Every Reasonable Doubt (8 page)

T
wo days later, I was reluctantly sitting in the waiting room of my OB/GYN’s office holding, but not actually reading, a copy of
Modern Motherhood
, doing what I had to do. My husband, seated next to me, had been smiling like one of those bright yellow happy faces since we left the house. The last time I remembered seeing him this excited was right after we had sex for the first time.

My own lie had landed me here. Jefferson had been pretty hot when I’d returned home at close to eleven o’clock from my meeting at Neddy’s place. After two days of his foul mood, telling him I was going to make an appointment with my gynecologist to discuss getting off the pill was the only thing I could think of to make him smile again.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, however, Jefferson offered to make the appointment for me, then proudly announced that he planned to tag along. To my dismay, Dr. Bell, my longtime gynecologist, was able to squeeze me in that afternoon.

A nurse showed us into a small office with bright pink and blue walls and told us that Dr. Bell would be with us shortly. A huge poster board behind her desk caught my attention. It contained a collage of pictures of dozens of infants, presumably ones Dr. Bell had delivered. The tiny smattering of faces, most just a few minutes old, stirred something inside me.

Jefferson reached for my hand.

“We’re going to have my son’s picture up there pretty soon,” he said proudly, pointing at the poster board.

“Who said we’re having a boy?”

“I did,” he declared.

“And what if we have a girl?”

“I’ll love little Jefferina to death, but we’ll just have to keep on trying till Jefferson, Jr. gets here.”

“Jefferina? There’s no way in hell I’m sticking my daughter with a name like that,” I laughed. “And what’s this big power trip men have about naming their offspring after them? Isn’t it enough that the child gets your last name?”

“Nah, I want me a little junior. It’s a man thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

Before I could protest further, Dr. Bell walked in.           

“Congratulations,” she said, as she took a seat behind her desk. “Parenthood is an exciting venture. I like to spend some time talking to prospective parents about the process of conceiving. It’s nice to finally meet you, Jefferson. I love it when fathers really get involved.”

“That’s me,” Jefferson beamed. “I’m one hundred percent involved and two hundred percent ready to be a daddy.”

Dr. Bell winked at me. “Vernetta, I definitely think you lucked up with this man.”

Jefferson smiled big, then slid his arm around my shoulders and gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek. As conflicted as I was about being here, it felt good to see my husband so happy.

Dr. Bell picked up a folder from her desk. “First, I don’t want you to be disappointed if you don’t get pregnant right away.” She thumbed through what I assumed was my medical file. “Since you’ve been using birth control pills for several years, Vernetta, it’ll take a while for your body to adjust.”

“How long?” Jefferson asked pointedly, before Dr. Bell had even gotten her words out.

“It differs from person to person. But I’d like to see you off the pill for at least a month, preferably three, before trying to get pregnant. During that time, you should use a condom.”

Jefferson looked up at the ceiling and started counting off the months on his fingers. “Okay, if we get pregnant in one month…June, July, August…December, January, February. That means my son’ll be an Aquarius, just like his daddy!”

Pregnant in one month!
Whoooaaa cowboy.
I could feel perspiration dripping from my armpits.

“Aren’t you the excited one,” Dr. Bell said. “But again, there’s no guarantee that Vernetta’s going to get pregnant as soon as you two start trying. In fact, few couples do.”

Jefferson smiled. “That’s most people, Doc. I don’t want to sound arrogant or anything, but I hail from a long line of sexually potent men. My great granddaddy had thirteen children, my granddaddy had ten and my daddy had eight.”

I wanted to reach over and give Jefferson a good sock. He might as well have stood up and grabbed his nuts.

“I can’t argue with a lineage like that,” Dr. Bell grinned. “Since you two are so gung ho, I’d like to take some routine fertility tests just to make sure everything’s in proper working order. Jefferson, you included.”

He leaned back and loosened his grip around my shoulders. “That won’t be necessary, Doc. I can assure you my shit is working just fine.”

“Jefferson!” I screamed as Dr. Bell chuckled.

Jefferson held up both of his hands in the air in a surrender position. “Please excuse my language, Doc. I meant no disrespect. If that’s what we need to do, I’ll take all the tests you want me to take.”

