Touchy Subjects: Stories

by Emma Donoghue

  Still, he preferred not to dwell on the long-term consequences. The thought of his brief pleasure being the direct cause of a baby was still somehow appalling to Padraic, even though he had three sons and loved them so much it made his chest feel tight. He still remembered that day in Third Year when the priest drew a diagram on the blackboard. The Lone Ranger sperm; the engulfing egg. He didn't quite believe it. It sounded like one of those stories adults made up when they couldn't be bothered to explain the complicated truth.

  Padraic sat up straighter on the glossy toilet seat. He did ten complete body breaths. It was all he remembered from that stress training his company had shelled out for last year. Three hundred euro a head, and the office was still full of squabbles and cold coffee.

  He unzipped his trousers to start getting in the mood. Nothing stirring yet. All Very Quiet on the Western Front. Well, Sarah couldn't expect some sort of McDonald's-style service, could she? Ready in Five Minutes or Your Money Back. She wasn't paying for this, Padraic reminded himself. He was doing her a great big favour. At least, he was trying to.

  He zipped up his trousers again; he didn't like feeling watched. If he could only relax there would be no problem. There never was any problem. Well, never usually. Hardly ever. No more than the next man. And Carmel had such a knack . ..

  He wouldn't think about Carmel. It was too weird. She was his wife, and here he was sitting on a very expensive toilet preparing to hand her best friend ajar of his semen. At the sheer perversity of the thought, he felt a little spark of life. Good, good, keep it up, man. You're about to have a wank, he told himself salaciously, in the all-new, design-award-winning Finbar's Hotel. This is very postmodern altogether. That woman out there has flown halfway round the world for the Holy Grail of your little jarful. Think what the pope would say to that!

  This last taboo was almost too much for Padraic; he felt his confidence begin to drain away at the thought of the pontiff peering in the bathroom window.

  Dirty, think honest-to-god dirty thoughts. Suddenly he couldn't remember any. What did he used to think about when he was seventeen? It seemed an aeon ago.

  He knew he should have come armed. An hour ago he was standing at the Easons magazine counter, where the cashier had looked about twelve, and he'd lost his nerve and handed her an Irish Independent instead. Much good the Irish Independent would be to him in this hour of need. He'd flicked through it already and the most titillating thing in it was a picture of the president signing a memorial.

  This was ridiculous. You're not some Neanderthal; you were born in 1961. Surely he didn't need some airbrushed airhead to slaver over? Surely he could rely on the power of imagination?

  The door opened abruptly. Sarah, who had turned her armchair to face the window so as not to seem to be hovering in a predatory way, grinned over her shoulder. "That was quick!"

  Then she cursed herself for speaking too soon because Padraic was shaking his head as if he had something stuck in his ear. "Actually," he muttered, "I'm just going to stretch my legs. Won't be a minute."

  "Sure, sure, take your time."

  His legs? Sarah sat there in the empty room and wondered what his legs had to do with anything. Blood flow to the pelvis? Or was it a euphemism for a panic attack? She peered into the bathroom; the jar was still on the sink, bone-dry.

  Five minutes later, it occurred to her that he had run home to Carmel.

  The phone rang eight times before her friend picked it up. "Sarah, my love! What country are you in?"

  "This one."

  "Is my worser half with you?"

  "Well, he was. But he's gone out."

  "Out where?"

  Curled up on the duvet, Sarah shrugged off her heels. "I don't know. Listen, if he turns up at home—"

  "Padraic wouldn't do that to you."

  There was a little silence. In the background, she could hear the Holby City theme on the television, and one of the boys chanting something, over and over. "Listen, Carmel, how did he seem this morning?"

  Her friend let out a short laugh. "How he always seems."

  "No, but was he nervous? I mean, I'm nervous, and it's worse for him."

  "Maybe he was a bit," said Carmel consideringly. "But, I mean, how hard can it be?"

  Who started giggling first? "Today is just one long double entendre," said Sarah eventually.

  "How long?"

  "Long enough!"

