In Short Measures

by Michael Ruhlman

  *

  “How was your trip, hon?” Martha said, taking his jacket to hang up and setting his carry-on by the basement, as she knew it would be filled only with laundry.

  “Productive.”

  “Good,” she said and kissed him and hugged him tightly. “I missed you. It gets so lonely at night once the kids are in bed.”

  He stared at her warm brown eyes and lovely plump cheeks and stroked her short, glossy brown hair. “It’s so good to be home,” he said to her and kissed her forehead. And he gave her another protracted hug, so soothing did the safety of home feel. Such relief had rarely overcome him this way on his return.

  He looked at the kitchen clock. Ten. Will would be asleep, but Susan might still be awake.

  “Can I reheat some pasta for you? Or did you eat at the airport? I saved the news so we could watch together.”

  “That’s so sweet of you. And yes, some pasta would be perfect. I’m going to say hello to Susan.”

  “Careful,” Martha said.

  Ever since Susan had turned eleven, the whole tone of the house had changed with her new volatility. She was a straight-A student, he adored her friends, but she’d begun the years-long march toward independence from her parents. A necessity, but he missed the sweet girl who would run to him and leap into his arms when he returned after a trip.

  He knocked on her door. Nothing. He knocked again.

  “What?!” came the reply.

  He entered her room.

  “I just wanted to say hello, I’m home.”

  “Oh,” she said, removing an earbud. “I thought it was Mom.” She actually stood to hug him, and he was grateful. “Hi, Dad. I’m glad you’re back.”

  He kissed her crown, she returned to her bed and her music on the iPod they’d given her for Christmas. “Don’t stay up too late,” he said. When he received no response, he quietly closed her door.

  He peeked in on Will, so beautiful in that innocent sleep, already taking on Martha’s dark good looks.

  After he’d eaten and they’d watched the news, he and Martha sat in the clean kitchen talking until Martha said, “Scott.”

  He looked at her.

  “I told you it was boring, but I’m not going to say even that if you’re not going to listen.”

  “I’m sorry, I drifted. I’m just tired from the trip.”

  Martha stood abruptly and said, “I’m going to bed.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  After he’d checked the doors to be sure they were locked and turned off the downstairs lights, he found Martha in her bathrobe, brushing her hair before the bathroom mirror. He squeezed her hips, kissed her neck, and slid his hand inside her robe to discover she wasn’t in the customary nightgown.

  “Mm,” he said into her neck.

  She tilted her head to offer more neck.

  “Let me wash the travel off, okay?” he said.

  When he’d showered, combed his hair, and brushed his teeth, he walked to the bedroom, let the towel fall to his feet, and climbed into bed.

  The brevity of their lovemaking did bear noting—they’d become efficient at it after all these years—but the quietness … Ever since Susan was Will’s age, they’d begun to make love so that they wouldn’t be heard. They’d become so adept, one might not have known the two were even having sex at all, so silent and shortened the actions had become.

  *

  Martha fell quickly asleep but Scott lay on his back thinking of Sally—and the sex they’d had for two full semesters. How could he have known, age twenty, that this would be the best, most unencumbered, and delightful sex he would ever have? One can’t know these things. But he should have known, should have seen it. By the time they’d reached Paris … how at ease and open she was.

  And the blow jobs. Sally gave amazing blow jobs, and she knew it. Once, she’d stopped midway and looked at him. Propped on a pillow, he opened his eyes to look at her—why had she stopped?

  She said, “Do you ever wonder how you stack up?”

  “Stack up?”

  “Yeah, size-wise. Don’t all guys?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Do you want to know?”

  “Um, okay.”

  “You’re a little bigger.” But then she said, “No, you’re normal. But very pretty.”

  “You could have stopped after the first sentence.”

  “Aww,” Sally said, staring at it. “I’ve let all the air out.”

  Scott sighed but smiled.

  “Don’t worry, I can patch this up,” she said, and as always she was good to her word.

