Sarah said she hadn’t seen him in any of their classes. Jonathan admitted that he didn’t go to Harvard Law or to any school. He had sweet-talked his way into this exclusive party, open only to Harvard students, because he wanted to meet the men and women who would someday rule the world. He wanted to make connections, he said. He was going into business. Sarah liked him immediately. Jonathan asked her if it was difficult to be one of the only women at Harvard Law, and if chauvinists were typical of the student body. “They are typical,” she admitted, glumly. “They don’t understand me. They certainly don’t want me at their party.”
“No,” Jonathan replied, and he offered her a big smile—his first in a lifetime of beautiful smiles. “I suspect you’ll have to barge into their party every time.”
Sarah got up from the couch and peeked into the bedroom. Jonathan was sleeping again, snoring faintly. She stepped inside gingerly. There was a small pile of laundry in their hamper—his pale green shirt, his socks, his underwear. Perhaps she would wash and iron his clothes. It wouldn’t take her long and it might even relax her. And then if Jonathan woke up coughing in the middle of the night, feverish and scared and needing to go to the hospital, she would have that shirt ready to slip over his bony shoulders.
10
TO KEEP AND BEAR ARMS
Killian Quinn lay naked on a hotel bed stripped of its covers. A different man might have been ashamed by his girth, and tried to cover it with a blanket, but instead Killian knocked his flab from left to right, watched it jiggle and tremble, and then settle like Jello. He loved his big old belly, his lust for life embodied, his relish for food and sex—and good Lord, the finger-tingling, back-wrenching sex he had thrown himself into since Dr. Gurlick had prescribed him his treasured, orange, almond-shaped pills, that manna of modern medicine. Nothing was more fun than the good hard illicit fucking that had him flipping pillows off beds and burning his knees on rugs, grunting and sweating like a Russian weightlifter, marching all over this hotel room with Katherine’s legs wrapped around him. And nothing was more satisfying, more grounding, than his more intimate lovemaking—the slower, quieter, under-the-covers intercourse he so treasured with Gloria, his dear wife. Maybe this belly would kill him someday, maybe that day would come soon, but what better way to leave a fallen world for the pure arms of the Lord than with your whole body rejoicing in God’s gift of living passion? Katherine certainly didn’t find his oversized belly distasteful, and neither did Gloria, so why should he?
Katherine was in the bathroom, taking a shower. The clock read 6:46. Soon he would head home for a late dinner with Gloria, and then stay up drafting Wallace, a Second Amendment ruling so unexpectedly in favor of gun rights that the votes astonished every justice in conference. What was supposed to be a minor statutory case had suddenly turned into the most significant ruling on gun rights in a century. Not even the NRA had considered a victory of this scale possible, so they hadn’t offered any financial support for Jason Wallace’s suit, and had refused to submit even an amicus brief. Wallace would reinstate an American citizen’s unadulterated constitutional right to keep and bear whatever arms he or she so chose—and it was Killian’s majority opinion, the official verdict of the Court.
“What are you smiling about over there?” Katherine had emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, drying her ears.
He shrugged. “Nothing, just work.”
“It’s not nice to refuse to answer my questions.”
Killian frowned. Nobody outside the Court knew anything about Wallace, and certainly no one expected the radical results.
“I’m thinking about the goofy lives of the justices of the United States Supreme Court. We’d make a good reality show.”
“Could you be more specific?” Katherine sat at the foot of the bed.
“Rodney Sykes.”
“Justice Sykes is goofy?”
“Believe me, he can be.” Killian rolled onto his side, leaned his weight on an elbow. “There’s one case this year—unfortunately I can’t say which until the term’s over—but suffice it to say, it’s a biggie and contentious. I wanted to win it by a large margin, so I spent weeks trying to persuade Katsakis to my side, even though I didn’t need to. I wanted to secure every section of my opinion, and I thought Talos might swing on it. Turns out, I was wrong.”
“You, wrong? Impossible.”
“Hard to believe, I know, but it happens on rare occasions. Katsakis stayed unmoved and resolved against me—and against what’s right, too, I should add. But there I was, like a stupid dog the whole term, braying uselessly at the unmovable moon, Talos.”
“A stupid horndog.”
“Indeed. May I continue?”
Katherine snickered.
“I offered to bring him tea from the cafeteria, and to do his homework for him, and to carry his bags to school and the like, and all the while I was entirely missing our real target. Because Rodney Sykes was silently planning the most outrageous rebellion and Benedict Arnold–style ‘turncoatery’ that you can imagine, out of sight, without anyone’s knowledge. I didn’t spend a second of my precious time talking to him, or trying to shore up his vote.”
“‘Turncoatery’?”
“Your beloved Shakespeare invented words whenever he wanted, so why can’t I?”
“You can, of course, but when there’s treason and treachery and betrayal—”
“And sedition and perfidy and mutiny and duplicity,” interrupted Killian, “and the point is Rodney Sykes is guilty of all those, and worse, and I need a new word to express it. I didn’t think the guy had it in him.”
“People are surprising.”
“Rodney is not surprising. Rodney’s steadfast and predictable, that’s his whole thing.”
