Marriage of Convenience

Marriage of Convenience

Madison Cole

If his father wasn’t already dead, Malcolm would certainly kill him now. If nothing else, he should have been made to endure some painful repercussions for his selfishness. Torture had a nice ring to it. Something slow and methodical. The rack perhaps? No. Something frenzied and gruesome. Like man-eating pigs. Really, what was the appropriate punishment for screwing up someone’s life? Malcolm hadn’t thought much about marriage, but his father’s will certainly brought the issue front and center. He didn’t think his lack of interest set him apart from most men his age. He’d seen his own parents’ marriage end in disaster, and he’d volunteered his shoulder to more than a couple of his closest friends when marital bliss had eluded them. He wasn’t afraid of monogamy, and he didn’t think he was emotionally unavailable, as he’d heard women suggest of their men. No, he just didn’t understand why people couldn’t be happy, and together, without the trappings of physical and legal symbols.

And yet here he stood, in the 15th floor office of his father’s attorney, Stewart Patton. Malcolm couldn’t stay seated one moment longer. He got to his feet and paced across the room, coming to a stop in front of the glass wall that, with the heavy blinds pushed open, offered a dizzying view of Manhattan. Burberry trench coats and fur shoulder shrugs, which would enrage animal rights activists everywhere, mingled with blue jeans and leather coats on the sidewalks below. The streets were a slow moving mass of steel dotted with yellow cabs. He watched the people scurrying to and fro on the street below. He shoved his hands deeper into his suit pants and hunched his shoulders. Yes, the more he thought about it, a peaceful death had been too good for his father. For once he wished he was outside with the suffocating mass of humanity that was New York City. It was preferable to being in Patton’s plush office discussing what amounted to the end of his free will. He didn’t care that Stew was behind him, waiting for a response. How did one respond to being handed the end of one’s life? Did you act grateful that at least someone told you in advance? Or did you sob hysterically, thinking how this could happen to someone so young, with so many possibilities? He did neither. He continued to stare, ignoring the throaty sounds from the other side of the room. No, he was content to stare at those folks who seemed to have control over their own lives.

“It could be worse.”

The statement made his head pop up. This should be good, he thought. He swung around to his left and said, “Really? Do tell.”

“Well, at least you get to choose your own.”

“Well, that’s always been the case, hasn’t it? It’s not the manner of how it’s being done, or even the timing of it all, as much as it is the audacity.”

And after some thought, Malcolm said, “Okay, maybe part of it is the timing, but what does one thing have to do with the other? Why is my marital status a part of this, a part of any, discussion?”

Stew shook out the letter and cleared his throat, preparing to read. “Here, in the second paragraph….”

“I know what it says. It just doesn’t….” Malcolm’s voice trailed off. He was still standing, but he was facing the interior of the room. Stew sat behind his desk positioned against the opposite wall. Malcolm placed his hands on the back of the leather visitor’s chair and leaned forward, allowing the chair back to hold his weight. Despite the relaxed nature of the position, his muscles were tense.

He marveled at his father’s gumption. His father had been a self-made man who didn’t understand how people made it through life without plans and ambitions. Enter his mother. They’d always seemed like such an odd pair. His mother swore to her dying day that a chance pregnancy hadn’t led to the marriage, but what else explained the coupling of the free-spirited social butterfly without a thought of next month’s bills with the rigid gray suit without any creative notions?

Their resulting relationship was tumultuous, producing, his mother would say ruffling his hair, the only real light in her life. Since his father was absent frequently, he and his mother spent most of their time together. She’d been his biggest champion. Never missed a game, never missed a parent-teacher conference. Until she’d passed away, they’d talked regularly and had had dinner once a month.

