Fire in the Firefly (5 page)

“The door is closed; I'm in conference.

“I'm sorry.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I know. I know. It's just that something is eating at me lately. We've been through this before; it's not your fault. There's nothing you can do about it.”

He doesn't know what to say to this so he says nothing.

“Please don't be mad.”

“I'm not mad. I'm just … apprehensive.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” She laughs. “It's no excuse, I know, but I got my period this morning. I'm vindictive.”

His relief is so intense he worries for a moment that she will hear it in his voice.

“Julius? Are you there?”

“You know …” he says, “I almost wish I knew what that felt like. So I could know what to say …”

“No, you don't! But you're probably the only man I'd believe when you make a claim like that. You are entertaining, I'll give you that.”

“And that, I keep telling you, is my job.”

“Well,
I'm
not entertaining for the next few days. Call me next week, and we'll see if the bloom is back on the rose.”

“O Lily thou art sick. The invisible worm that flies in the night …”

“
Enough
with the Blake! I hate that one especially. That guy was such a fraud.”

He has steered them both to solider ground. This is an old, familiar theme.

“Anyhow,” she says, “I have work to do even if you don't. Call next week.”

Roebuck disconnects and sits for a moment, attempting breathing exercises learned and forgotten long ago on an aromatic yoga mat. His door is still closed. He can dispute with himself if he wants to. Roebuck pulls the laptop front and centre, opens up the Google page, draws another breath deep into his diaphragm, clicks to Wikipedia and types the necessary letters.

He has crossed his legs then consciously uncrossed them. The words
scrotum
and
incision
should not be placed together in a single sentence—and
cauterizing
? Worse than he imagined. Roebuck fights the urge to get up and walk around. He's fairly certain he's been squirming. He reminds himself that he survived three years of Women's Studies; he can manage a minor procedure performed in an outpatient setting.

And he does admire the phrasing of that last bit: that 6 percent of married
women
rely on vasectomy as their choice of contraceptive. The only point of view that counts is female, even here. He is surprised that this surprises him, and this too is consoling.

Roebuck is further encouraged by the discovery of a product interestingly marketed as “The
No-Scalpel
Vasectomy.” His professional interest is aroused. Here is the case of a service being advertised not for what it is, but for what it's not. Experience has taught him the many drawbacks of this approach. On the other hand,
no scalpel
has an undeniably affirming ring. And there are definite, marketable, claims. “The
No-Scalpel
method reduces healing time and lowers the chance of infection.” That's the kind of powerful statement consumers want to hear. Roebuck correctly guesses there has to be a downside buried somewhere. Clearly, the copywriter would not be using this technique if not to minimize some drawback. If not scalpel, then what?

A haemostat, that's what.

He has done an image search and wishes he had not. A haemostat turns out to be a kind of long, sharp needle with jaws used to puncture the scrotum. Various similes enter his mind involving burst balloons and ruptured dirigibles; the Hindenburg aflame and peeling. Roebuck beats them back. He sifts through the
material, but he's fairly certain by now that he has identified the central
claim: “Following the procedure, men with
non-physical
employment like office jobs can usually return to work the next day.”

So it's not about the instrument. It's about recovery time.

That is good. If the day after you're back in the saddle, then it can't be all that bad. He wonders if the promoters gave any thought to calling it “The Next Day Vasectomy”? But no, that phrasing might suggest postponement. It's a unique selling point, regardless—and in Roebuck's case resoundingly decisive.

He refines his search geographically and almost immediately turns up a website posted by an outfit called “The No Fuss Vasectomy Clinic,” located at an address not twenty minutes from his office. Roebuck himself is a no fuss kind of guy. The colour scheme's a little much—he could live without the
baby-blue
—but otherwise the site is well laid out. Lots of facts, though not enough to overwhelm. He also admires the frequent repetition of the word
gentle
. Roebuck has not the slightest objection to gentle.

There's an FAQ that reiterates much of what he's read already: Q: When can I get back to work? A: Next day, unless your job involves heavy lifting. Q: Will it hurt? A: No, at least not very much. Q: Will it affect my sex life? A: Yes. You will never have to worry about unwanted pregnancy again. Q: How soon will I be able to resume having sex? A: You are advised to avoid intercourse for the week following the procedure. Q: How soon after can I stop worrying about causing a pregnancy? A: Eight weeks and twenty ejaculations …

Eight weeks?

