The Heat of Betrayal by Douglas Kennedy Page B

back that night he informed me that, though it was only ‘lightly herniated’ – I remember his exact words – he was advised not to exacerbate it and to refrain from sex for another week. Which we dutifully did.
    Now, here I was, all these absurd months later, on the website of Dr Brian Boyards, MD, reading all about this seemingly simple, no-fault surgical procedure:
    Over 500,000 vasectomy procedures are done each year in the United States.
    Vasectomy is a simple, safe surgical procedure for permanent male fertility control. The tube (called a ‘vas’) which leads from the testicle is cut and sealed in order to stop sperm from leaving.
    The procedure usually takes about 10 to 20 minutes.
    Since the procedure simply interrupts the delivery of sperm it does not change hormonal function – leaving sexual drive and potency unaffected.
    The No-Scalpel vasectomy is a technique used to do the vasectomy through one single puncture. The puncture is made in the scrotum and requires no suturing or stitches.
    The primary difference compared to the conventional vasectomy is that the vas deferens is controlled and grasped by the surgeon in a less traumatic manner. This results in less pain and fewer postoperative complications.
    This procedure is done with the aid of a local anaesthetic called ‘Xylocaine’ (similar to ‘Novocain’).
    The actual interruption of the vas which is done with the No-Scalpel technique is identical to the interruption used with conventional techniques.
    The No-Scalpel technique is simply a more elegant and less traumatic way for the surgeon to control the vas and proceed with its interruption.
    So my husband murdered my chance at motherhood with him by opting for ‘elegant and less traumatic’ surgery. The child I so wanted.
    I snapped my eyes shut, caught somewhere between desolation and pure unalloyed rage.
    â€˜Tout à fait, nous voudrions un enfant.’
    The bastard actually said that at midday today. Just as, for months, he’d kept reassuring me that it was only a matter of time before I got pregnant . . .
    I slammed down the lid of my computer and began to sob. I was in free-fall. Beyond stunned. Stupefied. As if this new life we’d built together was nothing more than a house of cards. Built on the lies of a man I had been dumb enough to trust. How could I – Ms Forensic, Ms Extra-Scrupulous, Ms Exhaustively Thorough – not have sniffed out the con behind all his declarations of intimate commitment?
    I knew the answer to that question.
    We only see what we want to see.
    I understood from the outset that Paul Leuen was, on certain fundamental levels, incapable of proper adult responsibility. But I chose to sidestep such realisations and embrace the bohemian lure, the romantic effluence, the hallucinogenic sex. I was so desperate for love that I shoved all doubt into that mental basement room and plunged right into the delusion of domestic bliss and child-rearing with a man who . . .
    Who? Who?
    Can I even define him now? If he had betrayed me in such a fundamental way, if he had deliberately had himself fixed while assuring me passionately that he wanted a child with me . . .
    I went to the bathroom. I threw cold water on my face, avoiding the mirror. I didn’t want to cast a cold eye on myself right now. I returned to the room and went out onto the balcony, staring out at the North African world below.
This could have waited until our return, Morton
. But decent rabbinical Morton had, no doubt, done a considerable amount of soul searching before deciding to send me the urologist’s invoice. And he had finally decided: cards on the table. But leave it to my disorganised husband to have thrown the doctor’s invoice into his box of financial paperwork, forgetting that I would eventually see it – because I was still his accountant.
    I clutched the balcony railings, steadying myself, rage trumping sorrow; a certain