Malcolm shook his head to clear the memories. He didn’t like dwelling on the past; he became too angry, regretting he hadn’t done more to protect and support his mother. He could use his own money. His interest in medicine hadn’t only led him to medical school, but to technology and engineering. He held patents on several medical devices and pharmaceutical formulas. He was lenient with their use, but in the end every time his inventions were used, he received financial compensation. But if he had his inheritance, he could do something and do it with his father’s money. He couldn’t think of more appropriate justice.

“What do I have to do?”

“Get married before Sunday.”

“It’s Monday.”

“Well, you don’t have much time, do you?” Clearly, after two hours, Stew was tired of the conversation. He’d already had to signal his secretary to move one appointment. “I’m sorry, Malcolm, your father was a dear friend, but this cannot go on. If this continues, I’ll have to work over the weekend, and my own wife will be insufferable then. You have to understand that just isn’t an option.”

“But I’m not even seeing anyone!” Malcolm threw up his hands in frustration. He wanted his inheritance. He had big plans for it. But this turn of events was unexpected. His father had despised marriage. Why was he interested in making sure his only son followed the same path? To further torture him? Malcolm had never seemed to be able to please his father, so perhaps this was his way of making sure he did something the old man wanted.

In the end, the reasons didn’t matter—he was still presented with an unreasonable requirement.

“Yes, we covered that,” Stew said, boredom overtaking his usually professional demeanor. “Either you will, or you won’t do this. Either way, you’ll come see me on Monday morning. We’ll talk again then.” Stew folded the letter and placed it in its envelope. He placed the envelope in the file folder and the file folder into the outgoing tray.

“So that’s it? What if I don’t do it?”

“There is a contingency plan in the event you choose not accept the terms. Your father’s brothers will inherit, as will a gun association. So, that is it from my perspective. If I can be of assistance, you’ll let me know.”

Malcolm gathered his suit jacket off the seat of the leather chair and shrugged into it. He walked to the door. He didn’t like the idea of his uncles inheriting, or the gun association, but he liked the idea of being forced into marriage even less. Perhaps he’d simply let it ride.

“Well, maybe I can help.” Stew leaned back in his chair. He placed his hands behind his head. The movement caused his feet to rise off the carpet, and the chair creaked with the shift of his weight. “I know this family. They have a daughter your age. She’s … what? You said more than once you weren’t seeing anyone.”

“I can find my own wife.”

A snicker from the hall reminded him the door was open. He turned on his heel and came face to face with the sea of cubicles that made up the secretaries’ offices. A quick scan of the room indicated there were seven faces. And most of them were wide-eyed and turning red. In order to get to the elevator, he had to walk by all of them. With as much dignity as he could muster, he walked swiftly to the elevator. Stabbing the down button, he raised his head high as the secretaries’ giggles caught up with him. His shoulders slumped with relief as the elevator doors slid closed behind him.

Punching the “L” button, he leaned his head against the cool metal of the door, letting it cool the inner anger and outer embarrassment that heated his body. Pushing away from the door just as it slid open, he took a deep breath and prayed for a second wind to get him through the next few hours.

Stepping out of the elevator and into the lobby, his pager began to vibrate. He wasn’t on call. But the number was indeed his receptionist. Hurrying through the spacious lobby, Malcolm pressed his shoulder into the window of the turn-style door, and walked around until he was able to step outside.

He took the phone from his jacket pocket and dialed his office. He pressed the phone tight to his ear in deference to the loud hustle and bustle of the City.

“You’re late for your 3:00.”

“I know. Can you reschedule for me? And reschedule everything this week.”

Silence.

“I know it’s a lot, but I’m just not going to be able to make it happen.”

Silence.

“Betty?”

“I’m here. I just can’t believe it’s you. It is you, isn’t it? Malcolm? Doctor?”

“Very funny. I know I haven’t taken much time off, but….” He was interrupted by laughter. Shuffling his way across the sidewalk through the crowd, Malcolm raised his arm to hail a taxi. One approached, but slowly in the City’s afternoon traffic. He waited, his arm still hanging in the air.

