“Huh. I may register a complaint at my next physical. All I get is a finger up the ass.”
Before jumping into in-vitro fertilization, the doctors were trying to boost Erik’s counts through chemistry—injections of chorionic gonadotropin three times a week. Fortunately they were small-needle subcutaneous shots and he quickly got the knack of self-administration. Melanie, wanting to participate, tried once to inject him, botched it badly and left him with an ugly bruise. Ever after, she lost her nerve as soon as the needle hovered over his skin.
“I can’t,” she said, looking a little green around the eyes.
“Pussy,” Erik said, snorting. He took the syringe away and deftly took care of business. “So much for your career as a heroin addict.”
Once Melanie would have laughed. Now her smile died halfway past her lower lip and she sighed.
Banned from Needle Park, Melanie hovered over him with various homeopathic remedies, nagging about selenium, ginkgo biloba, Asian ginseng and Vitamin C. For the latter, Erik resurrected his old pineapple juice habit.
“Orange juice has more Vitamin C,” Melanie said, comparing labels.
“Pineapple juice makes your jiz taste good.” He nudged her side playfully, but she rolled her eyes, shouldering past to put the bottles back in the fridge.
“Only one place your jiz is going, baby.”
“Yeah, in a cup,” Erik muttered.
The months fell away. How quickly they passed when the sole purpose of life was trying to reproduce. You were either gearing up to get pregnant or in the business-like throes of the act. Or waiting to see if you were pregnant, or trying to console your inconsolable wife when she got her period. Then you geared up again.
Erik was growing weary of scheduled and scrutinized sex, conscious of Melanie evaluating every bump and thrust for optimal conception. He once offered to videotape their lovemaking for the doctors’ critique. Melanie was not amused. Without a sense of humor to play off, Erik soon stopped making jokes, robbing himself of the only outlet for stress. He kept his mouth shut, took his shots, downed the herbal remedies and dutifully jerked off by appointment. Always taking his trusty torn-out magazine page, cropped down to just legs and pointe shoes.
Topping and Tailing
“What is this?” Erik said.
Melanie was topping and tailing string beans at the kitchen table. She looked up at him, at the piece of paper in his hand.
“I was just looking around on the internet,” she said. “Throw it out if you want.”
Erik looked down at the paper, a printed list of names and addresses.
Byron Fiskare
4732 Pinnacle Peak Hwy
Phoenix, AZ
Byron E. Fiskare
49 Oak Street
Santa Monica, CA
Byron Fiskare
14975 Mann Street
Burbank, CA
“What do you think you’re doing?” The words were icy in his mouth. He felt violated. Worse—he felt pillaged. Sacked. She had trespassed in the most guarded room in his heart’s palace. A room filled with the soft white feathers of memory. A room kept quiet and still so as not to stir them. Looking down at the list of addresses, it was as though Melanie had gone into that room with a leaf blower.
“You can’t go here, Melanie.”
“Don’t you want to know?” she asked. “After all these years, isn’t it time?”
The HcG shots made him irritable. He knew it was one of the side effects and noticed both his patience and temper were easily lost these past months. Reining himself in from snapping at his students meant he often came home and snapped at his wife.