "When you're finished, just sing out, and I'll let you out."

Peter nodded, and while the officer noisily let himself back into the front office, he introduced himself to two surly young men.

"Who sent for you?" the older of the two demanded.

Peter shook his head. "That's not important," he said. "I'm interested only in the third man who was with you."

The two men hesitated and looked at each other. The older one shook his head, and said firmly, "You're wrong about that. Wasn't nobody there except us."

Peter looked skeptical and said, "Are you certain?"

The older man glared at him. "I just tole you! There wasn't nobody except shit-for-brains here, and me!"

Peter said, "Well, tell me this; How'd they catch you?"

This time there was no hesitation. The older man looked scornfully at the younger one. "If dumbo here had checked the gas like I tole him, we might be in Seattle by now."

"You're really sure there wasn't a third man?"

The two men exchanged glances again and nodded.

"OK," Peter said. "Now let me give you a little free legal advice. If I were you, when you talk to the prosecutor tomorrow, I would go easy on talking about trips to Seattle. It might make a hell of a difference in the way they look at your case. I don't practice criminal law, but if you want to get in touch with me, here's my card." He handed each of them a business card.

Peter smiled inwardly as he walked back to the boat. It was obvious why they were lying. They thought they had killed Kenny. But whatever their reason, Kenny was in the clear. The officials didn't even know he existed.

"What's the verdict?" Marge asked as he stepped into the cockpit.

Peter grinned. "This is your lucky day, Kenny. Your pals think they killed you, so as far as the authorities know, you don't exist. And never will, if they can help it. They're afraid of a manslaughter conviction."

Marge rolled her eyes. "Boy, that's a relief! Now, come down below so I can talk to you."

Peter followed his wife down the ladder and looked inquiringly at her. "First thing," she said in a low monotone, "keep your shirt on. Don't start yelling until you see how I've got it worked out."

Something deep inside Peter turned over. Whenever Marge opened a conversation by asking for restraint, his scrotum invariably tightened. "OK, what is it?"

Marge took a deep breath. "I think we ought to invite Kenny to come stay with us for a while," she said, "at least until he can get back on his feet." The words came out in a rush.

"Have you lost your mind?"

"No, seriously. Timmy is gone, and Kenny could have his room. We've talked about expanding our family . . ."

"Yes, but with him? Why? Obviously, the kid doesn't have any money . . ."

"That's my point. The poor kid never finished high school. It wouldn't hurt us or cost very much, and it could make all the difference in the world for him. Besides, you know what the Chinese say."

"About what?"

"About saving a drowning person."

Peter nodded. He knew the argument was lost. "Common sense tells me this is a dumb thing to do," he said slowly. "It's almost as if you were a child asking for a pup. Sure, we could help this kid through high school, and even into college for that matter, but why? I've raised one family and I'm not sure I want another."

Marge knew she had won, but she was wise enough to give something back. "Let's do this," she said. "Let's take the kid home with us, and let him stay the night in Timmy's room. Then in the morning, after you have a chance to see what sort of a person he is, we can make whatever arrangements seem appropriate. How's that?"

Peter shrugged. "If that's what you want . . ." he said.

Marge rewarded him with a warm kiss.

The crew was much quieter on the return trip. Kenny displayed a suitable fascination with the magic of sail power, and quickly learned to steer a satisfactory course. Marge and Annie went below to get out of the breeze, now turning chilly as the sun sank lower in the western sky, while Gordon and Peter went forward, leaving Kenny holding the tiller. The men sat together on the forward cabin trunk, out of Kenny's earshot, facing away from the wind.

After a long pause, while the men silently studied the backs of retreating waves, Gordon said, "Pete, do you mind if I ask how old you two are?"

That was a question Peter hadn't expected. "Not at all. I'm 52, and Marge is 37." Anticipating the next question, he continued, "We've been married 11 years. Marge is my second wife. My first wife, Sandy, died of cancer."

