Fire in the Firefly (24 page)

September–November 2008

However, the possibility also exists that male nuptial gifts alternately or additionally serve to manipulate female reproduction in ways that are costly to females.

Sara M. Lewis and Christopher K. Crastley,

“Flash Signal Evolution, Mate Choice, and Predation in Fireflies,”

The Annual Review of Entomology

Did you hear the one about the blonde who was so gullible even she could fool herself?

The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck

Roebuck rubs his jaw. He can feel the heat from the laptop and slips a pillow between himself and it, though he does not allow himself to be distracted by this inward flash of wit. The Calvin reference will have to go. Roebuck highlights the passage. It fits, certainly, but aims a little high. His fingers hover.

“If I asked you to tell me what you know about Calvin, what would you say?”

“Calvin Klein?
Nothing comes between me and my Calvins
. That guy?”

“Good,” he says thumbing the delete key. “Excellent.”

“What are you writing about?”

“You,” he answers then
self-corrects
. “No, stay.” He has looped one hand around her knee. “That was stupid. I've been invited to give a lecture at The Ferrer
/Léche School of Business
. Something I admit I am looking forward to.”

“More of your antlers on the elk crap?”

Roebuck is astonished. “You nailed it.”

“So obvious …” Her ankle stays where it is in the nook above his shoulder. “You're just so full of it.”

Yasmin is lying on her back with her heels against the headboard, working with gravity rather than against. She will hold the pose for thirty minutes, incorporating yogic principle while Roebuck rests against the headboard, standing by. Their appointment is not finalized, not yet, but in the meantime he will get a little work accomplished. He truly is looking forward to delivering this speech. Although the event itself is far into the future, today he feels especially inspired.

Among the details she's researched—among the
many
details Yasmin has confirmed—is the clear desirability of vaginal upsuck induced through the muscular contraction of orgasm which, appropriately timed, positively enhances sperm retention. Beyond this point, insofar as he understands the literature, opinions diverge. One theory holds that female orgasm should occur immediately
before
male ejaculation. A second and competing hypothesis argues for orgasm at
forty-five
minutes
following
insemination. With something so critical, Yasmin is taking no chances. It's understood that Roebuck will ensure both bets are covered. He has discovered that for someone so wholly physical, Yasmin can be hard work—though the moment when it comes is massive in its scale. It's what he's always imagined only more so.

She prods his shoulder and squeezes the lobe of his ear with her toes. Yasmin's nails are painted
blood-red
and decorated with tiny black diamonds applied at regular intervals at a spa somewhere on Yorkville. “Time's
a-wasting
.” She has taken his hand, forcefully, and removed it from the keyboard, relocating it to where she believes it can be put to better use. Roebuck types on doggedly,
one-handed
, but the going is slow. “One sec,” he says, returning his hand to its given profession.

“Hey! What are you
thinking!
” Until a few moments ago she has been dozing, possibly meditating, regarding herself in the looking glass attached to the ceiling. Yasmin has just now registered the laptop. “Don't you know those things cause sterility?
That
explains it!”

For once, Roebuck does not appreciate the incidental humour. “There's a pillow under it, for God's sake!” He looks at his watch; six minutes to go. “Lie still.”

Yasmin's research sternly warns against seminal flowback, a wasteful dissipation strictly to be minimized. She will remain flat on her back for thirty minutes with pelvis positioned at an upward tilt so that Roebuck's investment travels on the downhill path of least resistance.

Truth is, he can use the downtime. He's not eighteen anymore. Bounce back isn't what it used to be. Yasmin isn't one for patience in this or any other discipline.

But Julius Roebuck is a master of timely distraction.

“So,” he says, “what made you ask about that antlers and the elk stuff? I don't remember us ever talking about that.” He touches “Save” and moves his work aside. There is very little they
have
talked about, he and Yasmin, beyond the purely practical. He has been curious to know what age she started shaving there, but decided some time ago to forsake that piece of knowledge, too.

“Anne's always on about it.”

“Anne?”

