The Paternity Test: A Novel

Seven

69 seven At the Pan­ cake King we had all ­ agreed to wait a week, but the phone rang at eight the next morn­ ing. “I’m lis­ ten­ ing to NPR,” she said—no “Good morn­ ing” or “It’s De­ bora”—“and the story, it’s a man who finds a baby in the sub­ way!” “De­ bora,” I ­ mouthed to Stu, and ­ switched to spea­ ker­ phone. “Just lying there,” she went on, “in the sta­ tion, in a blan­ ket. He takes it to the cops, and when no one comes to get it, they ask him would he like to raise it. Not just him, but his boy­ friend also—both. Can you be­ lieve? They say gays can’t be par­ ents, but now, when the­ heteros, they don’t do what they ­ should, the govern­ ment asks the gays to help out.” Why was De­ bora say­ ing this? To prove her lack of bias? To show us what a super match she’d make? I could see my own sur­ prise mir­ rored in Stu’s stare: we had ­ thought that we might be the ones who’d have to plead. (The pre­ vi­ ous night, de­ brief­ing, we’d ­ parsed ­ Danny’s re­ ac­ tions: the way he’d ­ seemed, a ­ couple of times at lunch, about to snap. We’d de­ cided that we were ac­ tu­ ally glad to see his ­ doubts, glad that his and­ Debora’s sto­ ries ­ weren’t com­ pletely air­ tight. “If they were, that would be more wor­ ri­ some,” Stu had said. “The truth is, it is ­ strange—it’s cra­ zi­ ness—to do this. No one’s rea­ sons are ever going to make per­ fect sense.” “No,” I said. “Not ­ theirs . . . and prob­ ably not ours, ei­ ther.”) 70 “. . . found it in the sta­ tion,” De­ bora was now re­ peat­ ing. “Just lying there. Isn’t it amaz­ ing?” At a loss, I ­ looked to Stu, who mo­ tioned for me to an­ swer. Play along ­ seemed to be his mean­ ing. “Wow,” I said. “So, what ­ you’re say­ ing is . . . we ­ should troll the sub­ ways?” “Troll?” she said. I ­ couldn’t help but laugh. A tough trans­ la­ tion! Stu ex­ plained, “We hoped we ­ wouldn’t have to find a baby.” “Not if,” I said—how close this was to flirt­ ing—“we have you.” “Of ­ course,” she said. “Of ­ course you will. You do.” Stu was off that day, so the three of us de­ cided we ­ should meet again for lunch. Four, count­ ing Paula. (Danny was up in Chat­ ham, at a gut rehab of an old ­ ship-captain’s house.) I chose ­ Baxter’s, for its chow­ der, its view of the ­ chilly har­ bor. Maybe, too, be­ cause it was a fa­ vor­ ite of my mom’s. This time Stu had no neuro­ tic­ doubts about our plan. De­ bora was wait­ ing with Paula at the ­ food-ordering coun­ ter. The girl was even pret­ tier and more ma­ ture than in her pic­ ture. ­ Graver, in her ­ four-year-old’s way, than her own ­ mother. She ­ shared ­ Debora’s­ up-and-at-’em shine. “I bet I know who this is,” I said, crouch­ ing down. Paula ­ glared with ­ show-me im­ pa­ tience. “Snoopy, right?” She shook her head. “You look like a ­ Snoopy. Let’s see, then. Hmm. Cle­ o­ pa­ tra?”­ Paula’s impatience devolved to for­ bear­ ing con­ des­ cen­ sion. I hated feel­ ing, every time I met a new child, that all my per­ sonal worthi­ ness de­ pended en­ tirely on ­ whether I could make that child smile. But I my­ self was ­ guilty of judg­ ing oth­ ers thus. The first time I took Stu to my sis­ ter ­ Sally’s house—her kids were then three and al­ most six—I had ­ watched him walk in­ side, then drop onto his belly and enter the boys’ ­ bed-sheet for­ tress. Squeal­ ing with de­ light, the neph­ ews ­ dubbed 71 him ­ Stooby-Doo. And not till my shoul­ ders fell did I know I’d been cring­ ing—a ­ whole-body ­ clench of ap­ pre­ hen­ sion—think­ ing, What if they don’t like him? How could I love some­ one...