The Marital Corporation Ch. 08

"I'm new at this," Peter said. "I just didn't think of it."

"I expect Marty Robbins chewed you good. How do you feel?"

"Worse than that," Peter said. "I've been ordered to stay away from our friends in Portage Bay on pain of excommunication."

The old man's face, usually cheerful and elfin, grew somber. "Is it really that bad?"

Glumly, Peter nodded.

"Well, shit. You'd better have another drink." Doc waved to the waiter and gestured for another round.

They were both silent until the second round arrived. "What are you going to do?" Doc asked quietly.

Peter shrugged helplessly. "I don't know," he said miserably. "I wasn't eager to get into politics in the first place, and I wouldn't have, except my boss said `do it!'. But now that I'm in . . ."

The old man nodded. "And you still have some romantic juvenile notions that `I really can make a difference' coupled with a heavy dose of `Nobody's going to tell me what to do, by God!', until you look in the mirror and see the middle-aged junior law partner that you are, and you think of those mortgage payments, health insurance, and grocery bills. Suddenly, reality kicks in. It's tough. I know it."

"You don't seem very sympathetic," Peter complained.

"It doesn't take both of us to feel sorry for you. You're doing a great job of it by yourself." Doc smiled sadly. "But you'll get over it. Life goes on. Some people are cut out for politics. Most people aren't. Maybe we're finding out just in time that you're really one of the lucky majority; try not to dwell on what might have been."

Peter went through the motions of eating, but later had no recollection of it. Lunch was almost over when he remembered. "I don't imagine you're still interested in coming to dinner?" Peter asked tentatively.

"Of course I am," Doc said. "I never pass up a home-cooked meal. I wasn't sure you were still interested in having me."

"How about Friday evening, say 7:30 or so?"

"Splendid," the white haired old man said. "I'm looking forward to it. In the meanwhile, take care of yourself, and for God's sake, stay out of ambushes!"

Peter smiled. "I'll try my damnest," he said as they shook hands and parted.

A phone message from Gordon was waiting for Peter when he returned, but before he could dial the number, Connie Marco, the next door neighbor and fellow junior partner from whom he had borrowed the paper, tapped softly on his door frame. "Got a minute?" she asked.

Peter put the phone down. "Sure," he said. "Come to get your paper back?"

Connie laughed. "Among other things. Mind if I close the door?"

"Be my guest." Peter was surprised when he realized, watching her gracefully turn to shut the door and then sit, that he was mildly aroused by the delicate curve of her breast and a glimpse of her stockinged thigh. This was the first time in their three year association that he had seen her in a sexual light.

Peter had always admired her trim figure and wholesome good looks, but he had learned long ago that it was folly to dip his pen in the company inkwell, and accordingly had trained himself to regard his female colleagues as the sisters he never had.

He wondered whimsically what this sudden erogenous interest in Connie meant. Was he, he wondered, like a dying pine tree, suddenly obeying a basic law of nature by pouring his remaining resources into a blind, instinctive effort to reproduce himself?

Connie sat stiffly in his guest chair. "I don't know how to be tactful, so here goes: Did you get fired?"

Peter smiled. "No, why? Did you want my office?"

Her handsome features flushed. When Peter saw the tension with which she gripped her chair's arm rests, he was surprised. It wasn't often, he thought, that you'd see an experienced litigator, a middle-aged woman with two grown sons, blush and act like a school girl.

"Look," he said hastily, trying to relieve her obvious embarrassment, "I was only kidding. Marty gave me a royal chewing, and gave me an `or else!' ultimatum, but that was all it amounted to."

Strangely, instead of the relieved expression Peter expected, she seemed disappointed.

"Hey," he said, "when you heard the good news, I didn't expect you to dance on my desk, but neither did I think you would burst into tears. Are you that anxious to get rid of me? What did I ever do to you?"

She shook her head. "No, you don't understand. Let me explain," she said. "When I saw that article in the paper this morning, I guess I thought you'd be cleaning out your desk by this time. I know it's selfish of me, but hear me out.

"Almost from the day I came here, I've been looking for a way out. This firm has the top billings in the city, perhaps in the state. However, it is also the city's most conservative firm, and although I've grown professionally here, and have had opportunities I could never have found elsewhere, let's be honest about it. I'm the token female. I'm sure the Nineteenth Amendment, which gave women the vote, is still regarded by some of the senior partners as a tragic mistake.

"I've read some of your briefs," she continued, "and I admire your scholarship and the skill with which you develop your arguments. In a word, I think you'd make a terrific partner. If you had been fired, I was going to make you a proposition."

