Punchline

by Jacqueline Diamond

  Darryl opened a new file in his computer to rough out an opening for his story. He tried a couple of titles, but “The Natural Superiority of Fathers” was the one that stuck.

  If he put it on the cover, it was eye-catching enough to insure expanded news-rack sales for the magazine. In order to justify such an outrageous title, though, he knew he needed an equally in-your-face opening to the story.

  His fingers began to tap.

  “Until the modern era, a woman played the leading role in only one theatrical-style production—her wedding,” he wrote. ‘Today’s female, however, has created a new showcase for herself. It’s called pregnancy.”

  What an opening paragraph! Darryl thought as he resumed his attack on the keys. Who could resist reading further?

  ‘‘What was once a private matter has been dragged onto center stage. Today’s woman and her expanding belly are applauded by an audience of ultrasound technicians, obstetricians, childbirth coaches and specialty shopkeepers. The man is relegated to a supporting role, if any.

  “It’s time someone told the truth. Gestating and delivering a baby are innate biological functions for which the mother deserves no more credit than the father. It’s something that happens to her, not something on which she should pride herself.”

  He let out a low whistle. A lot of women would be furious. But if they read further, they would discover that he had some valid points.

  “Our assumption that women are more fit to raise their offspring has led to an unfair system in which men are often denied the right to be parents. The result is unin-volved fathers, heartbroken children and, all too often, impoverished mothers.”

  With the names and details changed, he described how Jim had lost custody of his son. He emphasized the close bond between the two, and the unfairness of the wife’s decision to move away.

  Darryl pointed out that Jim had given up smoking during his wife’s pregnancy, but that she had not. Still, that wasn’t exactly evidence of superiority. He would need to dig up some better examples.

  Putting the article aside, he went back to editing other people’s writing. He would keep his eyes open for further anecdotes that would bear out the theme.

  A while later, Jim himself arrived with photographic proofs for an upcoming issue. Darryl showed his friend what he’d written and received an appreciative clap on the back in response.

  “If you want more examples, you should come to my noncustodial fathers’ support group,” said the photographer. “I’ve heard tales that made my beard curl.”

  “I’ll take all the help I can get.” They made a date for the following week.

  Then Greg came in to discuss changing the format for movie reviews. Before Darryl knew it, the day and part of the evening had flown.

  It was Friday night, and tomorrow he was scheduled to move into Belle’s condo. He planned to spend the evening attending a mad round of parties before temporarily giving up his freedom.

  “WHAT CLOWN NAMED this ‘morning sickness’?” Belle demanded as she struggled to subdue her stomach while writing a caption on a photo of an obnoxiously slender model. “It’s past dinnertime, and I’ve still got it.”

  Anita Rios handed her a bran muffin. “Try this. I’m featuring the recipe this month. It’s got grated apples and zucchini in it. And honey for sweetening. Well, not just honey. Brown sugar, too.”

  “It’s delicious.”

  “And good for you.”

  “Well, let’s not exaggerate.” Belle had written the headline on Anita’s column herself: “Muffin Madness. High Fiber, Low Fat, Huge Taste!” Only farther down in the article would readers discover that low fat didn’t mean low calorie.

  She declined a second muffin. Even writing headlines on food articles seemed to make Belle gain weight. Selfconsciously, she stroked one hand across her stomach.

  “Oh, goodness, aren’t you over that pregnancy thing yet?” Sandra swung into the office in a cloud of silk and expensive perfume. Orchids wove around her hat and trailed down her back, matching the flowers painted on her white two-piece dress.

  “Gestation still takes nine months,” Belle informed the publisher.

  “Oh, does it?” Sandra’s blue eyes widened. “I know so little about children—I keep mistaking them for mice. When one enters the room, I scream. You aren’t planning on bringing it to work, are you?”

  “I’ll find day-care,” Belle assured her, although that was a prospect she wasn’t ready to consider. The emergence of an actual baby remained in the realm of the theoretical.

