Seven Shoes

by Mark Davis

  Ken sniffed the vapors of his rye and took a draw.

  “I just thought you might come with me on Saturday.”

  “With you where?” he asked.

  “To my Saturday yoga class, you know. Vinyasa. Might help.”

  Ken smiled at her.

  “Might. Just might.”

  Ken took another draw of rye.

  On Saturday morning, he woke up early and went to the office to catch up on protocols for the new Singapore refinery.

  ___________

  Bemelmans Bar in the Carlyle was a yellow cavern, walls illustrated with old cartoons in dim, romantic light. Ken took a sip of his rye and rested his head on the back of the leather booth. He had just had a celebratory drink with Lyle “Scooter” Jackson, the head of investor relations, after a half-day with shareholders and the trade press over a pending acquisition of a big natural gas field in North Dakota. Scooter had left for a dinner, but Ken stayed, feeling the need to nurse this one a bit.

  The day had gone well. The acquisition, which had made sense to the board, now made sense to the investors. Best of all, XRO had achieved dramatic reductions in reported incidents since that one last, regrettable Dubai incident, so Ken had a good story to tell about instilling XRO’s safety process into the corporate culture of the acquired company. It was an old-line natural gas firm that would soon lose the name of its long-dead founder and wastrel children as it was added to XRO’s global empire.

  After Ken had spoken, the Chairman asked him to stand on the stage among the senior ranked executives as they took questions from investors, the usual social justice nuns and elderly cranks.

  Ken had taken one question about risk management from a hedge fund stand-in and felt he had acquitted himself well. As he spoke, he could feel all eyes on him—the Chairman, Scooter and off to one side, Margo.

  Now he looked down and watched the last little fleck of ice dissolve into his rye. He thought about ordering another.

  “Would a little company be welcomed?”

  The warm light of the bar softened Margo’s appearance. She was what used to be called a handsome woman, with a strong jawline and wide shoulders, a firm look nicely offset by her eyes—green, with a hint of smoky eye shadow—a graceful neck, and a generous bosom pressing against her business suit.

  Ken recalled that Margo was reputed to be a fierce competitor on the tennis court. She obviously did something to stay in shape.

  “Only if you’re ready to drink,” Ken said, “and we can speak frankly, just confidentially.”

  Margo took a seat and ordered a scotch on the rocks.

  “Ken, take this advice from me, and I mean it as a friend,” she said. “With a company lawyer, there are no confidences. Not in my world … Still, I’d like to do you good turn.”

  “I would like that too. I could use one about now.”

  The drink came. Margo took a sip and leaned forward.

  “Ken, I’m not going to kid you. You are still in jeopardy. Everyone knows that you did nothing wrong. Everyone knows the law is stupid and mindless. But the fact remains that you gave an Iranian useful information about our Arctic ventures with the Russians, which he no doubt proudly took back to their intelligence service.”

  “I told him nothing that you couldn’t infer from The Financial Times,” he said.

  “Maybe. But now they’ve got it from the horse’s mouth.”

  Ken took a sip. It was good to let the ice melt, let the grass flavors of rye pop.

  “Okay, so what now?”

  Margo stared at him for a few beats, her large green eyes taking him in.

  “There is a way out of this,” she said.

  “You have my full attention.”

  “Well,” Margo looked down at her drink, and then back up at Ken, “you could sign a 499.”

  Ken shot her a quizzical expression.

  “It’s an internal XRO legal product, a limited culpability disclosure document,” she said. “It represents a kind of an ‘oops’ on your part. If the government is serious about prosecuting this, they could. But given a 499, they won’t. They’ll see that you’ve admitted fault and that you won’t do it again. That always works.”

  “Always?”

  Margo took another sip.

  “Well, in cases like yours. Believe me, this is a misdemeanor compared to some of the felonies and blunders DOJ sees every day. It will satisfy their file.”

  “I’ll need to run this by my lawyer.”

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t we discuss this before?”

  “Because before, we needed to gauge DOJ’s intent, gauge our options.”

  Like hanging me out to dry, Ken thought.

  They took their time finishing their drinks. In that space, small talk crept in, little disclosures and confessions. Margo, who had grown up in Tarrytown, New York, and graduated from Boston University Law, spoke of the culture shock of Houston when she first started with the company. She talked about taking her kids skiing and how much she loved her tennis, and then engaged in some light gossip about a few peers and subordinates.

  As she spoke, the low light of the bar accentuated light freckles on the bridge of her nose, like a light dusting of cinnamon.

  “Would you like to see it?” Margo asked.

  Ken felt his pulse quicken.

  “See what?”

  “The form.”

  “The form?”

  “The 499.”

  She reached into her purse and fished out a room keycard.

  “I’m in 502. Give me 10 minutes. Just be discreet. We don’t want give our colleagues unfounded reason for gossip.”

  “I … uh, wonder …”

  “No big deal,” she said. “I just thought given the importance to you, you’d like to read it all now on paper, that’s all.”

