Al-Tounsi

by Anton Piatigorsky

  She arranged the crystal glasses, goblets and silver candlesticks. Preparing the table was something that they had always done together. Once the work was finished, she peeked into their bedroom. Jonathan’s short, stocky body lay on the covers, his head propped on a pillow, his silhouette illuminated by ambient light from the cracks in the blinds.

  “You all right in there?”

  “Yes.” Jonathan’s voice was just a whisper.

  “Are you just suffering in silence?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to cancel? There’s still time.”

  “Don’t cancel. You did the lamb?”

  “I did, and it’s cooking.”

  “Don’t worry, then, I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Okay,” said Sarah. “You’re certain?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She retreated into the kitchen to further bolster herself with busywork: chopping more tomatoes, plating the crostini that Jonathan had prepared earlier in the afternoon. Gradually, she relaxed, and allowed herself to consider a recent dissent, half completed, that she still had to finish. It stated that a clause in the Medical Equipment Amendments Act of 1969 should not be allowed to preempt a common-law tort suit from Michigan. Why had she been so insistent on dissenting in an other wise unanimous case? No one else on the Court had found any federalism conflicts with 21 U.S. C. § 854h(b)—neither Gideon nor Bernhard. Might her objection be at least partially rooted in her deep mistrust of the multinational corporation that had manufactured the malfunctioning medical instrument in question, a distrust based on its rank history as the inventor and producer of an intrauterine birth control device that had once upon a time resulted in the deaths of three young women and the unnecessary sterilization of another 34? If so, then her objection on federalist grounds was insincere, and didn’t fulfill her sworn oath to administer justice impartially. Sarah rearranged the crostini so that they were angled away from the center of the platter, fanning outward and spiraling like a flower. Of course it was easier to bat around legal minutiae than it was to worry about Jonathan, alone in the dark, suffering. Easier than thinking about him dying.

  The doorbell rang. “They’re he-re!” Sarah approached the entrance, conscious of the delight in her tone, that bald indicator of her relief. She would no longer be alone with her fear. She opened the door to discover Killian’s and Gloria’s beaming, round faces, wet with melted snow, and their arms bearing gifts: a bottle of Pinot Grigio, Gloria’s famous tiramisu wrapped in tinfoil, and a couple of plastic bags with ice-packed venison steaks. The unfortunate elk was shot by Killian’s son Gabriel in November, Justice Quinn said. Sarah was aware of hugging her guests without clasping them too hard. What she really wanted was to hold them tight and not let go.

  “Somehow doesn’t feel right to eat the steaks if I don’t shoot the animal myself.” Killian dropped the heavy frozen slabs in Sarah’s arms. “I miss the trip, I miss the meat—that’s my motto.”

  “Oh dear me.” Sarah held the bag away from her body while imagining the bloody deer meat within. “These must still have the bullets in them.”

  “Half of that’s ice. They were frozen so fresh you can eat them raw, if you’d like, Sarah. Like a mountain lion.”

  “Maybe I’ll just put them in the freezer.” As Sarah carried away the gift, Killian was already clutching Gloria’s puffy parka and his own cashmere trench, and his wife was opening the closet door next to her.

  Justice Quinn’s huge presence filled their apartment, and what a blessing that was. Even as Sarah fiddled around in her kitchen, her friend’s infectious boisterousness, his desire to find jokes in any sullen situation, pepped her up. “Am I to assume that rule of yours, Killian,” she called out to him, as she re-wrapped the venison in a thicker plastic bag, “means you have to go out and kill some poor cow whenever you feel the need for a steak?”

  “What, you’re going to interrogate me, counsel?” Killian and Gloria entered her kitchen now, rid of their overcoats. “I plead the Fifth.”

  “Hey, where’s Jonathan?” Gloria glanced around the kitchen, no doubt expecting to find him finishing his lamb in his stained Washington Opera apron, just like he did every year. Her supple facial muscles stretched and contorted as she panned the room, broadcasting surprise on an operatic scale.

