The Donor: When Conception Meets Deception (15 page)

“Wow. I wish I had some popcorn to go with that rather entertaining show," she says.

“Entertaining? You slither from your little bat cave with jokes instead of a little help?” he says.

“Wouldn’t it have gone crazier if some strange woman came out of nowhere and jumped in?” Andrea says.

Chase heads into the kitchen and up to the stainless steel sink. He cups his palms under the faucet and breathes easier. The cool splash of water coats his head and streams down his neck. He catches his reflection in the window pane above. Three popped buttons and a small rip on his collar.

“Great. Just great,” he says.

He grabs a paper towel from the granite counter and pats his head dry.

“Here,” Andrea says handing him a sweater.

“It’s yours from a bag of old clothes you left here a few years ago. I saw when she ripped your shirt. You probably want to wear something back home that you won’t need to explain.”

He slips it on. “Thanks. Wait, how could you have seen that she ripped my shirt all the way from the pantry?”

Andrea doesn’t respond.

“Whatever, doesn’t matter. Honestly I could use a drink now," he says.

“Oh that bottle of Pinot is in the—“

“No not that kind of drink. Hot tea. I need something soothing,” Chase says.

"Oh. I should have some chamomile in the pantry," Andrea replies.

As Chase turns towards the pantry Andrea’s face bursts with a sudden realization. She jumps in front in an attempt to prevent him from entering the pantry. Chase brushes the burlap curtain aside and flicks on the light. Andrea pulls on his shoulder from behind.

“No, wait Chase, I'll get it for you," she says.

But she is too late. The bright light reveals a stool in front of a propped up iPad on the middle shelf. The screen is illuminated with a streaming video image of Andrea's bedroom. Chase scrutinizes the screen like a near sighted old man. He glares at Andrea.

"Is this what I think it is Andrea? A camera? You put a camera in your bedroom? Watching me?"

"Chase, no listen, it's not—“

"It's not a camera? Is that what you're saying?"

"No it's a camera yes, but it's not a
camera
camera," she says.

"What does that even mean Andrea?"

"It's a camera but not for me. It's for you," she says.

"For me? Don't play me for an idiot.”

"No, Chase you're not listening.”

“Get out of my way. Two nut jobs in one night is enough for me," he says.

He stomps into the living room. Andrea runs after him.

"Don't touch me," he says snatching his shoulders from her attempted grab.

"Chase, the camera
is
for you. Stop and listen. Please.”

Chase pauses with his back to her.

“Did you ever stop think what would happen if one of these women said you did something to them? Against their will? Or if they claimed you never actually performed what they were promised? Or if they they turned out to be crazy like this chick? Wouldn't you want some sort of documentation that you didn’t do anything wrong? That’s what I meant when I said that I would be a witness.”

His face softens. His hands fall to the side.

“Hmm…well…I guess I never thought about it that way. But why didn’t you just tell me this from the beginning?”

“Dude you stood outside of my building for like an hour. You were nervous enough as it is.”

Andrea places her left palm on his cheek and the other on his chest. Her tenderness is familiar but thoughts of Jenae cause him to gently remove her fingers.

“Look, I've got to go. I just gotta figure some things out,” he says.

He grabs his camel waistcoat. Andrea trails him to the door. They both stand in silence as the lift creaks its way back up from the lobby. As it arrives Chase opens the gate and walks inside. He presses the button for the lobby floor.

"Get home safe Chase," she says.

Chase sighs and closes the gate. The elevator makes its descent. Chase can still see Andrea’s face through the slits of elevator metal. She stares down at him with one eye more focused than the other. Hers is the fixed glare not of a thinker, not even of a planner. Hers is more like…like…like a plotter.



TINK TINK TINK TINK TINK
.

TINK TINK TINK TINK TINK.

