Fire in the Firefly (15 page)

Greenwood is staring as if Roebuck has admitted some communicable disease.

“Anyway,” Roebuck says—he is fading—“there are other ways of saying the same thing, but at least more indirectly. Ways that involve at least a little more … complexity. A little more interesting, maybe, somehow. A little more … fair.” Still leaning on the table, a bit
light-headed
, now, Roebuck throws a leg over the stool, drops into the seat and then, too late—far, far too late—recalls the terrible unwisdom of this act. A
white-hot
blast has detonated upward from his groin and echoes through the sudden vacuum in his chest. It takes all of his willpower not to reach between his legs and cradle the shriek in his scrotum. He stops the hand—barely—and presses it instead into his abdomen.

“Are you all right?” Greenwood has jumped to his feet.

Roebuck can't speak. He nods, sucks air.

“Jesus, that's one bad case of stomach flu!”

“It'll pass.” Roebuck's lungs are beginning to function.

Greenwood is folding up his laptop. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Oh yes …” The worst of it is nearly over. Roebuck draws a ragged breath. “This is terrific work, Daniel. I'm extremely impressed …”

Greenwood has stuffed the laptop back inside his bag and drawn the leather strap across his chest. He looks like some kind of Mexican bandit about to saddle up and vamoose across the border. “I hope you're not contagious.”

He is out the door and gone before Roebuck can remind either one of them that they don't even have this hypothetical account; still don't even know if it's available. But on the other hand, that's how you pursue things in life—isn't it?—in the hope of expectation. Roebuck pours himself a cup of coffee and seats himself more carefully this time, testicles thrumming like a hive of frightened bees.

Art for art's sake is like cooking for cooking's sake.

We don't cook for the sake of cooking; we cook for the sake of eating.

The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck

T
he rest of the weekend flows by almost pleasantly. He could get used to this, if he isn't careful, life in his pyjamas. In the eyes of his household Roebuck remains an invalid, though convalescing well. He is excused from most domestic chores. Anne even drives Zach to his Sunday morning baseball practice. Roebuck feels genuinely guilty, though it's only just this once. She's back now, making lunch; another task that most weekends would fall to him. All three kids are partial to grilled cheese with a side of dilly gherkin, thinly sliced.

Working upstairs where things are quiet, he has just discovered a new email from Lily. “Hear you're down with a bug. Worn out?” He is formulating his reply when the doorbell chimes. Lily, too, will need some careful managing, which in turn reminds him that above all he must come to terms with the challenge of his new Brazilian. Roebuck understands that there are men in this new era who shave their bodies like women. But he also knows that Lily knows he is definitely not a member of that demographic. The only safe solution is to avoid her altogether until everything has grown back. Besides, the No Fuss Clinic website reminds him that he's still fertile, technically, for a minimum of eight weeks and twenty ejaculations until the last of the swimmers are safely cleansed from his system. Roebuck has promised himself that Lily's eggs and his departing sperm will, from this point forward, have zero opportunity to meet and greet. He foresees a lot of unexpected business travel in the weeks ahead and a wealth of headaches. This will take some honest creativity.

“If I'm not mistaken,” he writes, “
you
were the one unconscious before I even left the house …”

Anne and Yasmin walk into his room together.

“Look,” Anne says brightly. “You have a visitor!”

Yasmin is carrying a bouquet of flowers. They are exactly the variety of roses he sent to Helen at the clinic. Roebuck hits “Save” and closes down his mail. To give himself more time, he coughs, then coughs again. He will have to work around that Karma at some time in the future.

“Poor sick man!” Yasmin shapes her lips into a sympathetic pout.

“Just between the two of us, I think he's starting to enjoy it.”

Roebuck coughs a third time, more forcefully, and reaches for his Kleenex.

“Well, I'm sure he deserves it.”

Anne shoots Yasmin a look. Roebuck's senses go on high alert. “Are those for me?” he asks, swallowing.

“You see! His voice is so crackly!”

“Actually,” says Yasmin, “they're for both of you: Yellow roses … for friendship, a precious thing I almost threw away.” She extends the bouquet—after a moment it becomes clear that Yasmin is asking for someone to take the flowers off her hands. Roebuck draws the sheets more tightly to his body; he is feeling seriously chilled.

“I'll get a vase,” Anne says, though it's also clear that she is hesitant to leave the room.

“Don't worry,” Yasmin tells her, “I promise to wait until you're back.”

The two women smile. Anne takes the flowers in her arms, “I won't be a moment.”

Roebuck feels a dampness spreading in his armpits, a quivering of nerves between his shoulders.

Yasmin stands in the middle of his room; Roebuck lies with his back against a mound of pillows piled against the headboard. The two of them listen to the sound of Anne receding down the stairs. Yasmin takes a quick step back, quietly, and then another, leaning out the door to scan the hall. Her skirt rides high and stretches taut.

An instant later, she's on top of him.

“It's
now
!” she says kneading the back of Roebuck's neck.

Yasmin's hair falls against his cheek; he feels the swelter of her breath against his skin. “Now!” Her hands go sliding up and down his arms like she's squeezing something out of him, silk blouse gaping open. Roebuck breathes the waves of puckered heat. “Wouldn't you know! It's
right
fucking now!” Yasmin's bra is yellow, too, like the roses but with leopard spots. She straightens abruptly, listens—nods—then twitches something from her purse. “Look!” A pink thermometer gleams between her fingers then slides into her mouth. Roebuck watches,
blood-hot
, as Yasmin's lips close then part again as it emerges, dewy and glistening. “See! A full degree above my basal body temperature!” She groans and drops it back into the purse. “Do you think …? No, too late!” Her hand slips back into the bag and emerges with something else. “Yes” she says, deciding. “No. Not this time.” There is now an
orange-lidded
sample jar clasped against her breast. Yasmin's eyes have closed; she's counting days. “And anyway, you might still be contagious.” He can feel the mattress vibrate as she slithers off the bed. “We'll just have to wait another month.”