…
Patients are also advised to undergo
sperm-tests
twice following the vasectomy: after twenty ejaculations and then again at the end of eight weeks.

Eight weeks?

Roebuck mulls the implications. With Anne, eight weeks is not significant. Months go by sometimes with Anne. Years. After Zach was born, Anne pretty much lost interest. But Lily? Lily takes that part of their relationship seriously. Putting Lily off for two full months will strain Roebuck's creativity to the limit. Perhaps a little health issue? A hernia? How exactly do you get a hernia? He'll need to do better than that.

He's stalling. He knows he's stalling. There's a button in the centre of the page:

CLICK HERE

Roebuck clicks. Precisely as he does, his phone rings. It's Daniel Greenwood on his mobile, six blocks south, walking back from lunch. “I'm in the middle of something, Daniel. Can this wait until this afternoon?” Greenwood, oddly reluctant, agrees to meet later and disconnects.

The page shows a stilted photograph of a doctor standing at the doors of a clinic: a securely
middle-aged
man in a lab coat. Roebuck admits to himself that he is relieved it's not a woman—then wonders why. Again, the stalling …

More bumf about a consultation that will take place prior to the procedure followed by some information about costs and then, below that, the form itself. Roebuck elects to provide his private cellphone number only and decides against submitting an email address. He is given pause, too, over what to divulge about his marital status. If he ticks “Married,” it asks for the name of his spouse. Roebuck is definitely not about to open any lines of communication running in that direction. It's bad luck to say “Divorced,” so he ticks “Separated” as a kind of compromise, though he doesn't like this option either. It's a relief to find that the rest of the form is the usual list of questions about
pre-existing
medical conditions and health insurance. Before he knows it, he is contemplating the “Send” button at the bottom of the page. Roebuck allows himself a little ceremony: one finger, one crook of one finger, one last moment of teetering anxiety, then he presses the button.

He is working through a backlog of email when Greenwood sticks his head around the door. It's immediately clear that Daniel would rather be elsewhere; he's agitated, nervous in a way that Roebuck hasn't seen before.

“I can come back if this isn't a good time?”

Roebuck draws the inescapable conclusion. “
Really?”
he says, slamming his fist on the table. “Damn. Damn.
Damn
!
”

Greenwood shuffles the rest of the way in. He seems not to want to sit. Or know where to begin. “Umm …”

“Bastard! I have to say I'm extremely surprised.”

“Honestly, I thought it was going to be just an ordinary,
get-acquainted
lunch.”

“So
she
does the dirty work? I would never have thought …”

“How did you know? Really, I had no idea until … How did …? ”

“Look at you! It's all over your face.”

Greenwood passes a hand over his chin. “They had towels and everything,” he says, examining his palm. “And very deep sinks, come to think of it.”

“Towels?”

“A big pile of them, just for that. And a hamper to throw them in when you're done. There was even a copy of the
Kama Sutra
.”

“Daniel, what are you talking about?”

“Wait a minute. What are
you
talking about?”

They eye each other quietly. Roebuck is first to break the impasse. “All right, let's back this up. You phoned an hour ago on the way back from your lunch …”

“Yes.”

“And that lunch was with Artemis?”

“Well, umm, yes. Correct. But only Zhanna …”

“So I'm assuming you were calling to tell me where things stand with our pitch?”

“Well, yes, sort of. I mean, I was … mostly just calling to see whether you wanted me to pick you up a sandwich or something.”

“A sandwich?”

“Or maybe a falafel.”

“Out with it.”

“Like I said, honestly, it was the last thing I expected.”

“Daniel, did we win the account or no?”

“Well, as a matter of fact … That subject never really came up.”

“
What!
How can …?” But Roebuck has finally assembled the pieces. “Did you say
Kama Sutra
—at the restaurant?”

Greenwood is backing out the door. “Listen, I think this conversation is based on a complete misunderstanding.”

“You took her to
Alison's
?”

Greenwood stops dead. “How did you know? And anyway it was
her
idea.”

“Never mind.” A welter of thoughts and emotions are surfacing in Roebuck's brain, but the one that bubbles up above the rest startles them both. He can't help it. He'll sort out the elements later, but for now Roebuck is overwhelmed, utterly, helplessly overwhelmed with choking, wheezing,
rib-racking
mirth. “Sit down,” he says when he is able, rubbing a tear from his eye. He is surprised at himself.