The Paternity Test (26 page)

The good news was, Stu seemed even readier than I was. From penitence, partly, I guessed, about his recent slip-up, even if it hadn’t gone past kissing. Maybe, too, that incident had jump-started his conf dence. Was all he’d needed, really, that bit of reinforcement? Whatever it was, it worked. Gone was his gloomy self-defeat, replaced by a sudden carnal zeal.

We made love in bed, in the shower, on the deck, and even, for the frst time in forever, engaged in dream sex: coming to in the dead hours, already locked together, voracious (if not a hundred percent conscious). It seemed, in those moments, we dreamt the same dream, or separate dreams with a common set of props. Afterward, we lay together, muscles all unsprung, blissfully—almost Buddhistly—erased.

But our revival encompassed more than sex. We also went on dates, of the new-romance variety: mini-golf, an evening bike along the Cape Cod Rail Trail. Drinks at Aqua Grille, above the bright marina. A passable
West Side Story
at Sandwich High.

At the Cape Cinema we saw a flm—exquisitely, gallingly French. Stu’s review? “Great, except the bad parts.” Afterward we bought each other cones at Cap’n Frosty’s, and how could I not smile as Stu attacked his melting ice cream—as if any drip he missed might set off Armageddon, as if his licks alone could save the world. Yes, I thought. Yes, of course: I love him.

A busboy hurtled past, a tray atop his arm.

“Didn’t you tell me, once,” said Stu, “you had a crush that worked here?”

“Yeah, Liam Mehegan.
Crush
is right: he flattened me.”

“Why? Because he didn’t want you back?”

I paused to watch the busboy—nervous little nose, minor-league mustache damp with sweat—probably the age I’d been when I fell hard for Liam. “No,” I said. “Because I think he
did
but wouldn’t admit it.”

“Ah,” said Stu. “And that’s why you picked me. I’m
demonstrative
.”

“When you are, you are,” I said.

Great, except the bad parts
.

Driving home we talked about getting away together. Of course we already lived “away,” according to most people’s yardstick. Maybe we needed to go still farther—Nantucket? Prince Edward Island?

In any case, as soon as possible: July Fourth would be perfect. It felt good to look ahead, even if uncertainly. To reach a brink and see how we might find a way across.

At first it seemed our new détente would reap extra dividends, would spark a chain reaction of reconciliations.

Out of the blue, Ellie called, wanting to clear her conscience. She and Walter regretted how they’d acted since the Seder, ashamed at having treated us so coldly. She wouldn’t lie: they weren’t exactly
comfortable
, not quite yet. But family was family, and they would do their best to keep adjusting.

Even more amazing? She said this all to
me
. (She’d known when she called that I’d be home and Stu would not.)

“And so,” she said, “this woman”—she forced her voice box clear— “the one you’ve hired. Maybe we should meet her?”

“My mom said that?” Stu gushed, that evening, when I briefed him. “Yes! I just knew she’d come around.”

Now he got ahead of himself, plotting possibilities. The Nadlers would fly up for a week of seaside leisure (early-morning beachcombing, sunning on the deck), after which, fully relaxed, they’d meet Debora and Danny. Dinner at the Pancake King? No, somewhere nicer. And maybe not a dinner, at all; meals were always risky: no escape if anything went wrong. Maybe just a walk along the harbor—and Paula could come! Ellie and Walter loved to be with kids . . .

I was doing my best to keep up with Stu’s pace, even though a
crunch, crunch
of worry dogged my strides. For one thing, he would want us working overtime—the two of us, and also Danny and Debora—to show his folks how wholesome we all were. But what if Debora and I, tripped up by our secret, couldn’t keep from acting self-conscious? Also, there was no news yet to cheer (had Stu forgotten?) and still might not be, when his parents came. Presenting a pregnant Debora or a Debora five times failed—that could make a universe’s difference.

Luckily, the Nadlers’ visit remained merely a promise. The impulse itself was progress enough to start with.

Now, if we could only make another peace agreement, one between Stu’s sister and her husband.

In call after call to Stu, Rina revealed her woes: Richard said he didn’t trust her judgment anymore . . . he balked when she asked to see a non-rabbinic counselor . . . now he’d started sleeping in the guest room . . .

She needed a break, she said. Some time apart, to breathe.

