“How the hell would I know? I was just nineteen years old. Everyone was older than me.”
“Wow! If you were nineteen, your kid might be—what? Sixteen or seventeen years old now?”
My kid. Holy Moses. I run my hand down my face, then take a long pull of beer. “Yeah, I guess. Or younger. Could be a lot younger. They freeze the donations.”
“Listen to you.” Ben laughs, and hits me with his elbow. “Donations—like you’re putting something in the Salvation Army kettle at Christmas.”
I take another swig of beer. “I’m glad you’re amused by all this.”
“Sorry, man. It’s just... you always seem to have it so together, and this is quite a situation.” Ben tosses back his shot. “So what’re you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d make like the Invisible Man if I were in your shoes.”
“Be serious.”
“I am. When I was sixteen, my girlfriend thought she was pregnant. I figured I was going have to marry her, so I talked to my dad. Know what he said?”
I shake my head.
“‘If I were you, I’d get in my car and drive as fast and as far as it would take me.’”
I tip back my beer. I can’t imagine a father giving out that kind of advice. My own dad had been a straight arrow. “There’s no price you can put on peace of mind, son,” he used to say. “If you lose that, you’d give anything to get it back.”
“Thank God it turned out to be a false alarm.” Ben motions for the bartender to bring another round. “So this kid of yours—what do you think he or she wants?”
I lift my shoulders. “Probably just curious.”
“What if he wants money for college? Jesus, man—you could be opening up a real can of worms. How many kids do you think you have?”
“Nothing like that Vince Vaughn movie,” I say. “Most cryobank customers order a few vials because it can take several tries to get pregnant, and I think I donated less than ten times, so...”
“So chances are you only have two or three kids, tops.”
Oh, man. I haven’t adjusted to the idea of one out there who wants to contact me. I polish off my beer and reach for the fresh shot glass the bartender slides in front of me.
“Whatever you do for one, you’ll have to do for the others, just to be fair.”
I suppose that’s true. I gulp the shot. The burn in the back of my throat moves to my chest and loosens the knot there. “The funny thing is, at the time, I wasn’t thinking about kids at all. I was just thinking about making money.” I shake my head. “How could I have been so shortsighted?”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Ben says. “You were just a kid yourself, that’s all. And look at it this way: you helped out some folks who really wanted to have a baby. The decision is all on them.”
For about the millionth time since he died, I want to talk to my dad. So many times over the past few years I’ve wished I could take him out to a ball game or out to the lake to cast a line. We used tohave the best talks when we were side by side, driving somewhere, doing something or watching a game.
I know what he’d say, though.Do what you know is right. Do what you wouldn’t be ashamed of anyone ever finding out.
Fact is, I’m already ashamed of being a donor. If I could have a do-over, I’d undo that.
But wait. That would mean whatever kid is out there trying to contact me wouldn’t exist. And that isn’t right, either.
“So what’re you going to do?” Ben asks.
“I don’t know.” I finish my beer. The booze is really hitting me. “I guess for right now, I’m going to call it a night.”
I walk home, past a rowdy group of tourists wearing Mardi Gras beads. It’s the classic mark of an out-of-towner; no native New Orleanian wears beads unless they’ve just caught them at a Mardi Gras parade. I’ve never understood why tourists buy them in souvenir shops and drape them around their necks.
But then, I’ve drunk a lot more than I usually do, especially after a hard run and no dinner, and right now I’m not too sure why anyone does anything. It’s taking a long time to get home. Oh, hell—I’ve walked right past my building! I turn around and go back.