The metal spoon taps the gold-trimmed rim of a wine glass being raised to the chandelier. The ultra-white linen table cloth has just been cleared of sixteen plates of entrees. Only the flecks of tasty, Turkish kebabs, a few grains of tomato and cilantro bulgur rice, and a pile of clay oven baked pita bread remain. Smiles, laughter and bloated tummies to go with bloated conversations fill the private dining room of The Anatolia. It is Brooklyn’s only
Tristar Chevron
rated banquet hall. Brooklyn University’s finest academics, researchers and doctoral students, eagerly await the honey drizzled baklava, baked using a secret recipe from Aleppo. The tiled walls, inspired by The Blue Mosque in Istanbul, provide a pleasing backdrop as the tinkle, tinkle, tinkle of the spoon rimming the glass, quiets the cozy room to attention.

“Okay, okay enough of your ivory tower banter you paper revolutionaries.”

The voice of Dean Ganges bellows from a round toothy grin. Her cherubic face, and four foot eleven inch height (with heels), always makes her appear cheerful. It would be a mistake however to take her dimpled cheeks and tiny stature for weakness. Her voice is bold and commanding. She speaks with razor sharp diction. Each syllable pronounced as if she were performing a one woman Broadway show. Tonight’s dinner guests listen with the attention of grade school pupils in front of their principal.

“Let me begin by thanking each and every one of you for honoring us with your presence, your commiseration, your indomitable spirit, and your ahem,
robust
appetite,” she says glancing at Dr. Scobee. The notorious foodie has just stuffed his hamster cheeks with the last morsel of Turkish doner kabob from his plate. His round mound of a face pops up surprised.

“Hmm? I’m sorry what was that?” Dr. Scobee mumbles. The room chuckles.

"As we close the Fall semester and look forward to a brand new year, I want you all to think about our future. Not
your
future but
our
future as a group. As a collective of like-minds, impassioned hearts and intelligent souls.”

She scans the table as she speaks, making eye contact with each academic.

“We are charged with a responsibility. And that responsibility is to cultivate the gardens of young minds and allow their seeds to bloom beautifully. This brings me to why we are holding our year end Humanities multi-disciplinary dinner earlier than usual. I have been honored over the past thirty years to be the chairperson of Brooklyn University's Department of English, and for the past ten years as the liaison betwixt our respective disciplines."

Dr. Scobee leans into Chase's ear with a mouthful of kebab and whispers, “I love how she talks. Who the heck still says betwixt?”

"But true leadership means knowing when to transition to newer, bolder, fresher voices. Thus it is with a bitter sweetness I announce, that on December 1st, I submitted my retirement papers to the university.”

A smattering of
Oohs
and
Whats
reverberate around the table. Chase is one of those who mouths a,
what
. He stares at Dean Ganges like a confused puppy.

“I wanted you all to hear it first, before the official Christmas announcement. Now with that said, I am actually prepared to name my successor. You all know this young and dynamic professor. He is smart and dedicated. A visionary. He is an accomplished writer and academic who understands the meaning of publish or perish. And not that this next characteristic is a qualification for leadership…he was recently ranked at the top of
Brooklyn Professional Magazine’s
, Thirty under 30 rising stars to watch. Not bad, right ladies?”

“Amen to that,” a woman blurts. The table shakes with laughter.

"I hope that doesn't get me in trouble with HR but since I'm retiring, who gives a you know what? I will finish out the Spring semester, but please join me in welcoming Brooklyn University’s next Chair of the English Department…Professor Chase M. Archibald.”

All rise in a standing ovation. Chase looks at Dean Ganges like an overwhelmed game show contestant. Dean Ganges has never even hinted at retiring and Chase most certainly never considered himself for the position. His mind has been held captive by his current state of affairs.

“Stand up professor. This is where you make your acceptance speech," Dean Ganges says.

Awe struck, he gives a slight bow to Dean Ganges as he rises to speak. Just as he begins, the door flies open, followed by a blaring voice that rushes in like a rogue wave.

