The Paternity Test: A Novel

Eleven

118 eleven I ­ pelted Stu with pep talks. Nor­ mal, I said. ­ Likely. Would have been sheer luck to hit the ­ bull’s eye right away. I ­ pointed to the head­ ing in our book that said “Don’t Panic.” “‘Even the fit­ test ­ couple,’ I read, ‘em­ ploy­ ing ­ time-honored inter­ course, is bound to fail four of five times.’ So see?” I said. “We knew this. Or ­ would’ve if we’d let our­ selves. You were right: much bet­ ter that we ­ didn’t tell your folks. Or Rina. Isn’t that re­ liev­ ing?” I was try­ ing ­ mostly to per­ suade my­ self, of ­ course. I felt ­ weak-kneed but not es­ pe­ cially, or only, in the knees. All of me: a ­ creaky, ­ cranky joint. I ­ wished Stu might no­ tice this and try to com­ fort me. But he was all­ pulled in­ ward, the op­ po­ site of at­ ten­ tive—not quite glum, but slee­ py­ headed, ­ stalled. Zack ad­ vised re­ mind­ ing him of ­ Debora’s surro ­ contract, which prom­ ised she would try for eight cy­ cles. In other words, re­ peated at­ tempts were not at all un­ usual. Focus on our seven cy­ cles left. Du­ ti­ fully I gave the ­ speech, one night as we un­ dressed. I tried to give my voice the ring of rea­ son. Stu got stiff and ­ stared at me, eyes like ri­ pened blis­ ters. “Plan to fail? Oh, right. ­ That’s per­ fect, Pat. Good ­ thought.” No, he said, he ­ wouldn’t think of seven tries, or six; he would do this once more, and suc­ ceed. 119 I ­ wasn’t hurt. I loved it! The rush of Stu’s re­ vi­ val! A man who al­ most every day un­ clenched the grip of grav­ ity, launch­ ing tons of steel into the sky, ­ wasn’t used to hav­ ing his will ­ bucked. What had ­ seemed a lull had been the rev­ ving of his jets. Now he ­ grabbed his lap­ top and com­ posed a ­ Stu-ish chart: ­ things that might have gone wrong, and rem­ e­ dies. “Time delay, for start­ ers.” He ­ stroked a few more keys. “Some of the sperm dies, you know, with every pass­ ing sec­ ond. Bet­ ter to do it at their place, on the spot.”­ Wasn’t that the plan I’d made, the one he had re­ buffed? “And ­ build-up,” he went on. “It’s bet­ ter to have ­ build-up.” An­ other­ flurry of typ­ ing on the lap­ top. “I prom­ ise, for a whole week be­ fore her ov­ u­ la­ tion . . .” Last time, he con­ fessed, the tips of his ears blush­ ing,­ Debora’s surge had ­ caught him un­ pre­ pared: only about six hours be­ fore his ser­ vices were ­ called upon, he’d “wasted him­ self” in a men’s room at­ O’Hare. “A week, okay?” he said now. “Work those ­ counts up ­ higher.” Hear­ ing the way he ­ coached him­ self—his ­ gamer’s fight­ ing drive—I­ sensed ­ Rina’s visit had re­ dou­ bled his com­ pet­ i­ tive­ ness. He put the lap­ top to sleep, and said he’d sleep now, too. I ­ thought he’d nod­ ded off—his ­ breaths got thick as taffy—but then his hand­ reached out for me and ­ cupped my ­ hipbone’s cliff. His voice, in the dark­ ness, was a ­ wraith: “You know ­ what’s a re­ lief ? That I ­ didn’t feel re­ lief.” To not be let down, he said—that had been his worry. To have to sell him­ self on feel­ ing sad. Now he did drift off, but I ­ stayed wide awake, won­ der­ ing when I’d ever been so ­ pleased with ­ someone’s sad­ ness. For two weeks, he ­ nursed his lit can­ dle of re­ solve, until, when he ­ needed it, it gut­ tered. At ­ Debora’s. In the bath­ room. Doing it on the spot. Or, more ­ likely, con­ sid­ er­ ing the time he’d spent in there: not doing it. How long, so far? Fif­ teen, ­ twenty min­ utes? De­ bora and I were try­ ing not to hover, in the guest room, where 120 Paula ­ played ­ beside us with a doll. “Bar­ bie has to pee,” she said—the sec­ ond...