"You haven't said anything about children," Gordon said. "You know we have three; two boys and a girl. I think the world of those kids!"

"Sandy and I have a son, Timothy. He's a student at the University of Chicago," Peter said, adding with a smile, "you see, we're reasonably normal people, too. Why do you ask?"

Gordon nervously cleared his throat. "We're a lot younger. I'm only 35; Anne is 31. I hope I'm not off base here, but I've been thinking about something Marge said just after we left Seattle."

"What was that?"

"I can't remember her exact words, but I gained the impression that you folks don't mind fooling around a little."

"Do you mean swing?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

Peter looked at him thoughtfully. "I'm curious, Gordon. What does that term mean to you? I ask because, as I recall, you then said something emphatic to the effect that you guys were not swingers. Do you remember?"

Gordon slowly nodded. "Well," he said hesitantly, "to put it crudely, I associate the term with wife-swapping."

"Then we're not swingers, either. Our relationship is far more complicated than that. For one thing, we don't have a quid pro quo mentality."

"Of course," Gordon said thoughtfully. "If you don't mind my asking, I'd like to know a little more about your relationship?"

"Well, Marge was an exotic dancer when we met, and was perfectly happy just living with me. I was the straight arrow who foolishly insisted on getting married.

"But almost as soon as we did, something precious in our relationship vanished. Marge's joyous and uninhibited sexuality disappeared almost overnight. I'm sure we were equally frustrated, but we limped along like that for several years. Finally, on the brink of separation, we got some professional counseling and discovered what most couples experience sooner or later, whether they want to admit it or not, that few unions are so perfect that each partner completely meets the needs and desires of the other. In our case, it was simply a matter of letting go; of opening our relationship to other possibilities . . ."

Peter was interrupted by Kenny's hail, "Hey, Mr. Baylis!"

As he hurried back to the cockpit, Peter glanced over his shoulder and saw a large motorsailor that had been concealed by the sail, bearing down on them. Peter swung himself into the cockpit and reached for the freon horn in one swift motion. "I'll bet they're on autopilot," he said, as much to himself as to Kenny as he aimed the horn at the oncoming vessel and squeezed the trigger.

Kenny was startled by the resulting five loud, high-pitched blasts in quick succession that echoed off nearby hills. "That's the danger signal," Peter explained. "Look; she's already changing course."

Scant seconds later, the boat passed their stern. Her skipper stepped from the pilot house and waved. He held up a loud hailer. "Sorry about that, Love Boat," he shouted, "I didn't mean to scare you."

Peter waved his acceptance of the apology, and read the name and hailing port off the boat's stern, Baranita from Long Beach, CA. "I'll just make a note of this," he said to himself.

Marge's head appeared in the companionway. "What was that about?" she demanded indignantly. "You scared us half to death!"

Peter told her, and asked her to pass up the log. Then he turned to Kenny. "It looks as if we're almost even," he said, grinning. "We pulled you out of the drink, and you prevent us from getting run over by a big gin barge."

Kenny smiled back. The log and a pen appeared in the companionway. Peter quickly jotted down the time and circumstances of their near collision. Gordon awkwardly stumbled into the cockpit and announced he was getting chilled. Peter suggested that the younger man go below and get out of the wind. Then he turned back to the boy.

"Tell me about yourself," he invited, sitting back against the cockpit cushions.

"There ain't much to tell. I got no brothers or sisters. My old man was a logger. My folks was killed in a car wreck on a logging road in Forks when I was 14. The county was going to put me in a foster home, so I lit out. I went to California, did odd jobs, picked oranges, worked in carwashes, things like that, and just bummed around for the last three years. Now I'm 18. I figure the county don't care about me no more, so like I already tole you, I was on my way to Port Angles when those cocksuckers that stole that boat picked me up."