  “Have we heard from that mall lady about an appointment?” Sandra asked.

  “Not yet. I thought she was going to call you at home.”

  “Oh, was she?” One hand fluttered in the air. “I suppose she did say that.”

  Belle wished her former roommate would pay more attention to the details of business. If not for the lawyer who oversaw her investments, Sandra would probably have forgotten where she kept all those millions of dollars.

  At least she had promised to organize their formal presentation for cosponsoring the mall’s opening, once they got the go-ahead from Mira. That was a relief. Belle had enough work to do without adding a major project like that.

  Anita checked her watch. “Maybe we should hit the road.”

  The publisher smiled. “Oh, yes, let’s! Wait till you see the spread at the Hendersons’! They’re using Chef Francois and he makes an incredible pâté!”

  Anita was researching an article to be called “Cater Your Own Wedding: Banquets on a Budget.” Sandra had offered to take the food editor to some of her friends’ parties that night to steal ideas.

  Belle waved goodbye, then sat staring at the photo of the skinny model and wondered if the woman ever went on eating binges. Or got pregnant. Or lost her mind and agreed to let some Neanderthal specimen like Darryl Horak move into her apartment.

  Belle didn’t even like female roommates. What on earth was she going to do with the editor of About Town?

  He would criticize her mismatched furniture, take over the remote control and probably fill the condo with the nasal whine of football announcers. She wondered if it was possible to tune the TV permanently to PBS.

  There was still time to change her mind, she supposed. True, she had given Darryl a duplicate house key, but she could simply demand its return.

  The more she thought about it, the more Belle felt she would be doing them both a favor. Allowing Darryl to move in was tempting fate.

  They might kill each other. They might even succumb to that bizarre recurring attraction that must be an aftereffect of the aphrodisiac in the punch.

  A few back rubs and a promise to fetch pickles and ice cream at midnight weren’t worth days of inconvenience and discomfort. Why hadn’t she given more thought to what it would mean, having a man on the premises?

  No more wandering around in her underwear. No more lolling on the couch like a beached whale, groaning aloud until Placido Domingo soothed her alpha waves. No more evening-long marathons watching tapes of ice skating from Olympics past.

  She should call him now. The clock was edging toward eight, later than she’d realized.

  After checking the phone book, she dialed the About Town offices, but reached only voice-mail. She tried to find a home number for Darryl, but it wasn’t listed.

  Well, she would simply have to send him packing when he arrived tomorrow. That would be soon enough, Belle decided as she collected her purse and headed for the door. At least she needn’t confront the man tonight, with her feet sore and her abdominal muscles aching.

  SITTING IN HIS CAR, Darryl stared at the beach half a block from his house. It was a sorry world when a selfconfident single man with a credit card and wheels could neither find a party nor start one of his own.

  The November moon shone bleakly over an almost deserted strand. It was too late in the season for barbecues, and the only lovers strolling here tonight were more interested in getting their dogs to poop belo
w the waterline than in exchanging romantic caresses.

  He checked his watch. Twenty-three-forty hours. Not even midnight.

  With a grunt, Darryl removed his car keys and strode along the oceanfront sidewalk. He didn’t intend to go home, but that’s where his legs were carrying him.

  His neighbors, he noticed, had finally removed the pumpkin and witch decorations from their windows and replaced them with turkeys and Pilgrims. Judging by the rough edges on the paper cutouts, their children had made the things in preschool.

  Frowning, he wondered whether his baby would ever go to preschool, and realized that of course it would. He had to stop picturing a baby perpetually babbling in its crib. How fast did they grow, anyway? At what point did they start blaming their parents for the world’s problems?

  His house was tiny, a one-story white adobe wedged between duplexes. Prices at the beach were astronomical, and he’d been lucky to be able to afford this one. It wouldn’t accommodate much more than a solitary bachelor, though, Darryl reflected as he entered.