“Well, well, well. Congratulations to Professor Ar-Chee-Bawld,” a wide grinned Eugene announces. He saunters in with the same slow, deliberate hand clap as when he crashed Chase’s birthday party several weeks ago. Man-Man thuds in behind him.

Chase does his best to contain his dual feelings of fear and rage as his right palm chokes the edge of the linen tablecloth.

"What are you doing here Eugene?" Chase says through clenched teeth and a fake grin.

“Now where are your manners old friend? What kind of an introduction is that?” he says.

"Eugene, we're in the middle of a meeting," Chase says.

"Oh I know, I know. You see I've been trying to get in touch with you for like the past three weeks. Phone, email, text, knocks on your door. But no Chase to be found."

“Everyone this is my old friend Eugene Merriweather. Some of you met him at my birthday party. Eugene my apologies for not returning your—“

Eugene raises his hand.

“Oh no it's okay. I know you're a busy man. The English department's secretary…” Eugene looks at Dean Ganges, “Carol is her name I believe? She is so sweet Dean Ganges…really great hire you made there.”

Ganges returns a polite smile.

“She said you were having this big faculty dinner and after I explained who I was, she was kind enough to give me the details for your little shindig. So here I be. Wasn’t that nice of her?”

Eugene grabs Dr. Scobee's wine glass and takes a sip.

"And now to my joy…I walk in just in time to hear this wonderful news.”

He leans his head back and lets the last few drops of wine drip into the well of his throat.

"You know I wish I would have known this fantastic news before. I could have shared it with our father. Me and Man-Man flew down to see him last week," Eugene says.

Chase’s eyebrows tense up. Dean Ganges seems puzzled.

"Father? Chase, Eugene is your brother? And wait, I thought your father died?" she says.

Chase's light mocha skin turns reddish brown. Eugene smirks and lifts one eyebrow at Chase.

"No, no Dean Ganges. Eugene and I are
not
brothers," he says.

“Nah, my Queen. I mean Dean. We’re not brothers like sharing the same blood. But after Chase’s Dad
ahem
died, my own father treated him like the son he never had. Which is strange considering I’m the son he
did
have? Well, can’t pick your parents. Anyway, Dean Ganges my apologies for the interruption. I just have a message for Chase. Chase should I relay that message right here or do you want to talk outside? Wait, you know what? You folks are having such a nice dinner why should I be the grinch to take Chase away? I’ll just spit it out in front of everyone.”

“Uh no, no,” Chase says waving his hands. “We don’t have to do that. Dean this will only take a few minutes. Is that okay?” Chase says.

He pauses for her response. She nods, but her lack of a
verbal
yes is not a good sign. Nonetheless, the three men walk out of the room and into the carpeted hall. Eugene starts to speak.

”No not here," Chase says. “Follow me.”

The three men power walk down the restaurant’s first floor corridor, past the last set of restrooms and around a bend where Chase stiff arms the swinging double doors open. They walk into a dank and gritty tunnel of cinder blocks and iron piping. A pronounced draft and the clanging of dishes and mumbled foreign conversations echo from farther down the corridor. It’s frigid and damp. The cement floor looks like it’s sweating. It reflects the dim light of the yellow bulbs dangling from the pipes above. The light casts a harsh shadow on Chase’s biting expression.

“What the hell do you think you're doing Eugene?" Chase says. He steps nose-to-nose and digs his index finger into the side of Eugene’s eye socket. Man-Man jumps to intervene but Eugene holds the hulk at bay with a firm tug on the big man’s elbow. Chase’s mouth inches close to Eugene’s nostrils.

“Oh please, playboy. I can smell the Similac on your breath. You don’t want none of this right now. Best get your hand out my face. Ain’t that right Man-Man?”

Man-Man slams his iron paw on Chase’s shoulder. The not-so-jolly giants puts the squeeze on. Chase does little to conceal a sarcastic smile as he backs off.

“I asked you a question Eugene,” Chase says.

