The Donor: When Conception Meets Deception (22 page)

“Well, have you two had a heart-to-heart about it? Maybe he doesn’t know how you really feel.”

“Chase, I can't have another conversation about how I need to wait for him to get back from tour, or he has to be in the studio again, or he’s joining some late night talk show’s house band so he doesn’t have time to be a dad. It just ends in an argument about how I knew what I was signing up for when we met; how he’s married to his music blah, blah, blah, but oh…wait for it…he still
loves
me.”

“So why don’t you simply leave?”

“Because love is never
simple
Chase. Love is always complicated. You should know.”

Her comment hits home.

“So do you feel guilty? Being here with me?” he says.

“Guilty? No. I made a decision to do this because I wanted a child. And I wanted a child in the most natural way. You should have a fairly good idea as to the kind of person I am. I want a child conceived with someone I could say I knew. I touched. I felt. I loved. Even if that love was only for one night. You reminded me of the man that
should
be here. That I wished was here. You didn't do anything wrong.”

But Chase feels as though he is doing something wrong. Rayne’s comments about
her
relationship only reminds him of Jenae.

“Honestly, Rayne I don't understand why anyone would really want to do this. I mean I have my reasons but—“

“Chase, have you
tried
to understand? Tried to understand why these women would want to make a baby with you?"

Chase pauses. It is a question he hasn't thought to even ask himself. His entire focus has been on his predicament.

"The look on your face answers my question," Rayne says. "Listen, I told you
my
reasons right? My clock is ticking and I want a baby. I'd love to have it with him but I am not going to let a man dictate whether or not I can have a child. And you see what I’m about. My spirituality, my philosophy. I'm not into the cold and mechanical approach of a clinic. I want my child conceived naturally. I believe in two people's energies coming together in a holistic way to create the most beautiful of beautiful things…life itself.”

Chase's face softens.

"Starting to get it now?” she says. "Other women have their reasons. Why would that lesbian couple come to you? They wanted a child as a couple. They wanted to share the experience of creating life but they needed a man for that.”

“You know about those two?” Chase asks.

“Oh yeah. My cousin Gregory…well Man-Man to you…he tells me everything. I’m up to speed on this whole arrangement between you and Eugene.”

“I just want to get this whole crazy thing over with. Eugene is making me do this. I want my life back."

“Hmmm. I don't know if it's as
forced
as you're making it out to be though. I aroused you right? You did things you didn't have to do. You engaged in conversation. You treated me like a woman and not as a piece of meat. Not as a transaction. You were tender, affectionate, sensual. And those were
choices
you made. You have always had a choice, Chase. But there’s always a price for your choices. You decided that being here with me tonight, even though you’re engaged to Jenae, is a price you’re willing to pay. Maybe you need to embrace
that
truth. Maybe that's why it's been difficult. You're fighting yourself
and
you’re fighting Eugene. You need to pick one.”

“I feel like I’m on a couch and you’re in a chair with a pen and pad.”

“No, I’m not your therapist. I’m just being a friend,” she says.

Chase looks down. Her words put him in a place of discomfort. That place where a stranger has removed our eyelids and dumped us in a room with four walls and a ceiling of mirrors.

“Okay so why choose me? Why this arrangement?”

“Women aren’t like men. You guys can sleep with anyone, zip up your pants and then go eat a bologna sandwich and have a brew. Women? We actually want to
know
the man we are sleeping with. Sure you can go to a doctor and they’ll give you background information on the guy. But a sperm donor is still anonymous; he’s just a donor. But
you?
Chase, you’re someone whose skin a woman can touch, cologne we can get drunk on, lips we can lick like a popsicle. We can be mesmerized by your intellect and feel protected by your confidence. You can’t get that in a fertility clinic."

Chase nods.

"Even if it's just for one night, a woman wants you to love her, nourish her, and respect her as much as you please her. She wants to be taken. She wants to be coddled. She wants love
and
she wants lust. She wants a picnic on the beach and she wants sex on the sand. This is why you’re the donor. But it’s a choice, Chase. Your choice. Just like having a child is
my
choice. And it’s one I don’t want dictated by a boyfriend that can’t be bothered with a child even though he loves
me
.”

Rayne's words force Chase to dig into the well of inconvenient truths. Sharing why women want him to be the donor, makes him question his own motivations.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” he says.

“And you’ve helped me vent. I feel so refreshed. You gave me a safe space to share my feelings Chase,” she says.

