In Short Measures

by Michael Ruhlman

  “Oh God,” she said stroking her torso with her fingertips. “I still feel like I’m coming. It’s like a tide going out, so slow.” Her hand wandered lazily to his body, and she felt him and said, “Oh, my God, I thought you had.”

  “I was too busy watching. You were so amazing.”

  “You were amazing. God, that was one of the best ever.” She turned to him, smiled gamely.

  Again she sensed his surprise in her unprecedented frankness. So she said, “Move over.” And he did, and she rolled over and leaned on her elbows to raise her ass high. “I’m presenting.”

  “What?”

  “Like a chimp, in the primate world, like a chimp in heat.” She smiled at him and said, “You like it this way, no?”

  “All guys do.”

  “I think I read that, too,” she said. And now she worked every bit as hard, banging her small firm ass against his pelvis, until he asked without stopping, “Do you like this?”

  “Of course. You feel good in me.” She pushed hard back against him and harder. “We need to do it this way more.”

  He dismounted and stepped off the bed, pulled her to her side and entered this way, as she lay on her side, knees up, slightly parted so that she could touch herself and she smiled and moaned and said, “Now this is comfortable. You can do this all night.”

  But he could not, and he pushed her farther onto the bed and onto her back, climaxing in what had been their routine for so long, but now so powerfully inside her that she came a second time. He rolled off her, onto his back, both of them wet with sweat, he breathing heavily, neither speaking and both enjoying the postcoital exhaustion, the sheer spentness, the happy nothingness, just breathing and beating hearts.

  “That was amazing,” she said. “I have never come twice. Or maybe I just never stopped till the end.”

  He smiled at the ceiling, an easy, exhausted, pleased smile.

  She reached for his hand. After many minutes passed, and the spentness gave way to the facts of their situation, she said, “Wow. During that whole time, I didn’t think about it once. It was as if it wasn’t there.”

  “Mmm,” he said. “You’re right.” His breathing had slowed. “Regrettable that we can’t have sex every minute of our life for the next—”

  And he stopped.

  “Let’s not talk about it,” she said to the ceiling. “I’m just going to think about your fucking me for as long as I can.” And she did, drifting off thinking of the sex they’d just had—the first really good sex they’d had in a long, long time.

  *

  The next day, the one that followed the service for Sarah Childress, an attorney for the insurance company, Buck Heard, called to set up a meeting for the following week. Frank had taken the call and explained that he didn’t think there was going to be a civil trial, given what the Klum sister said.

  The attorney had chuckled with such derision that Frank was put off by the man. He was on speaker and Karen sat across from Frank at the kitchen table, and they both looked away from the phone on the table to each other.

  “Look,” Frank explained. “They’re obviously very religious and flat-out said it would be wrong to profit from a death.”

  “Give ’em some time, and let’s plan to meet first thing next week after the arraignment. Civil will happen after criminal, but I’ll need to start preparing.”

  “Okay, but I’m telling—”

  “Mr. Markstrom,” Buck Heard broke in. “This is what I do.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Can you listen to me for a minute? The victim’s family always says that or feels similarly. And religion has nothing to do with anything once money enters the picture. What happens is the personal injury lawyers invariably court them. First they explain that the insurance company pays, not actual people, so they shouldn’t feel guilty about it. Once they remove guilt, they start talking cash dollars, and the idea of one million guilt-free dollars, for no upfront expenditure, no risk, is too difficult for most people to turn down.” When Frank did not respond, Mr. Heard knew he had convinced Frank, and so offered, “It’s not impossible that they won’t litigate, it’s just extremely rare.”

  This took the air out of the previous day’s optimism, but Karen was able to calm Frank by convincing him that a civil suit wasn’t what they were worried about, because the insurance company would pay for it—she didn’t remind him that they lacked an umbrella policy. Provided the criminal hearing went as they were trying to orchestrate it, everything would be okay. She asked him to focus on tomorrow and said that they would know more tomorrow. And they did.