Dr. Bell picked up a pad and began scribbling on it. “First, we’ll need a sperm sample. We can do that here in the office today or you can collect the sample at home and bring it in.”

“Let’s just get it done while we’re here,” Jefferson said. “The sooner we get started, the better.”

“And I’ll also need some blood samples.”

Jefferson’s eyes widened.

“What’s the matter, Jefferson,” Dr. Bell teased. “Giving a little blood shouldn’t be a problem for someone as virile as you, right?”

Jefferson was slow to respond. “Uh, so do you have to draw the blood with a needle?”

“Yep, I’m afraid that’s still the way we do it,” she laughed.

I reached over and grabbed Jefferson’s knee. “Dr. Bell, I’m afraid my big, macho husband has a little phobia about needles. But I’m sure if I can endure the pain of childbirth, he can handle giving a little blood.”

Jefferson’s cheeks filled with air. “Uh, you don’t have to get the sperm samples with a needle, do you, Doc?” he asked timidly.

“No,” Dr. Bell said laughing. “That process isn’t painful at all. I can show you to a private room for that.”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Jefferson said, perking up. “Y’all got any porno videos back there, Doc?”

“Jefferson!” This time I did sock him. “I’m sorry Dr. Bell. He’s just joking around.”

“No problem,” she said smiling. “No, we don’t have any videos, Jefferson. But we may have a magazine or two that might be of assistance.”

Jefferson smiled at me gloatingly.

Dr. Bell picked up my medical file. “Vernetta, your tests are a little more involved, can you come in tomorrow?”

“She’ll be here,” Jefferson said, before I could even get my Palm Pilot out of my purse. “Just name the time, I’ll have her here.”

Fortunately, or maybe not, my schedule was clear.

Dr. Bell continued looking through my file. “Vernetta, I see you had an IUD several years ago. Did you have any problems with it?”

“No, not really,” I said. “At least not that I remember. But that was a long time ago. I had the IUD removed after about a year because of all the negative news reports about them. But I didn’t personally have any problems with it.”

“You’re very fortunate. A lot of women weren’t so lucky.”

Jefferson inhaled. Having a son was so important to him.
What if I couldn’t?

When my face flushed, Dr. Bell sensed that her words had frightened me and she quickly backtracked.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to alarm you. Let’s just get some testing done so we know where we stand. Even if there is a problem, you’d be amazed at what technology can do today.”

“We won’t be needing any technological help, Doc,” Jefferson said.

He reached over and patted me on the stomach. “I’m sure this womb is ready, willing, and able to help extend the Jones family lineage. We believe in going forth and multiplying.”

Both Dr. Bell and I asked the same question at exactly the same moment. “Just how much multiplying do you plan on doing?”

O
ne of the most immediate benefits of putting our pregnancy plans into motion was Jefferson’s willingness to do almost anything I asked. The day after our visit to Dr. Bell’s office, he agreed to escort me to one of O’Reilly’s Friday night dinner parties. Normally, it took a good week of whining and moping around before he would consent.

“You know you owe me for this, right?” Jefferson said, as he sat on the corner of the bed, slipping on his Bruno Maglis. I was standing in front of the dresser, fussing with my hair.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said. “How about if I promise you twins?”

“You got it, baby.” He smiled as if he expected me to actually deliver on my promise.

“Yeah, you wish. Anyway, the people I work with aren’t that bad.”

“That’s bull,” he said. “Your coworkers are insufferable.”

My mouth fell open and I turned and stared at him. “Insufferable? Where’d you learn that word?”

“What? I can’t use big words. What’re you trying to say about the extent of my vocabulary?”

“No, nothing,” I said laughing. “It’s just not a word I’ve ever heard you use before.”

“I haven’t had to. I don’t know any other insufferable people.”

I walked over and thumped him on back of the head. “Stop being a baby. They’re not that bad. And you better behave tonight.” I wagged my finger in his face. “And, Jefferson, please try not to cuss.”

He grabbed his keys from the nightstand and looked at me as if my words had gone in one ear and out the other. “Like I said, you owe me.”