  “He’s getting dressed.”

  Lying, even subtly, by omission, made Sarah’s sinuses pulse. It put distance between Sarah and her beloved guests, a chasm; it felt like the opposite of giving the Quinns a hug. If only she could confess the bad news and cry, and let her guests subsume her in their bountiful warmth and girth. But she couldn’t make that decision alone. It was Jonathan’s night to endure, his decision to inform or conceal.

  Gloria wore one of her matching outfits, this one in an entirely purple palate, straying toward eggplant hues at its lower end (her mauve wool tights) and toward crimson-plum ones at its upper (her plastic hairband). She accented it all with a pair of polished amethyst earrings and a long agate broach. She looked terrific. Her tweed skirt was cut above the knee. Most devoutly Catholic women in their late 60s didn’t show off their fine and shapely legs. Her firm round calves, thin knees, and muscular thighs looked like they belonged on a 40-year-old athlete, and those short skirts of Gloria’s had been the source of numerable jokes and risqué banter in their years of friendship. “Oooo, smells like Jonathan’s lamb!” Gloria jut her jaw forward. “Wonderful!”

  “Hope it won’t disappoint!” Jonathan had stealthily entered the kitchen behind the Quinns. His big smile radiated warmth. He took Killian’s hand and shook it hard, and then kissed Gloria on both cheeks. Jonathan had changed his clothes, and wore a budding red rose pinned to his lapel—his signature style for any special occasion—a French cuffed shirt, his large round glasses, and a handsome gray silk tie. Of course, this sartorial elegance and soothing amicability was all part of Jonathan’s nature, and he wasn’t going to abandon it now. He loved offering guests his genuine hospitality, even when he was feeling personal pressure. He would never have succeeded so magnificently in his management consultant business, or in his many advisory positions as a cultured patron—member of the Trustees’ Council for the National Gallery of Art, the Madison Council of the Library of Congress, and an executive director for the Kennedy Center of the Performing Arts—if he weren’t so comfortable in social situations. Still, it was impressive to watch him access his lightness, and his joy in hosting the Quinns, after such a shattering afternoon.

  While the Kolmanns and the Quinns chatted in the kitchen, eating hors d’oeuvres and uncorking a bottle of Chatêau Mouton—better with the lamb, Jonathan claimed, than the Pinot Grigio that the Quinns had brought—Sarah’s isolation crystalized. The couples drifted into the dining room to eat, where Jonathan bloomed in the warmth of their banter, embracing his hosting duties, ushering out successive dishes to his guests’ appreciative gasps, describing ingredients and cooking methods, and filling emptying glasses with just enough wine. The brittle and icy loneliness at Sarah’s core expanded, slowing her blood, freezing her into her seat. She tried to relax and feel more connected with her guests but couldn’t do it. She sipped her Bordeaux—maybe getting drunk would help. Why couldn’t she just tell them the awful news? This polite conversation was excruciating. Jonathan’s ability to cheerily ignore the bad news for the night cast her into the uncomfortable role of his accomplice. She listened to herself performing well enough as they spoke at length about a recent production of Richard III at Washington Shakespeare, the improvement plans for the National Gallery, and an upcoming gala ball for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, organized by Gloria, to be held in the Kennedy Center—thanks to Jonathan Kolmann’s magnanimous intervention. It was hard. She was only partially present. But when the conversation drifted toward recent events on the Court, as it inevitably did on New Year’s Eve, she temporarily forgot about Jonathan’s predicament and cracked through her frosty shell into a more lively pres
ence. Gloria asked Sarah how the Court was handling the new addition of Justice Arroyo and the loss of Justice Van Cleve.

  “Well, the testosterone levels in conference have increased noticeably.”

  Killian pushed back from the table and laughed. “Yeah, and the guy is so unbelievably fit he makes me feel like a sumo wrestler.” He patted his big belly.

  “Gideon’s fit, too. It’s just that Manny is noticeably muscular and strong. I’m half expecting him to move his desk out of chambers and replace it with one of those weight machine contraptions.”

