“Aha!” said the doctor. “There it is!”
“I just wanted to remind you that your court is booked for six-fifteen,” said Nurse Helen from the doorway.
“What? Dammit, I lost it. Damn!”
“What?”
“It’s all right.” The doctor was not speaking to Roebuck. “Call Jerry and tell him I’ll be late. No, tell him we’ll book again next week. Then put on a gown and get back in here.”
“What’s going on?”
But the doctor never said.
The peas, now fully thawed, present the more immediate concern. Wincing, Roebuck draws the sheets to cover them. There’s a lump visible in the middle of his bed, but he’ll have to risk it. Anne is knocking at his bedroom door.
“Julius? Julius? Are you all right?”
He coughs, staggers, and undoes the lock.
“I think I have a touch of flu,” he says.
Anne is wrapped up in the housecoat she bought last year in Dallas. She smells of lavender and soap. “You look awful!”
Roebuck steadies himself against the jamb. He feels awful; his groin has gone the colour of Indian ink. But at least there’s no bleeding. The jockstrap! Where’s the jockstrap? Still on him, yes; safely out of sight beneath his pants.
“You need to see a doctor!” says his wife.
“No!” He can tell his vehemence surprises her. “Sorry,” he says. “I only need a bit of rest.”
“Look at you! You shouldn’t be going to work!”
He fends off a fresh wave of nausea. “Maybe you’re right.” Roebuck wants the bathroom, but suspects she’ll follow him in.
“Are you all right?”
“No. Yes, I mean.” He has spotted the plastic sample bottle with its bright orange lid in Anne’s left hand. “What I need is a cup of coffee! Is there coffee?”
“Coffee? I don’t think you should be having coffee. What about some mild tea with honey?”
“Chamomile. Do we have chamomile?”
“Of course we have chamomile. Are you feverish?” Anne puts her hand up to his forehead; he steadies himself to submit without flinching. “I think you have a fever.”
He puts his own hand up. “Yes,” he says. “I think I have a fever.”
“I’ll make a nice sweet cup of chamomile.” It’s the same voice she uses when the kids are sick. “I don’t think you should be going in to work today.”
“You’re right. I’ll call as soon as I’ve had a little rest.”
The minute Anne is out of sight, he staggers to the bathroom and locks both doors. Then, remembering the peas, unbolts his side again, grabs the bag from underneath the sheets, and scuttles back into the bathroom. It’s a small bag, fortunately, a ten-ouncer. He rips it open with his teeth and dumps the sodden mass into the toilet. Most of the peas flush down. The rest float back up and bob around the surface.
While he’s waiting for the tank to refill, Roebuck examines his testicles, which are swollen to the size of tennis balls. “Keep them iced,” the doctor warned. “The edema should reduce in a week or so.” Roebuck saw him in the parking lot, tossing his racquet into the back of his Range Rover. He should have asked then how long it takes for pubic hair to regrow. Maybe this is something he can Google. The dried blood on the jockstrap is crusty; he’ll have to change the dressing soon, but that can wait. The bandages! Where are the bandages? In his briefcase; yes, out of sight in his briefcase. When the coast is clear, he’ll replace the gauze and flush that down the toilet too. It looks as if the bleeding has stopped. He cracks the door an inch and listens, then makes another painful dash for his pyjamas.
Safely back behind the bathroom door, Roebuck drops his pants into the hamper, then scoops them out again to check for stains. Satisfied, he puts on his pyjamas, gingerly, and flushes again: half a dozen peas still cycle round the bowl.
“Julius?” says Anne, tapping at the other side. “Are you in there?”
“Just a sec!” His stomach is heaving. Roebuck does his toilet paper trick again—imagine a world without TP?—and flushes a third time.
There, all gone.
“Julius?”
He folds the plastic pea bag and stuffs it in his jock strap. Sweating, Roebuck knots the string of his pyjama bottoms. “You’re an angel,” he says, hands shaking as he accepts his mug of tea.