The small gathering at O’Reilly’s home in Newport Beach was in full swing by the time we arrived. We were one of seven couples, not counting O’Reilly and his latest flavor of the month. This one was a tall brunette with hair that hung down to her butt. It had to be a major hassle to wrestle with that much hair every morning, I thought. She was very different from the last woman I’d seen O’Reilly with. Every woman he dated was certainly attractive. This one had a pert nose and piercing hazel eyes. But two months ago he was with a gorgeous blonde with boobs big enough to use as flotation devices. Carrie, as she later introduced herself, was barely an A cup. She was dressed in slacks and a tight-fitting sweater that showed off a firm, curvaceous body. The one thing she did have in common with the others, however, was her height. She had to be at least six feet and she was wearing flats. He definitely liked them tall. Even Julie Killabrew fit that bill.

We ordered drinks from a passing waiter and joined a small group standing around an unlit fireplace. I recognized all but two of the couples from the firm. I spotted David, accompanied by a frumpy-looking wisp of a woman, in the far corner of the room. I kept my distance to avoid having to make small talk with him.

I didn’t expect to see Neddy. She never attended O’Reilly’s dinner parties. Since our meeting at her house, she had been cordial, but nothing like the open, friendly person she had been that night. I knew she was under a lot of pressure because of her marital situation, so I decided not to fret about her Dr. Jekyl-Ms. Hyde personality. I just hoped she’d make up her mind to either be an angel or a devil so at least I’d know who I was dealing with.

“So, Jefferson,” O’Reilly said, walking up to us and enthusiastically pumping his hand, “how’s business these days?”

“I can’t complain,” Jefferson said.

O’Reilly lowered his voice and leaned in close to him. “I don’t mean to take advantage here, but I’ve got a light in my downstairs study that flickers for the first few minutes after you turn it on. Maybe we could set up an appointment for you to take a look at it?”

“No problem. I might even be able to check it out before we leave tonight.”

He gave Jefferson a thumbs-up. “Great. I’ll definitely take you up on that offer.”

When O’Reilly walked away, Jefferson whispered in my ear. “I bet Mr. Boss Man is going to try to get me to do the work for free. I’m telling you now, I’m charging his rich ass double. And can’t he afford a damn stereo? Every time we come to one of these boring-ass parties, they don’t ever have any music. All they do is stand around sipping wine, nibbling on chunks of fancy cheeses with names I can’t pronounce, talking about work. This ain’t no party, it’s a fuckin’ wake.”

“Jefferson!” I whispered through clenched teeth. “You better behave.”

“I haven’t done a thing,” he said, playfully backing away from me. But a minute later, he was back at it. “Look at the women in here,” he said with disgust in his voice. “Ain’t a single one of them got a behind. The asses up in here are flatter than the flapjacks at IHOP. That shit is not attractive.”

I elbowed him in the side. Hard. “Stop it, Jefferson!” I said, trying not to laugh since I knew that would only encourage him. “Somebody might hear you. And you promised not to cuss.”

“No, I didn’t,” he said, massaging his ribcage. “You know I’m telling the truth. That’s why your ass is laughing.”

A young Asian woman dressed in a black and white maid’s uniform gently rang a chime, summoning everyone to the dinner table. I grabbed Jefferson by the hand and squeezed it tight. “I’m not playing, Jefferson. You better act right during dinner.”

He pursed his lips and pretended to pout.

We joined the other couples at one end of a shiny, mahogany dinner table, long enough to seat twenty comfortably. Black plates with tiny gold squares, gold utensils, and crystal water glasses trimmed along the rim in gold sat in front of each chair. The enormous table reminded me of the one they showed in all the news shots of the president and his cabinet. O’Reilly assumed his usual position at one end of the table, presiding over the group like the Godfather. Away from the office, he wore a thick gold chain and a pinky ring, which almost made him look like he belonged on
The Sopranos,
except he didn’t have dark hair. Two male waiters scurried around the table dishing out healthy portions of blackened salmon, sautéed asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes.

The dinner conversation, as usual, was pretty boring. A few minutes about the upcoming election for governor, a polite debate about the next nominee for the U.S. Supreme Court, followed by a benign joke or two from O’Reilly. Then David told a couple of highly exaggerated war stories about the Hayes trial.