"Have you ever been arrested or put in jail?" Peter didn't know why he asked such a dumb question. If the boy had been in trouble, it was unlikely he would admit it, so Peter was very sur- prised when he said yes. "I got picked up once for hustling in L.A." he said. His eyes never left Peter's face.

"What happened?"

"Nothing much. A man I thought was a chicken hawk offered me $50 if I'd let him blow me."

"Did you take it?"

"Hell, yes. I ain't eat nothin' in a couple of days. The chicken hawk turned out to be a vice cop. At least I got something to eat in the youth center. Anyhow, I got null prossed on account of my age and no priors."

A tiny alarm bell rang in the back of Peter's mind at the boy's glib familiarity with the street slang for `no prosecution,' but he merely nodded. "That's it, then?"

"You got it," Kenny said cheerfully.

"You know that Marge wants you to live with us, at least until you finish high school, don't you?"

"I kind o' got that idea."

"I'll be honest with you, Kenny. I'm not so sure it's a good idea," Peter said.

"Because of my record?"

"Partly. But mostly because I don't want to start raising another family."

"You wouldn't have to worry on that account," the boy said earnestly. "I think I'm about as growed up as I'm ever going to get. As for whether I'll steal the silver, that's something you'll just have to take a chance on. Nothing I say is going to make much difference in what you think."

Despite his reservations, Peter was impressed with the boy's candor. He was sure the lad knew he didn't have to tell Peter about his arrest in Los Angles, because as a juvenile, those records would have been sealed. Silently, Peter extended his hand. "OK, pal, let's give it a shot. But you understand that you'll have to do some chores around the place like cutting the grass and helping Marge. . ."

Kenny grinned and nodded as he accepted his hand.

"Better let me take the tiller," Peter said. "The sea breeze is about gone, and it looks like we'll need the iron topsail." He turned the key in the ignition, and after the engine warmed a bit, engaged the clutch and advanced the throttle.

Gordon rejoined them in the cockpit. Yelling to make himself heard over the engine's intrusive noise, Gordon said, "Aw, hell. Did you have to do that? I was just getting used to the water sounds."

Peter nodded sympathetically. "I know how you feel, Gordon," he shouted back, "but it gets awful lonely out here after dark. We've only got an hour or so of daylight left, and we're still two or three miles from the marina. We'll keep the sails up for a while."

The exhaust and engine noises made further conversation difficult. The women, dressed against the evening chill, returned to the cockpit, and the five of them watched the sun slowly sink out of sight behind Bainbridge's silhouetted forest.

Marge and Kenny went forward to furl and cover the sails, while Anne and Gordon went below to pack the remaining food and organize their duffle.

Minutes later, Love Boat slid in behind the shadow of the great stone breakwater and eased into her slip. Gordon stood on the dock, awkwardly perched first on one leg, then on the other as he forced his feet into their shoes.

It was time to say goodnight. Marge went to Gordon as Peter knew she would, and tenderly wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his face down to hers. Then she pressed her working mouth against his, while rubbing her body against him. Slowly, seemingly with great reluctance, Gordon's arms descended around her, and he pulled her lush body into a tight embrace.

Peter felt a tap on his arm, and turned. Anne was standing behind him. "It's my turn," she said quietly as she stepped up against him, while looping her arms around his neck. Her lips felt soft and cool. The wicked little tip of her tongue touched his lower lip, and he felt an answering tingle in his scrotum. "Call me," she whispered, then she stepped back.

She and Gordon linked their arms together, and after thanking Marge and Peter effusively for a lovely day, turned and walked down the dock to their car.

Marge and Peter finished securing Love Boat, snapped the lock on the companionway hatch, and lashed the cover over the cockpit. Then, with Kenny trailing behind, they made their weary way to the car.

They stopped for a quick supper at a small Italian restaurant at the foot of Queen Anne hill, then drove home. While Marge showed Kenny to his room and supplied him with towels, Peter mixed a pair of drinks for himself and Marge, went into the living room, sat in his chair, and turned on the television.

(to be continued)