Anne’s lips are pursed with worry. This is the look she wears during any kind of family emergency. It’s her mother’s face. No sign now of the sample jar. “You need to get back into bed,” she says.
“Yes,” he answers gratefully. His teeth are chattering. She tucks him in, mounds the pillows, draws the comforter to his chin, and carefully sits on a corner of his bed. Roebuck sips his honeyed tea.
“I’m calling Yasmin.” Anne has lifted the phone from its cradle on his nightstand. “We have a builder coming in this morning, but she can handle that. I’m taking you to the doctor.”
Roebuck lets the sweet tea trickle down his throat. “Speaking of Yasmin …”
Anne puts down the phone. She reaches into the pocket of her housecoat. “Yes.” She is gazing at the sample bottle. “What does this mean?”
“Yasmin’s reply.” Roebuck’s hands have stopped shaking. The tea is actually helping.
“I read that part.” She has taken out his yellow post-it note, stuck like a butterfly to the pad of one finger.
“But what does it mean?”
Two things Roebuck did last night before dragging himself to his bed. Three, if you count stopping at the corner store to buy the frozen peas. The first was to place an order with the florist for the delivery of a dozen roses to Nurse Helen at the clinic. The other, and far more significant, was the sample jar. He’s actually rather proud of himself for the flowers.
“How was yoga?”
“What?”
Anne was at yoga last night. She’d arranged for the sitter to stay late and put the kids to bed. That’s how he succeeded in getting himself into his room unobserved. Before he’d locked the door, Roebuck had placed the jar and note where she would find it on her pillow.
“Yoga was fine.” Anne tells him. “What does this mean?”
Back before his testicles were lanced, he’d done some careful thinking and decided that Anne would have to be told.
“Yasmin wants to bypass the clinic.”
“What! What does that mean?”
She came to see me in my office. Yesterday. She said that if I was uncomfortable with using a fertility clinic we could, well, skip the middleman I guess is how you’d describe it. Then she gave me that sample jar. She said she’d call when she was ovulating. All I have to do …” He gestures to the plastic jar. “Then afterwards she’ll come and take it home with her.”
“You’re fucking joking?”
“I wish I was.”
“That bitch!”
“Now, now. You said it yourself. Yasmin’s going through a rough patch …”
“But … Oh, God. That must have been so uncomfortable!”
“Well, I admit, it was not the most relaxing meeting I had that day.”
“Look at you! You’re so upset you’re sick!”
“No. Don’t think that. I’m sure this has nothing to do with Yasmin.”
“Well, I know it hasn’t helped.”
“Listen,” he says, “Yasmin is your friend. I know the two of you will see your way through all this.”
“Oh, Julius! What are we going to do?”
Roebuck yawns. The tea has definitely helped. “I don’t know. But right now I’m not going to think about it.”
Anne scrambles to her feet. “I’m sorry! You shouldn’t be worrying about this now.”
“Maybe I should try to get some sleep.”
“Yes. That’s the best thing. Oh Julius, I’m so sorry! This is all my fau
lt.”
“No.” he says. “Don’t worry. In sickness and in health.” He yawns, a real yawn. “We’ll sort this out.”
She leans across the bed and kisses him. He can’t remember the last time that happened.
“You’re sure you shouldn’t see a doctor?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then I’m going straight to the studio to have a little chat with Yasmin.”
“Mmm,” he says. Roebuck wishes he could be the fly on the wall for that one.
Anne has tiptoed out and closed the door; he can hear her steps receding down the stairs. There are several things he knows that won’t be said. Yasmin will not mention anything about her scheme to go behind Anne’s back because she will know—three minutes into the conversation, she’ll be certain—that he hasn’t said a word about that either. He feels the beginning of arousal, and the answering stab of scrotal anguish.
But it’s good to know that everything still appears to be in working order.
11
Near is for ants, far is for eagles.
The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck
By Friday, Roebuck’s condition has improved.