  ___________

  Ken stood in front of 502 for almost a full minute. He finally gave the door a soft knuckle wrap. Nothing happened. He turned to walk away when the door cracked opened, slightly.

  “I don’t mean to bother you I just …”

  “Come in.”

  Ken entered.

  The room was as dim and warm-looking as the bar, mustard walls made moody by light from one lamp on the bedside nightstand.

  Several stacks of paper stood on a credenza next to a laptop and an open bottle of scotch. Margo found a plastic drink and took a sip.

  “Want one? No rye, sorry.”

  “Sure.”

  Margo scooped a fresh plastic cup in an ice bucket and poured it to just under the rim with scotch.

  She handed him the drink and began to rifle through her papers.

  “Here,” she pulled a sheet out and handed it to him.

  Across the top, in bold letters, it read: “Declaration of Disclosure and Limited Liability.” In the thick continents of legal text Ken noticed that his name and title and the date of the offending incident had already been inserted.

  Ken took a sip of the scotch, which had a similar grassy flavor as his favorite rye. Margo drained hers until the ice chips clinked on her teeth.

  “Let me ponder this,” Ken said. “And thank you, I can see that you’re trying to help.”

  “I want to help you, Ken. I do.”

  “I appreciate that. I know that this can’t be easy for you, either.”

  Margo set her drink down and gave Ken a searching stare for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Margo?”

  She went over to the window and pulled the curtain fast and walked right up to him.

  Her kiss was delicate at first, a light brush of the lips.

  Ken edged back.

  “Margo?”

  She stepped forward again, the scent of her perfume like a secret garden.

  “Margo?”

  She kissed him again, and so he kissed her back, lightly at first, then openly, as he pulled her in close and felt her bosom pre
ss against his chest. There was a mad dash to untie and unbuckle and toss aside. Ken hastily found a condom in the mini-bar and plunged into her. For hours he wallowed in the pure sensation of her, her scents, the smoothness of her skin and the strength of her body.

  The following Monday, Ken received an email from Margo.

  Ken,

  I want to thank you for what I consider a very productive meeting in New York. To come away with so much done in one session is most gratifying. I hope you feel the same way.

  Margo

  ___________

  Elizabeth had to stop.

  Ken Woods’ story promised long hours of more talk. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Elizabeth had listened to patients tell the story of their lives. She had read many suicide notes. Never anything quite like this. To listen to a long, intimate testimonial felt uncomfortably close to a séance, a communion with the dead, Ken telling how he had arrived at this particular avenue of damnation.

  Were they all to be like this? A Decameron of the damned.

  Elizabeth went out for a lunch break and crossed through a tiled tunnel that led to the Oslo Metro to get to Karl Johans gate. Homeless teenagers watched her from the corners of the station, clutching their skateboards and scanning the scene for someone dropping money or a wallet for the next fix.

  It was a burden, taking on so many secrets of others. If you weren’t careful, they accumulated and the weight of them could make you drown.

  But she wouldn’t stop, not with Ken, not with the others.

  Elizabeth had to know why.

  It made her uncomfortable to ask an even deeper question of herself: Why did she so desperately need to know their reasons?

  TWELVE

  Ken stared at the email. The nerve of Margo, to send such a juvenile double entendre. Karin, as part of her job, read every email in Ken’s inbox. Ken re-read it until he was satisfied that in the Scout’s honor atmosphere of XRO, no one would see its real meaning.

  As he pondered whether to reply, Ken had to struggle to control his breathing. What was this sensation? Was it desire? Was it fear? Was it suspense? It was some combination of the three. It was unpleasant and pleasant at the same time, what a skydiver must feel an instant before jumping. It was horrifying and delicious.

  Ken’s finger began typing before he had made a conscious decision.

  Margo,

  I agree, it is a rare meeting that produces as many good outcomes as the one in New York.

  Some due diligence is in order. I propose we carefully retrace our process and see if we can yield even better results next time.

  Ken

  His index finger paused a moment above the “send” button.

  He had never done anything like this before. If he stopped now, he could write this off as a vulnerable moment, something that was foisted on him, an excusable weakness. He continued to think about it until he realized that his finger had already come down.

  Ken sat there for long minutes, awaiting a reply. There were a thousand urgent issues that needed his attention, but he just sat there, waiting. While he waited, memories of New York flooded over him. So did memories of the weekend, the awkward guilt he felt as Jane asked him about his trip, which led him to give in and go to one of her yoga classes in Bellaire. All weekend long, Ken had to constantly fight the impulse to check for a message on his phone, to see if Margo was thinking about him too.

  His smartphone trilled the fight song of Texas A&M University.

  “Do you know that string of motels you pass along Bissonnet going west?” Margo asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I think the first’s one a pink one.”

  “Yes, I believe it is.”

  “I’m taking off at 5 today.”

  The motel was advertised by a neon flamingo that had long since lost its glow. A gated area in the middle of the parking lot contained a swimming pool the size of a small sedan. Margo waited for him by the door of a first-story room, key in hand, smiling at Ken as he parked. She led him inside. Once the door was shut and the chain slide fastened, Ken pulled Margo into his arms and kissed her deeply. Margo pulled back and looked at him for a long time, her eyes scanning his, searching for some secret or confirmation, as she had done in New York.