  Killian was still regarding his big belly. “You know, maybe I should start hitting the gym.”

  “Not a terrible idea.” Gloria leaned in toward her husband and nudged him. “Twenty minutes twice a week would make a huge difference.”

  Killian raised his brow at her. “Gloria! I was joking! No way am I starting in with the gym. I’m way too old for that foolishness. And too ornery. I can’t stand the fitness nuts everywhere these days. The blasted Manny Arroyos.”

  “Let him be, Killian,” chastised Gloria.

  “Running on the treadmill like a hamster in a cage, lifting weights for no good reason, counting calories like a teenage girl. Ah, whatever, to each their own. More power to him. He’ll live to be a hundred and twenty.”

  “Stop making fun of him, Killian.”

  “I’m not saying anything bad, Gloria. He’s doing fine so far. He looks comfortable and thriving. He’s far more confident than your average new Supreme Court justice.”

  “I find Manny too confident, actually,” said Sarah. “He has too much swagger. He’s certainly capable intellectually, and his writings are very clear, but I have doubts about how good one can be as a justice with so much confidence. Even you, Killian, you never had that bluster, or that belief in your opinions as correct in a pure way, as opposed to just deeply felt and well-argued points of view.”

  “No, my opinions are objectively right.” Killian’s wry delivery spurred a round of chuckles. “Any neutral observer will tell you plainly I’ve written nothing but a series of true and outright brilliant statements in my storied career.”

  “Well, fine, of course—but that said, Killian, you also understand that your perfect reasoning and generous spouting of the Truth, as it were, has originated in the mind of a fallible human being. Hence your lack of swagger. Now, I think it’s fine for you to fervently believe what you believe about the law, but it’s that self-assurance, that arrogance in Manny—I don’t know, it’s something new.”

  “Joanna’s the same. We’ve seen this before.”

  “Yes, but that’s what I’m talking about. It’s this new generation of fervent, right-wing believers. They’re all so bold, so unwilling to compromise on their personal behavior as well as in their jurisprudence. Joanna was the first in that new mold. Now we have another. And replacing Elyse, no less, the ultimate compromiser. So it’s a trend. I only fear their attitude will increase the divisiveness in our rulings, and in time might cause palpable tension in conference.”

  “Killian hasn’t mentioned any tension,” said Gloria.

  “Oh no, it’s all very cordial. A few colleagues have bristled in small ways at their tone in conference, but that’s only now and then. Mostly, I’d say that Joanna and Manny have been generous, never obnoxious. Even the relationship between Rodney and Manny has been amicable. And I was expecting it to be the worst relationship on the Court in the last hundred years. At least since the 1920s, when those awful four horsemen had to deal with an actual Jew. So perhaps I’m overreacting.”

  “You’re only upset because Manny and Joanna are about to shift the law in a way you despise.”

  “Now, that’s not fair, Killian!”

  Killian, reddening slightly, shrugged and giggled. “All right. I’m taking it too far.”

  “You are taking it too far. I’m not objecting to their jurisprudence, ominous as it may be. I’m talking about their style. I find that swagger new for a federal justice, or really for any person with our kind of knowledge and understanding about the limited role of the judiciary.”

  “Sure,” said Killian. “I agree.”

  Jonathan sipped his wine. “You say Rodney’s handling the transition well?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t really know. He’s a very opaque man.”

  “I have my doubts,” offered Killian. “I think the high drama of Manny’s confirmation, the affair and all that, affected him badly. He looks like he’s aged a decade. He’s the same old rigid-thinking, decent Rodney, but I don’t know. He looks unhinged to me in conference.”

  “Yes, to me as well. But I’ve been worried about him ever since Rebecca’s death.”

  Hunched at the table, Jonathan ran his index finger in quick circles around the rim of his wine glass. Her husband’s smile was thinning, a sure sign of his nervousness, a crack in his façade that only Sarah could detect. She suddenly knew that when the Quinns left them alone just after midnight, Jonathan would collapse. She imagined him unclipping the wilting rose from his lapel, undressing silently, turning out the light before she had even finished scrubbing pots. His effervescence gone. She would be alone in their dark apartment, brushing her teeth, dressing for bed, with no one to offer her company or solace.

