“You have a few minutes then, right?”
I shake my head and sigh. Daphne seems to think that because I have my own office and phone, I should always be able to talk. But instead of delving into the details of my meeting or anything of my evening with Richard, I say, “Okay, Daph. I have about three minutes. What’s up?”
I can feel her victory smile over the phone. “So,” she says, “we’re here at the doctor’s office. Tony is getting his tests. You know, to see if something is wrong with him.”
“Right,” I say, checking my e-mail. I have one from Richard. Just the sight of his name makes my heart flutter. He was so good last night.
She says, “The first step is his semen analysis.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “That makes sense.”
“So they put him in this little room with all these porn videos and girly magazines and stuff.”
I laugh and say, “Poor Tony.”
“Poor Tony ?” Daphne says. “He’s looking at naked women right now. I don’t think you need to feel sorry for him .”
“I’m sure he’s embarrassed, though,” I say as I quietly click open Richard’s e-mail and read, When can I see you again ?
I smile and type back, At 9:30. Aren’t you coming to the editorial meeting ?
Daphne continues, “He’s not embarrassed in the slightest. He thinks the whole thing’s hilarious. He was cracking jokes, asking the nurse if they had any girl-on-girl videos.”
“Tony cracks jokes when he’s embarrassed. Remember when he forgot to put his car in park that one Thanksgiving?” I say, remembering how his new, black Acura rolled backward, causing a four-car pileup. “He made self-deprecating remarks about that maneuver for years. He still brings it up.”
“That’s different,” she says. “That was sort of funny. After the fact, anyway.”
“This will be funny someday, too,” I say as I read Richard’s virtually instantaneous response: See you alone. As I saw you last night .
“So is it totally unreasonable for me to be annoyed?” Daphne asks.
This is her trademark question; Daphne always wants me to gauge the unreasonableness of her emotional reaction to something. I consistently want to tell her that, yes, she’s being unreasonable, an instinct Maura gives in to, but I’ve learned to tread carefully.
“I can see why you would be annoyed,” I say to Daphne as I compose an e-mail back to Richard: As soon as possible .
“I mean, it’s just gross ,” she says. “And it adds another layer of humiliation to this whole process.”
“Try not to think of it that way,” I say. “Just get through it.”
“Well, don’t you think Tony should have told them he didn’t need props? Don’t you think he should be thinking about his wife? Instead of jerking off to porn?”
“I’m sure he is thinking about you. Give him the benefit of the doubt, Daph.”
“Yeah, right,” she says. “Our sex life sucks. Unless I’m ovulating, it’s nonexistent. And when I am ovulating, it’s a total chore.”
“It will get better,” I say, thinking of Richard again. How good last night felt. How I will never have to experience the drudgery of procreational sex. “You guys are just under a lot of pressure.”
I glance at my watch. It is 9:19, and it takes approximately four minutes to take the elevator up three floors and walk to the conference room. Which leaves me only seven minutes to look over my notes.
Just as I’m about to say good-bye, she says, “Do you think this is his fault?”
“Fault? What do you mean?” I ask.
Clearly it’s not Tony’s fault that their clinic, the clinic Daphne researched and selected, keeps pornography on hand.
“You think it’s his problem or mine? The reason we can’t get pregnant?”
Surely Daphne must realize that I have no possible way of knowing an answer that requires extensive diagnostic testing, but this sort of thing never stops her from asking the question; she is a big believer in random speculation and blind guesswork.
I humor her and say, “I think it’s probably his issue. But I also predict that it will be a fixable issue Listen, Daph. I really gotta run. I’ll call you after my meeting. Okay?”
“Okay. But cross your fingers that you’re right and that it is his fault,” she says before we say good-bye.