Punchline (5 page)

With the rental income, he managed to make the payments. But there were never enough profits to make the planned renovations, and he was tired of working in a dump.

He needed to put all his energy into boosting circulation, winning this contract with the High Desert Mega-mall and promoting his publication. What he didn’t need was a baby or a wife.

Wife.
There was another headache-inspiring word, especially when it came attached to the person of Belle Martens.

Darryl was willing to admit he found the woman attractive. Even during their hottest arguments, sometimes she got a light in her eyes that made him want to stop battling and kiss her.

But marriage? It would be like that debacle with Celia, only ten times worse. Belle was feistier and bossier than his former girlfriend. They would quarrel over every de-
tail of Darryl’s life-style, and the only way to get peace would be to surrender.

He couldn’t live that way. The very thought of having a woman run his life made his chest feel heavy and his throat clamp shut.

Darryl forced himself to take a deep breath. He was being irrational.

After all, Belle had insisted she’d gotten pregnant through the miracle of modern science. If that’s what she wanted to claim, who was he to interfere?

Trying to ignore the doubts nagging at his gut, he picked up his phone to return the free-lancer’s call.

He spent most of the afternoon editing copy and going over the countdown, a one-page list of stories for the February issue. “In Spring, a Man’s Fancy Turns to Sports” was the theme.

Elva Ching wandered in to discuss her ideas for illustrating the issue. As she talked, Darryl mused that she was a lot like him. Fiftyish and divorced, Elva seemed to enjoy living alone. A talented painter, she liked the freedom to work at any hour and make as big a mess as she pleased.

After approving her ideas, he said, “Do you ever have any regrets? I realize this is getting personal, but I mean about being divorced with no kids?”

“It’s better than being divorced
with
kids,” she zinged back. “Are you serious?”

“Just doing a little thinking.” Seeing her dubious expression, it occurred to Darryl that he ought to provide some excuse, so he added, “It must be because of Thanksgiving coming up in three weeks.”

“Just ignore it,” said Elva.

“I do kind of miss not having a family for the holidays.” Darryl’s father had died a few years ago. His mother, Susan, had remarried and lived in France, where her husband worked for a multinational corporation.

“Families weigh you down with expectations’, advised his art director.

“You’re really into this single business, aren’t you?” he said.

“No more than you are.” She regarded him askance. “Greg told me what happened at lunch. The kid’s yours, isn’t it?”

“Did Greg say that?”

Elva’s straight black hair swung as she shook her head. “No. He buys the business about artificial insemination. I think it’s one heck of a coincidence, in view of the timing.”

“Well,” Darryl said, “as a hardheaded, career-minded woman, what
do you
think I should do?”

“The woman wants you out of her life,” Elva said. “So stay out.”

“What about the baby?” Darryl couldn’t help asking. “Won’t he miss having a father?”

‘
‘She
will probably be born with a bush of red hair and a mouth full of smart remarks,” Elva remarked. “Besides, if Belle Martens needed help, she’d ask for it.”

He doubted that Belle would ask him for help, under any circumstances. But Elva was right. Belle knew her own mind and besides, she was the mother. She came equipped with the right physical and mental instincts for parenthood, whereas he…

…whereas he was just like that judge who had assumed Jim’s ex-wife must be the better parent, Darryl realized.

“You’ve got the strangest expression on your face,” Elva said.

“I was thinking about Jim,” he admitted. “His son needs him.”

“That’s different,” she said. “They were married and they lived together. Nick got used to having his daddy around.”

“So you think mothers are biologically better suited to be parents?” Darryl challenged.

The art director gave him a wry grin. “You’re not dragging me into an argument. But most people would see it that way, I suppose.”

“What if most people are wrong?” Darryl pictured a wistful little boy with a catcher’s mitt in one hand and a baseball in the other, glumly staring out the window while his mother tried to persuade him to take dancing lessons.

A boy needed a father. If it was a boy, of course.

He remembered something from the conversation at the restaurant. Mira had asked Belle about the sex of the baby and she’d mentioned having an ultrasound scheduled for today or tomorrow.

It seemed important to him to learn the child’s gender. If he asked Belle about the ultrasound, though, she would tell him it was none of his business.

“By the way,” he said as Elva got up to leave. “Are there any good obstetricians around here?”

“Obstetricians?” she asked.

“Someone with an office close by, or else a celebrity doctor, you know, the kind movie stars go to.” He was willing to bet that Belle had either chosen someone near her building for pure convenience, or else a big shot in Beverly Hills.

“I’ll do some research and let you know.” Elva went out shaking her head.

He felt a moment’s doubt as she vanished. What had he set in motion?

An image of Jim and Nick came into his mind, the last time he’d seen the two of them together. They’d been building a sand castle on the beach, faces puckered in identical expressions of concentration.