  Absolutely the best blow jobs in the world, Scott thought as he turned to his side, back toward Martha, and tucked into a pillow.

  *

  Scott had become so distracted by his brief visit with Sally that he found it hard to focus on his article. Seeing her had opened the floodgates from those happy days. He thought perhaps if he made a time line of their connections, the act would somehow allow him to close the drawer for now on Sally. The magical year abroad on the western coast of England had begun in the fall of 1983, when Scott and Sally were both twenty. They parted in Paris the following July, having spent ten solid months together.

  They went their separate ways. He graduated from Princeton and she from Rutgers in 1985, both with degrees in literature. Scott secured a job at a small newspaper in St. Petersburg, Florida. He had traveled once to New York City. Having been in touch occasionally by mail after college, they met and had a good time reminiscing. Two years later, he’d introduced Martha, a fellow reporter and by then fiancée, to Sally. Scott and Martha were in New York on vacation from hot Florida. Scott arranged to have dinner with Sally in an inexpensive tavern near NYU. Martha and Sally got on well, which didn’t surprise him, as you had to be seriously deficient for Sally not to find something amusing in a person. She made friends with most everyone. And Martha for her part was smart and a very good reporter.

  That would have been 1989. He wouldn’t see Sally again until six or seven years later. Was that it? Scott flipped the pages of a legal pad to a fresh page, past the Food Network notes, to write down the dates. Yes, it was 1996, the year he and Martha and one-year-old Susan had lived in the Hudson Valley, in Rhinebeck, to write the book on the Hudson River, which he always likened to a biography of the Hudson. He had contacted Sally, who by then had married Edward. Why didn’t he drive down, she asked, even spend the night with them if he didn’t mind the couch? Martha was happy to remain behind. She had no interest in bringing a baby into the city or imposing a family of three on the newlyweds.

  *

  It had been a good visit at first. Scott found a parking spot around the corner from Sally and Edward’s one-bedroom in the financial district, but he couldn’t tell if it was a legal spot. It was his first time parking in the city and even the drive in, all the way down the West Side Highway, then navigating the downtown streets at rush hour, rattled him. He must have spent twenty minutes circling, trying to make sense of the street parking signs, before giving up and deciding to risk it.

  The doorman of Sally’s building sent him to the eighth floor. He walked the long, beige corridor to 8H and pressed the bell. Sally opened the door and smiled at him as if he were the most hilarious sight in the world. “Scott! I can’t believe it!”

  “We’ve been planning this for a week. You were expecting me, yes?”

  “But you’re here!” She opened her arms wide and he walked into her embrace.

  When they released each other he said, “You cut your hair!”

  Sally wrinkled her nose and said, “Yeah. What do you think?”

  “I like it,” he said, one moment too late. The long ropes of blonde and golden brown hair had become a sort of professional do, cut above the shoulder.

  “Don’t lie, I can tell.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “I don’t like it either.” She stepped into the kitchen and stirred onions in a pot. “I thought it would be more appr
opriate given the socializing Edward has to do as a wealth management relationship facilitator.” What this was, Scott had no idea, but it sounded too boring even to ask about. “It’s a lot easier to take care of, I’ll say that. And it’ll grow.”

  “Edward,” she called out. “Scott’s here.” To Scott, she said, “He just got home from work, changing. Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Edward Adams stepped into the hallway pressing the knot of a skinny black tie into his collar. He wore a hound’s-tooth checked jacket, white shirt, and narrow-legged dark trousers short enough to reveal an inch of bare ankle above leather loafers.

  “Edward,” Scott said, “Good to finally meet you.”

  Edward shook his hand, gave Scott a small bow of the head, and said, “How do you do?”

  “I’m well, thanks, but sorry I didn’t even give you time to change.”

  Edward’s brow furrowed, heavy eyebrows above Clark Kent glasses, and he said, “But you did.”

  Sally said, “The suit comes off. This is cocktail attire.”

  “Then I’m underdressed, forgive me.” He looked at his jeans, sneakers, and a white button-down, non-iron shirt.