  Was she testing him? Did she think he was too good to be true? Did she not trust him? Ken could give that look a thousand different interpretations.

  As he was formulating something to say, Margo turned around and slipped out of the jacket of her business suit. She briskly unbuttoned her shirt. Ken unsnapped her bra and cupped her ample breasts in his hands as she unzipped her skirt and let her slip and panties drop to the floor.

  Margo stretched out on the bed. He undressed and joined her. They kissed for a long time while Ken caressed her body with his fingertips. Their lovemaking started out slow and passionate but quickly built into a frenzy. When they were done, Margo rested her cheek on the sweat-cooled skin of his chest.

  A breeze wafted through an open screen in the bathroom window, bearing the ozone scent that always preceded a big storm off the Gulf. Thunder came, distant and muffled. Rain tapped on the cars outside.

  The Texas A&M fight song went off. Jane would be calling now, asking Ken to pick up a spice or some fish or some such on the way home. He ignored it and closed his eyes, resting … perhaps a short nap, the rain now a torrent, drumming on the cars outside, Margo warm and close.

  Ken felt a splash of wet on his chest and for a moment he had the impression that a drop of rainwater had leaked through the ceiling.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Margo’s shook her head, not wanting to speak. Ken gently nudged her chin upwards with a finger. Running mascara had given her raccoon eyes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Mike.”

  “Mike?”

  “My husband.”

  Ken realized that he had never heard the name of Margo’s husband. In fact, he recalled seeing no pictures of him in her office, just photos of Margo skiing with her teen-aged children.

  “What about him?”

  “It’s getting impossible to be around him.”

  When he asked why, Margo went into a crying jag, her body suddenly tense and heavy, shuddering against him. Ken retrieved some tissues and wiped her cheeks while her story poured out of her, her voice strained and unnatural. Margo and Mike had had a great courtship and a strong marriage at first. After the kids were born, Mike began to change, spending more and more time building up his construction company. When he was home, Mike became controlling, jealous of the time that Margo spent in her career at XRO. He grew suspicious and belittling, verbally and psychologically abusive.

  Margo snorted and laughed. She looked up at Ken with a smile.

  “I guess he had reasons to be suspicious after all.”

  Ken laughed. Hearing Margo speak, he had begun to feel heavy in the chest. He had to tell his story, and so he did, the story of Ken and Jane, a loving couple who grew apart. If they had had kids, it might have been different. Their childlessness was a bad break, leaving them with less and less in common.

  “I’m sorry,” Margo said, sounding more like herself.

  Ken wiped her face some more, the raccoon eyes gone, just a smudge at the corners of her eyes.

  “And now this,” she said, starting to laugh.

  “And now this,” he said, smiling at her.

  Margo grabbed Ken’s smartphone, thumbed an app. She leaned over him, her breasts draping his shoulder and smiled at the phone. A flash popped from his smartphone and it made the noise of a camera click.

  She had taken a selfie of the two of them.

  “Give me that!”

  Margo rolled off the bed and toggled the phone some more. She went to the other side of the room. Her phone made the whooshing sound of mail being sent.

  “What the hell did you just do?”

  Margo smiled, set the phone
down.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “What did you just do?”

  “I just sent a little pic of you to my private email, that’s all,” she said, slinking toward him with exaggerated hip movements like a burlesque girl. “My very private email account.”

  “Why?”

  Margo’s fingernails raked his chest, sending a shiver of pleasure that traced every nerve in his body.

  “So whenever Mike starts chewing me out, I can just shut the bathroom door, lock it and gaze on my beloved.”

  She eased him down on his back and lowered herself on his prone body. Margo moved slowly at first, teasingly, until he grew hard and slipped inside her.

  They made love for the better part of an hour. Afterwards, they took a quick shower. Ken looked out through the screen of the tiny bathroom window. It was after eight, the sulfur lights of the refineries making a sickly glow on low, murky clouds that trailed the storm. The parking lot was pockmarked with puddles. It was time to go.

  Ken kissed Margo goodbye, a chaste kiss so as not to smear her freshly applied lipstick. He went outside, got behind the wheel of his car, and began to formulate his response to Jane: Sorry I missed your call, I went down to the company gym and got into it, what can I pick up?

  It was a believable account. It would explain why his hair was still wet from a shower.

  Margo tapped on a window. He lowered it. She thrust some papers and pen at him.

  “The 499?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Let’s get this out of the way,” she said. “Sign this and I can get all the paperwork done tomorrow.”

  The document had yellow sticky tabs denoting every place to sign. Ken wrote his initials at the bottom of each page and scribbled his name at the appropriate line at the end.

  Jane called him on the way home, asking him to pick up some tilapia.

  THIRTEEN

  “Makes me think of the Beatles’ song,” Elizabeth said. “This lovely Norwegian wood.”