Darryl had never given much thought to children, but now he found himself fascinated by the idea of having a son. Maybe men, too, had a biological clock. If he ever
got around to writing an article about Jim, he’d have to work that subject in, too.

His digital watch had just clicked to 1635 hours when the art director returned and dropped a short list on his desk.

“There’s a Dr. Marsteller in Beverly Hills, very big with the celebs. A Dr. Cohen downstairs in Belle’s building. And a Dr. Friedberg in the Palms area. If I’m not mistaken, that’s where she lives. But I doubt they’ll tell you anything over the phone.”

“We’ll see,” said Darryl. “Thanks a million. This is great.”

He picked up the handset and waited until Elva left before he dialed. A twinge of guilt reminded him that he was prying into Belle’s affairs, but he brushed it aside. He just wanted to know the results of the ultrasound, that was all.

When Dr. Marsteller’s receptionist answered the phone, Darryl said, “My wife was scheduled for an ultrasound. I can’t seem to get hold of her and I was wondering if I could check on the results.”

“Your wife’s name?” said the woman.

“Belle Martens.”

He heard the click of a computer and then she said, “We don’t have a patient by that name.”

“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong doctor.” Darryl hung up quickly.

What if Belle was using a pseudonym? But she couldn’t do that because the insurance would be in her name, he reminded himself.

Dr. Cohen’s line was busy. Dr. Friedberg didn’t have a patient named Martens, either.

Finally Darryl got through to Dr. Cohen’s office, the one in Belle’s office building. He listened to the same clicking noises, then the receptionist said, “We don’t have a Belle, but we do have a B. Felicia Martens.”

Darryl decided to take a chance. “Yes, that’s her.”

“She isn’t scheduled until two o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” the receptionist said. “Would you like to attend? We welcome fathers.”

Certainly they welcomed fathers. This was the end of the twentieth century, an enlightened time when dads were just as important as moms, Darryl told himself. Or they ought to be, if it weren’t for small-minded judges.

Besides, Belle would turn five shades of purple if he showed up. Just thinking about it made him chuckle.

“Of course I’ll be there,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

I
N THE LADIES’ ROOM
one floor below the
Just Us
offices, Belle finished putting on her disguise and examined herself in the mirror.

One Pucci scarf—check.

One pair of sunglasses—check.

One application of pale pink lipstick, the kind she wouldn’t be caught dead in—check.

No one would recognize her now. Or at least, they couldn’t be sure it was her.

If only she didn’t look so lumpy. Day by day, she grew more puffy and uncomfortable. Weren’t pregnant women supposed to glow?

Belle had never witnessed the stages of pregnancy in anyone. None of her friends had children. Her sister, Bari, had a little girl, but they lived in Maryland.

She had expected a few moments of nausea in the morning, following by days filled with sunshine and roses. No one had prepared her for vitamins that resembled horse pills, doctor’s visits where she was prodded and poked, and the fact that the smell of coffee made her feel like Jabba the Hurt on a bad day.

At least she had been given to believe that ultrasounds didn’t hurt, Belle reflected as she started toward the elevator, then changed her mind and took the stairs. She needed the exercise. Besides, she was less likely to encounter anyone she knew there.

It was certainly convenient having an obstetrician in the building. She had been able to duck in there and pass it off as a long lunch break, although that was no longer necessary now that her co-workers knew of her condition.

Emerging on the lower floor, Belle stifled a moment of anxiety. The doctor had been concerned about her rapid weight gain. Could there be something wrong?

She hadn’t felt the baby move yet. In fact, she’d been trying not to think about the fact that she was carrying an actual small future human being, the kind that repays years of loving sacrifice by borrowing the car without permission and taking his friends joyriding through the Mojave Desert.

Maybe, she reflected as she pushed open the office door, she should consider giving it up for adoption. The trouble was, what kind of woman would go through artificial insemination and then put the baby up for adoption?

If she’d been thinking clearly, she could have claimed she was a surrogate mother. That would have made for a terrific series of first-person articles in
Just Us.
Belle had always wanted to write fiction.

On hearing her name, the receptionist said, “Oh, yes, Mrs. Martens, you’re right on time! Do you want us to wait for your husband?’’

She didn’t bother to tell the woman she had no husband. “No, thank you.”

“I’ll buzz the nurse, then.”

An efficient vision in white emerged a moment later, escorted Belle to a cubicle and handed her a hospital gown to wear. Alone behind a skimpy curtain, Belle removed her peasant blouse and full skirt. The elastic already felt tight around her expanding midsection.

The nurse came back a few minutes later. “The technician is ready for you, Mrs. Martens, and your husband is here.”

