The Paternity Test (6 page)

His family remained suspicious of our sudden decamping north, as Stu had told them only partial truths in explanation: the souring of Manhattan’s mood in the years since 9/11, the solace of a cottage at the seashore. But nothing, naturally, about the strains his sexual sprees had caused us, and nothing of the baby we envisioned. I thought they would love to know: we’d save the Nadler line! But Stu said his reticence had good reason. “Think like my folks,” he’d said to me. “A firstborn son to give them grandkids, but oops, cancel that, he’s a homo. Then their daughter marries—good! Wants a family—good! But no, the doctors say she has no eggs. Up and down, up and down: emotional motion sickness.” Wouldn’t it be callous, he said, to lift his parents’ hopes again, until those hopes had solid ground to stand on?

His parents were insisting that we visit for Thanksgiving. Stu had seen them half a dozen times since we had moved—bopping into the city when he flew through LGA—but Walter wanted “a
real
visit. Relaxed. Like civilized people.” If only! I pictured his inevitable assault:
So, how’s life in Nowheresville? You ready to strangle each other?
He still seemed convinced—and so did his wife, Ellie—that Stu’s and my retreat was a fleeting, callow lapse:
Kiddo, are you sure it’s not a phase?

Stu argued for going, got pissy when I resisted. “What’ll we prove by sitting out here, alone, knowing no one? Let’s go home, chill out, see our friends.”

That was my point, I told him.
This
was home now. Here. I wanted our eventual return to be in triumph.

Why were we getting nowhere? Why had our ad not worked?

Success, they say, has many fathers, while failure is an orphan, but Stu would not accept that old adage. Failures, he insisted, must be tested for paternity: Aha, look, it’s
you
, you’re the dad!

Fine, I’d be the fall guy. Someone had to do it.

“Must’ve been my text,” I said. “Too strange. Too loosey-goosey.”

Stu said yeah, he hadn’t wanted to say, but . . . try again?

Good thing I was used to getting edits on my drafts, and knew that when my words were bad it didn’t mean that
I
was. Writers never conflated those things, did we?

I kept the new ad basic: seeking a TS, Jewish, someone not too far from Cape Cod. For good measure I dropped in a couple of stock catch-phrases (“Nonsmokers only,” “Healthy BMI”). Off into the ether I dispatched it.

The very next morning, a message in my box:

I think you are maybe Beautiful View. Are you the same? If I’m right, for me it’s sad you made your ad more normal. Before was perfect. Stay with who you are!

That was all. No name or identifying info. Only the return address, as lilting as the writer’s zigzag syntax:
[email protected]
.

But oh, those lines were catnip to my hungry writer’s ego: an audience, a positive review.

Yes, it’s us
, I wrote back in an instant.
Thanks for noticing! But maybe Surromoms isn’t the place for washed-up poets? The first ad was a total bomb—we’re still at square one. p.s. Tell me a little about yourself ?

All she said in answer was that her name was Debora Neuman; she lived with her husband in Hyannis.

Hyannis, wow, we’re neighbors
, I wrote.
Or almost. We’re in West Barnstable. Are you looking for a surro too? Any more luck than us?

A full three days passed. Had all my questions scared her? Or maybe she was worried I would try to steal her contacts. The competition— was that how Debora saw me?

Finally she replied, apologetic for having disappeared and ready to explain why she’d been nervous. She wanted to be a surro, had thought of it for years (
My husband and I, we have our own perfect little girl—she made all our dreams become true. And now I want to help somebody else make true
their
dream
), but she had planned to do a lot more research. She had read through Surromoms as something of a spectator, and hadn’t yet composed her own ad.
Then I saw your ad, and I thought: too good. You know? Almost seemed like fate. A crazy thing! We live so near, I’m Jewish too—everything, it’s a match
.

Debora said she’d told herself to wait and see what happened. If someone else came forward, the match was not to be. But then the ad was posted a second time, and then a third.
I thought: Okay. Maybe it
is
for me. Maybe it
has
to be. I wrote to you. But oh my God, it’s scary
.

Scary for me, too
, said my next note to Debora.
But awesome-scary. I’m pinching myself. It’s like I made you up!
I wanted to inquire about her quirky way with words, but didn’t for fear of scaring her off again.