He and Anne
do
discuss things—most things, anyway—though at a largely dialectic level. His wife has come to understand the marriage contract as a solemn vow on her part to disagree with every word that emerges from her husband's lips. It is painful, frequently: especially on the
day-to
-day arcana of whether Katie stopped ballet in the winter of Grade Two or the spring of Grade Three, or whether the Maldives are sinking at 2.3 mm per year or by 2.8 mm, or that a penny costs 1.62 cents to mint rather than 1.79 cents, or that orange cats are always male and it's white cats that go deaf—but on the other hand it does have real value when it comes to ideas. Roebuck can be confident in knowing that if a thought survives the battering his wife will surely give it, it's likely to have legs. He trusts Anne absolutely as a peerless perceiver of flaw. But he had no idea that the process transmitted to Yasmin.

“I'm curious, what does Anne say?”

“That you're an idiot and probably impotent.”

This he should have expected. On
this
subject—the proper care and maintenance of Roebuck's ego—Anne and Yasmin speak as one.

Yasmin twists his wrist to read his watch. “God you two bore me. If I wasn't there to keep her focused, she'd go on about you all day long. You and her kids.” She drops her hands back, palms up, settled on her upturned thighs. “Though she must be right about the impotence. Three cycles now. Still
nothing
.”

Roebuck nearly bites; very nearly articulates the clear distinction between impotence and sterility, ample evidence against the former not a
half-hour
past; no room for confusion there. But his background saves him.

“I read the same sites you do. You know perfectly well that it's not at all uncommon for couples to spend months trying before achieving a conception. Anne and I did with Katie. In fact, now that I'm remembering, we were worried, too, for a while—I think Anne even booked some kind of appointment. But it turned out all we needed was to relax and let nature takes its course. Katie came along and after that, there was never any issue.”

Yasmin is staring off into space, not answering, which is just as well because Roebuck is paralyzed by the sudden beauty of what he is about to say. He's been looking for a workable segue and—suddenly, brilliantly—there it is, dropped like a gift into his lap. He spaces out his words as if the thought has just occurred, which is mostly true—as if this is something he has not before considered.

“It could be that's our problem, you know.”

She has sensed his quickened pulse. Yasmin is wary. “What could be the problem?”

Here again he pauses—he really is uncertain how to phrase this. “It could be that we just aren't … properly relaxed.”

She misinterprets. “I've barely moved a muscle!” Yasmin waves her hands across her loins to demonstrate how perfectly recumbent they remain. “I've done exactly what it says to do!”

“I don't mean now, I mean … before.”

“Before?”

“Listen.” If he isn't careful, the opportunity will melt away. “With Anne and me, it was because we enjoyed it, it was nothing special. Maybe that's the insight we're missing here. Maybe we're making this too much of a singular occasion. Maybe it needs to be normalized.” In this dim light Yasmin's eyes are all pupil.

“Yasmin,” he says, “I want to come again next week.”

“I don't need you next week.” Her eyes are so dark they are almost black. “If there's any justice, I won't need you at all after today. But if I do, it won't be for another month.”

“But I want you next week.”

This moment has arrived a little sooner than intended, but he's committed now. No taking this back. “If I can make time for you next month, you can make time for me next week.” Roebuck sets his jaw. “I want to see you next week too.”

Yasmin is unblinking. He can tell that she's processing, but beyond that he has no read on what is going on inside her head. She is staring at him. Roebuck is very conscious of the rise in thermal pressure, his shortening of breath.

“Well …” she says at last, “I am interested in
now
.” She lifts his pillow from his lap, deliberately, like a cook removing the lid from a pot. Yasmin reaches, then stops.

“What does your watch say?” Her teeth are showing.

“Forty …” Roebuck clears his throat. “It has been exactly
forty-three
minutes.”

“Almost …”
Her
fingers curl.

“Yasmin,” he says hoarsely. “I want to see you again next week.”

Yasmin's black eyes count the heartbeat of his craving. She returns her gaze to Roebuck's fa
ce.

“Whatever,” she says.

When you look at a mirror, you don't see the trees.

The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck

Roebuck is experiencing a twinge of guilt. He knows he should have checked his messages as soon as he got in, but he wanted to get this part down while it was fresh in his mind and besides—this confession is only for himself—he doesn't like answering emails. He understands this is unwise: the world is transitioning to a digital age and those who don't keep up will fall behind, et cetera, et cetera—and Roebuck
does
keep up, tenaciously—he just can't seem to enjoy it. What puzzles him is how much other people love being so constantly plugged in. Greenwood, for instance. Daniel's devices are like an extension of his body; he could spend all day with them. But Greenwood is a picture guy and maybe that's the difference. For Roebuck, words are too important to fling out like Johnny's apple seeds or Scipio's salt. He prefers to invoice.