“I don’t think so.” Belle wondered if this was somebody’s idea of a joke. Had Janie dressed up in a man’s suit and put on a fake mustache?

“Oh, yes’ the woman said as they walked down a short hall. “He called yesterday and specifically asked to be here.”

Obviously, there had been a mistake; probably the doctor had two women patients with similar names. Belle braced herself for the inevitable embarrassment that such a mix-up would cause.

She was about to march into a tiny room, wearing nothing but sunglasses and a puny garment that could easily double as a cleaning rag, and find herself face-to-face with a startled and completely unfamiliar man.

She wondered if he was cute. She might let him watch.

The ultrasound room had its lights turned low, and a curtain surrounded the equipment. When she entered, Belle felt as if she were strolling into the haunted house at a Halloween party, except that she was the only one wearing a costume.

She prepared an apologetic smile as the nurse led her around the curtain. “Gee, I guess there’s been a mis…”

There was no point in finishing the sentence, because there had been no mistake. Or rather, there had been a huge, enormous, pigheaded one.

D
ARRYL COULDN‘T BELIEVE
the woman was wearing sunglasses to an ultrasound. Who was she planning to fool?

Besides, the paraphernalia prevented him from getting a good look at her shocked expression, which spoiled a lot of the fun. He’d had a hard time falling asleep last night for all the chortling as he imagined Belle’s reaction today.

“Hi, honey,” he said.

The technician, indifferent to the vibes thrumming across the room, instructed her to lie on a padded table.
Belle made quite a production of climbing onto the padded table and flopping down on her back.

“This might feel a little cool.” The technician parted the front of the gown and squirted some goo on Belle’s stomach, then took a device that resembled a computer mouse and moved it across her stomach.

Darryl’s gaze shifted to the ultrasound screen. All he could see was a gray blur. He might as well have been looking at a close-up look of Belle’s kidneys.

“Okay, I think we’re getting an arm here,” said the technician. “And there’s the heartbeat.” She pointed at something pulsating in the middle of the screen.

“It’s kind of rapid, isn’t it?” Darryl asked.

“Babies’ hearts beat faster than adults’,” said Belle, removing her sunglasses.

Did women know these things by instinct? He refused to believe it. “Did you read about that somewhere?”

“My doctor showed me,” she said. “We could hear the heartbeat on his stethoscope.”

To Darryl’s surprise, it bothered him that he’d missed that experience. By the time he’d even learned of the baby’s existence, a significant milestone in its life had already passed.

On the screen, the picture coalesced into a baby. A lump formed in Darryl’s throat. The kid was tiny, but it possessed a nose, feet, hands, even fingers. Incredible.

“He’s sucking his thumb.” The technician pointed. “See there?”

“‘He,’“ Darryl repeated. “It’s a boy?”

“Let’s see if we can tell.” The technician swooped her mouse over Belle’s stomach.

“What do you mean, ‘if?” he demanded.

“Sometimes you can tell, sometimes not,” the woman explained. “There, that looks like a penis—nope, just a shadow.”

“Try harder, will you?” Darryl had come here expecting to learn the child’s sex. What good was modern science if it couldn’t determine that?

“Who cares?” said Belle.

He shrugged. “You need to know what color to paint the nursery, don’t you?”

“I’m painting it purple,” she said.

The technician shook her head. “I’m afraid Baby’s not going to cooperate. Are you having an amniocentesis? You can find out that way.”

“Of course she is.” Darryl wanted answers and he didn’t want to wait six months for them.

“Only if you let them stick a needle in
your
abdomen while you’re wide-awake, too,” Belle snapped.

“They don’t really do that,” he said. “Do they?”

“All the time,” said the technician.

Darryl’s stomach gave a reflexive quiver at the thought of being jabbed with a needle. It probably felt different for women, though. Maybe they had fewer nerve endings in the abdomen, kind of a protective evolutionary development. Although he didn’t think amniocenteses had been around long enough to have spurred evolutionary changes.

“Your husband seems anxious about the sex,” observed the technician as she pressed a button and took a picture of the screen image.

“He wants a boy,” Belle said. “So he can flaunt it.” She emphasized the last two words.

“I do not!” The accusation stung, primarily because it was true. Or was it? Darryl had never considered what it would be like to have a daughter.

He studied the screen again as the technician moved her mouse, seeking another angle for the next picture. Someday that squiggly creature would be a beautiful bride, marching down the aisle. Or a big strong man, playing high school football as Darryl had done. Or, since Belle
was the mother, it might turn out to be a short, feisty woman barreling down the football field, bowling men over left and right.

A girl would need a father to warn her about the tricks boys used to get what they wanted. And to reassure her about her own desirability. And to make it clear that not all members of the male sex were the enemy.

Fathers were important to their children of both sexes, he reflected. And surely the relationship began even before birth.