  Sarah sipped her wine. “I do love Rodney, dearly. I hate to see him suffering.”

  “I’m finding Rodney’s writings increasingly stale this term. That’s what worries me most. That recent opinion of his—wait, Holbrook’s released, right? I never check these dang things. I’m not breaching, am I?”

  “No, no, Killian. Holbrook’s out. It’s fine.”

  “Okay, so take that case, for example. Holbrook. It’s recent, and not a major issue—a jurisdictional question on an environment suit, no reason why you guys should’ve heard about it. For complex and stupid reasons that have to do with the shoddy over-lap between the Missouri legislature and Congress, there ended up being three pieces of legislation proscribing different rulings. The case forced us to decide which of those three laws is best. Not to interpret what’s written, see, or what’s actually there—each point of view has good textual proof—but just to decide which one is right. No way out from taking a stand in Holbrook. And so Rodney gets the assignment, and what does he do? Hems and haws, and then finds the reading that’s most cited by judges, lawyers, law reviews, et cetera, and says that must be the correct one. As in: the biggest number wins. As if the correct statute should be the result of a popularity contest, or an equation. Heaven forbid that he might have an opinion about which of those three choices might be best based on meaningful criteria, whatever he thinks makes sense. No, he refuses to admit that there are actual minds involved in any aspect of law-making. He wants the law to be nothing more than a computer-generated algorithm read in all instances by another computer.”

  Sarah nodded somberly. “You’re right. He’s taking his restraint too far.”

  “You know what it is?” Killian inched forward in his chair, and rested his elbows on the table. “You know what really bothers me about him? His blatant terror at being human. He’s so mistrustful of anything that smacks of mortal thought or effort it’s astonishing, and so he restrains himself to an absurd degree.”

  “Well, I think he’s been stung. The combination of his wife passing, and his daughter sleeping with Manny, and then all that publicity, for such a private and dignified man? I think his hurt is just so deep that he’s become extremely cautious. You can almost see him wither away in certain situations around the Court. I was eating with him in the Dining Room a couple weeks ago—just Charles, Talos, Rodney and I—and halfway through our meal Manny joined us. We started talking about how Manny’s adjusting to Washington, and then Talos asked him directly about Cassandra. Right in front of Rodney! Is her pregnancy proceeding smoothly, and is he excited for the baby? Talos was just trying to be nice, of course—”

  Killian groaned, and shook his head. “Talos can be so unbelievably stupid.”
/>
  “And you know they’re not living together, right? Manny and Cassandra. They don’t even like each other. Well, Manny got very diplomatic, and said Cassandra was doing fine, and he’s very excited for the baby, but he didn’t once look at Rodney, or acknowledge him in any way. And while you can’t expect Rodney to say or do anything in that situation, his physical language changed markedly. He got stiff as a board. Before Manny arrived Rodney was already quiet, monosyllabic in every comment, adding nothing of value or interest to our conversation, but after, he seemed to shrink away to nothing. It was awful to witness. He’s wounded. He doesn’t show his pain overtly maybe, but he’s wounded deeper than any of us can see.”

  “He’s lost confidence in himself,” Killian said, “and in all humanity. He’s absurdly suspicious. It’s as if he thinks our fragile brains can’t be trusted, and that a person is too unstable a thing to be relied upon.”

  “Well, a person is unstable, that’s true. But I don’t think that’s what he really—”

  “Whoa, whoa!”

  Everyone started groaning and laughing.

  “Hang on, Killian.”

  “No, no, no! You’re not getting off that easily.”

  Sarah, laughing, shrugged at Jonathan. Every year on New Year’s Eve their conversation devolved into a playful battle between Justices Quinn and Kolmann over some legal or philosophical issue. Their spouses spurred them on, and loved it. Why should this year be any different?