They sit, listening to the wintry quiet. The fires of the candle wicks on the kitchen counter cast dancing shadows on the walls. A warm glow flickers on her skin. She smiles at her palms.

“You realize we’ve been holding hands this whole time?” Rayne says.

“Yes, I have,” Chase says with a smile.

His fingers massage the insides of her palms. Time is paused. She rises to her knees and kisses the top of Chase's bald head. Her lips move towards his temple and then to his cheek. Chase palms the nape of her neck and pulls her to his lips. She places her finger on them and moves back.

“I want to wake up in your arms,” she says.

“So you still want to do this?” Chase says softly.

“I didn’t say that. I said I want to wake up in your arms.”

Rayne rises. Chase does so as well. He peers into her brown irises and cradles her face in his palms.

“Then wake up in my arms you shall,” Chase says.

He stands behind her, as naked as she. He angles her in the direction of the bedroom. He cloaks his arms around her shoulders in a protective shield. They waddle towards the bedroom like conjoined twins. The gentle sounds of sheets turning back, and the creak of a sinking mattress, are the only noises in the still of the night. And the only open eyes are the plastic discs of a forgotten teddy, left face down, on the floor of an empty room.



THUMP BUH BUMP BUMP

“Whoohoo, sorry ‘bout dat suh. I didn’t see dat deah pah-hole. No suh I didn’t. No suh, no suh,” the cherub faced driver says with a southern drawl. The rickety Jeep Cherokee rumbles down the final stretch of Highway 301.

“It’s fine,” Chase mumbles from the backseat as he squints from the hazy Georgia sun. He wipes the perspiration from his brow. The last bit of comfort was from the cool air in the arrivals terminal at Savannah airport.

“Sorry again about the air conditionin’. Damn thing went out just before the dispatcher sent me out to git ya’”.

Chase doesn’t respond. It’s only the
third
time the chatty man has mentioned this fact.

“And dat deah is the Jesup waffle house. Best scrapple in the south yes suh, yes suh it is. Oh and look right over yonder. Out yo left winduh. Bet y’all ain’t got no two dollar drive-ins up norf now do ya’? Yes suh, yes suh.
”

Chase gives a fleeting look at the Jesup Drive-In theater. It is the kind of glance you give to something you see, but have no real interest in. The journey from LaGuardia airport to the backwoods of central Georgia has been a smooth one, potholes aside. The chunky, sweat bathed motor mouth driver, wearing the nipple baring black mesh shirt, has been the only irritating part of the trip. The man seems to be allergic to silence. And he reeks of ripe B.O., in a Georgia summer. Only it’s still Spring. Chase pokes his nose out the window of the backseat. The hot breeze bakes his nostrils. But heat is better than
stank
.

“So what was y’alls Wintuh like?” he says without pausing for a response. “Ooh Lawd we had us a rough one. I mean not rough like y'all yankee boys, but we did have us some snow a-a-and, er, ruh-uh, what y'all call a…a…a…hmmm—

Oh spit it out already
, Chase thinks to himself.

“Wintry mix! Yeah, yeah a wintry mix. Oh, and we had to close schools and…” The chatterbox continues on a stream of consciousness that Chase ignores. His subconscious listens only for keywords related to what has amounted to an hour long drive. It isn’t totally the driver’s fault. He is a blend of southern hospitality and the drunk uncle at the barbecue. To Chase, he’s like a bobblehead on a dashboard. A mild,
oh look at that
, curiosity that gets old after the first minute or so.

The vehicle slows and turns right at a fifty foot high flag pole. They drive a quarter of a mile down a steaming hot asphalt driveway. Chase winces from the bright afternoon sun. The smell of fresh cut Kentucky bluegrass and compost, seep into the vehicle. They approach a small traffic circle in front of a one story brick building. As the car stops, Chase reads the sign on the aluminum awning:

F.C.I. JESUP

Federal Correctional Institution

Jesup, GA

“I hope you ain’t here to check in. Hahahahahaha…whooo. That was a funny.”

His fat jowls jiggle with his deep belly laugh. The car idles.

“You can’t park here. Go to the visitor parking lot,” Chase says with a Brooklyn bluntness; he points at the red arrow…
For Visitor Parking Go Here
. The chatty cabbie circles the jeep into an open space. The lot is adjacent to a stadium sized parcel of freshly mowed grass. It is surrounded by two sets of 18 foot high chainlink fences. In the middle of the field is a prison guard tower; three clusters of grey barracks are in the distance. Chase exits the vehicle. He adjusts his black NYC logo cap and circles to the front of the car.