Appropriately hoarse, he has left a voicemail informing his receptionist that he is staying home in bed today, running a fever, and that he would appreciate not being bothered with anything that wasn’t an emergency. She, in turn, had sent out an All Staff Notice, advising everyone that the boss was down with the flu. Roebuck is very seldom sick; when he is, it’s taken seriously. His people circled the wagons. All day Thursday, his phone did not ring once. He kept his laptop and BlackBerry handy on the bed beside him and caught up on his reading. A little past noon he heard the front door opening. Roebuck settled back beneath the covers, switched off the light, and closed his eyes. Finding her ailing husband breathing evenly in restful sleep, Anne left a tray of chicken soup and flatbread on his bedside table and silently crept out again. This was repeated—poached salmon on white rice—several hours later at dinner. He is still extremely curious to learn the outcome of her conversation with Yasmin. All in good time.
Earlier this morning, unshaven, pale in his pyjamas, Roebuck had teetered through the bathroom and carefully positioned himself on the edge of Anne’s bed. Getting up and sitting down still hurts; anything that bumps induces sparks of pain. Roebuck’s infirmity convinces. Anne’s alarm has just gone off; she is barely awake.
“I’ve been so worried. Julius, you never sleep this much!”
“I think I’m feeling better.”
She sits up and puts her hand against his forehead. “You’re still running a fever.”
This surprises him. “I am?”
“And Julius, you smell.”
He hasn’t bathed since early Wednesday morning. Quite a lot has happened between now and then. “I’ll try later,” he tells her, shivering. The doctor warned him not to shower for 48 hours, so he’s right on schedule. He has also been advised to avoid all stretching of the abdomen: “No heavy lifting, no straining, nothing than makes you grunt.”
“Is it okay if the kids come in to see you?” Anne asks. “They’ve been so worried.”
“It’s just the flu,” says Roebuck. “It’s not as if I’ve lost a lung. Just tell them not to jump on me.”
“Of course they won’t jump on you!”
“My stomach’s still a little woozy.”
“I think you should stay home again today.”
“I hate to do that. People depend on me. But maybe you’re right. Can you take the kids to school again this morning, do you mind?” Getting the kids to school is one of Roebuck’s normal functions.
“Of course I can! Don’t be silly.”
“I’ll be fine by Monday.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Then, I guess I’ll stay home.”
“What about a bit of breakfast?” Anne has gotten out of bed and slipped into her housecoat; she’s moving toward the door. “A little toast? Could you hold down a soft boiled egg?”
“Don’t worry.” Roebuck’s mind has turned to other matters. “I’ll make something later. So …” he says, casually reaching for a tissue from the box beside by her bed. “Yasmin?”
Anne turns. It’s a look he can’t interpret because he’s making such a point of blowing his nose.
“I talked to her.”
At that moment the children burst in. “Dad!” shouts Zach. “Dad! You’re still alive!”
“Don’t jump!” his father shouts back.
12
The steer will always hate the bull.
The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck
By Saturday morning Roebuck has showered and shaved and assured himself he’s healing. Even his lacerated testicles look and feel more wholesome. He has—as per instructions—blocked the hole at the base of his penis with the medicated goop prescribed to keep the moisture out. By appearance, at least, it’s improving. He has changed his dressing and flushed the wad of crusty gauze down the toilet. It still hurts, though: a dull, pulsing, background throb. Several years ago while penalty-killing late in the third of a beer-league playoff game, Roebuck took a deflection to the groin that dropped him to the ice like a dying millipede. It feels like that now, say thirty minutes after. That’s improvement.
He has switched from the jockstrap (now wrapped neatly in a plastic bag, tucked into his briefcase for disposal at a later date) to a much more comfortable set of snug-fitting boxer shorts. He has made himself a plate of scrambled eggs with minced shallots and dabs of runny cheddar and drunk a pot of coffee. All in all, definitely improvement. He has caught up on his email—still in PJs, working at the kitchen table—and booked a conference call with a group of clients based in Framingham, Massachusetts, who see a budget squeeze ahead and want more campaign, thanks, for less money. He has left a voice mail with Finance, requesting the job sum, and got a head start on the plasticine brain.