I felt Jefferson’s knee bump up against mine. I looked over at him and he nodded in the direction of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. I understood his message, but there was no way we were leaving before dessert. One, it would be rude, and two, O’Reilly had a personal chef whose desserts rivaled Emeril’s. I gave Jefferson a look that told him to cool it.

After another few minutes, I excused myself and headed for the bathroom, taking in O’Reilly’s extensive art collection as I meandered down a long, colorful hallway. The subtle lighting along the hallway gave a comforting, seductive feeling. O’Reilly’s home was an architect’s wet dream. I walked past the bathroom and peered into his spacious playroom. It was nearly fifteen hundred square feet and equipped with every convenience that a man who hadn’t quite grown up yet could want. The room held a fully-stocked bar, pool table, a plasma TV, and a home theater with twenty-four plush, red velvet seats. Like every other room in the six-thousand-square-foot house, the ceilings ran a full two-stories high. Was this what making partnership at O’Reilly & Finney would buy? If Jefferson had a playroom like this he would never go to work.

I finished up in the bathroom and fought the urge to nose around the rest of the house. As I made my way back toward the dining room, I picked up the sound of Jefferson’s voice at a slightly elevated level.

“Naw, man, you got it all wrong. It ain’t about that.”

“That’s exactly what it’s about,” I heard David say, equally animated.

“It’s a respect thing, a pride thing,” Jefferson insisted. “Ain’t nobody trying to disrespect the Indians.”

I rushed back into the room and slid into my seat next to Jefferson.
Indians? What the hell were they arguing about?

“In this day and age, it’s just not politically correct for any team—high school, college, or the pros—to have an Indian as a mascot,” David argued. “The Washington Redskins, the Atlanta Braves, the Cincinnati Reds, and anybody else should be ashamed of themselves. Team mascots are usually animals. So what’s that say about the Indians? It’s just plain racist.”

David regularly bragged about the fact that he had won four national debating titles during his senior year at Stanford, and he loved verbally sparring with anyone who unwittingly wandered into his web. But when in the hell did he become so politically correct? And why was Jefferson taking him on? I needed to find the proper entry point to cut the conversation short.

“Man, you’re way off base!” Jefferson was talking as loud as he did when he was playing dominoes and talking trash with his boys. “I went to Gardena High. We were the Mohicans and we were proud of that. We weren’t disrespecting the Indians. The image of an Indian is a warrior, somebody powerful. We were giving the Indians their props.”

I nervously placed my arm around Jefferson’s shoulder. “I see you’ve roped my husband into your little debating fetish,” I said, glaring at David.

Jefferson ignored me and continued. “And you need to double-check your facts, my man. Not all teams have animals for mascots.”

“Name some?” David challenged, clearly trying to put Jefferson on the spot.

Jefferson didn’t miss a beat. “The Dallas Cowboys, the Tennessee Titans, the Oakland Raiders. Is that enough? You want some more?” Jefferson taunted, scooting his chair up closer to the table.

David waved his hand dismissively. “That’s different.”

“How?” Jefferson demanded.

“The mascots you named aren’t races of people.”

“Really?” Jefferson replied with a belittling laugh. “What about the Vikings? They’re Scandinavian, aren’t they? You don’t hear no Scandinavian people demanding that Minnesota change the name of its football team.”

David stuttered for a second, then recovered. “They haven’t been annihilated like the Indians.”

Jefferson leaned across the table and got right in David’s face. “Oh, so
now
you’re changing the rules,” he said with a taunting smile. “It’s okay as long as they haven’t been mistreated?”

“You’re missing my point, I—”

“Aw, man, you don’t have a point,” Jefferson said. “Your argument is weak, man. And anyway, there ain’t enough Indians left for it to even matter.”

The room went silent and everybody at the table stared at Jefferson.

I opened my mouth to speak but my brain wasn’t quick enough to come up with some snappy one-liner to ease the tension bearing down on everybody in the room except Jefferson. O’Reilly finally came to my rescue.

“Okay, time out,” he said, holding his hands in a T formation. “David, it looks like you may have to brush up on your debating skills. I think Jefferson just scored a few points on you.”

David scratched the back of his neck and laughed uncomfortably along with everybody else while Jefferson glowed with satisfaction.