"Just wait here. I should be no more than an hour," Chase says.

"Yup, yup, yes suh young man I'm a man of my word. Extra twenty bucks like we agreed. Willy Ray Sykes will sit right cheah an' wait for ya’, yes suh, yes suh” the driver says. "I-I-don't know how dey do up norf, but round here a man's word is his bond. That's right. Man, you know…I remember I had this gentleman a li’l while ago. He was from Phil-delph...wait no, he was from Chicah—go—uh…wait a minute…no,no he was from—“

"You can finish the story when I get back," Chase says. The driver's face purses up at Chase's abrupt tone. Chase doesn't have the time, nor the inclination, to indulge the foul odored man and his tangents. The two hour flight from New York is for a very specific purpose and not for chit-chat. An incarcerated man flicked his finger on a domino that initiated a series of events. And those events have threatened the very existence of Chase’s world. Chase needs those dotted rectangles to be stood up again. And left standing.

Chase's rubber bottomed soles scrape against the gravel as he walks from the visitor lot towards the main building. His pace is deliberate and focused. After waking up in Rayne's bed that next morning, feeling her lungs breathe against his own, smelling the buttery aroma of her earthy plaits, he knew what had to be done. Eugene’s threats and warnings have held him in suspended animation for over six months. But the costs are rising. The price is too much to bear. Chase has decided that he has to defy explicit instructions not to contact the man on the recording. The recording that Eugene played for him in the cold, damp halls of The Anatolia restaurant. He must appeal to the only person who can cut the thread that is unraveling the fabric of his life. And that man is a prisoner by the name of Angelo
Bam
Hickson.

Chase walks through the automatic doors into an immaculate reception area. The chest length circular desk is manned by a single uniformed lobby officer sitting at a computer screen.

“Hi, I’m here to see—“

“I.D.,” the officer says without looking up.

Chase pulls out his driver’s license and places it on the counter.

“New York? Who are you here for?”

“Hickson. Angelo Hickson,” Chase says.

"Bam? Hmm. He doesn’t get many visitors.”

The officer taps through two screens on his computer and scans down. He compares the I.D. to Chase’s face and looks at a name on the screen.

“Okay you’re on the visitor list. Hand please.”

Chase extends his arm.

“No, the other side. Just like you’re going to a club,” he says and stamps the back of Chase’s wrist with a UV light sensitive hand stamp.

“Sign here. Your wrist will be checked by another officer upon entry and exit of the visitation center,” he says.

Bam Hickson is the most notorious of Jesup's prisoners. His convictions for fraud, forgery, larceny, extortion, bribery and racketeering are not his only crimes, nor are they his only skills. Bam is a purveyor of relationships and those relationships extend even into law enforcement. The officer points Chase in the direction of the metal detector. Chase stands behind a mother with two toddlers and a baby. At the front of the line, a tiger tattooed woman in sheer white leggings, red heels and a neon yellow tube top, is arguing with the visitation officer about the
appropriateness
of her clothing. Her surgically enhanced, and ballooning cleavage apparently has too much spillage going on. After ten minutes, mostly due to tattoo girl's southern hissy fit, everyone is allowed to shuffle through.

"No hats," the burly balding officer says to Chase in a gruff voice. "Toss it here. You can retrieve it when you return." Chase complies and follows the line down a hall to a locked door; he gets buzzed through. He enters a room with seven round tables surrounded by dark green plastic chairs. All are filled with friends, loved ones and lawyers for the men in khaki jumpsuits who have numbers for names. Chase stands at the entrance scanning the room. He sees a diverse group of prisoners but not the one he is looking for. A guard taps Chase's shoulder. He points Chase in the direction of a cordoned off area. Chase walks up to the officer standing guard at an eight foot high, ten foot wide, grey divider. It hides what is behind, from the rest of the room.

“You waiting for some special invite or are you gonna get your ass back here?” a familiar baritone, with precise diction, echoes from behind the divider. The guard gestures for Chase to pass through. As he enters, his eyes are met by the blue-green irises, chiseled jaw, bald head, and salt and pepper scruff of one, Angelo
Bam
Hickson.

“Well?…Plan on standing all afternoon? Take a seat,” Bam says.