“Why I crashed your little snooty college boy dinner? I don’t know, Chase. I guess I was feeling like someone wasn’t taking me seriously. So I went to visit my father.”

“You actually went to see Bam?”

“No doubt. I had to update him on your bullshit," Eugene says.

“Is that so? You know Eugene I've been thinking," Chase says with a squinted eye and crossed arms.

“What did I tell about thinking? Leave that to me,” Eugene says.

"Bam looked out for me. He took care of me when we were all in Georgia and got me set me up here in Brooklyn. So why would he send you up here to mess up a situ—?“

"Let me stop you right there. I know where you're going so let's just cut to the chase, excuse the pun."

“Wow, he knows what a pun is," Chase says.

Man-Man smacks Chase upside the head. Chase lunges at the six foot six, four hundred pound henchman and grabs his tree stump of a throat. They tussle with Chase trying to hold his own against the burly man. Eugene jostles between the tight quartered wrestling match.

"Okay, stop. Stop it. Everybody relax. Break it up. Break it up I said. Man-Man let go of Chase’s face.”

The giant finally relents.

“Look, just go chill out down by that light for a minute.”

Man-Man walks underneath a hanging light bulb ten feet away. Chase breathes heavily and tucks his shirt back into his wool trousers.

“Okay, now back to you. Look here Chase. You were well taken care of. Bam treated you like a son."

“
Exactly
which is why this whole scheme isn’t making sense," Chase says.

"Really? So you don't think you owe him anything for what he did for you?"

"Of course I do, but I've been thinking about it these past few weeks."

"Thinking? You’ve been
thinking
you say?
Thinking
about how you didn’t hold up your end of the bargain I hope? How you
think
that’s gonna play out with me and Bam huh?”

"Eugene your threats don't scare me. I’m starting to think Bam didn’t even send you. Why would he jeopardize what he helped create?"

"I already told you from jump what the plan was. We about making that money. All you had to do was your part. The part you know best. The part that got you in trouble in the first place or do we need to go back to you and the little white girl?"

“You know what? I’m done with this. I can't believe I even agreed to it in the first place. I know Bam. And I know you. This whole scheme sounds more like
you
than
him
. So you and fat boy can go back down South. We're done here. And don't you even think of going back into my dinner meeting," Chase says.

Chase turns to rejoin his colleagues.

"Not so fast playboy," Eugene says. “You know I thought your punk ass might try to put on the big boy pants since I ain’t heard from you."

Eugene nods at Man-Man. The behemoth comes and squeezes between the two of them. He slides his bear claw inside the breast pocket of his triple XL leather coat. Chase balls his fists. He tenses up as he can hear the gargantuan’s stubby fingers fumble against something that sounds metallic. Chase squares up, expecting the worst. Man-Man hunches. Chase hunkers. Man-Man looks from side-to-side, and whips out a long skinny piece of black metal; he displays it like a tray of food in front of Chase. It’s just a digital recorder.

"Well you certainly have a flair for the dramatic," Eugene says to Man-Man. Man-Man lets out a rare deep throated chuckle. Chase lets out a sigh. Eugene removes the device from Man-Man's palm.

"You see I kind of expected this little burst of courage from you. I told my father about our lack of progress…
your
lack of progress to be exact. Well you know Angelo “Bam” Hickson. He wasn't too pleased to hear that. What was that word he kept saying Man-Man? Oh wait I remember now…
ungrateful
. He wasn’t happy with you bro. But hey, I knew you wouldn’t believe me so here you go. Listen for yourself," he says.

Eugene holds the recorder high. A sudden rush of anxiety washes over Chase as Eugene presses play. After a few seconds of hearing what sounds like the shuffling of chairs and indecipherable mumblings…the clear, commanding baritone of a voice Chase has not heard in over seven years, blares from the recorder. Bam’s cadence is deliberate. His pronunciation is precise. But it is the anger…the anger in his tone that punches Chase in the gut like a fighter about to hit the canvas.