Free Babycakes by Armistead Maupin Page B

old days,” said Connie. “That’s sweet.”
“Now I have to see the look on his face when I tell him I’m not.”
“Bummer,” said Connie.
“The thing is … it means so much to him.” She chose her words carefully. “I think he’s proud of me and my career—I know he is—but his self-respect has suffered a lot. He sees himself as the waiter who’s married to the TV star. I mean, he’s warm and kind and loving … and incredibly sexy, and that’s always been enough for me …”
“But not for him,” Connie added.
“Apparently not. This baby is a major obsession. I guess it’s … something he could do, you know? A mark he could leave on the world. His own flesh and blood.”
Her confidante nodded.
“Only it can’t be, Connie. It can never be.”
“You mean …?”
Mary Ann nodded. “I’ve seen a doctor. It isn’t me.”
“And you’re sure he’s the one who’s …”
“Positive.”
Connie’s brow furrowed. “But if they haven’t tested his sperm yet …”
“Connie … they have.”
“What?”
“They tested it at St. Sebastian’s about a month ago. His sperm count is practically nonexistent. It just won’t cut it.”
“Wait a minute. I thought you said you hadn’t told him.”
She might have known it would come to this. “I did, Connie. But it’s possible to have his sperm tested without … Oh, c’mon, Connie … think about it.”
Connie thought about it, then said: “Jees. That must’ve been a bitch.”
Mary Ann looked at her nails, saying nothing.
“How on earth did you …?”
“Connie, please … don’t ask, O.K.?” The last thing she needed was to rehash the horrors of that trying day: the mad dash to the bathroom, where she’d hidden the jar, the feeble excuse she’d made to get out of the house before breakfast, the Chinese funeral that almost kept her from making it on time …
“He isn’t wearing jockey-style shorts, is he?”
“What?”
“I read that in ‘Dear Abby.’ Sometimes they can cause sterility.”
“No … it isn’t that.” She wondered momentarily if Brian had worn jockey-style shorts when Connie had slept with him.
They both fell silent for a moment. Mary Ann knew what Connie was thinking, so she beat her to the punch. “Time to face the music, huh?”
Connie looked up from her cup with a game little smile. “Seems that way to me, hon.”
Mary Ann suddenly felt silly. “I should have told him weeks ago. I just thought there might be some way I could spare him the … hell, I don’t know. If I tell him what I did … you know … with the sperm and all …”
“Don’t tell him that.”
“But I can’t make him go through it again. He’ll insist on that, I’m sure.”
“You could tell him you’re sterile.”
Mary Ann rejected the idea with a frown. That would jeopardize their relationship even more than the current bag of worms. It was better to stick with the whole truth … or wait for a miracle.
When she arrived home that night, she found Brian in the house on the roof, watching Three’s Company in his KAFKA baseball cap. She had hated that stupid cap ever since Brian had read about it on a matchbook cover and mailed away for it, but tonight was hardly the time to tell him so.
“I brought us some Eye of the Swan.” she said, holding up the bottle.
He peered at her over the back of the sofa. “Oh … hi. Great. What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion.”
“Fair enough.”
She moved to the window. “The rain has stopped. See? There’s even some blue over there. Shit!”
“What?”
“I forgot to bring glasses.”
“No sweat.”
“I’ll run down and …”
“Mary Ann …” He caught her free hand. “Just relax, O.K.? We’re fine. We can pass the bottle.”
“It won’t take a minute …”
“No one’s watching, Mary Ann. This isn’t a segment on Bay Window.”
Thank Cod for small favors, she thought.
He tugged her back to the sofa. She set the bottle down and settled in with him, giving him a long kiss. Then she