Free The Paternity Test by Michael Lowenthal

went on. He let her go. “Weird at first? You bet. For starters, loving pregnancy? Fine, I’ll just accept that. I mean, don’t we have to, guys? What the hell do we know about it? But then doing it for someone else . . . well, no offense, but it’s a little cuckoo, right? I mean, right ? Just being honest.”
    I found myself nodding along—partly in agreement, partly just because he seemed so much to need agreement.
    “But hey,” he said, “one man’s cuckoo’s another man’s . . . whatever. You don’t think I’ve lived through that myself ? I mean, okay, you heard Debora’s version of how we met. Once upon a time , and all that. But now try to see the other side. Who am I? I’m just some local schmo from up in Brockton. No offense, Stu, but we weren’t, you know, New York Jews. More bologna-on-Wonder-bread than bagels-and-lox, okay?
    “But anyway, my parents run a used-equipment resale place. Washing machines, lawn mowers, pumps. Want to know the closest they would come to something foreign? Ordering a replacement valve from Honda! I mean, for me, growing up, Boston was exotic. Twenty miles, and could’ve been two million. Maybe twice a year we’d drive up to see a Sox game, and Dad, when we hit the city, always threatened to make us eat at one of the ‘gook’ restaurants we passed: ‘What, don’t you like roasted poodle?’ All us kids would scream bloody murder.
    “Got the picture? Okay, now, go from that to this : ‘Mom, Dad, I want you to meet the girl I plan to marry. Actually, no, the girl I already married. She’s ten years younger, and oh, by the way, can’t speak English. I met her at some disco in Brazil.’
    “They thought I was nuts. And, hell, I guess I was . I had no clue what I was getting into. I mean, as a kid, dreaming of my wedding, you think I ever imagined getting hitched to some Brazilian girl who couldn’t even say ‘Pass the salt’? So no, I didn’t imagine her, all these years later, wanting to get pregnant with some other guy’s baby. But life is nuts, right? Things don’t always go the way you planned them. I mean, as kids, did you guys plan on being . . . well, on this ?”
    I was so unsettled—in a good way—by his candor (Hark, he speaks! The hunk of flesh has feelings!), that I forgot my vow to pose as solemnly parental, to keep my inner princess in her tower. “Haven’t the foggiest concept what you mean,” I said, lisping. “My high school yearbook photo says ‘Most Likely to Borrow Eggs.’”
    Stu shot me a look, but Danny seemed to like the joke; he heaved a load of laughter. “You’re right. It is easier,” he stage-whispered to Debora.
    She warned him with a cocked, vaudeville elbow.
    “Oh, come on,” said Danny. “We’re friends here, now, aren’t we?”
    “Fine,” I said, “I’ll take the bait. What? ”
    “Well, see, according to this book Debora gave me? Sometimes there’s a problem for the husband of the surro: the thought of another guy’s stuff inside her. Human nature, I guess, to be jealous.” Danny had been toying with the leavings on his plate, forking through a residue of yolk. Now he stopped, as if it had just hit him what an egg was. Or what it could have been, if not food. “But Deb’s theory?” he said. “She thought the whole thing through. She says, if the other guy is . . . well, if there are two guys. Know what I’m saying here? Guys like you? Then it’s easier. What do I have to worry about, then, right?”
    Stu had warned me, earlier, not to get political: “Remember, Pat, you can’t assume the whole world thinks like us. We’re not here to find out how they vote .” But now he was saying how relieved he was to meet them—such kind, decent, open-minded people—“when the country has been hijacked by the wingnuts, don’t you think?”
    Danny jumped right in: “Oh, Christ, don’t get me started. Know who they remind me of ? The townies I grew up with. Shut their eyes and pray the world won’t