  Sharon Talbott met them outside the courtroom as planned and led them inside, where a domestic violence hearing was underway. They sat at the back of the courtroom. Karen whispered to Sharon, “There’s the woman’s sister with her husband.” Frank hadn’t noticed as there were a scattering of people, in all manner of attire, from sweatpants to suits. Sure enough, there were Shirley and Bob Klum, seated by themselves on the other side of the room. While they waited, Officer Williams appeared along with Silent Curt, who was wearing that same black trench coat. They found seats in the second row.

  When they were called, Sharon said, “This shouldn’t take long.”

  The judge—a woman, Karen was comforted to see—named the case even before Karen and Sharon had taken their seats at the defendant’s table. The judge then asked, “Is anyone from the victim’s family here?”

  All looked as Shirley Klum raised her hand.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” the judge said.

  Shirley Klum nodded.

  The judge said, “Counsel for the city is present and,” she searched through some papers, tilted her head back to see through her readers. “And Officer Fred Williams?” The judge looked up.

  “Here, Your Honor.” Karen had turned in time to see Williams lower his hand. He did not look at her. When her eyes moved to Silent Curt, she found him staring with dead eyes at her and she quickly turned around.

  “The court notes that the arresting officer is present,” the judge said. Last she asked, “Karen Markstrom?”

  “Here, Your Honor,” she said, raising her hand. Sharon touched Karen’s elbow as she stood and Karen followed.

  “Mrs. Markstrom, you are charged with negligent vehicular manslaughter. How do you plead?”

  “My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor.”

  “So noted,” the judge said. “Does your client have anything she’d like to say?”

  “No, Your Honor, not beyond contrition.”

  The judge removed her readers to look at Karen. Karen bowed her head and closed her eyes.

  The judge put her readers back on, glanced at papers, and said. “I’ve read the report. The defendant has shown contrition. I’m setting a trial date for …” and she drew a finger down a scheduling book, “… three weeks from today, 9 a.m.” She looked up. “Defendant is released on her own recognizance.” The judge gave the gavel a quick thwack and turned to the next case.

  Sharon turned to Karen. “See? Quick.” And she moved to lead Karen out of the courtroom. “I’ve still got some work to do, but the worst-case scenario at this time three weeks from today is that same judge and opposing counsel will accept your no contest plea, and I don’t see why they wouldn’t.”

  Sharon looked over at the Klums, who were speaking to two men in business suits. “You’ve got civil representation, I trust?”

  “Yes, we do,” Frank said.

  “They’re why you need it,” Sharon said.

  “Lawyers?”

  “Plaintiff lawyers, jackals,” she said. Still looking, Sharon paused and squinted and, to herself, said, “That’s odd.”

  Karen, hyperalert throughout, said, “What’s odd?”

  Frank had left his seat and met them in aisle. He hugged her and the three left the courtroom.

  “What was odd?” Karen asked again.

  “The attorney who recommended me to you, isn’t he a person
al friend of yours?”

  “Yes, why?” Karen asked.

  “That was his partner in there, with the others, talking to the victim’s sister.” The three kept walking, but Karen and Frank didn’t speak. Sharon said, “Hm. Business is business, I guess. Lovely world, eh?”

  They reached the front doors of City Hall, all donning coats, though the weather had warmed to the point that the parking lot was now empty of snow, its blacktop dry. Sharon said, “I’ll be in touch. I’ll keep pleading down as far as I can, and if all goes as I suspect, I won’t need to see you until three weeks from today.”

  Frank and Karen thanked her, shook her hand, walked to their car, and did not speak until they were safely in their own kitchen.

  *

  “He wouldn’t possibly do this.”

  “How do you know, Frank? What do you know about Dan?”

  Frank paced. “I know that he’s friends with Grant, and Grant wouldn’t be friends with him if he were evil.”

  “Even if he sees a huge settlement? Even if he has potentially compromising information that could quintuple the payoff?”

