The Paternity Test: A Novel

Nineteen

198 nine­ teen The park­ ing lot was chock­ a­ block—­ out-of-staters, ­ mostly; I had to cir­ cle four or five times. At last I found a spot by the small look­ out plat­ form, where De­ bora, I re­ al­ ized as I ­ climbed out of the car, was stand­ ing, arms ­ crossed, fac­ ing the water. I’d seen her as I ­ scouted, but not known whom I saw. From the back, she’d ­ looked so in­ sub­ stan­ tial. I ­ called to her and waved both hands, a dumb, re­ dun­ dant greet­ ing. De­ bora ­ turned and ­ strode to me, spread­ ing wide her arms, a ges­ ture I now saw I had in­ vited. I ­ dropped my hands. “The beach is ­ packed,” I said. “Hike the marsh?”­ Debora’s arms froze in her own ­ aborted ges­ ture. “What­ ever you think, it’s good,” she said. “I’ll fol­ low.” We ­ walked down the road ­ single-file, skirt­ ing traf­fic. I went first, and ­ couldn’t see her, but pic­ tured her ­ shaken gait. I ­ wanted to start over, to give her a ­ kindly hug. ­ Surely she could tell ­ between con­ do­ lence and a ­ come-on. We ­ turned at the ­ ranger hut from as­ phalt onto sand. To our left, the dunes; our right, the Great Marsh, whose sedge shone a ­fierce, chaf­ing green. The sky was ­ bright, pun­ gent, stun­ ning in a lit­ eral sense: look­ ing at it put me in a daze. The trail fol­ lowed an old road, a pair of ­ sunken ruts, which De­ bora and I took, side by side. With every step she ­ winced; maybe the hot 199 sand hurt? Watch­ ing her face—her flinch­ ing, even if ­ caused by pain— sent me back in­ ev­ i­ ta­ bly to our last time to­ gether: the way, ­ pressed­ against me, she had shud­ dered. Fast, I had to ball that ­ thought up, hurl it to the marsh . . . “Things okay at home?” I asked. “You know, with Danny back?” “Yes,” she said. “Fine. All is nor­ mal.” Her ­ flip-flops were smack­ ing hard ­ against her strid­ ing soles. Sand ­ sprayed, and clung ­ against her­ calves. In the sedge, a ­ shadow ­ landed. I ­ shielded my eyes to watch. Some­ thing big and sharp, slash­ ing down. “And?” I said. “You told him?” “Told him? No!” She ­ stopped. “Today,” I said. “Your pe­ riod.” “Oh,” she said. “That.” The ­ shadow ­ flapped up again, gor­ geously un­ gainly. The sun ­ caught its wings: a great blue heron. “No,” she said. “Danny’s work­ ing. To­ night we’ll talk, at home. And you? You ­ talked with Stu al­ ready?” “Stu is on his way home from Phoe­ nix. ­ Couldn’t reach him.” In truth, I ­ hadn’t tried; I ­ couldn’t bear the ­ thought, know­ ing what a toll the news would take. Also maybe—self­ish again—I ­ wanted, for a lit­ tle while, to keep the grief as mine. Mine and ­ Debora’s. Now she ­ started off again, scuff­ing ­ through the sand, a freer look about her, no winc­ ing. The ­ mended ver­ bal ­ mix-up ­ seemed to set­ tle­ things ­ between us: her preg­ nancy, her lack of it, was fair game for dis­ cus­ sion, but not the other thing. What we’d done. I gazed over the marsh again, its taunt­ ing green lush­ ness (as if to be so fer­ tile was a cinch). “The sun,” I said. “It’s—God, I feel clob­ bered.” “The start of sum­ mer,” she said. “The long­ est day in the year.” “Really?” I said. “Guess ­ you’re right. For­ got.” De­ bora ­ plucked some dune grass and ­ tossed it to the wind. “In Bra­ zil, it’s the short­ est day. It’s win­ ter, now, that ­ starts.” She said this like a prov­ erb, a ­ puzzle’s intro­ duc­ tion: for every start, a match­ ing end; for every end, a start. 200­ Around a bend, we saw an­ other ­ couple com­ ing near. Man and woman, both ­ gray-haired, she a ­ half-foot ­ taller but ­ hunched as if from years of lean­ ing to­ ward her mate; their hands, held to­ gether, ­ loosely swung. The ­ couple ap­ peared to hes­ i­ tate, ready to drop their grasp, but De­ bora and I both ­ stepped off...