The Paternity Test: A Novel

Eight

79 eight Adoc­ tor poked at De­ bora, her blood was drawn and ­ tested, she suf­ fered a ­ psychologist’s ques­ tions. A pri­ vate in­ ves­ ti­ ga­ tor ­ snooped ­ through old­ records for signs of a crim­ i­ nal back­ ground. Fine, every­ one said. Full speed ahead. Stu was also ­ tested, his sperm count and mo­ til­ ity. Noth­ ing off the­ charts, but good ­ enough.­ Through it all, we took to phon­ ing De­ bora every night, gid­ dily glean­ ing knowl­ edge of her life. She ­ loathed milk but loved milk ­ shakes; sun­ light made her ­ sneezy; ­ Cinderella’s end­ ing al­ ways left her ­ partly sad (“Why no­ body talks about the mice and rats and liz­ ards, who have to be again the ­ things they were?”). We spoke with Danny, too, when he was the one who an­ swered, and some­ times he in­ dulged our lit­ tle quiz­ zes:­ What’s the thing ­ you’re proud­ est of ? “Never ­ raised a hand to any­ one.” Most ­ ashamed of? “How often I still want to.” By the time we con­ vened to ­ endorse the legal ­ papers, our friend­ ship, we as­ sured our­ selves, ­ didn’t feel like busi­ ness—which made it both less and more awk­ ward when the law­ yer re­ viewed each ­ clause about what, pre­ cisely, Stu and I would pay for. Above the ­ twenty thou­ sand bucks for ­ Debora’s basic fee, we would foot for life in­ su­ rance, med­ i­ cal vis­ its, ma­ ter­ nity ­ clothes, maid ser­ vice if she were put on bed rest. For 80­ pregnancy-related trips De­ bora made in her own car: ­ forty-three and a half cents per mile. Lost wages for Danny if he ­ missed work for the birth. If ­ Debora’s tubes got dam­ aged? Five thou­ sand. Down the list the law­ yer went—this, that, the other—add­ ing to the sum we’d keep in es­ crow. The word ­ sounded ­ enough like es­ car­ got that I saw ­ snails: nau­ tili with end­ less extra cham­ bers. The law­ yer wore a suit that sat ­ queerly on her frame; her neck ­ puffed­ soufflé-like from her col­ lar. I ­ sensed she would ­ rather have been shag­ ging out­ field flies, chug­ ging Bud, ­ cheered on by her wife. (Well, not now, of­ course, not in Jan­ u­ ary.) But here she was, all ­ trussed up to fit in with her of­ fice, whose fur­ ni­ ture was el­ e­ gant but fuss­ ily un­ pre­ ten­ tious, every table ex­ pen­ sively de­ faced with lit­ tle dings. I liked her, ­ though: the way she said, “Call me Kris—or, hell, K.C.”; and how, when she ­ thought we­ wouldn’t no­ tice, she ­ kicked her pumps off. Danny was the one who ­ seemed un­ sure of how to take her. Walk­ ing in, he’d fal­ tered when she rose to shake his hand, and then, on re­ cov­ er­ ing, shook it over­ ea­ gerly, clap­ ping her arm, as ­ though she were a frat boy. Since then he’d maybe said ten words. My con­ des­ cend­ ing, ­ descended-from-Pilgrims mind read ­ things this way: a sim­ ple trades­ man hum­ bled in the face of ­ Mighty Law. ­ Mustn’t that ex­ plain, I ­ thought, his ­ self-protective hunch? He ­ clicked and un­ clicked a ball­ point pen. “Relax,” I whis­ pered, re­ call­ ing how he’d ­ calmed me at the Pan­ cake King. “Law­ yers are just like us but over­ paid. She won’t bite.” K.C., who I ­ hadn’t ­ thought could hear, said, “Yeah? Bite this,” then let rip with a ­ mischief-maker’s laugh. Using the col­ lec­ tive ­ slack-jawed si­ lence she had ­ bought her­ self, she said, “So, then: mind if I con­ tinue with the ­ contract? Next we come to all of ­ Debora’s ­ can’ts.” Can’t smoke, drink, take drugs. Can’t play un­ safe ­ sports. Can’t ex­ pose your­ self to ra­ di­ a­ tion. “Wait,” I said, tak­ ing in­ spi­ ra­ tion from K.C.’s ir­ rev­ er­ ence. “How about ‘can’t ex­ pose ­ yourself’—full stop?” 81 “Pat­ rick,” said Stu. “For cry­ ing out—” “Oh, now. Grow a funny bone.” His eyes, like two rifle bores...