Philanthropist

by Larry Hill

  “I’m glad we can be of help,” said Jennifer.

  “That’s really great to hear, Jen. I know that I’ve been a jerk with both of you. I haven’t been much of a son... or step-son, in a long time.

  “No problem, Jason. That’s all in the past. So, where do you think it will go with your family from here?”

  “I really don’t know. I do know that one night stands usually don’t cause a complete rift. I have a lot of friends who have gone through the same thing, or something a lot like it, and almost all of them end up back in the house, at least for a while. But frankly, I’m not sure that I want to go back. I don’t know if I love her. Maybe I never loved her? God, I don’t know. How do I say this? I’m not sure that I love the kids as much as a father should. She’s programmed them to be just like her. Study, study, study, lessons, lessons, lessons. Violin lessons, golf lessons, tennis lessons, Korean classes. Gotta be class president, vice president isn’t good enough. Gotta to be the best in everything. An A-minus is failure – reason for a visit with the teacher to find out why the minus.”

  Fred reentered the conversation. “Your children have never been very nice to me.”

  “I know that Dad. They’re not nice to anyone very often.”

  “Are you going to go to a lawyer?”

  “Not right now, Jen. I have to spend some time thinking about it myself. I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong.”

  “How about a counselor? I know a lady here who is a marriage and family therapist. A friend of mine swears by her.”

  “Thanks for the idea. You don’t know this, but I spent a few years in the Scientology Church. They don’t think much of mental health professionals. I left when they started hitting me up for money but I think that the no-psychiatry thing sank in pretty deep. Emily brought up the idea of marriage counseling but I told her that I had no time for that. So, while I am here, I’ll be spending most of my time with my big case, do some reading, watch a few movies and hit some tennis balls.”

  “Jason.”

  “What Dad?”

  “I love you. Hurry back.”

  “Thanks Dad. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here with you for a while.” Tears appeared in the already reddened eyes. He did not remember ever hearing his father mention love.

  Fred leaned over and took the remote out of the basket.

  MORE TWINS

  Jennifer had not seen Ernesto since her visit to his house six weeks earlier and not spoken to him since his rejection of her offer to visit him on a Wednesday. Fearing that he was losing interest in her because of his new jet-set job, and nervous that he’d not take the news she had for him well, she dialed his cell phone. Five rings later, his Latin-lover accented message told her that he couldn’t answer his phone right now and that she should leave a message and give her number slowly so that he could call back. She told the electronic device that she had to talk with him; she had important information. Four hours later, he had not returned the call. She dialed again and within three rings, he answered.

  “Why didn’t you call me? I told you it was important.”

  “I didn’t know you called.”

  “Didn’t you check your phone?

  “You know me better than that. I was in class and they make me turn off the phone. Then when I finish, I turn it on again.”

  She didn’t believe him. She was sure that he wanted out of the affair. “How are you, Ernesto?”

  “I’m fine, just fine. You know that I am going to South America on Friday, don’t you?” It was Tuesday.

  “No, how would I know that? We haven’t talked in weeks.

  “Sorry, guess that I didn’t tell you before. Yes, I am off to Uruguay Friday morning.”

  “Uruguay, so that’s where you are going. What are you doing there?”

  “I still can’t tell you. The boss is worried about somebody else finding out about his deal and stealing it from him.

  “Who is the boss?”

  “Can’t tell you that either. All I can say is that he’s a smart guy and very good at what he does. You told me you had something important to tell me.”

  “Yes, I do. I’m pregnant.” No hesitation in the telling, long pause after.

  “Aye, carajo! How can that happen? You are 42 years old.”

  “Actually my love, I am 44 years old. I am not the oldest pregnant woman in history, but I dare say that I am the oldest one married to a 75-year-old accused killer who has not done anything to impregnate me in a long time. And, as to how it happened - you, my friend, made it happen, with my help. As you recall, it had been a few months since we had had sex and I stopped taking my birth control pills when Fred was indicted. I started taking them again when I knew I was going to see you – like a day before we did it in that pig sty of yours. Really stupid of me, but my periods had been irregular so I thought I wasn’t at any risk. Really dumb.”