  “I just can’t believe it.” Frank took off his suit jacket and put it over the chair at the kitchen island. Loosened his tie. “Maybe Sharon was right, that this is just business. He told his partner about it and the partner simply sees it as an opportunity to get the insurance money. It’s what they do. They’ll get as much money out of the insurance as they can based on a no contest plea.”

  “Yeah, well, what if they can get more if they investigate? People do anything for money, especially those kinds of people. What if they convince the police investigators to look into it? They go back to Len and Melissa, Williams remembers that I adjusted the seat, they talk to Grant and Walter and Rob and John, all the people you were drinking with that night when you were supposed to be at the party!”

  “They didn’t arrest me, and it’s all speculative. I picked you up and we went to the party.”

  “That’s not what I told the police, Frank. What happened was the three of us went to the party together and I drove us all home in a blizzard.”

  Frank looked down, as much to admit she was right.

  “Frank, they tested you at the scene. You were over the limit.”

  “It won’t be admissible.”

  “Frank!” she shouted. “We’ve both lied! Admissible won’t matter! Our story will not hold together. We’ve lied. To cover up what will now be changed to homicide and obstruction of justice.”

  “What do we do?” he asked.

  Karen kicked off her shoes and dropped two inches. She removed her suit jacket and threw it over Frank’s jacket. She went to the liquor cabinet and poured three fingers of vodka into a tumbler. She headed for the refrigerator but stopped, dispensing the notion of ice as beside the point, and took the drink in two swallows. She set the glass on the island, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She held the narrow end of the kitchen island with both hands, spread out to either corner, dipped down as if stretching her calf muscles, her long brown and blonde hair, with new thick streaks of gray, hiding her face. After many silent moments, she stood and raked her fingers through her hair, pulling it back. She took a deep breath, arched her back.

  “We’re not going to do anything.”

  Frank was quiet.

  “As far as anyone is concerned, the current story is all that has happened and anything we do that does not jibe with that puts us at risk. There’s nothing more we can do. Monday we’ll know the lay of the land. Until then, we stick with the plan. We’re not hiding. We have nothing to fear, we need change nothing. I am responsible for a horrible accident, and I will answer for it according to the law in three weeks. But I’m not going into hiding. In fact, we’re going out tonight.”

  “Going out?”

  “Yes. Nick, too. We’ll go to Lola’s.”

  “It’ll be crowded.”

  “Exactly. And New Year’s Day, we’re going to Grant’s. Call him and tell him that we changed our minds and would like to come if we’re still invited.”

  *

  Grant and Becky Alders’ New Year’s Day party had become every bit the annual tradition that Frank’s boys’ night holiday dinner and the Thompsons’ open house were. Grant and Becky always made sure they got the day off at The Plain Dealer by working New Year’s Eve; they had two kids, a senior and sophomore in high school. They had renovated a big brick house in one of the older neighborhoods, a wreck of a once-grand house that was now still ramshackle but in a lavish kind of way, with a new expanded kitchen, new baths, refinished hardwood floors.

  Grant loved to cook and he worked to outdo himself; the food was reason alone to show up, even if it happened to be inconvenient or you didn’t want to go. There was no better way to spend the do-nothing day that New Year’s Day was, especially if you, like Frank and Karen, had no interest in college football. Grant and Becky invited forty or so friends, a little less than half declining due to holiday travel, so it was usually a perfectly sized crowd, not too intimate that you tired of the company. (The party began at one, and often the final guests were still playing pool on the third floor at eight or nine, after the Rose Bowl had concluded and Grant had created a separate distinct supper from the buffet leftovers and salad.)