Her hearing must be sharper than his because a few seconds later Anne comes through the door with his roses arranged in a vase. Yasmin has already smoothed her skirt and returned to the spot where she was standing. “There!” says Anne, setting the flowers where he can see them on his nightstand. “Aren't they beautiful?” She is looking at Yasmin, who returns the warmth.

Roebuck's knees are drawn up almost to his chin in order to conceal the enormity of his arousal.

“Well, then,” says Yasmin, rubbing a dab of sanitizing gel between her palms. “I'll say what I came to say and leave you two to enjoy the rest of your weekend in peace and harmony.” Roebuck looks at Anne, who is watching her friend as if she's part of an audience awaiting its cue to applaud.

Yasmin clears her throat.

“I just wanted to say how sorry I am … Anne, Julius … I've been so selfish. I know how uncomfortable this has made you. Anne, both of you …” She turns, here, and looks soulfully at Roebuck whose erection oscillates like a sentient metronome with each contraction of his heart. “I promise you,” Yasmin has locked eyes again with Anne, “I promise you that you won't have to worry about this anymore! Can you forgive me?” Roebuck slides a pillow from behind his back, drops it in his lap, and rests his elbows on the hump. Anne's eyes are gleaming. “Oh, honey, of course I do!”

The women embrace.

Thank God he's on his sickbed, because for a second Anne looks like she wants him to get up and join the hug. Roebuck thunks another pillow on the heap. It takes a while, but in due course Yasmin dabs the corner of her eye with a tissue winkled from the box beside his bed and announces it's time she's on her way.

“I'll see you out,” Anne tells her fondly.

“Thank you for the flowers,” murmurs Roebuck.

“Oh, listen to that voice! He's still so hoarse.”

“Make him take his vitamins.” Yasmin wets her lips again and Roebuck has to look away.

He listens to them chatting as they make their way downstairs. “While you're here,” Anne says, “I should show you the engineer's report for Russell Hill …”

“It's back already?”

“Last week.”

“Oh God, Anne! I'm
so
sorry! I haven't been paying attention. It's like I've been insane.”

“Don't worry. We'll put all that behind us now …”

It's the last thing he hears before they've moved on out of earshot. Cautiously, Roebuck makes his way into the bathroom. Although the clinic website has advised that
sexual intercourse, per se, ought to be avoided, it also says that “gentle sex” (defined as
“getting an erection and ejaculating”) should be safe to undertake at any time. He locks both bathroom doors and turns on all the faucets.

“If I'm not mistaken,” Roebuck continues, much relieved though still extremely tender, “
you
were the one unconscious before I even left the house. But be that as it may …”

There's an empty, tingling kind of soreness, a vacant
after-throb
—but now at least his mind is clear, and it's a great relief to know for certain; he was genuinely anxious that he'd blown some kind of valve. There must still be water in his ear, because he hasn't heard Anne at all until he glances up and sees her standing by the corner of his bed. Roebuck closes down his laptop.

“You had a shower?”

“I did.”

“Feeling better?”

“Much.”

She pushes the computer off his lap and sits beside him. “You
are
feeling better. I can tell.”

“True. I am.”

“Isn't it such a relief?”

“I can't begin to express … How'd you do it?”

“I just sat her down and told her in no uncertain terms that it wasn't going to happen. Period. Then I showed her some articles I printed off the Internet that talked about how common it is, that kind of obsession, when a woman her age wants a child so desperately …”

“And she said …?”

“You heard.”

“I did. Yes.”

“She promised me she's never going to bring this up again. I think that Yasmin understands herself much better now.”

“Well. That's that, then.”

Anne has reached across his lap and taken his hand. It's the kind of thing she might have done in former times to signal something else. He is not sure what to say.

“I have a question,” Roebuck asks into the pause. “Why me?”

Anne releases his hand. “Because you're so successful as a father.” The way she's circled round the emphasis makes very clear that, as a husband, his qualities are far less evident, but that she does agree with Yasmin on this quintessential point. “She sees how wonderful you are with our kids. It shows you're prime material.” Anne folds her hands together in her lap. “It's what every woman's looking for, really, when it comes right down to it.”

“Yes, but …”

“I know. I know. But like I said before, she hasn't been thinking straight.”

They sit for a moment together in silence.

“Right.” Anne says, rising. “You're still not feeling well.”

If I'm not mistaken, you were the one unconscious before I even left the house. But be that as it may (and leaving aside the insignificance of origin), yes, I've caught a bug. Had to take a few days off. Weird time of year, as everyone keeps saying, but I'm mostly better now. The plan is to be up and back at work tomorrow morning. It's looking like the next few weeks are shaping up as challenging. How are you, Slumber Queen? Did I mention you snore?

Roebuck pushes “Send.”

She must be at her desk because, moments later, her reply comes pinging back:

I do not. But speaking of chamber music: you should hear yourself (once you've stopped talking). I'll remind you next time. Which by the sound of it may not happen for a bit. But catch-up works for me too. McCann wants me working out of their office for the rest of this month, maybe longer. So don't upset your diligence on my account. At least I'll have the pleasure of your company at the AFAs. You know how I look forward to your presentations.