  “Pig sty. What do you mean?”

  “Jesus, is that what you just heard? Your room is a mess – you know that, but shit, man, we’re going to have a baby!”

  “Are you sure? Did you go to the doctor?”

  “Come on. You’re smarter than that. I missed a period – nothing unusual. But then I felt nauseated so I went to the drug store in Marin, not here in the city – I didn’t want anybody that might have the slightest idea who I was seeing me buy a pregnancy test. Last night, I peed on the stick and the line turned blue – not a little bit blue, a lot blue. Positive. Unless I do something about it, I’m going to be a mom. Aren’t we happy? …Fuck it!” she yelled, loud enough for him to move the cell phone away from his ear.

  “Calm down.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down! I am fucking pregnant by a Mexican and am married to a rich old Jew who might be headed to jail if he gets his memory back. Just picture this in the goddam Chronicle. What, dear God, am I going to do?”

  “Don’t call me aMexican!”

  “You are one. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Apologies accepted. So, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not going to have the kid. You know, as a teenager, I promised my parents that I’d never have an abortion. In fact, I think I promised that I’d never have sex before I got married. Amazing that my father, the big professor, didn’t believe in abortions or sex before marriage. I kept that promise ‘til I was about fifteen. But there was no way I’d need an abortion. I was always so careful about using protection – usually both pills and condoms. I should have gotten my tubes tied, but I was pretty sure that it would be impossible for me to get pregnant. You and I were so careful. So was I with my husbands – always used the pills religiously. But here I am with a fetus inside me that simply cannot see the light of day.”

  “How about Planned Parenthood?”

  “I can’t go there. The people who volunteer are people just like me – rich women from Pacific Heights and St. Francis Wood. Someone will recognize me and even though they are sworn to secrecy, the word would get out – Klein’s wife has abortion! I like my gynecologist. I haven’t seen him in a couple of years. He’d keep it quiet. But if he says abortion, and how can he not, it would have to be done outside of San Francisco – we’re just too radioactive here.”

  “What do you want me to do? How can I help? I could pay half.” To Contreras, a lapsed Catholic with deep-seated thoughts on such things, abortion was anathema. But he was not about to discuss it with his lover.

  “Pay half? Don’t be an idiot. Just get out of town. Maybe you should go to Uruguay.” He could see her smiling over the phone. “I do love you, Ernesto, but you can’t be around while this is going on. And, by the way, do you love me?”

  He delayed a few milliseconds. “Of course I do.” She didn’t believe him.

  “Hey Fred,” she said in a loud enough voice so that he could hear over the auto chase, “I’m going to see my gynecologist. Haven’t had a checkup in a while. No problems – just a routine exam.”

  He didn’t
turn his head toward her. “OK.”

  Her Ob/Gyn was headquartered on Sutter with all the other doctors-to-the-rich. Dr. Wachs was not the type that a woman getting a PAP could fantasize about. Old enough to qualify for Medicare, he was bald, frumpy, and dressed in khakis, a wrinkled shirt and threadbare white coat, the embroidered name almost illegible from thousands of wearings and hundreds of cleanings.

  “How nice to see you, Jennifer. It’s been a long time. I was afraid that you had changed offices.”

  “No, Dr. Wachs, I’m very happy here. I just haven’t had any trouble and I read somewhere that every two years was enough for PAPs.”

  “I don’t believe that. We’ve been doing yearly PAPs for as long as I’ve been a doctor – no reason to change. So, just a routine visit today?”

  “No, not a routine visit. I’m pregnant.”

  Wachs had the face of a tournament-class poker player. “Pregnant, huh? Are we happy about this? I’m a little surprised. I’ve read about your husband and heard from others that he isn’t his old self. What does he think about having another child at his age?”