  And then they were serious again. "Did you bully him into it, though, Carmel, really?"

  "Am I the kind of woman who bullies anyone?"

  This wasn't the time for that discussion. "All I mean is, I know you want to help."

  "We both do. Me and Padraic both."

  "But you most of all, you've been through the whole thing with me, you know what it's been like, with the clinic .. . And I swear I wouldn't have asked if I had anyone else." Sarah was all at once on the brink of tears. She stopped and tried to open her throat.

  "Of course." After a minute, Carmel went on more professionally. "How's your mucus?"

  "Sticky as maple syrup."

  "Good stuff. It's going to happen, you know."

  "Is it?" Sarah knew she sounded like a child.

  "It is."

  All at once she couldn't believe what she was planning. To wake up pregnant one day and somehow find the nerve to go on with it, that was one thing, but to do it deliberately... For cold-blooded and selfish reasons, as the tabloids always put it. In fantastical hope, as Sarah thought of it. In fear and trembling.

  "Are you sure you can't come over for a little visit?" asked Carmel.

  "I really can't. I've a meeting in Brussels tomorrow morning, before I head back to the States."

  "Ah well. Next time."

  Padraic was leaning on the senior porter's desk, which was more like a lectern. He spoke in a murmur, as if at confession.

  "Our library on the third floor has all the papers as well as a range of contemporary Irish literature, sir," muttered the slightly stooped porter, as if reading from a script.

  "No, but magazines," said Padraic meaningfully.

  "We stock Private Eye, Magill, Time..."

  "Not that kind." Padraic's words sounded sticky. "Men's magazines."

  The old man screwed up his eyes. "I think they might have one on cars..."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake," he said under his breath.

  Then, at his elbow, just the woman he could do without. "Are you all right there, Padraic?"

  "Máire." He gave her a wild look. She was just trying to catch him out at this stage. Was she following him all over the hotel to examine the state of his trousers? Just as well he didn't have the bloody erection he'd spent the last fifteen minutes trying to achieve. She'd probably photograph it for her files.

  "This gentleman—," began the porter in his wavering voice.

  "I'm grand, actually." And Padraic walked off without another word.

  What did it matter if they thought he was rude? Máire had clearly made up her mind that he was cheating on Carmel with his wife's best friend. When the fact was he would never, never, never. He wasn't that type of guy. He had his faults, Padraic admitted to himself as he punched at the lift button, but not that one. He was a very ordinary man who loved his family. There was nothing experimental about him; he didn't even wear coloured shirts.

  Then what the fuck am I doing here?

  He didn't have a key to room 101; he had to knock. Sarah let him in, talking all the while on a cordless phone. Her smile didn't quite cover her irritation. "Cream," she said into the phone. "Cream linen. But it didn't travel well." He gave her a thumbs-up and headed into the bathroom.

  Now he was well and truly fucked. Tired out, without so much as a picture of Sharon Stone to rely on. Funny how it seemed so easy to produce the goods when they weren't wanted. He considered the gallons of the stuff he'd wasted as an adolescent when he locked himself into the bathroom on a daily basis. He thought of all the condoms he'd bought since he and Carmel got marrie
d. And tonight, when all that was required was a couple of spoonfuls...

  He sat on the toilet and rested his head on his fists. What on earth had induced him to agree to this mad scheme? It just wasn't him. He knew Irish society was meant to be modernizing at a rate of knots, but this was ridiculous. It was like something off one of those American soaps with their convoluted plots, where no one knows who their father is until they do a blood test.

  Sarah was still on the phone; he could hear her muted voice. Who was she talking to? She was probably complaining about him, his lack of jizz, so to speak. Padraic stared round him for inspiration. A less sexy room had never been devised. Sanitary, soothing. The only hint of colour was Sarah's leopard-skin toilet bag.

  Reckless now, he unzipped it and rifled through. Pervert, he told himself encouragingly. Looking through his wife's friend's private things ... her spot concealer, her super-plus tampons. He felt something stirring in his trousers. He sat down again and reached in. He clung to this unlikely image of himself as a lecherous burglar, an invader of female privacies. A man who could carry a crowbar, who might disturb a woman who was having her bath, some independent single businesswoman with sultry lips, a woman like Sarah...