  The living room was barely big enough to swing a cat. The kitchen begged for the suffix “ette” on the end, and if the health service ever checked behind the refrigerator, Darryl was due for a long stretch in the slammer.

  He flicked on the light in the bedroom and tried to visualize it through Belle’s eyes. He noted the out-of-date wood paneling, the curtains dotted with ducks and the latest Flaunt It centerfold hanging on the wall. No wonder she’d bitten him.

  A surge of energy told Darryl he couldn’t bear to spend the night lounging around in front of the TV. He might as well pack and move into Belle’s place right now.

  She couldn’t be asleep yet. Even two-year-olds stayed up later than this in Los Angeles.

  Besides, he’d promised to wait on her, hadn’t he? He might as well start with breakfast tomorrow.

  Invigorated by his decision, Darryl pulled a suitcase from the closet and threw in some clothes, his shaving kit, shampoo and hair dryer. He nearly added a packet of condoms, then realized he was three months too late.

  Staring at the suitcase, he noticed that he’d forgotten underwear, and tossed in a few days’ worth. He decided to take the perishables from the fridge, too, until a cursory inspection revealed that they had already perished.

  He locked the house behind him, hopped into his car and set off for Palms. He knew the way, sort of. It wasn’t far, as Los Angeles geography went.

  The problem was that the authorities had installed a new freeway that hijacked his lane when Darryl wasn’t expecting it. Before he could figure it out, he found himself making an unscheduled landing at Los Angeles International Airport. It took half an hour just to find his way back.

  He refused to ask directions. Only tourists did that.

  It was nearly 1:00 a.m. by the time he located Palms, and he was beginning to doubt that Belle would still be awake. That was the advantage of having a key. He could quietly establish himself in the spare bedroom and surprise her with breakfast.

  The condo complex turned out to be five units along a driveway that ran at right angles to the street. The lot was. narrow and deep, the structures solid but not showy.

  After parking, he proceeded along the walkway to unit C. Holding the suitcase to his left hand, Darryl fished the key from his pocket and inserted it into the door. A copy of a copy, the key grated reluctantly into place but refused to turn.

  He jiggled the thing, but it still wouldn’t move. Baring his teeth, he twisted as hard as he could and threw his weight against the door.

  Everything gave way at once. The key turned, the door flew open and Darryl plunged into the living room, fell over his suitcase and crashed to the floor.

  Rubbing his hip, he waited tensely for Belle to come storming out, but she didn’t. He recalled hearing that pregnant women slept very soundly.

  He was about to get up when he heard a click, like someone cocking a gun. The odd part was that it came from the outer doorway, not from the direction of the bedrooms.

  Great. Darryl had arrived at Belle’s condo only to provide free admittance to a mugger. This was not going to look good either in the article or in his obituary, whichever came first.

  “Put your hands up, you lowlife creep.” Despite its dryness, the voice bristled with authority. “Way up!” The shadowy figure in the doorway didn’t sound like a mugger. It didn’t look like one, either. Too thin, too short and too dressed in a nightgown.

  Darryl put his hands up. “I know how this looks, but Belle gave me a key,” he said.

  “Belle would never give a man her key,” said the woman.

  “I’m Darryl Horak.” When that name didn’t evoke instant recognition, he added, “I’m staying with her to research a story on pregnant women.”

  To his vast relief, Darryl saw moonlight glint off the gun barrel as it was lowered. “Oh, you’re that man on the beach! The one who took our pictures.”

  The woman reached for the light switch, and a blinding brilliance smashed into his face. Both of them stood blinking for a while, and then he recognized the octogenarian who had worn a bikini along with Belle’s other recruits in the centerfold picture on the beach.

  “I’m Belle’s neighbor, Moira McGregor.” She stuck out her hand, then noticed the gun and transferred it to her left before extending the right again.

