Fletch Won

“So what’s your assignment?” At the stove, Barbara wore an apron over her swimsuit.

Fletch munched a pretzel. “Research on Ben Franklyn.”

Dark outside, light inside the beach house, the huge plate-glass windows reflected them.

“Somehow Ben Franklin doesn’t strike me as news.”

Fletch found the brown paper bag in which Barbara had brought the chops, potatoes, peas, and milk. In it, he put Donald Habeck’s suit, shirt, tie, drawers, socks, and shoes. “Got some string?”

“Look in that drawer.” She pointed with the potato masher. “What’s new about Ben Franklin?”

“Healthy sort of man. Very contemporary.” Fletch tied the string around the package. “Inventive. Diplomatic. Always liked the ladies. A businessman, too. He was a good businessman, wasn’t he?”

“How burned do you like your chops?”

“If you’re asking, stop cooking.” He tossed the package on the floor near the front door.

Sitting at the table, Barbara said, “I’m calling your mother.”

“What did I do now?”

“You’re getting married Saturday. Don’t you think Jessica ought to hear from me, her daughter-in-law-to-be?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Give her the opportunity to come to the wedding, you know? Make her feel really welcome.”

“I wrote her. Don’t know if she can afford to come. She’s a poor writer, you know. I should say, she’s a writer, and she’s poor. And if we pay her way from Seattle, we won’t be able to afford a honeymoon.”

“Still, her son’s getting married.”

“Naked?” Fletch asked. “Do you still mean for us to get married naked?”

“No.” Barbara scooped mashed potato into her mouth. “I haven’t been able to get rid of that eight pounds.”

“Ah,” smiled Fletch. “So you do have something to hide.”

“I’ll ask you once more about your father.”

“What about him?”

She asked, “What about him?”

“He died in childbirth.” Fletch shrugged. “That’s what mother always said.”

“Modern American marriage.” Barbara sighed and looked at their reflection in the window.

“Yeah,” Fletch said, “what’s it for?”

“What do you mean, ‘What’s it for?’?”

“Alston asked me at lunch if I was sure I want to get married. That was just after I asked him to be my best man.”

“Alston works for Habeck’s law firm, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he happy there?”

“Not very.”

“What did you answer?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Lawyers are always asking difficult questions. That’s their job. Makes ’em feel superior, I think. Helps them create the illusion they’re worth their fees.”

“Frank Jaffe said something or other about the only point in getting married is if you intend to have children.”

“He’s right. Almost.”

“Do we intend to have children?”

“Sure.” Barbara’s eyes glanced over the rough wooden floor of the beach house. “We have to have money, first. You’re not earning much. In fact, you’re not in a very high-paid profession. I’m not in a profession at all. Kids cost a lot.”

“Someone mentioned that today, too.”

“What did you do, go around today developing a brief against marriage?”

“I went around today announcing the joyful news you and I are getting married Saturday, and everybody asked, Why?” Barbara stared at Fletch. “In fact, I’d say for the most part, people’s reaction was, Bleh!”

“That’s not very nice of people.”

“No. It isn’t.”

“Just because other people make bum marriages…”

“What criterion do we have, but other people’s marriages?”

“I think our getting married makes sense.”

“So do I.”

“We can support each other.”

“Right. Today I tried to help you get out of Cecilia’s jodhpurs.”

“Build toward a family, a way of life.”

“As long as I keep accepting one miserable assignment at the newspaper after another.”

“Companionship. Grow old together, seeing things from somewhat the same perspective, having the same memories, protecting each other.”

“Correct,” said Fletch. “You know anybody who’s doing it?”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“I definitely think we should get married,” Barbara said.

“I do, too,” Fletch agreed. “Definitely.”

“Just think of marriage the way you think of everything else,” Barbara said. “Playing through to truth. Only in marriage, you’re playing through to a truth of you, and me, and us.”

The telephone rang.

Startled, Barbara looked at it. “Who could that be?”

“I asked Alston to call. He may have some things to tell me about Donald Habeck.”

“Habeck.” Barbara carried her plate to the sink. “You’re crazy.”

“Yeah.” Fletch stood up to answer the phone. “Factor that in, too.”