Sure enough, he's had to scroll through two full pages before he gets to the bottom, including items from both Anne and Lily. He always reads Anne's first in case of mishap or emergency, but this one is just a reminder, now that the kids are back in school, to log Morgan's fall recital into his calendar. It so happens that Roebuck did not have that one scheduled; he is grateful that Anne has provided him with plenty of lead time. He never misses any of the kids' performances. This year, Morgan will be attempting “Ode to Joy.”

After sending Anne a quick confirmation plus fond regards, Roebuck is tempted to open Lily's next, but disciplines himself. Lily he will save for last.

He spends the next hour patrolling business pages and industry blogs looking for some hint that the company he's been watching is about to make a move. So far, nothing. Roebuck returns to his mailbox. Greenwood has forwarded a bunch of junk from Artemis plus odds and ends of several other accounts he wants reviewed. Ripreeler has scheduled its annual meeting two weeks earlier this year, though it's still in Helsinki. That at least is decent news.

He yawns and stretches. He is tired. Unusually tired. Roebuck thumbs his temples, rubs his jaw, and massages the back of his neck. All the emails that needed replies have now been answered; a dozen new ones have come in, meanwhile, and Roebuck has responded to these too. There is just the one outstanding.

“I'm in the office today.”

What office? It takes him a second.
This
office?

“Expecting to be finishing up around five. Drink? xo L.”

According to the indicator at the bottom of his screen, it's 5:18 PM.

Roebuck sits back down. He had gotten up to check the hall, but has backtracked to his chair. When Lily comes in to do contract work, she sits in a cubicle on the far side of the IT bunker. He had no idea she was even in the building.

It is not at all unusual for him to join the staff downstairs at Matrix Three for an
end-of
-week unwinder. Roebuck often buys a round, especially if he has an announcement he wants to let slip unofficially. Usually he heads home after that or back up to the office. Most folks stay only for a drink or two. It's Friday; people have weekends to launch.

“You look tired.”

He jumps.

Lily never just walks into his office. As a freelancer, she doesn't know him any better than her function would necessitate.

“Stressful day,” he says, recovering.

“Maybe you deserve a break.” She is leaning on the doorframe, feet still planted in the hall. “Most folks are already there.”

“Where did the day go?” Roebuck rubs his eyes.

Lily glances down the corridor. “Everybody's gone.”

“I didn't even know you were here.” Stupid thing to say.

“Stressful day,” echoes Lily, arms folded. She has her knapsack slung across one shoulder, good to go.

Roebuck still sits, bolted to his chair. “What have you been working on?”

“Daniel has me doing
mock-ups
for some print ads.”

“Oh.” He didn't know this either. “What account?”

“A bunch of different ones.
”

“Oh.”

This is silly. Roebuck smiles; he wants her to be certain he is absolutely pleased to see her. He's just surprised.

“Let's go!” he says.

The pub is filling up, but Greenwood and his crew have secured the favoured table by the window. A cluster of account people forms its own detachment opposite. The suits are always overworked and
under-thanked
—the pit ponies of the
ad-world
, in Roebuck's opinion—he makes a point of hanging out with them whenever feasible. Lily slips into an empty chair at Greenwood's end, while Roebuck ducks over to the other side. He asks how everyone's day went, and they tell him not too bad. It's just coincidence that he and Lily have arrived together. One of the AEs has a question about today's prepro and they kick that over for a while. The coordinator for Ripreeler mentions that she's noticed a spike in YouTube views of certain
second-generation
ads. “You mean the ones with the guys on the fishing trip who can't find their favourite spinners because their wives are wearing them at the nightclub?” It's Greenwood talking. “Did I ever tell you that we studied that one in
first-year
marketing?” All to the good, says the suit—ignoring him—but it's a long time since those spots were aired and she can't help wondering what's behind the
up-tick
. Roebuck has his own theories, but it's too soon to get into all that. His lager goes down smoothly. He has realized quite suddenly he's famished. What with other priorities, he's missed lunch. The waiter brings a sandwich, and he washes it down with a fresh pint.