  Karen succeeded in convincing Frank that this was the perfect vehicle to spread their story—a brilliant device to make their story known to all their friends, a story their friends would surely repeat to friends of friends. So, as instructed, Frank emailed Grant the request to change their RSVP to an affirmative. Grant emailed back that he was glad and thought it a restorative thing to do. Frank responded with a request: would Grant mind sending out an email with the complete story to all those coming? Everyone in this gossipy social set would be dying to know what the story really was; surely rumors were already spreading. Frank didn’t want any speculation whatsoever. He told Grant the story that Karen had told Anne Sutton, feeling certain no one would go to the trouble of requesting the police report; he relayed that they had attended the service of the woman, Sarah Childress, fifty-two years old, and met the sister, the only surviving family Ms. Childress had. He told Grant that the arraignment had taken place this afternoon, told him exactly what Karen was charged with, what she’d pleaded, and that a trial had been scheduled for the third week in January; Karen would plead no contest, and their attorney was 95 percent confident that if Karen received any jail time, it would be suspended.

  He concluded by asking Grant to convey that they were grateful for the well wishes of friends in the midst of this tragedy, but they preferred not to talk about the accident and were offering this information simply to assuage their friends’ concern. (“I.e., satisfy their morbid curiosity,” Karen said, reading over Frank’s shoulder as he typed.) They respectfully asked that the event stay out of conversation for the day.

  *

  “Frank!” Grant said on greeting them at the door, his dark hair looking especially bushy. The big mastiff called Ox pounded ecstatic figure eights around the three of them. Frank and Grant hugged. Becky, too, ever flushed and with her frizzy reddish-blond hair pulled into a ponytail, greeted them with the same natural warmth as ever.

  “Karen,” Grant said, earnestly. And he hugged her, two seconds longer than he normally would have. Then Becky. This continued over the next hour. The men acted as though they didn’t know a single thing was amiss. The women didn’t hide it so well and gave Karen long, emotive hugs. But no one said a word, and after the shock waves of the elephant’s arrival, all was calm. “You know where the bar is,” Grant had said. “I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. I’ll have the food out in thirty minutes.”

  “Can I help?” Frank asked.

  “Actually, can you chop some parsley for me? The kitchen is mobbed as usual, but no one’s doing anything.”

  Grant had created a Southern feast: butter-poached shrimp with cheddar grits, hoppin’ John, eggs he’d soft-boiled sous vide so they’d s
lip right out of the shells into the grits, sausage, thick-cut chewy bacon.

  As Frank transferred the chopped parsley to a large ramekin, he heard, “I know, right?!” It was, unmistakably, the booming voice of Dan Jeffries as he handed his coat to Becky. The same heavy work coat, Frank noticed, that he’d worn a week ago. A few of the boys wore sports jackets, but most knew how casual Grant and Becky kept things.

  “Jeffries is here,” Frank said to Grant, just as Karen arrived in the kitchen with a glass of soda water and lime. “I’ve never seen him here before.”

  “No, he usually heads to Palm Beach with Rachel and the kids, but he claimed to have work.”

  “What do you mean ‘claimed’?”

  “He can’t stand Rachel’s mom. My guess is he told Rachel enough was enough and he wasn’t going to put up with her society bullshit anymore or spend a week on tenterhooks worrying that the mother-in-law will get bent out of shape when one of the kids knocks over a Fabergé egg or sits in an upholstered chair in a wet bathing suit.”

  Grant removed a block of yellow cheddar from its plastic wrap and grated it onto a wooden cutting board.

  Frank and Karen watched Dan lumber into the dining room, shaking hands in greeting and nodding and smiling, hunching down to hear and converse as he was so tall. Karen could see, with those eyes and dark curly hair and engaging and powerful disposition, why women found him attractive.

  “You’re friends with him,” Frank said. “Good guy?”

  “Yeah.” Grant paused. “Definitely an acquired taste. Crazy bastard. But, yeah, a good guy. Smart.”

  “What about his work?”

  “It’s a living. I don’t judge. He’s a good family man, and Rachel is hilarious. And he’s actually a really talented furniture maker. Hobbyist, but some of the stuff he builds is incredible. So, yeah, very interesting guy, never would have thought.”