When Stu asked, the next night, “Still no good responses?” why did I just shrug, duck my head? Why had I not breathed a word of Debora? First, he’d been flying: two nights away from home. Second, I was doing things according to
his
playbook: wait till we had solid ground to stand on. Those were reasons enough, but the deeper, clumsy truth? I liked having Debora to myself, just for now. I liked being the one in charge of wooing.

And so, working alone, I coaxed from her more details. Full name: Debora Cardozo Neuman. Age: twenty-six. Height and weight (just fine), surgical history (none), previous pregnancy (vaginal birth at thirty-six weeks, four days; no pre- or postpartum complications). Occasional drinker (never when pregnant), allergic to longhaired cats. Husband, Danny, successfully self-employed in home remodeling. Almost eight years happily married. No more children planned.

Down the checklist: check, check, check. I hardly believed it. Every time I read my mail I braced for an admission:
Oh, and did I mention my third eye, my hoary tusks?

Then she sent her photo, which put the lie to that! Without a doubt, she was on the pretty side of normal. Her skin was clear and rustically tanned, a tan you couldn’t buy; it looked fresh but not too untested.

The photo was what finally got me ready to talk with Stu. In the face of it—of Debora’s face—he’d
have
to be convinced. I wanted him to not have any doubt.

I told him I had a surprise, and led him to the laptop.

“Nice,” he said when I double-clicked, and I could tell he meant it. He studied the image, nose to screen, inspecting for booby traps. “Something intrepid about her,” he said. “Tenacious. But also soft.”

“So?” I said.

“So yeah, go ahead and ask some questions. Like, maybe, has she ever been on suicide watch before?” He gave a crisp, carbonized laugh.

“I have,” I said. “Well, not
that
, specifically. But her history. Her health. So far, she gets straight As.”

“When?” said Stu.

“When what?”

“Did you ask her all these questions?”

“Now,” I said. “Today. We’ve e-mailed. Maybe twice.”

Not sure why I lied, or why Stu didn’t call me on it. I knew he could tell I was fudging.

“She’s Jewish?” he asked.

“Yup.”

“Okay. And where does she live?”

“That’s my surprise.
Hyannis
. Like, seriously, less than ten miles!”

“Hyannis? Come on, Patrick. A little too good to be true? You’re cruising for a fall, don’t you think?”

“See? I knew you’d do this. That’s why I didn’t tell you yet. I wanted to check her out first. And I have.”

Stu just sat there . . . stewing.

I said, “You don’t trust me. You blamed my ad. Blamed
me
. But how’re we going to do this thing without a little trust?”

That was cheeky, coming from the guy who’d just white-lied. But Stu, who had overdrawn his trust account so often, must have sensed I had more in the bank.

“Fine,” he said, stripping the word of almost all its fineness. “Go ahead. What do her e-mails say?”

I pulled them up and read aloud the highlights: her happy, thriving husband; her easy-as-pie pregnancy; the daughter who had made her dreams come true.

“There,” I said, “is that so terrible? Ask me, sort of great.”

“Why’d they stop with one kid of their own, though? Think that’s odd?”

“Maybe they can’t . . . or maybe they don’t—Jesus, how should
I
know? The point is that she wants to do this. Clearly they have
reasons
.” I hadn’t meant to, but I guess I was shouting.

Stu, looking chastened, said okay, okay, fine. Move ahead with . . . “what did you say her name was?”

“Debora Neuman. Maiden name: Cardozo.”

“Cardozo?”

“Yeah. C-a-r—”

“No,” he said. “I heard.” Now he brightened, and stood erect, as if he might take wing. “Maybe she’ll make a genius for us. A whiz kid in black robes!”

“Huh?” I said, baffled by the swiftness of his mood change, by whatever associative leap he had made.

“Benjamin Cardozo?” he said.

I smiled at him obtusely.

“Sorry, I know—you weren’t weaned on
Heroes of American Jewry
. Supreme Court justice. The second-ever Jew, after Brandeis.”

“Which means it’s good if—?”

“Write her back. Find out when she’s free.”

I was unprepared for the accent Debora spoke with—“Patch” was the way she said my name—and even less prepared for the story she unspooled in response to my “Tell us about yourself.”