  “Don’t be silly,” Edward said. “Whatever you’re comfortable in. This is what I’m comfortable in.” He cleared his throat and pushed his dark frames up onto the bridge of his nose. He had short, dark hair and brown eyes, and a dark brown mole above his right eyebrow. Despite the sartorial finery, or perhaps because of it, he seemed to Scott the sort who would have been picked on at school for his slight frame and odd demeanor. He didn’t seem big enough to Scott to support the ebullient spirit of Sally.

  Sally left the kitchen and gave Edward a kiss. “I forgot to get cheese and crackers, can you run across the street?”

  “No cheese?” he asked

  “I forgot!”

  “Nuts?”

  “Nope.”

  “How can we be out of nuts?”

  “One of the great imponderables, Edward. How will we move forward? But forward we must.”

  Edward sighed and retrieved his wallet from the ledge above the kitchen counter, which opened onto the small living room/dining area.

  “Scott, go with him.” Sally left the kitchen to speak into his ear. “Keep him focused. He gets distracted.”

  “I can hear you, you know,” Edward said, sounding hurt.

  She flapped her hands up at the both of them, shooing them. “Both of you, go. I have cutting and chopping and stirring to do, then I can feel free to talk.”

  *

  The grocery store was large and so brightly lit as to call attention to the scuffed and dirty floors. Edward retrieved a basket. Scott followed him to the dairy section, where Edward chose a quart of half-and-half. “Sally always forgets.” Edward next found the snack aisle and put Planters cocktail peanuts and Blue Diamond smoked almonds in the basket and headed toward the cheese. Scott didn’t notice a trace of distraction, only efficiency. On to the cheese, which he stood before, scanning the selection.

  “I like St. André. Is that all right with you?”

  Scott had never heard of St. André. “I’m sure it will be delightful.”

  “It is,” Edward said. “It is delightful. Now, crackers, and that should do it.”

  He brought Scott to the shelves filled with crackers. “This is where I have a problem,” Edward said. “She did say crackers as well as cheese, did she not?”

  “She did.”

  “You see, I don’t normally do the crackers. Crackers are Sally’s purview.”

  “Perhaps I can help,” Scott scanned perhaps twenty feet of shelf space given over to crackers and failed to help.

  “The mind boggles,” Edward said.

  Scott paused to think. “Okay, we’re in the Ritz and Triscuit section. Does Sally buy those?”

  “I don’t think so. I believe she bought Wheat Thins once, and she was surprised at how small they were.” Edward lifted a box of Wheat Thins from the shelf. “She wondered if they were made by elves.”

  Scott said, “Made by elves for elves, I believe.”

  Edward nodded seriously, said, “That’s something Sally would say,” and put the box back.

  “Triscuits are good,” Scott said.

  “They are, but she always gets something thinner and smoother.”

  “Perhaps this is why they make Triscuit Thin Crisps,” Scott said, pointing.

  Edward held out his hands. His fingers were slender, pale, and delicate. “Exactly!” he exclaimed. “How to make a decision?”

  “We could just buy Cheese Nips, two in one, and put the St. André back.”

  Edward nodded, apparently thinking the joke was a suggestion, but pursed his lips. “Sally doesn’t eat orange food.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’m working on it.”

  “Carrots?”

  “Nope.”

  “Lobster?”

  “If it’s out of the shell.”

  “How about a peach?”

  “I’ve never seen her eat a peach. She does like the album though.”

  Scott chuckled. “Yes, we used to listen to that in England. I’m glad she still does.”

  “We’ve only been married a year, so perhaps I will see her eat a peach one day. I’ll let you know. Do you eat peaches?”

  “Too afraid,” Scott said.

  Edward looked at Scott, perplexed, and said, “Hm,” in a way that indicated he’d have to think more on this, but that it wasn’t all that uncommon. Sally would have understood and laughed. Edward slipped the basket over his arm, and walked further down the aisle. “This is hopeful,” he said.