“Time apart is the
last
thing you need,” I heard him telling her. “What you need’s to force yourselves together.”

Stu was giving Rina the same prescription we’d been taking: our date nights continued, and I was eager to plan our holiday trip. Things were going so well, in fact, that I’d decided to try this new approach with others, too: to keep my hackles lowered, to offer plenty of leeway, to make clear my yearning for accord.

This was my approach, days later, when Richard phoned. I figured he was calling for Stu, to argue about Rina, but frst I would try to cool him down. “This is a tough time,” I said, “for everyone involved. I hope you know we’re pulling for you. We hope you work this out.”

“Thanks, Pat,” he said. “That means a lot. Really. I would understand if you were taking Rina’s side.”

“We’re on the side of happiness,” I said. “For both of you.”

“Well, I hope that we can be as close as you and Stu,” he said. “You have a lot more years together than we do.”

This
was the awful black hat? The marriage-wrecking tyrant? Maybe all he’d needed was some friendship.

Now my spine went tingly with a sure-thing premonition: that his and Rina’s marriage would heal, and Debora’s too, and mine. All our bonds restored, as in a Shakespeare comedy: a stage full of broadly smiling couples.

I gave Richard my best, and said I’d go find Stu, but he said no, please, stay on the phone.

“I’m glad I got
you
,” he said, “’cause Stu’s been just stonewalling. Every time I ask what we can bring, he tells me ‘nothing.’ Nothing, nothing—the guy just won’t budge!”

“Bring?” I said.

“For the party. Or something for the house. Isn’t there anything you guys want, or need?”

Bit by bit I ascertained the plan he took for granted: that he and Rina were coming here, to the cottage, July Fourth weekend. I tried to make it seem as if I’d known.

“Nothing at all? Really?” he said. “Well, we’ll think of something. Hopefully, Stu is right, it’ll be a healthy getaway. You guys are awfully generous to invite us.”

I would not have described myself as generous when I found Stu.

He was mowing the lawn, barefoot and bare-chested, lost within the music from his iPod (its cords like two IV tubes, mainlining his brain). I had to step into his path to stop him.

He cut the engine. “Careful, hon. I could’ve run you over.”

The mower released a sharp, explosive smell. I wanted to punt it. “Without even asking me, Stu? After all our progress?” I told him about the phone call; how dumb I’d felt, not knowing, faking my excitement for the visit . . .

“Shit. Didn’t we talk about it? I meant to, Pat. Honest.”

“But wait, do you not remember? Really? You really don’t?”

He searched the air for revelation. He rubbed his buzz-cut hair.

“The holiday, Stu? July Fourth?
We
were going away.”

“Were we?” he said. “I mean, was it . . . we really made it definite? Wasn’t it just a notion you had floated?”

“We hadn’t decided where,” I said. “But yes, we had decided.”

“Sorry if you’d been counting on it, but Rina’s really struggling now. Honestly, she’s hanging by a thread. The chance to give some help to her just seemed a lot more pressing than—” He looked at me with hooded, sheepish eyes.

I looked back: his pale, sweaty chest, smudged with engine oil, the oil flecked with stuck-on bits of grass. How I would have liked a more traditional tar-and-feathering.

“But no,” he said. “Hold on. Am I the only screw-up here? Aren’t
you
forgetting something, too?”

I was stumped. I tried to think of promises made and broken—ones, at least, of which Stu was aware.

“Debora,” he said.

Forgetting Debora? Not even if I tried.

“Her cycle,” he went on. “Haven’t you checked the calendar? The fourth is when she ovulates. The fourth, maybe the fifth. I mean, of course, I hope we won’t be needing another cycle. But just in case, we can’t go out of town.”

Wait. This wasn’t right.
Stu
was the selfish scoundrel, and
I
was the one . . . the good one . . .

I felt my pedestal crumbling.

I saw Debora’s Caller ID but kept myself from answering. Stu was out of town—an overnight in Phoenix—and I wasn’t sure I trusted myself to speak with her, alone. We hadn’t talked in more than a week, not since my bungled try. Better, I thought, to stick with
Don’t pick up
.

I went back to my work, an eighth-grade language unit for Missouri, about the distinction between facts and opinions.

Statement
: The Earth is round.

Fact or Opinion?
Fact.

Test
: Can be proven true or false.

Statement
: Children shouldn’t speak unless they’re spoken to.