It's a beautiful day; a warm September afternoon. The sun is shining through the open windows. Before long the conversation moves on to that casual mix of near and far that burbles over shop talk. A voice down the table wonders if there's any chance the Jays will squeak into the playoffs, which segues to the Leafs, which makes everybody laugh. Carol the receptionist got engaged last week, and everyone who hasn't yet done so admires her ring. Someone's mother has been diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes; the AE who was wondering about this morning's prepro announces that her sister is expecting twins.

He has a long drive tonight and isn't looking forward to it. Three hours at least if he leaves once he's finished this beer; less if he holds off until the traffic eases up. Anne and the kids should have arrived at the landing by now; maybe they're already loading the boat. After all these years of practice, his wife has it down to a science. When the kids emerged from school this afternoon, Anne would have been waiting, motor running, car packed, groceries boxed, the gas tank topped up and ready to go. She'd have asked them each in turn if they needed to pee and, at the slightest hint of doubt, sent them back inside with orders to wash their hands when they were finished and come straight back to the car, no dawdling. Five minutes later they'd be heading north; the kids unpacking snacks and launching into the squabbles that would carry on until they'd either fallen asleep or arrived, with luck, two hours later at the marina.

It used to make him crazy. Anne's family is old Muskoka. She was brought up with the expectation that every weekend from Victoria Day to Thanksgiving would be spent up at the lake. Traffic is much worse now than it was when she was a girl; there's no way Roebuck can get away by 3:30. It caused no end of tension in the early years, but now they have settled on the practice of travelling up in separate cars. Which suits him fine. Roebuck likes night driving. He listens to music or current events or passes the hours in meditative silence, rehearsing. He enjoys pulling in at the landing beneath a ceiling of stars; waiting for the sound of the inboard rumbling out of the darkness, bow light growing brighter through the murk. “Kids asleep?” he'll ask as the fenders bump the dock. “Of course,” his wife will say. “Get in.”

But right now he isn't looking forward to it. Right at this moment Roebuck is totally wiped.

There's a full glass by his elbow; someone has ordered another round, though the group is already thinning. Roebuck drinks. He is summoning the energy to haul himself up. At the far end of the table, Greenwood is showing off the iPod Touch that he lined up for at the Apple Store this morning. In the short while he's been here, Daniel has upgraded at least twice. People are razzing Roebuck about his antique BlackBerry, which means that now he'll have to organize a newer model. “Excuse me,” he says. On the way to the men's room, he dials the cottage.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Did you make good time?” He can tell already that she's unhappy.

“Morgan forgot her violin. We had to go back. Just got here now.”

“I'm sorry.”

“We're still unloading.”

“Listen,” says Roebuck. “I think I'm going to come up in the morning.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I'm still not finished here and for some reason I'm totally bagged. I think it'll be safer to drive up first thing tomorrow.”

Silence from the other end. For all her independence, Anne doesn't like to be there without him. Her parents seldom come up anymore; it's just her and the kids tonight.

“They want to sleep in the bunkie.”

“All three?

“Yes.”

What she's telling him is that she will be by herself in the main cottage with its creaks and groans and branches rasping at the window screens.

“You know what,” he says, “I'll …”

“No. Don't be silly. We're fine.”

“Sure?”

“It's not safe to drive when you're tired.”

“I'll stop in the morning and pick up Chelsea buns …”

“Zachary!” Anne says. “You stop that!” He can hear a commotion in the background followed by a splash. “I have to go.”

By the time Roebuck is back at the table, the company has dwindled. Greenwood is on his feet. He's heading uptown, he says, if anyone wants a lift. The AE whose sister is pregnant takes him up on it, though Greenwood doesn't look too thrilled. “I should go too,” Roebuck says, but it's an effort getting up. His back has been one dull ache all afternoon.

“The busy bee has no time for sorrow,” intones Lily, gazing out across the street.

Was that
Blake
? Lily is inscrutable. Of course it was Blake. Roebuck masters his surprise. He makes a show of preoccupation with his retrograde BlackBerry.

Before Roebuck is down to the bottom of his beer, the last of them have moved on. Again Lily is offered a lift. The boss, they know, keeps his wheels in the basement lot. Lily checks her watch and shakes her head. “I'm meeting a friend in fifteen minutes,” she says in that way of hers that makes whoever's listening smile back automatically. “But thanks.”