  These shelves of crackers seemed much more cheese-friendly to Scott as well.

  “Here we go,” Edward said. “This is what my mom buys, these will work.” He lifted a box of Wellington water crackers.

  At the same moment, both Scott and Edward turned to an older woman in the aisle pushing a cart. She had stopped and had been watching them. “I just have to say,” she said, “you two are adorable.”

  Scott and Edward stared at her for a moment, then stared at each other. The woman smiled and carried on. They watched her depart, then looked back at one another.

  “Come on, darling,” Scott said. “Sally told me to keep you focused.”

  *

  Edward set the plastic bag of groceries on the counter after Sally had kissed his lips and said, “Thanks, snookums.”

  He said, “Everyone thought we were a gay couple.”

  Scott said, “One woman.”

  Sally laughed her wide-open laugh, showing her big, bright white teeth, and clapped and said, “You two would make an awesome gay couple!” She detected something in Edward’s expression. “It’s a compliment. And you two just met, so I love that you and my old pal look like a married couple. Should I be jealous?”

  “It’s not that. I think she saw me as the wife. I don’t want to be the wife.”

  Sally said, “Well, Scott does have five inches and forty pounds on you.” She patted Scott’s belly. He had gained weight when Martha became pregnant and kept it on. “Plus, the dresser of the couple is, well, you know. You are kind of natty.”

  Edward continued pouting until he had made a very large martini, straight up with a twist, for himself and Scott, and poured a glass of white wine for Sally. They all relaxed and ate nuts at a small table that folded in and out to make space. Scott made a note to remember the name of the cheese. Sally said the crackers were perfect.

  Sally’s chicken and barley soup, along with an excellent baguette, toasted and spread with garlic butter, and a spinach salad with hard-cooked egg and red onion, were lovely as was the easy, often hilarious conversation between eccentric Edward and ebullient Sally.

  But how to explain why the overnight trip ended as it had?

  Scott hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. Edward had departed the table first, at nine, saying that he
needed his sleep. He warned Scott that at 6 a.m., he’d be rattling about, making breakfast, but would try to be quiet. Scott stood and gave Edward an awkward hug. Then he and Sally stayed up for a couple more hours talking as easily as they always had, but now, both thirty-three, he spoke of the surprises of being a parent, of his work; she about the drudgery of academia and the happiness of being newly married.

  Scott said, “I’m glad to have met Edward, and I like him.”

  “He likes you, too, I can tell.”

  “And the two of you seem really happy. The way you stroked his hand at dinner was so sweet.”

  Sally grinned and said, “He’s so sweet.”

  It had been an enormously sweet, Sally-like gesture. While Edward had explained to Scott the details of pairing which clients with which money managers, she had reached for Edward’s hand, and regarded it as she stroked the backs of his pale, slender fingers, then turned it over to stroke his palm. And Edward didn’t skip a beat in the conversation, as if she did such things all the time, which she likely did.

  “When you stroked his hand I noticed he wears no ring.”

  “Doesn’t believe men should wear jewelry.”

  “Really?”

  “He doesn’t even believe in wristwatches. Those big Rolexes appall him. He carries a pocket watch.”

  “Sally, he just doesn’t seem your type at all.”

  “What’s my type?”

  “I guess I have no idea.”

  She shook her head at him.

  “So, what is it about him?”

  “I don’t know,” Sally said, looking away to think, then looked back to Scott and said, “He makes me laugh!” And then she grinned at Scott—her bright, beaming, disarming smile, all those fat, white teeth and full pink lips. “And he adores me and makes me feel safe and at home.”

  After another hour of talking, Sally stifled a yawn and said she had to sleep. She got ready for bed, then made up Scott’s bed on the couch. She gave him a long, tight hug, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “Sweet dreams. I’ll make us grits and bacon tomorrow morning.” Then she bounced off in her white terrycloth bathrobe, and he heard the bedroom door close softly. Scott tucked into the pillow, and the next thing he knew it was 5 a.m. and he felt like he was having a heart attack.