Fact or Opinion?
Opinion.

But then: Debora’s voice, scarcely like a voice, more like a structure being flattened. “Sorry, I . . . I’m so sorry . . . it came again. My period.”

Test
, I typed, and sat there feeling feeble.

“Maybe I’m no good,” she said. “No good for this. Not right. Maybe I am just a bad person.”

I grabbed the phone. “You’re
not
, Debora. Okay? You are not.”

“Pat?” she said. “It doesn’t work. Why?”

“It will. It will!”

“But I thought just this little thing, this
one thing
, Icando.I thought”—and her voice slid away.

Her anguish cut right through me. I felt accountable for it, since I had put her—Stu and I had put her—in this bind. Was this what drove me forward? My sense of culpability? Or was I, again, just being selfish?

“Is Paula there?” I asked.

“At preschool. I’m alone.”

“Okay, then. Meet me at the beach in half an hour.”

The parking lot was chockablock—out-of-staters, mostly; I had to circle four or fve times. At last I found a spot by the small lookout platform, where Debora, I realized as I climbed out of the car, was standing, arms crossed, facing the water. I’d seen her as I scouted, but not known whom I saw. From the back, she’d looked so insubstantial.

I called to her and waved both hands, a dumb, redundant greeting. Debora turned and strode to me, spreading wide her arms, a gesture I now saw I had invited. I dropped my hands. “The beach is packed,” I said. “Hike the marsh?”

Debora’s arms froze in her own aborted gesture. “Whatever you think, it’s good,” she said. “I’ll follow.”

We walked down the road single-fle, skirting traffc. I went frst, and couldn’t see her, but pictured her shaken gait. I wanted to start over, to give her a kindly hug. Surely she could tell between condolence and a come-on.

We turned at the ranger hut from asphalt onto sand. To our left, the dunes; our right, the Great Marsh, whose sedge shone a ferce, chafng green. The sky was bright, pungent, stunning in a literal sense: looking at it put me in a daze.

The trail followed an old road, a pair of sunken ruts, which Debora and I took, side by side. With every step she winced; maybe the hot sand hurt? Watching her face—her flinching, even if caused by pain— sent me back inevitably to our last time together: the way, pressed against me, she had shuddered.

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 normal.” Her flip-flops were smacking hard against her striding soles. Sand sprayed, and clung against her calves.

In the sedge, a shadow landed. I shielded my eyes to watch. Something big and sharp, slashing down.

“And?” I said. “You told him?”

“Told him? No!” She stopped.

“Today,” I said. “Your period.”

“Oh,” she said. “
That
.”

The shadow flapped up again, gorgeously ungainly. The sun caught its wings: a great blue heron.

“No,” she said. “Danny’s working. Tonight we’ll talk, at home. And you? You talked with Stu already?”

“Stu is on his way home from Phoenix. Couldn’t reach him.” In truth, I hadn’t tried; I couldn’t bear the thought, knowing what a toll the news would take. Also maybe—selfsh again—I wanted, for a little while, to keep the grief as mine. Mine and Debora’s.

Now she started off again, scuffng through the sand, a freer look about her, no wincing. The mended verbal mix-up seemed to settle things between us: her pregnancy, her lack of it, was fair game for discussion, but not the other thing. What we’d done.

I gazed over the marsh again, its taunting green lushness (as if to be so fertile was a cinch). “The sun,” I said. “It’s—God, I feel clobbered.”

“The start of summer,” she said. “The longest day in the year.”

“Really?” I said. “Guess you’re right. Forgot.”

Debora plucked some dune grass and tossed it to the wind. “In Brazil, it’s the shortest day. It’s winter, now, that starts.” She said this like a proverb, a puzzle’s introduction: for every start, a matching end; for every end, a start.

Around a bend, we saw another couple coming near. Man and woman, both gray-haired, she a half-foot taller but hunched as if from years of leaning toward her mate; their hands, held together, loosely swung. The couple appeared to hesitate, ready to drop their grasp, but Debora and I both stepped off to our respective sides. The woman smiled gratefully, pulling her partner closer as they passed. She looked like a little girl who’d just unwrapped a box to discover the exact gift she’d wished for.

I asked Debora, “If you were still at home, in Brazil—I mean, if you’d never met Danny—what do you think you’d be doing now?”