Free Then She Found Me by Elinor Lipman

in.
    “‘I’ll get pregnant,’ I said. At least I knew that much.
    “‘Not the way I do it,’ he said. ‘I’ll withdraw before I ejaculate. It’s easy to control.’ I whimpered, my chin hooked over his shoulder. He pushed hard. ‘You’re a virgin,’ he said.
    “‘What did you think?’
    “He said it was okay. He wouldn’t hurt me. He was thrilled. Men love deflowering virgins. It’s one of the big ones in their catalogue. He worked himself all the way in. ‘There,’ he said. ‘The worst is over.’ He moved his hips back and forth without a sound and pulled his body away abruptly. He jumped expertly out of bed onto his feet. He leaned over and kissed me on the lips. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘It’s all behind you now.’ I got up and went into the bathroom. I didn’t ask him what exactly was dripping into my underpants.”
    “Did you ever see him again?” I asked Bernice.
    She studied my face as if considering the pros and cons of possible responses, and said finally, “Yes. We had a relationship. Friday night dates and lots of lunches.”
    “And then you got pregnant?”
    “My period was late. Jack hadn’t come into the department for a whole week. He didn’t have a phone, so I couldn’t call him. It took me a couple of days, calling on my breaks, to confirm through the registrar that no Jack or John Flynn was enrolled at Harvard Medical School. ‘Try the college,’ a woman advised me with some compassion. ‘Maybe he said pre-med at Harvard and you misunderstood.’
    “Finally he dropped by the stocking department on Thursday to confirm our Friday night ‘date,’ and I asked, ‘How is it that you can get away from classes on a weekday afternoon?’
    “‘I just do it,’ he said cheerfully.
    “‘You don’t get into trouble?’
    “He smiled and leaned across the display case to pinch my nose—God, he was adorable—and said, ‘Just with you, apparently. ’ I had never known a pathological liar before, so I really expected he would have an explanation for everything.
    “‘There are some things I’d like to talk over. I’ve been trying to reach you all week,’ I said.
    “‘What are they?’ he asked, no longer smiling.
    “‘Not here,’ I said.
    “He took the ballpoint pen out of my hand and wrote on the serrated edge of a Jordan’s bag, ‘preg.???’ I scribbled over his writing until it was a blue blob, then crumpled it up in my fist. ‘Tell me if you are,’ he said.
    “‘Could I be?’ I asked.
    “He backed away as a customer approached. ‘I’ll call you,’ he mouthed. It was the last time I ever saw him, leaving Jordan Marsh in his poplin suit and blue shirt, heading back to … what? An office job in an insurance agency or a cash register somewhere? I never found out.”
    I stirred my coffee with a demitasse spoon, around and around. Finally I said, “That’s it, then?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Jack Flynn.”
    “Who the hell knows what his name really was.”
    After a moment I said, “What is this thing you have about Jordan Marsh?”
    “I worked there! I don’t have a
thing
about Jordan Marsh.”
    I took a sip, added a sugar cube, stirred some more. “So this is the real story? Jack Flynn is my father.”
    “Yes, he is,” said Bernice. She winced—the pain of such poor judgment.
    “And you never tried to find him?”
    “Where? He didn’t even live at that place he took me to, and he certainly didn’t give me his real name.”
    “And you know that because you called every John Flynn in the Boston phone book and none was this Jack.”
    “Why would I do that?” she asked calmly. “He didn’t want me. And he was a bum. A piece of shit.”
    “No clipping service?” I asked sarcastically.
    “Sure—and I’d be buried by now under a truckload of newspaper clippings about the seven million John Flynns in America.”
    “That’s convenient,” I said.
    “Convenient?” she repeated.
    “Convenient: you were too young to know any