His bold voice rockets through Chase's chest. It is a cocktail of James Earl Jones, Vincent Price and Dwayne
The Rock
Johnson. A deep, bold, confident flair.

“Well…look at you. Broad, rugged shoulders. Arms like tree trunks. You look good. No hair though, I see. I told you you would end up joining our tribe of chrome domes one day. Bald men unite,” he says, thrusting his solid ham fist in the air like a Black Panther salute. Bam's voice blares like a rallying cry from the film,
Braveheart
. Chase forces a grin.

"You have really grown. But I suppose, what? Seven, eight years is a long time to grow up?"

"Nine this summer," Chase says.

"Nine? Well, I’ll be goddamn. I been out of the loop longer than I thought."

"It took me a while to find you actually," Chase says. Bam looks perplexed for a moment before realization hits.

“Oh, of course. I wasn’t in this prison. I was transferred out of Macon about six months after you got your release. Two years later I got parole.”

"So you were out?" Chase says.

"Oh yes. Only for a bit though obviously considering my current surroundings. But I had a glorious time, a glorious time," his voice trails as he smiles. His oversized head leans back. Bam is large in width, though not particularly tall. He has the heft of a middle aged retired NFL running back. It makes him appear taller than his five foot seven inch frame would suggest. But to Chase, and everyone else, Angelo Hickson is larger than life itself. Bam couldn’t be a more appropriate nickname.

“Ah, well, I digress. You didn't fly all the way down here to shoot the shit,” he says.

“No, I didn't. And I mean I would have come sooner. Or reached out or uh—“

Bam holds up his hand.

“You still can’t spit stuff out? After all these years you still worry about reactions. Don’t let fear of another person’s response hold power over you. What are my two favorite letters in the English language? Do you remember?“ Bam pauses. Chase thinks for a moment and then half-chuckles as he recollects.

"F and U,” Chase says.

"Exactly. F,U. Middle finger to the
goddamn
world,” Bam says, slamming his fist on the table. The guard standing outside the divider pops in.

"Did I ask you to stick your pink pecker in here?" Bam says. The young guard freezes with his mouth open and fumbling for words. “Well?" Bam says.

"Sorry Bam, I thought maybe you needed some assistance," the guard whispers. Bam glares and the guard returns to his post.

“Still running things I see,” Chase says.

“I do okay. So why are you here, boy? When I handed you that Chase Michael Archibald driver’s license, passport, social security card, et cetera, et cetera I also gave you that long speech about restarting your life and never looking back. I’m in your past and that’s looking back. Remember that?”

“Of course I do. And I appreciate all that you have done. Bam hunches at the side of the table and whispers, “Hey, did your real name come up or something?"

“Well, yes and no,” Chase says.

"You know I don’t like guessing games. Crap or get off the crapper.”

“Okay yes. Bam, I know you didn't want me come down here. You were very clear and angry.”

“Clear? Yes. But angry? I wouldn’t say I was
angry.
I was clear that you were to throw your old name away and forget about it. No more Tevarus Huxley. None of your old life. The alcoholic, passive-aggressive father. The bipolar, drug addicted mother. And most importantly, that thing with the little white girl that got you sent up in the first place. You know Chase, I gave you something people just don’t get in this world. I gave you a clean slate.”

“Bam, I know and I’m in your debt. But when Eugene played that recording of you getting upset about me not following the plan, I—“

“Plan?” His freckled face wrinkles up. “What are you talking about? Recording? Eugene? My
son
Eugene?"

"Yes, Eugene played the—“

"He contacted you?"

Chase’s face contorts. “Bam, Eugene’s been in contact with me since last Summer."

“In contact? As in, on-going? Last summer?” Bam slams his arm on the table. The crash is so loud it hushes the murmur of a dozen conversations on the other side of the room. The boyish guard who Bam dismissed earlier peeks his head in. Bam meets his sheepish gaze with a lion's stare. The young man recoils.

Bam's lips curl and ripple. His brown freckles dissolve into his ruddy, yellow complexion. Chase stares at Bam’s hairy knuckles. They ball up into a pair of mallets. Air gushes in and out of his redbone snout like an albino bull. He strains to compose himself.

"Eugene visited you?” Bam says through a clenched jaw.

“Yes, he said you sent him," Chase says.

"
I
sent him?"

“Bam, he played me a recording of you getting upset about how I wasn’t following through with the plan.”