  “He doesn’t know about it and probably couldn’t understand it if I told him. But it’s not his. We haven’t slept together since his surgery. It’s somebody else’s.”

  “Oh. Don’t I recall that you are taking birth control pills? Yes, your chart says that you’ve been getting regular refills, at least up to the beginning of the year.”

  “As you can tell, Doctor, I wasn’t taking them very well.”

  “That’s water under the bridge. How long since your last period?”

  “As you might remember, I’m pretty irregular. But this time, it’s been eight weeks. I had sex about seven weeks ago.”

  “I assume you’ve done a pregnancy test?”

  “Of course.” She was a bit irritated that he felt he had to ask the question.

  “The first thing we need to do is confirm that you are pregnant with a repeat test and a pelvic exam. I’ve had cases where the woman says the test was positive but we find out that she did it wrong, or that the test was faulty. Not often, but not zero. While we’re in there, we’ll do a PAP.”

  Jennifer supplied a urine sample, disrobed, and put on the blue paper gown. The nurse, whose age had to be nearly identical to that of the doctor, helped her get into the position despised by almost all females. Jen had always thought that she’d suggest to the doctor that he find a way to at least make it so that the stirrups wouldn’t hurt her feet, but never did. Wachs was gentle, making a potentially grossly unpleasant activity merely unpleasant.

  “Your cervix does look bluish. That can be a sign of pregnancy. Not always. And, the uterus feels just a bit enlarged, again evidence toward pregnancy, early but still pregnancy.” He took the brushing for the Pap smear and told her to sit up.

  “Your cervix looks like you’ve never been pregnant before. True?”

  “True. We’ve discussed that before. I never wanted to have a child and my first husband was so busy making money and trying to please God that he had no time for kids. Then, Fred had already had enough children, something that endeared him to me. The other men in my post-divorce life wanted me to produce heirs.”

  The nurse brought in the urine test results. Positive. No question. “Get dressed and come into my office.” Wachs was abrupt but she was pleased that she wasn’t going to have to make major decisions while attired in a now ripped and soiled paper gown.

  The office was spartan. Diplomas and cheap reproductions of Impressionists on the walls, scattered patient files, blank prescription pads, and drug advertisements on the desk, and a reasonably new ecru wall to wall carpet on the floor. The chair to which she was directed was comfortable enough. The sofa looked more comfortable, but he wanted her where he could show her artist renderings of fetuses in wombs.

  “Here are the facts, Jennifer, and you need to make a decision. Yes, you are pregnant. This isn’t a false pregnancy test or some nasty uterine tumor that causes a pregnancy test to be positive. You are about five weeks along. That’s very early. The fetus is about the size of an apple seed. The child is not viable and won’t be for about five months. So, you’ve got three options. One is to have the child. Two is to have a traditional abortion – minor surgery. Three is to have a chemical abortion – using medicines.”

  “You mean no surgery? You can just give me some pills and the pregnancy will end?” asked Jennifer, incredulously.

  “That’s correct. The pills work more than 90 per cent of the time and they are no more dangerous than the surgery. You’ve heard of RU-486 haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess I remember a lot of ruckus from the right-to-life people a few years ago. You can get rid of option one. I am not going to have this child. My apologies to all those people in America who think that’s murder. Give me murder any day rather than having another man’s child in my situation. As to the other two options, can you give me any reasons that I shouldn’t take the pills?”

  “I really can’t. There are still a lot more surgical abortions in the US than medical ones, but the research says that the two have about the same results and about the same low risks. The pills cost a little bit more than the surgery – not significant for you, I’d assume. Insurance won’t pay, but we’re not talking about a whole lot of money.”

  “Doctor Wachs, you are my hero! You have saved my life, or at least you’ve saved my marriage. Give me the pills.”

