The Paternity Test by Michael Lowenthal Page B

she would rather have been shagging outfield flies, chugging Bud, cheered on by her wife. (Well, not now, of course, not in January.) But here she was, all trussed up to fit in with her office, whose furniture was elegant but fussily unpretentious, every table expensively defaced with little dings. I liked her, though: the way she said, “Call me Kris—or, hell, K.C.”; and how, when she thought we wouldn’t notice, she kicked her pumps off.
    Danny was the one who seemed unsure of how to take her. Walking in, he’d faltered when she rose to shake his hand, and then, on recovering, shook it overeagerly, clapping her arm, as though she were a frat boy. Since then he’d maybe said ten words.
    My condescending, descended-from-Pilgrims mind read things this way: a simple tradesman humbled in the face of Mighty Law. Mustn’t that explain, I thought, his self-protective hunch? He clicked and unclicked a ballpoint pen.
    “Relax,” I whispered, recalling how he’d calmed me at the Pancake King. “Lawyers are just like us but overpaid. She won’t bite.”
    K.C., who I hadn’t thought could hear, said, “Yeah? Bite this ,” then let rip with a mischief-maker’s laugh. Using the collective slack-jawed silence she had bought herself, she said, “So, then: mind if I continue with the contract? Next we come to all of Debora’s can’ts.”
    Can’t smoke, drink, take drugs.
    Can’t play unsafe sports.
    Can’t expose yourself to radiation.
    “Wait,” I said, taking inspiration from K.C.’s irreverence. “How about ‘can’t expose yourself ’—full stop?”
    “Patrick,” said Stu. “For crying out—”
    “Oh, now. Grow a funny bone.”
    His eyes, like two rifle bores, took aim.
    I should have said “I’m sorry,” or kept my big mouth shut, but I could have the tendency, when nervous, to entrench. “Doesn’t this seem, to say the least, a little nuts?” I said.
    Danny spun his pen, a compass in a storm. Debora looked demurely toward the ground.
    “Didn’t we say,” I added, “—just now, earlier, didn’t we?—how nice it was this didn’t feel like business?”
    “Oh,” said K.C., “but it is , Pat. For everyone’s sake, it has to be. You have to think of the worst—that’s what I’m for.”
    Stu smiled a snappy little smile of vindication; the lawyer had just summarized his worldview.
    “So,” said K.C., “moving right along . . . I know the guys have told you of their hope you’ll stay involved, as long as you want, after the baby’s born. But I must point out, contractually, you’ll have no legal claim . . .”
    Debora nodded, and nodded again, as serious as a girl playing grownup. It dawned on me that she had said the least during this meeting—even less, I thought, than clammed-up Danny. Cold feet? Displeasure with the contract? Or maybe Danny’s jitters had a dampening effect. Where was the jocular Debora who at Baxter’s had so wowed us?
    “. . . and no rights of custody,” K.C. added.
    “Fine,” said Danny, after which he left an edgy pause, his eyes like small skittery creatures, caged. “But what about financial responsibility?”
    “I think we mostly addressed that, didn’t we?” said K.C. “Any expense related to the pregnancy, they’ll cover; plus we’ve got the what-if fees, for injury or for—”
    “No,” he said. “Us, is what I meant. Are we responsible? I mean, let’s say—think of the worst, right?—let’s say something awful happens to them, but the baby lives. We wouldn’t be responsible, then, would we? You know, financially?”
    “Oh, gosh, no. Pat and Stu will make their own contingencies. None of the rights or the responsibilities of parenting will be yours.”
    “Oh!” said Danny. “Okay, then”—and flash , his mood changed hue. “Truly sorry, guys,” he said.
    “Sorry?” said Stu. “For what?”
    “Well, for, you know, picturing your doom.”
    “Ha!” I said. “Don’t you think I’m used to that, from Stu?”
    At last I