Lately it seems that every piece of homework is an art project in disguise. Last week it was Morgan’s collage of restaurant items, all labelled in French. Today it’s an anatomical model of the human brain required for Zach’s Science class. Google Translator provided the spellings and appropriate accents for every word on Morgan’s list; the hard part was sourcing and printing the accompanying pictures and neatly laying out the project on a sheet of foamboard. That took up most of the evening. Both Morgan and Katie are pulling off As in French, though Roebuck doubts that either one of them would get much past bonjour if ever required to actually speak it. Zach, on the other hand, who has not yet come to terms with the imperative of cut-and-paste, hovers in the middle Cs. Roebuck is kneading a mass of grey material they will use to represent the cerebellum and has set aside a lump of pink stuff for the hypothalamus, when he hears the doorbells chime.
Daniel Greenwood is standing in the portico, a leather courier bag slung across his chest.
Roebuck opens the door and coughs.
He doesn’t really need to cough; there’s nothing wrong with his lungs. But he’s been keeping up appearances so effectively these last two days that now his chest behaves as if it really is congested. “Ugly time of year for flu,” says Greenwood, staring up into the thin March sun. “That so sucks.”
“Come in, Daniel.”
“Wow!” Greenwood has stepped into the foyer, whistling.
“Beautiful.”
“My wife is an interior designer.”
“Is she really? I didn’t know!”
Roebuck coughs again and taps his chest. Greenwood angles his neck to peer into his face. He’s a little taller than Roebuck; Roebuck has never noticed this. “You look bagged,” he says. “But I brought something to cheer you up.” Greenwood snaps the strap of his courier bag. All creative types below a certain age have taken to these floppy, purse-like items. “Maybe I should have waited?”
“Come in, Daniel. I have a pot of coffee going.”
They walk together through the house and into the kitchen at the back. When the main floor was expanded, Anne and Yasmin sourced a slab of Indonesian teak that now runs, carved and polished, like a backbone down the centre of the room. “Sit there,” says Roebuck.
“That’s one hunk of timber.”
“Three and a half feet wide by twenty long, if memory serves. My wife, or I should say her partner, arranged to have it freighted out through Burma.”
“Beautiful. The whole house is beautiful.”
“She has an eye.”
“You can say that again.”
“But now she thinks the kitchen’s getting tired.” Roebuck himself is feeling tired. He pours the coffee. There’s an espresso machine from Italy, but he seldom bothers. “So …?”
Greenwood has unslung his pouch and removed a laptop. “It’s just a seventeen-inch screen,” he says apologetically, “but it’ll give you a rough idea.”
“Of what, roughly speaking?” Roebuck watches Greenwood’s fingers dance across the keyboard. When did it happen, that people emerged from the womb, typing eighty words a minute?
“I’ve been working on some concepts for Drag and Clop,” Greenwood says a little shyly. “It’s just a ripomatic, but I thought you’d better have a look before I take it any further.”
“But, Daniel …”
“There!” Greenwood spins the monitor so that Roebuck can observe it, free of glare.
For a second, he thinks he’s watching a clip from a David Attenborough wildlife special. He looks up at Greenwood—who nods—then back at the laptop. A bull elk occupies the screen, standing in a clearing, snow-capped mountains marching off into the background. The animal’s magnificence alone is arresting. Roebuck reaches for his coffee as the elk lowers its enormous head, tears a hunk of grass, then raises it again, jaws grinding. A forest of antlers sweeps the autumn air; muscle undulates beneath the surface of its skin; velvet ears twitch placidly. Vaguely, almost inaudibly, Roebuck discerns the sound of chewing and the muffled stamp of hoof. Then, piercingly, the calm is shattered by a bugling shriek. Instantly, the elk is transformed. The tendons of its neck inflate, its chest expands, everything about it seems suddenly intensified. Stamping, it swings its massive rack and stares hungrily toward the camera. Twin plumes of steam jet from flaring nostrils. Greenwood freezes the screen.
Fire in the Firefly Page 10