  Darryl shook it. “Sorry about the noise. I’m supposed to move in tomorrow but I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Belle can, obviously.’’ The woman squinted at him as if double-checking his identity. “Well, I guess she knows what she’s doing. Say, you folks need any more models, you just let me know. I’m not as shy as I used to be about my body. There’s a lot of old geezers who buy magazines like yours and they get tired of those young girlies.’’

  “That’s why we took your picture,” Darryl said by way of sidestepping the issue. “Maybe you’d better get back to sleep now.” Realizing she might resent the implication, he added, “Not that you need it. But you probably left some young stud in your bed and he might get lonely.”

  Moira chuckled. “In my dreams. But thank you.” And out she went.

  Darryl shut the door behind her, then rubbed his sore hip and examined the room. What a load of mismatched junk. Where did Belle get her furniture, the city dump?

  A deep yawn reminded him that even masculine vigor doesn’t last forever. One bedroom had the door tightly shut, so he hauled his suitcase into the other one.

  Switching on the light, he discovered that it contained a daybed too short for his six-foot-one-inch frame. The sheets smelled dusty, and the pillow was flat as a doormat. Other than that, the room contained only a bedside table and a desk so fragile it looked as if a heavy wind might carry it off.

  With the sense of having arrived in a strange hotel in a city where no one spoke English, he popped open his suitcase and began to unpack.

  BELLE LAY IN BED trying to levitate a box of crackers from the kitchen to her bedroom, but it didn’t work. Then she remembered that she had been dreaming about Darryl Horak.

  In the dream, he had moved in with a camera crew, two models in bathing suits and his art director. Every time Belle had shuffled into the kitchen or needed to use the bathroom, they’d all followed her.

  The truth probably wouldn’t be much different. This was Darryl’s day to show up on her doorstep, and she doubted she would know peace again until she got rid of him.

  Belle wondered what time he would arrive and hoped it would be sometime next year. Or the year after. Or maybe in time for his child’s high school graduation.

  Clenching her teeth, she rolled out of bed. After washing up, she pulled on her bathrobe and started down the hall.

  A noise from the spare bedroom sent her heart skittering into her throat. Spiders and crickets made periodic invasions of the premises, but she had never had to contend with anything loud enough to snuffle. The sound came again, and resolved itself into breathing.

  A large animal. The onl
y animal that big would be a bear or a human, or possibly Darryl Horak.

  Nudging open the door, Belle spotted the subject of her nightmare. She couldn’t believe the man had had the nerve to move in while she slept. It was an affront to decency, even if they had once been intimate.

  Pushing the door wider, she anchored herself with a hand on the frame and studied her unwelcome guest. He sprawled across the daybed, his feet sticking over the end. When she’d bought the thing, it hadn’t seemed particularly small, but then, she hadn’t bought it with a six-foot-something male in mind.

  From here, she had a pretty good view of his body, covered only by a pair of tiny black underpants. Lord, the man was built like an Adonis. It was too bad to waste a body like that on such an annoying personality.

  As if on command, he groaned and rolled over, crushing his dark hair against the pillow. Now she got a clear look at Darryl’s features. In sleep, his mouth seemed softer and his cheeks had a gently rounded sweetness, almost like a child’s.

  Belle was dismayed by the illusion of innocence. Seeing him this way, she could even imagine that he had once been a child. The horrifying conclusion was that this tiny creature inside her might someday grow up to be just like Daddy.

  It had to be a girl, she decided. Then she would never gaze into her child’s eyes and see Darryl staring back at her.

  And he was staring. The man had come fully awake without passing through that dazed state that, for her, usually lasted half an hour.

  Too late, Belle realized that she had left her bathrobe gaping open, revealing a short nightie that clung to her curves. Her guest’s eyes opened, and opened some more, and then got wider still.

  She hoped he was enjoying the view. It was, she felt determined, the last time he would ever see it.

  7

  “NO,” DARRYL SAID for the third time. “I am not leaving.”

  They sat at the kitchen table, each wrapped in a robe. He was consuming coffee and a nonfat coffee cake that he’d taken from Belle’s freezer without asking permission.