More than I Bargained for

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is a story about ‘a significant arrival.’ This week’s story is an expansion of a flash fiction story Phil Yeats originally published on Voice.club.

In September, 2021, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. He’s now published They All Come Tumbling Down, the third volume in his The Road to Environmental Armageddon trilogy. For information about these books, or his older soft-boiled mysteries, visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

 

More than I Bargained for

by Phil Yeats

 

Many decades ago, a university friend I hadn’t seen for five years appeared while I sat outside my neighbourhood pub enjoying a solitary after-work beer. Those were different times, with different laws and different attitudes. Today, I’m sure, this story would unfold very differently.

“I always admired the way you ignored everyone and followed your muse,” Susan said after a brief greeting.

I stared, bewildered. Since high school, I’d lived in fear of bullies insisting everyone should adhere to their narrow definition of proper behaviour. “Nothing admirable about my conduct. I was a misfit who avoided interaction with others.”

She shook her head. “You stuck to your principles, but I didn’t. For years I lived a lie, pretending to be someone I wasn’t. But don’t let us argue. I found you because I need your help.”

She sipped the glass of white wine she brought to the table while I nursed my beer. I’d applauded her bravery when she acknowledged a lesbian relationship during our senior year. Hiding her orientation earlier when it was illegal was sensible, not cowardly.

“What sort of help?” I asked.

A smile brightened her face. “You remember Patricia?”

I’d met her partner in 1969 at our university graduation ceremony. After the diploma presentations, we bypassed the formal reception because I wasn’t comfortable in crowds, and they wanted to avoid bringing attention to their relationship. We repaired to the campus pub for a quiet celebration before I flew away to graduate school.

“You’re still together, living happily ever after?”

“And we need your help with baby-making.”

I damn near dropped my glass. “You mean sperm donation?”

“Not on. The clinics only accept married couples.”

“At-home do-it-yourself insemination using a turkey baster?”

“Well, sort of. Come for supper tomorrow. We can discuss the details.”

A few minutes later, she strolled away, and I ordered a second beer. I had twenty-four hours to contemplate my first serious commitment to anyone. Have courage, I said to myself; this may complicate your simple, well-ordered existence, but it’s something you should do. And how tough could it be? Visit them on days chosen to accommodate Susan’s ovulation cycle, produce a cupful of sperm in the privacy of their bathroom, present the magic elixir to Patricia, and leave the rest to them. Presumably, we’d have to repeat the process, perhaps several times, but when the deed was done, I could walk away and return to my uncomplicated life.

 

The next evening at six thirty, I rang the doorbell at Susan and Patricia’s house in a nice suburban neighbourhood. Patricia opened the door almost immediately. Susan stood behind her, wiping her hands on a towel.

“Come in, come in. Welcome, Jeremy, to our humble abode. Long time no see, eh?” Patricia said.

Eh was a none-too-subtle mocking of my hoser roots in small town Ontario. In my early years at UBC, I used it a lot, but I’d virtually eliminated it from my vocabulary. Patricia, when I got to know her, always called me out on it. Was she expressing annoyance with my visit and Susan’s suggestion, or was she making a rather ill-conceived effort at being light-hearted?

I held up the bottle of wine I’d brought as a hostess gift.

She checked the label. “Oh lovely, but you really shouldn’t, because this visit is at our request. We’re asking you for a gigantic favour.”

“Well, maybe, but you’re making dinner. I thought I should show my appreciation.”

Susan pushed forward, took the bottle from Patricia’s hand and led me into their living room, where she’d set out a tray with wine and appetizers.

I glanced around, half expecting to see another guest, someone with medical training, who might guide us on the task we were contemplating. In truth, I was worried about Susan’s response the previous afternoon when I suggested artificial insemination with a turkey baster. She smiled and replied, ‘sort of.’ I’d wondered what she meant by those two simple words.

We sat, Susan and I on their couch, and Patricia across the coffee table on a matching armchair. I never mastered small talk, so after a few minutes of pleasantries, I addressed my need for details.

“Before we get into the nitty gritty,” Patricia responded, “we should deal with the formalities.” She reached into a pocket on the side of her chair and pulled out several sheets of paper. “This is an agreement, prepared by my lawyer in as unlawyerly a manner as she could manage that absolves you of any financial responsibility for the child, but also relinquishes any parental claims you may have.” She placed it on the coffee table beside the tray of appetizers. When I picked it up and scowled as I scanned the pages, she continued. “Sorry for the wordiness, but you must know lawyers. Nothing’s ever simple in their minds.” She charged on. “Several more considerations. We should all get tested for sexually transmitted diseases. And for you, we need an assurance you can father a child.”

I stared at the first page of the agreement as I organized my thoughts. I had no problem with Patricia’s businesslike approach. “Third thing first. Twice, once when I was an undergrad, and the second time, after I returned from my master’s studies, I’ve had those fertility tests done. Testosterone levels and sperm count are both normal. I’ll produce the results. Second, I’ll read your agreement more carefully, and consult a lawyer if I really think I must, but I see no reason to object. Finally, no sexual relationships for years, but I understand your need for reassurance. I’ll get the tests done.”

I glanced at Susan, wondering how she was responding to Patricia’s approach. She looked sheepish and lowered her gaze. It was time to address my nagging question, and I refused to back off.

“So,” I said, “what did you mean by ‘sort of’ when I mentioned the turkey baster approach?”

Susan mumbled without looking up. “Like, you know, you guys have built-in turkey basters.” A timer in the kitchen started dinging. She jumped up. Was that serendipity, or did she somehow trigger it? “Dinner in five. Bring your wine glasses to the table.”

Built-in turkey baster, eh? This commitment wouldn’t be as simple and emotion free as I hoped.

 

*****

 The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/