She was from a village in Rio Grande do Norte, in Brazil. Her father was a cashew farmer, though
farmer
made him out to be more purposeful than he was, a man who let life’s vagaries (mud, flat tires) guide his days. A halfhearted man to whom things happened. Eight children, for starters—that’s how he made it seem: a happenstance. Debora was the fifth-oldest, the only girl.

Her mother was more driven, but toward what, exactly, Debora wasn’t sure. Making her daughter feel useless? Like a mistake? She delegated chores to Debora that were predestined for failure: beating sweet butter from starting-to-sour cream, stitching pants her pudging father was bound to split again. Shouldn’t a mother strive to expose her children’s brilliance, the better to dispel her own shadows? Not
her
mother, who must have wanted company in the dark.

Debora understood she’d have to tend her own flame. Ignite a rocket beneath her feet and scream into the sky, nothing behind but ash and hush and envy.

When she was thirteen, a teacher, honoring her best-in-class marks, gave Debora a reward: a tiny wisp of clipping from an orchid. She taught Debora to mist it with rainwater at dawn; never to leave it wet overnight; to look for white-green roots, then repot it. If she was careful, it might live forever.

Debora nursed the plant, despite her family’s scorn. (
A flower? Grow us something we can
eat.) For three years, four, devotedly she mothered it, taken with its moody flamboyance. The plant bore many flowers, uncanny and reassuring—like answers to a question she hadn’t dared to ask.

The next spring, on All Souls’ Day—the orchid was in rowdy bloom—her neighbor Dina’s lover happened by. The man lived in Salvador (he kept a wife and children there) but owned a small salt refinery close to Debora’s village, a pretext for his frequent trips north to see his mistress. He saw the orchid through the open door of Debora’s house. This flower, he said—like holy angels’ wings—he must have it! He offered fifty
reais
, on the spot.

This was back in ’96, ’97, when fifty
reais
was decent money. One of Debora’s brothers—Waterston, her favorite—had just moved to Natal, the state capital; he said she should visit for the summer, for school vacation, now that she was such a wealthy girl. He offered a couch to sleep on and all the meat she wanted. (A waiter at a
churrascaria
, he carried scraps of
picanha
and filet home each night.) Their mother told her: Go! Go bug
him
for a while. Debora took the next day’s early bus.

A month, that flower paid for. Just one orchid! A month of buggy rides and
cocos
on the beach, plus a pair of jeans—city jeans, was how she thought of them—stone-washed, with stars on the back pockets. Debora wore those jeans on the Friday when she met him, dancing in a nightclub called Gol: a big-limbed American named Danny. Americans were unheard of, back then, in Natal. Rio, maybe. São Paulo. But Natal? He said one of the workers at his home-construction business had grown up here and promised it was pretty as God’s grin. And now, he said, he knew that this was true.

Danny knew no Portuguese, but between his high school Spanish and the English Debora knew from music videos, they quickly made their feelings’ contours clear. The rest they fleshed out with . . . well, with
flesh
. She’d been with boys a few times—at night, beneath the mango tree—boys who stank of poverty and
cachaça
. But Danny! He had grand teeth and tender, sunburned skin that she wanted, by turns, to soothe and slap. He was twenty-eight but scarcely had to shave.

For a week they played at being honeymooners. She moved out of Waterston’s room and into Danny’s hotel, where the maids, abandoning their hopes of coming in, left clean towels stacked outside the door. Did they eat? Oh, they must have (room service trays gone cold), but their bodies felt unlimited, perpetual motion machines, drained and replenished by the very same exertions. Danny asked her how to say “one more time?” in Portuguese; she said no, he never had to
ask
.

At week’s end he left, promising to write her (“I’ll get my worker Nando to translate”), and Debora, having realized that summer’s wave had sunk to shore, rode the jerky bus back to her parents’.

Now
what? Her final year of school, and then a husband? A bullish, foul-breathed, local boy, a farmer like her father? She had always wanted more but not known how to want it, trying to climb a ladder with no rungs. Run away, like Waterston, to the city . . . okay, maybe. But then, though? A city job? A city man? And
then
?

Her new dream was Danny, his lordly, sun-stung arms, reaching down to hoist her past her worries.

He did write—he did!—his letters full of plans: the home he would build her in a place called Cape Cod, reached by a walkway made of flagstones shaped like hearts; the bedroom through whose windows she would hear the ocean’s hum—the very same Atlantic she knew now but swept northward, just as he would sweep her, too, away.