It was Peter's turn to flush, and he felt his cheeks redden. "Well, thank you very much," he said awkwardly, trying to conceal his embarrassment. He added, "Is that what you meant this morning when I came to borrow your paper and you said something about an application?"

Again, Connie blushed, this time even more brightly. Her hands nervously clutched each other. Eyes averted, she said in tones so low that Peter had difficulty understanding her, "No. As a single parent, I was caught up in the conceptual possibilities of recreating my family."

Peter was surprised and mildly shocked. "With us?"

"Not necessarily," she said quickly. "Give me my paper. I've got to go."

She stood, but seemed reluctant to leave. Peter walked around his desk and held out her paper. Ignoring it, she leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek, then just as quickly turned to the door. "Remember what I said." She was gone.

Peter sat. Things were happening much too fast.

Again, he dialed Bowker's number. This time, the old man answered. After complimenting him on the thoroughness of his survey, Peter asked his opinion about cleaning the fuel tanks.

"I ran the engine for a couple of hours," the surveyor said, "and checked the fuel filter afterwards. No water in the settling bowl, and no algae in the filter."

That was good, Peter thought. They could forget cleaning the fuel. Peter asked if he would find a carpenter and a mechanic, and put them to work. Bowker said he'd take care of it, and Peter promised to put another check in the mail immediately.

Then he called Gordon's office. This time his secretary answered. "He's in a meeting," she said, "but he told me to get him out if you called."

In a moment, Gordon's voice asked, "How'd it go?"

"My boss carved a new asshole for me," Peter said.

"Anne will be pleased to hear that," Gordon said dryly. "Are you still working there?"

"So far, but I don't think the heavy hitters have been heard from yet."

"What do you mean?"

Then Peter described his lunch with Doc Porter. "He thinks some of the party faithful may seriously object to being compared with Oliver Cromwell," he said.

"But you said it was this Barney somebody or other who had said it . . ."

"It doesn't matter," Peter said. "I was at the table when the fateful words were uttered."

"You're letting your imagination run away with you."

"I sure hope so. You know what my overhead is."

"Indeed. I take it you haven't said anything of this to Marge?"

"No"

"Let me know how she takes it."

"You'll be the first to know. By the way, I got hold of Bowker. He's going to take care of the carpenter and the mechanic."

"I can't wait to see her," Gordon said just before they hung up. Peter wasn't sure whether Gordon was referring to Marge or Love Boat II.

For the first time, Gordon's earlier question caused Peter to wonder just how Marge would react to the strange gospel he had found himself preaching. He felt fairly certain, however, that she would not be pleased when he told her how his ideas were being received by his senior partners. In this, he was to be very surprised.

That evening after supper, instead of turning on the TV as he usually did, he turned to Marge and said, "Sweetheart, I've gotten myself in hot water down at the firm, and I think you ought to know about it."

She gave him a long, level look and said, "I know. I wondered if you were going to tell me."

"How in the world . . .?"

Marge smiled sadly. "Mr. Robbins called half an hour ago," she said. "He wanted to make sure you didn't do something foolish like going to any more meetings with that Capitol Hill crowd."

Peter winced inwardly. Aloud, he said, "Honey, it's like I said the other day; I don't mean to keep you in the dark or try to hide things. It's just that things are happening so fast that I'm beginning to lose track."

Although Marge knew Peter was courting the gay community, he doubted whether she fully understood why. Therefore, he explained the significance of Jim Tolliver's unexpected death, and why Doc Porter had encouraged him to reach out to the gay community. She made a face when she heard the old man's name.

Then Peter told her about his initial meeting with Barney Lansing. "You know how I sometimes think aloud; when I have no idea what I'm going to say until I hear myself saying it?"

Peter had discovered this about himself in law school. "Sometimes, it's embarrassing; not that I necessarily say the wrong thing, but sometimes my ideas could stand a little refining before I go public with them. This was such a time."

Then he recounted his conversation with Lansing to the best of his recollection. "There was a further evolution of these basic ideas when I followed his suggestion, and met with Ted Mining in Portage Bay," he added.

"Then, when I went to the coffee house Saturday night, that's when the shit really hit the fan."

Marge's eyes never left his face. "Now what?" she asked.

"I don't know," Peter said.

"How did Mr. Robbins take it? Not well, I imagine," she added.

"I'd say that is a substantial understatement."

"Well, what can he do?"