Katherine stood and dropped her towel, which proved enough of a distraction to abandon the topic of Justice Sykes. She slipped on her underwear and fastened her small bra, now and then acknowledging Killian’s hungry gaze in the mirror. Lord knows he didn’t mind the show.
“You don’t seem too upset.” Katherine stepped into her linen slacks.
“About what?” The only thing he could imagine being upset about now was the pending disappearance of her bare legs into those pants.
“About losing your case.”
“Well, the ruling hasn’t been filed, so I haven’t lost yet. But I am upset about it. It’ll be a disaster for the United States if that case goes the way it’s heading. It’ll cause irreparable damage to our peace and security, if you really must know.”
“I mean personally upset. Usually, losing eats at you. Like Geitz did last year.”
Killian lay back, pressed his head into the pillow. That was an astute observation. He tucked his hands behind his head, and spoke up to the ceiling.
“Well, every case falls into a larger context. Geitz was one more loss in a long string of failures, and another indication that the Court did not fundamentally agree with my jurisprudence. I saw no hope of the tide turning. But now Elyse Van Cleve, bless her poor soul, has left our world for a better one, and we’ve got Manny Arroyo on the bench, so I suddenly find myself in the novel territory of being in the majority on almost all the important cases this term. The truth is, Katherine—and please do not repeat this until we announce our decisions—of the eight or nine cases that actually matter this term, I mean those that are contentious and somewhat ideological, I’ll be in the majority for all except this one I’m talking about. That has not happened to me since I joined the Court. So you’re right, I’m not that upset, even if I lose this big case. The Court has turned. The law is developing as it should—finally—and it looks like that’ll continue for the foreseeable future.”
Fully dressed now but for her jewelry and shoes, Katherine leaned against the hotel desk. “I’m not so sure I’m happy to hear that.”
“Don’t worry, your brother can still have gay sex in Arkansas.”
“For the time being.”
Katherine’s cheeks glowed red,
and her dark blond hair framed her face, wet and full. She was a beautiful woman. The succulence of her youth, so precious and fleeting. What was she doing wasting her bloom on a fat old judge like Killian Quinn? Sudden shame cascaded through him, so he pulled himself out of bed and started to get dressed. The question lingered in his mind. What was he doing? What was Katherine doing? The truth was that his relationship with her had settled into something calm and peaceful, a period of harmony and stasis. It could not develop any further from here; it could only calcify and decline. They had been meeting twice a month since he had started Cialis in January, always in this same hotel off Capitol Hill, for a couple of glorious hours of lovemaking and light conversation. That was the extent of his commitment. He would never commit to more. How could that arrangement be satisfying for her?
He buttoned his shirt, taking his time. Something was shifting inside him, a profound adjustment, and it was caused by his change of fortune on the Court. Did he really want to lead a double life with Katherine? He had everything and more that a man could reasonably want without her: a rich and rewarding profession, substantive work of consequence, a near-perfect wife (who remained blissfully ignorant of his failings), six ideal children—well, four ideal children, one daughter who was irritating but good enough, and a son, poor Carl, who would just have to remain a work in progress—plus a gaggle of grandchildren, so many beautiful little souls that he had a hard time recalling, on the spot, which kid belonged with which parent. He had his health, appetite and libido, and now—with Arroyo on the bench—a bright future. The Court’s turning in his favor was an unexpected gift in his already blessed life. His affair with Katherine was delightful and gratifying, but maybe it was more than he deserved and, importantly, more than what he needed to be content.
Killian snaked his long belt through the loops of his pants beneath his hanging belly. He tossed his tie on the bed and leaned his dampening palms against the edge of the dresser. He hung his head. The dresser groaned. Katherine asked if he was all right, with some concern.
“I am all right, Katherine. Yes.”
She sat on the bed, hands in her lap. “You’re breaking up with me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said it quite clearly, just not with words.”
“I’m considering it.”
“Why? Things are great between us.”
He sighed. “That’s exactly why, Katherine. I’d rather do it now, when there isn’t anything wrong, when my reasons can’t be dismissed by either of us as some problem we have to work through. When everything’s blissful.”
Killian pulled his weight off the dresser. Saying those words out loud only confirmed his impulse to end their relationship.
“The fact is, Katherine, I love you. If I were younger, I could easily imagine wanting to build a full life together: kids, marriage, the whole thing. But I can’t offer that. I’m already taken, and too old, and I have no business prolonging our relationship, no matter how much I enjoy our conversations and passionate embraces. I hope you know I enjoy it.”
The skin around Katherine’s eyes tensed and tightened as she oscillated between anger and pain and something else, maybe stalwart acceptance or relief. “Fine.”
“I should be entirely blunt and honest with you, Katherine. I don’t think you have any business being with me. You are a young, beautiful woman in the prime of your life, and you should be with a man who you can build a future with. Frankly, you can do better. You need a real commitment.”
All emotion drained from Katherine’s face, leaving her placid, almost peaceful. “Fuck you.”
Killian blinked. “Well, you might not agree, but I know I’m right.”