  Oh my god. If she only knew what he was thinking, barely ten feet away—

  Never mind that. Hold on to the fantasy. The crowbar. No, chuck the crowbar, he couldn't stoop to that. He would simply surprise ... some beautiful, fearful woman and seize her in his bare hands and—

  If Carmel knew he had rape fantasies she'd give him hell.

  Never mind. Do what you have to do. Keep at it. Nearly there now. Evil, smutty, wicked thoughts. The gorgeous luscious open-mouthed businesswoman ... bent over the sink ... her eyes in the mirror...

  By now he had forgotten all about the jar. His eye fell on it at the last possible minute.

  Now wouldn't that have been ironic, Padraic told himself as he screwed the lid back on with shaking hands.

  It didn't look like very much, it occurred to him. He should have brought a smaller jar. A test tube, even.

  He gave himself a devilish grin in the mirror. Endorphins rushed through his veins. Now what he'd love was a little snooze, but no, he had a delivery to make.

  Sarah was reading some spiral-bound document, but she leapt up when he opened the door, and the pages slid to the floor. "Wonderful!" she said, all fluttery, as he handed over the warm jar. Her cheeks were pink. She really was quite a good-looking woman.

  "Hope it's enough," he joked.

  "It's grand, loads!"

  It struck him for the first time that she might need some help with getting it in. Oh god, please let her not upend herself and expect me to .. . But he was too much of a gentleman to run away. He hovered. Sarah, acting like she did this every day, produced a syringe.

  "Wow," said Padraic. "I hope they didn't search your bag at customs."

  "No, but it did show up on the X-ray screen." She gave a breathless little laugh.

  "Wow," he said again. Then, "It might have been easier to do it the old-fashioned way!"

  It was a very cold look she gave him. Surely she couldn't think he meant it? A touchy subject, clearly. (Weren't they all, these days?) Padraic knew he should never make jokes when he was nervous. He felt heat rise up his throat.

  "I'll get out of your way, then, will I? Treat myself to a whiskey. Maybe you'll come down and join me after?"

  He couldn't stop talking. Sarah smiled and nodded and opened the door for him.

  She tried lying on the bed with her bare legs in the air, but it was hard to keep them up there. Hurry, hurry, she told herself; the jar was cooling fast. How long was it they lived? Was it true that boy sperm moved faster but girl sperm lived longer? Or was it vice versa? Not that she gave a damn. She'd take whatever God sent her, if he was willing to use this form of special delivery. Please just let this work.

  Finally, she ended up lying on the carpet with her feet up on the bed. She felt almost comfortable. It was crucial to feel happy at the moment of conception, someone at work had told her. Awkwardly, leaning up on one elbow, she unscrewed the lid of the jar and began to fill the syringe. It was certainly easier at the clinic, where all she had to do was shut her eyes, but it felt a lot better to be doing this herself without anyone peering or poking. Just her and a little warm jar full of magic from a nice Dublinman with a name. Nothing frozen, nothing anonymous.

  There, now, she had got a good grip on the plunger. She would just lay her head back and take a few relaxing breaths...

  The knock came so loud that her hand clenched.

  "No thank you," she called in the direction of the door.

  No answer. She took one huge breath and pressed the plunger.

  Afterwards, she could never remember hearing the door opening. All she knew was that the assistant porter was standing there staring, in his ludicrous striped jacket, like something out of Feydeau. And she was on her feet, with her skirt caught up around her hips. "Get out," she bawled. She tugged at the cloth and heard a seam rip. There was wetness all down her legs.

  The boy started to say something about turning down the sheets.

  "Get out of my room!"

  The door crashed shut behind him.

  Afterwards, when she had mopped herself up, Sarah scrubbed at the carpet with a damp facecloth. The mark was milky, unmistakable against the square of red wool. They'd think she and Padraic had done it right here on the floor.