"He can always fire me. I don't think it's come to that, unless, of course, the long knives are after me. If they are, then there's no hope, no matter what I do."

Then Peter detailed the day's events, mentioning Gordon's morning telephone call, but omitting any mention of Anne's reaction. Then he described the meeting with the partners, his lunch with Doc Porter, and the curious conversation he had with Connie Marco. "All in all," he concluded, "this has been a hell of a day."

Marge smiled for the first time. "Better be careful, lover. Sounds as if she's got the hots for you. Or maybe she's the ghoul who feasts on the dead.

"After all that has happened to you as a result of following his advice, I'm surprised your precious Doc Harper has the guts to face me," she added.

"But tell me more about your revealed wisdom. I guess it's really true; the wife is always the last to know," she added with a sad little smile.

"I know," Peter said. "I'm really sorry that I haven't done a better job of keeping you up to date. It's just that things have been happening so fast . . ." He then launched into what was fast becoming a standard spiel; beginning with the deterioration of the multigenerational blood family, and the present sad state of society, for which he held that deterioration at least partly responsible. Peter then described what he now called the `family' corporation.

"Is that all? You were going to get fired for that?" she asked incredulously.

Peter nodded.

"When I read the account of your meeting in the paper this morning, I thought you were advocating a free love cult or something," she said. "Not that I would necessarily oppose it," she added with a mocking little smile, "but I thought you were nuts for going public."

"Apparently that's what others have read as well," Peter said. "All except the Grand Old Party, that is. Apparently the old boys in the club chairs were distressed by Lansing's comparison of Gingrich and Dick Armey to Cromwell. Personally, I'm inclined to think Barney Lansing's comparison was frighteningly apt."

"What are you going to do now?" Marge asked.

"What can I do? I certainly can't afford to lose my job. I'll have to recant my heresies, plead temporary insanity, throw myself on the senior's mercy and ask for a reduction in my salary."

"No, I mean really?"

"Sweetheart, that is `really'. All except the part about the salary cut, I suppose. We've got to be realistic. With our overhead, Timmy's tuition and the taxes on this house, I have no choice. If I were 20 years younger, I might take Connie up on her offer. But I'm not 20 years younger. However, the ideas are out there and maybe someone else will pick up the ball and run with it. I hope so."

Marge threw her arms around Peter's neck, and kissed him warmly on the mouth. "That's what I love about you the most, you big lug," she said. "You're as idealistic as any 20 year old. I don't know how you've managed, all these years, to cling to your personal Holy Grail, but you have. Don't ever let it go!"

That night, Marge and Peter celebrated each other in the best way possible. He later thought of it as one of the warmest, most loving experiences he had ever enjoyed.

The other shoe dropped on Friday morning when the new edition of Seattle Alternatives hit the newsstands.

Mr. Robbins again summoned Peter to his office. This time, however, they were alone. Instead of indulging his usual theatrics, Robbins had a subdued, almost apologetic mien. "Please sit down, Peter," he said.

"Have you seen your latest publicity?"

Peter shook his head and looked puzzled.

Mr. Robbins handed him a tabloid newspaper. Peter had forgotten Barney Lansing's promise of an editorial, but a banner headline on the first page screamed ESTABLISHMENT SUPPORTS GAY WEDDINGS. Peter's name was next. The firm was identified in bold type. A lengthy synopsis of the rationale for and explanation of Peter's family corporation followed.

"I realize, Peter, that you're largely the victim of circumstances," Robbins said sadly, "but Lansing has cut you out of the herd. Surely you can see that it would be impossible, after this, for us to keep you on.

"I had thought, frankly, that we were weathering the Post Intelligencer piece nicely. In the past day or two, I've received only two calls from corporate clients threatening to withdraw their patronage. But this will bring a firestorm, especially if, as seems likely, the wire services pick it up. It will be essential that I'm able to report that you are no longer with the firm.

"However, I don't intend to be mean about this. You may take 10 days to close your files and clear your desk. I know I'll get some heat from the seniors about this, but until this incident, your work really has been exemplary, and I want to give you a six month termination stipend partly in appreciation, partly because I think it's the fair thing to do, and partly, frankly, to purchase your good will and avoid future unpleasantness."

He stood up. Peter couldn't remember ever seeing him stand before, and he was surprised to see how short Mr. Robbins was. The old man extended his hand. "I'm very sorry about this," he said formally, "and I hope you bear no ill feelings. I wish you well in the future."

Peter felt numb. He was out of a job for the first time since leaving law school.