“Much time? I don’t get time unless you take time, and let’s just say that I haven’t seen my grandchildren in years.”

“That isn’t true!” His arm fell as his mind raced to recall the last time he’d arrived to find someone else guarding his office door. The taxi he’d hailed stopped short and moved into the lane away from him.

“Damn!”

“Okay, fine, but you still haven’t taken a week off since I’ve known you.”

“No, that wasn’t to you. Look, I’m only four blocks from the hospital. I’ll walk. If Ms. Finks wants to wait, I’ll see her. If not, reschedule her for first thing next week.”

“Will do. See you soon.”

Turning into the sun, Malcolm walked, lost in thought. He hadn’t a clue about how to find a wife; he hadn’t been very good at finding a girlfriend.

He did need assistance.

“Hello?”

“Gloria? I need a woman.” Malcolm hadn’t intended for it come out that way. He’d intended to open with some mindless chatter and then ask to speak with Denzel, his childhood friend. He had no confidence that Denzel would be able to solve his problem, but he would at least feel better after the call.

“Malcolm! It’s so nice to hear from you! I’m doing well, thanks. How are you? Busy with work?” The light sarcasm noting the lack of phone etiquette was not lost on Malcolm.

Malcolm closed his eyes and wished he had time to be busy with work. He loved being a doctor. For as long as he could remember, he couldn’t recall wanting to be anything else. He’d been given a toy stethoscope for Christmas when he was six from a family friend, and he’d never looked back. He didn’t often use the tool any more, since his nursing staff took vitals before he even saw his patients, but he had the little scope on a shelf in his office to remind him of his dream. His patients often commented on it, nestled on the bookcase among the large medical reference books. And he enjoyed telling them the story; they seemed more at ease afterward,

knowing he was human and able to connect with what really mattered in life.

“I wish. You sound out of breath. Still training for the tri?” Backtracking and practicing his best bedside manners, Malcolm turned the conversation to neutral territory and held his breath to see if she took the bait. He hoped she hadn’t had time to process his first statement. Perhaps they could both ignore the outburst and pretend nothing happened.

“Uughh. Yes.”

“Don’t sound so excited! You don’t have to do it, you know. It’s completely voluntary, last time I heard.” Malcolm laughed. He could imagine Gloria standing outside the workout room she and Denzel had built into their basement to facilitate their mutual triathlon dreams.

“He’s kicking my butt! I love the man, but I want to participate. He wants to win.”

They laughed, each thinking that there was no other way for Denzel. You either did it to win it, or you didn’t do it at all.

The notion of doing it or not doing it brought back Stew’s words about getting married. The merriment of the moment died for Malcolm.

“Is Denzel around?”

“Oh, he just jumped into the shower. Want me to tell him you called?”

Malcolm hesitated. He knew once he told Denzel about his predicament that Gloria would find out anyway. They were the only couple he’d known to make it. Their connection ran deep, and he was always amazed at their ability to read each other without speaking. Denzel would surely tell Gloria out of either typical partner conversation or in order to identify a solution.

“Sure.”

“Anything you need in particular?”

Malcolm inhaled deeply and exhaled loudly, hesitating. He shrugged and said again, “I need a woman.”

Gloria laughed. “And my husband is going to be your hook-up?” She laughed harder. “You know he can’t talk to women. If I hadn’t come on to him, he’d still be a sad, lonely bachelor.”

Malcolm knew the story of their meeting by heart. He’d heard it many times, and he still marveled at Denzel’s luck. Gloria was an amazing wife and mother. Their financial position meant she didn’t work outside the home, but she was an active supporter of Denzel’s projects and still insisted on taking the kids to school and to their after-school activities. She made snacks, hosted sleepovers, and delivered casseroles to sickly neighbors. And she was beautiful. Not supermodel hot, but classically stunning. Malcolm had zero hopes of finding someone like her, but if he got remotely close he’d consider himself satisfied.