Darryl remembered his idea about writing an article on men’s biological instincts and their equal importance as parents. Better yet, in personal journalism, it sometimes paid to exaggerate for effect. Suppose he claimed to believe in the natural superiority of men as parents, even during pregnancy?

What a storm of controversy that would provoke! It would give the circulation of
About Town
a real boost, and it could force readers to rethink their assumptions. It might even influence a few judges, whom he suspected enjoyed the Flaunt It centerfolds as much as the next man.

Best of all, Darryl thought, he could do the research and help Belle at the same time. It was a perfect opportunity.

A
S SHE CHANGED
into her clothes, Belle gave her stomach another wipe with the tissue. That stuff wasn’t coming off; it would have to soak in. She didn’t mind the indignity of the procedure so much as the fact that Darryl had stood there watching the whole thing.

The nerve of that man, showing up today! What had been his point, anyway? He couldn’t expect her to believe he was actually interested in the child.

He’d come to gloat, that was it. He’d come to vaunt the fact that he still had his hard, sleek figure, while she was ballooning.

At least the ultrasound had proved that the pregnancy was normal, that the excess weight was the result of maybe a touch of overeating. The baby looked fine.

Belle glanced at the picture the technician had given her for the baby’s scrapbook. That tiny bundle had such a cute, curvy shape. Well, if Darryl expected her to thank him, he could wait until they made frozen daiquiris in hell.

When she emerged a few minutes later and didn’t see him, she told herself the worst was over. She would march through this pregnancy just fine without Mr. Fair-weather Friend.

Then she saw Darryl waiting in the outer office. She gritted her teeth as he exited the doctor’s office beside her, and hoped he would quickly be on his way.

Instead, as soon as they were alone, Darryl said, “I’ve got an idea.”

“Maybe we should discuss this some other time,” she said. “In private.” Suppose one of her colleagues saw them together and drew the obvious conclusion about the baby’s paternity?

“I have no problem with discussing it now.” His dark, rather saturnine face pressed close to hers. “I’ll whisper in your ear, if you like.”

She didn’t like. His nearness was having a disturbing effect on her nerve endings, raising bursts of static like an electrical storm.

“Maybe there’s an empty office around.” Hurrying away, Belle tried a couple of unmarked doors until one opened. Switching on a light, she stepped inside.

And found herself in a storage closet. Between the walls of shelving holding cleaning supplies and wrapped paper products, there was just enough room for two people to crowd inside, if they were on very, very good terms.

Which she and Darryl were not. But it was too late. He had followed her inside and closed the door. “Very nice,” he said.

With his broad shoulders looming over her and his hips only inches from hers and the tight space magnifying the scent of his after-shave, Belle kept flashing back to that morning when she’d awakened in his bed. What
had
it felt like when they’d made love?

“So what’s your idea?” she said.

“I feel responsible for this,” he began.

^“
You
are
responsible.”

“Half responsible,’’ he said.

She wanted to argue, but as a modern woman, she couldn’t. “You’re offering to contribute to my expenses?”

“Expenses?”

“Insurance doesn’t cover everything,” she responded.

This obviously wasn’t what he’d expected. Darryl’s jaw worked for a moment before he said, “Naturally I’ll help out. More than that, you shouldn’t be living alone.”

“I like living alone.” She wished he would hurry up and get to the point. Belle had never been claustrophobic, but she’d never been jammed into a storage closet with Dar-ryl before, either. The man was practically inside of her. It wouldn’t take more than a few quick moves…

What
was
she thinking of?

“I should move in with you,” he said. “In case you suffer a fall or something.”

She had felt a few twinges of worry these past weeks, especially when she’d had such a bad attack of nausea she’d been barely able to climb out of bed. But living with Darryl was unthinkable. “You must be crazy. We might as well take an ad in the newspaper and announce that you’re the father. Would you like that?”

“No,” he admitted. “But we could get around it.”

“How?”

“We’ll tell everybody I’m researching an article.” He gave her a self-satisfied smile. “About how ignorant men
are regarding pregnancy. I do plan to write it, Belle. It would be a real eye-opener for my readers.”

“You can open their eyes in somebody else’s condo.” This was the worst idea she had heard in a long time. “’ll bet there are lots of pregnant single women who’d be thrilled to have you as their houseguest. But not me.”

“You need someone to wait on you,” he continued in a soothing voice. “To fetch pickles and ice cream in the middle of the night. To bring you crackers in bed. I could even drop you at work so you wouldn’t have to drive.”

She wished the offer weren’t so tempting. “There’s no way I’m going to let you use my name in your magazine.”

“I won’t,” he promised hastily. “I’ll give you a pseudonym.”

“As if everybody wouldn’t know—”