  She wanted to go down the corridor and find that porter. She longed to spit at another human being for the first time in her life. "Look, boyo," she would scream in his ear, "if I can make myself pregnant, I'm sure I can turn down my own sheets."

  But she hadn't, had she? All she'd done was stained the carpet.

  The funny thing was, now he'd started, the dirty thoughts wouldn't stop coming. They raced merrily through his head. All the way down in the lift Padraic watched the other passenger in the mirrored wall. She was fifteen years too old for the red dress and black leather, but still, not bad at all. A hooker, or just somebody's bit on the side? This hotel was a stranger place than it looked from the outside; behind all that fresh paint you'd never know what was going on. He shook his head to clear it as the lift glided to a stop. He let the woman get out first.

  The Irish Bar was stuffed with people, singing rebel songs Padraic hadn't heard in years; it seemed to be some sort of wake. After two whiskeys he felt superb. Relief and alcohol danced through his body together, while his hormones played "It Had to Be You."

  Tonight had demanded his all, and his all was what he had given. With a bit of luck, one lonely frustrated woman's life would be transformed, and a little bit of his DNA would grow up next door to the Pacific Ocean. With a light tan and Rollerblades...

  There was his cousin, consulting a clipboard and talking to the barman. He shouldn't have got so het up earlier; she was only taking an interest. He'd been in a bit of a state, he could admit that now. When he'd finished his third whiskey, Padraic gave a little wave, but Máire didn't seem to see. He squeezed his way over and waited for a break in the conversation, then put his hand on her arm.

  "Hello again," she said.

  "It's not what you think," he announced satirically.

  "Right." She seemed to be speaking to her clipboard.

  "No, really. I mean, yes, I'm here to meet a woman, obviously, but it's about a hundred and eighty degrees opposite to what you're obviously thinking."

  Máire looked up, and her eyes were hard. "Listen, Padraic, it's none of my business."

  "But the thing is, Carmel knows I'm here," he assured her, tugging at her sleeve. "Old school friend. Carmel set the whole thing up, in fact."

  His cousin looked slightly revolted, and he was just about to explain, when he remembered that he had promised both Carmel and Sarah never to tell a soul about their little arrangement. So he had to let go of Máire's sleeve. She was out the door like a shot.

  Knees against the bar, he idled over his next d
rink, planning how to describe the evening to his wife. Oh, we got the business over with in the first ten minutes—nothing to it. But he mustn't make it sound like too much fun, either. Carmel was being remarkably kind to her friend, when you came to think about it—lending out her husband like a sort of pedigree stud. He savoured the image.

  Funny, he thought. That old porter's paging another Mr. Dermott. Then two things occured to Padraic: that it was him who was being paged, and that he was very nearly pissed. He'd only had a few, but then he'd forgotten to have dinner.

  "The lady upstairs would like to know when you're coming back, sir," said the porter. A little too loudly and pointedly, Padraic thought.

  He was up in room 101 in three minutes.

  "I'm so sorry," Sarah stuttered. "I can't believe—"

  He acted like a gentleman. He assured her it could happen to anyone. (Anyone, he mentally added, who made a habit of inseminating herself in hotel bedrooms.) He swore the stain would hoover out; "These people are professionals." (He could just imagine the chambermaid telling Máire that her cousin had spurted all over the carpet.) He grabbed the empty jar and headed back into the bathroom.

  This time, Sarah said to herself, she'd stay calm. This time she'd lock the door. This time she'd get it right. And then tomorrow she'd be on her way back to Seattle, and .. . Maybe. You never know. Carmel said it would happen. This was still the right day. Her chances were pretty good.

  Padraic popped his head out of the bathroom. Only now did she notice how dark red his face had gone. "I might be a little while."

  "How many have you had?" She didn't mean it to sound quite so cutting, but she thought she had a right to know.

  He leant on the doorjamb. All the softness went out of his voice. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  She shrugged.

  "I thought my shift was over, you know," he went on acidly. "As far as I knew you'd got what you wanted, you were finished with me, and I had the right to a drink."