Alligators May Be Present: A Novel

A Change in Altitude

A Change in Altitude A week passed, then two, and Glassman still hadn’t heard so much as a word from Irving Shuman. He should have been relieved that he had somehow shaken off the nuisance . But relief was not what Glassman felt. Rather, he felt frustrated and ever so slightly lonely with each passing day. For the editor’s initial suspicions about Shuman—suspicions he had nearly convinced himself to dismiss—began to bloom in his mind once again like a once dormant flower. After all, if Shuman were merely the noodge Glassman took him to be, surely he would have shown himself again by now, especially since the Weekly Books Editor had foolishly encouraged him to stay in touch, as if he were a long-lost friend. But, instead, the old man had mysteriously vanished. Glassman blamed himself for not asking for Shuman’s telephone number, but he had been certain at the time that he would see the old man again soon, that Shuman would drop into his office as he had promised. Whether he was his grandfather or not, it was incredible that he would simply disappear. Could it be that he would never see Shuman again? How could he not have asked for the man’s number? His carelessness was a sore tooth he troubled with his tongue. 74 75 He wouldn’t just sit around waiting. After the second silent week passed, Glassman dialed information in various nearby towns— Delray, Boynton, Deerfield, West Palm, Fort Lauderdale, Hollywood , Jupiter. There were two listings for an Irving Shuman. He nervously called both numbers, and was disheartened to hear aged voices, utterly unlike Shuman’s, greet him impatiently over the line. Both strangers were convinced that their young caller wanted to sell them something. That Shuman, his Shuman, apparently didn’t exist provided some evidence, scant though it was, that the old man may have used an alias, that he, in fact, was Glassman’s grandfather. The Weekly Books Editor took little pleasure in such reflections as it rendered the old man’s disappearance all the more agonizing. The most likely scenario in any case, he decided, was that Shuman’s number was unlisted. Simple as that. Glassman rehearsed their brief encounter countless times in his mind, hearing anew the cadence of each of their sentences, the timbre and pitch of each word exchanged. Eventually, however, he began to suspect that he had been embellishing upon their brief exchange with each of his revisions. The sentences began to seem more and more surreal, a distant echo of any conversation that could have actually transpired between two people. And so finally, after a month passed, Glassman decided that he must have imagined the whole thing. No one, not least of all Abe Fishbein, had visited him in his office. That he had successfully refrained from burdening his mother, Teenie, and Rebecca with his delusions offered him some small comfort. He and Rebecca, at any rate, had more pressing concerns to occupy themselves. Mucus test. This was the activity to which he and his wife had been reduced. From what Glassman could gather, Dr. Arias needed to ascertain whether Rebecca’s secretions provided a conducive environment for the seminal commute. Ergo, she needed to observe his semen in action. This was the plan: Rebecca and he would conjoin at seven in the morning and Dr. Arias would peer into Rebecca by eight to observe the post-coital goings on. Mucus test. The timing was crucial. She had to have Rebecca in the stirrups within an hour after ejaculation. Glassman’s ever pragmatic wife seemed to have no problem with the procedure. She had established a rapport verging on the sororal with Dr. Christine Arias. But it all seemed a bit too voyeuristic to Glassman. Next thing, Arias would want to observe them in sexual congress itself to make sure he was performing adequately; he was fairly certain that Becky would invite her over without hesitation. No, not like that. Arch your back for crying out loud. Ándale. Ándale. You call that thrusting Glassman? “Hurry up, honey,” Rebecca urged him. “I have a nine o’clock today. Wait, are you still hard?” Just barely. The thought of Dr. Arias gauging the hospitality of his wife’s vaginal environment within the hour—and no doubt sizing up the volume of his contribution as well—sort...