  “Not quite so fast, Jennifer. We’ve got to do an ultrasound and get a couple of blood tests to make sure you are OK. We can do the ultrasound here in the office and we can draw the blood and send it to the lab and we’ll get the results by tomorrow morning. Make an appointment and I’ll see you tomorrow before noon.”

  “I’ve got my reading group in the morning. How about the afternoon?

  “Sorry, it’s Wednesday. I’m playing golf.”

  The next morning, she learned that the ultrasound showed not one but two fetuses while the blood tests revealed nothing else disturbing. She was given two kinds of pills - one, the RU-486, to swallow in the doctor’s office, the other to put between gum and cheek like dipping tobacco 24 hours later. Half an hour after the second medicine she began bleeding, more heavily than she would in a period. The cramps were severe but passed in a few hours, as the bleeding stopped. She never saw anything other than blood. Two weeks later, the ultrasound was repeated. There were no fetuses in the uterus. Everything looked perfectly normal for a 44-year-old woman.

  For those two weeks, she basically isolated herself. Fred noticed nothing different about her; he was too busy watching shows. Jason, who spent most of his time elsewhere, knew something was different but he was so preoccupied with his own concerns that he made little of it. The twins made their weekly visit but paid no real attention to their stepmother except to get her take on their father’s progress. Ernesto never called. She never called him. She wasn’t sure what continent he was on. She cried every day, slept poorly, ate little, and lost ten pounds. She had never felt so alone. She talked to the doctor. Ernesto knew. Not another of the six billion on earth was there for her to tell that she had just put an end to two humans-to-be. Her ex-husband? He was too busy trying to find a state where he and his live-in same sex golf professional could legally marry. Her sister? She had become a spokesperson for a New Jersey right-to-life non-profit. Her parents? Dad had died and mother was another anti-abortionist. Jason. No. Robert, Phillip. No. No.

  Ernesto was on the North American continent – San Francisco, to be specific. The travel section of Spencer, Bowman and Clark had made him reservations, first class to Montevideo, on a combination of United and Argentine Airlines. His only previous experience in the air was a round trip from SFO to LAX for a cousin’s wedding two years before. He was outfitted with a passport, his first brief case, his first business cards, and his first laptop. His only suit had been the tuxedo, obligatory attire at Beef, Ltd., that he bought off the rack when he was first employed at th
e steakhouse. All his earlier jobs had required nothing more than smart casual; he had purchased the beige sport coat and wool pants for a wedding. For his Kobe Beef trip, he chose something dark gray at Macy’s and accessorized with shirts and ties picked out for him by the salesman. He was rather taken by his new look. He spent hours in his house dressed to kill, walking by and standing erect in front of his bathroom mirror. He thought about calling Jennifer to show off but did not follow through as he wasn’t sure where their affair was going. He was about to be rich, or at least richer, and thought that it might be time to take a different tack with his life. Marriage? Children? Maybe it was time to settle down. He had been a US citizen for eight years. He knew that a return to Mexico was no longer in the cards. He was here to stay. But Jennifer?

  The night before his 2:25 PM flight to Houston his phone rang. He guessed it was from the restaurant. It was the first night of his two week leave of absence from Beef. He knew that the boss wasn’t happy, but Ernesto was his best waiter. He wasn’t about to threaten his job.

  “Ernesto, this is Mr. Spencer.”

  “Yes, sir. Nice to hear from you.” He was expecting last minute instructions like a trainer offers a jockey. He felt prepared for all eventualities – they had trained him well.

  “Ernesto, you aren’t going. Sorry to break the news this late, but your trip is off.”

  “Oh…Why?”

  “Got a call from Senor Gomez, our man in Montevideo. He said that he didn’t want to talk to anybody but one of the big bosses. Said he was going to back out if I didn’t come. I can’t go, but I’m sending my partner, Mr. Bowman. Gomez is OK with a partner. Bowman speaks Spanish.”