“But you don’t have the right to say what’s good or not good for my life.”
He held his hands up in the air. He was just airing his thoughts, but so be it, she could respond however she wished. She had no requirement to heed his advice only because it was good.
“That is so unbelievably condescending.”
“I am not condescending to you, Katherine.” Killian snatched his tie off the bed and strung it around his neck. He turned towards the mirror.
“You don’t get to say.”
“All right.” He spoke to her reflection.
“You don’t get to say what’s good for me, that’s part of our little deal here.”
“I heard you the first time.”
Katherine retreated into the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind her. She wasn’t crying; she would never do that. She probably just needed a moment alone. Killian hurriedly tied his tie, slipped on his suit jacket, and suppressed the ache in his chest, the painful realization that he would never again hold Katherine’s slender frame against his own. A dram of perseverance is oft required of a Quinn, whispered the mischievous voice of his father, Malachi. His son Gregory, who was a second lieutenant in the Marines, would have handled this breakup similarly, saying the necessary words, standing tall, moving on with life. A real stoic. Man up, sir. Not like you’re going for a tour in Afghanistan. Oh yes, Gregs was one of the noble kids, that was for sure.
When Katherine stepped out of the bathroom, she stood steadier, her face opaque. She grabbed her purse off the desk chair. “Let’s go, Killian. There’s no point sticking around here forever.”
He frowned and moved toward her, but she recoiled well before he could touch her hand. “I don’t want to hug you. I understand what you’re saying, and I want to go.”
“I would very much like to hold you, Katherine.”
“Well, you don’t get to.”
He stood there stupidly: an awkward faceoff on the drab rug. There was clearly nothing more to say or do, but Killian didn’t feel right leaving her alone. Their usual arrangement, after both had dressed, was for him to give her half the money for their room, always rented in her name. He would disappear down the side stairwell, slip out from the unmarked entrance in the alley, climb into his Lincoln, innocuously parked on C Street, and zip onto I-395 for the drive out to Virginia. Katherine waited the requisite ten minutes before leaving the building, which she did however she liked, even by the front entrance, and why the heck not? A single woman is free to have a hotel rendezvous with any mysterious stranger she likes, not that she would be seen. The Capitol Hill Hotel on C Street had two buildings, and Katherine always requested the second, accessible only by a room key, without a staffed lobby. Off they would go on their separate ways: Finita la Commedia. Still, it seemed distasteful and crude to part forever in the usual manner. It lacked even a pretext of chivalry.
“I’d like to walk you down to your car.”
Katherine rolled her eyes.
“Sneaking out of here like a couple of thieves doesn’t give our relationship the dignity it deserves.”
“That is one dumb idea.”
“Look, unless you insist on denying me, I plan to walk you to your car and seeing you off just once.”
“Suit yourself.”
They went into the hall together and rode the elevator down in miserable silence, staring at the illuminated buttons all the way to the lobby. He trailed his former lover as they exited the building. Killian squinted in the light. The day was bright and hot, although it was well past seven. He laid his hand on Katherine’s shoulder, who was marching a step before him, and then he glanced up and saw Samuel Sykes standing on the sidewalk—right there on the sidewalk—wearing a ridiculous leather jacket. Samuel’s eyes bulged.
“Justice Quinn?”
Killian dropped his hand off Katherine’s shoulder.
“Samuel. What are you doing here?”
“My girlfriend, uh, lives …” Samuel pointed off in the direction of 3rd Street, but his eyes darted back and forth between Killian’s face and Katherine’s wet hair. Her blasted wet hair.
“Well, good to see you.” Killian pressed his palm firmly against Katherine’s shoulder. He gave her a tiny nudge. She didn’t move.
Everything slowed. In a first
floor window in the apartment building across C Street, through half-parted curtains, a woman in her 60s or early 70s, with her back to him, unhooked the industrial clasp of her big bra and exposed a slab of flesh not as tender or as young as Katherine’s. This situation was ridiculous and pathetic. Killian’s heart pounded. His idiotic fantasies of youth were finally going to catch up with him.
“Hello.” Katherine smiled at the young man. “You look familiar.”
“I’m Samuel Sykes.” He tucked his hands into his pockets. “I cover legal stories for The Washington Post.” Beneath those faux-Jamaican hair knots, lanky young Sykes blinked and blinked, basking in the heat of his mammoth discovery.
“Oh, right, of course. I’ve read your articles, they’re excellent.” She extended her hand without hesitation. Killian fought an urge to intercept it and yank it back. “I’m Katherine Kirsch, curator of manuscripts at the Folger’s Library.”
Samuel’s eyes widened. “Hi.” And then the blasted journalist son of Rodney Sykes took her hand and shook it.
“I assume you’re here to discuss Al-Tounsi.” Rodney Sykes sat stoically in his armchair, surrounded by this absurd mockery of a Lake Como villa that he called his chambers.
“Indeed.” Killian squirmed in a second armchair, fiddling with his slick and sweaty fingers. Few experiences were as destabilizing as dropping in on another justice in his private space, especially Rodney’s, Mr. Protocol himself.
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