"Somewhere in the Caribbean," Naomi said eagerly, "maybe the Dominican Republic? It's beautiful there. You've been working hard, too, Roger. Your two lives!"

Was this Naomi Volpe speaking? So hesitant, and so vulnerable? Roger would swear he'd never met the woman before.

He went to her, and held her. At once she pressed her face against his chest, and he felt the heat of her skin. There was no desire between them, nor even the memory of desire. Roger was thinking This is what must be done. These are the circumstances.

In the walk-up flat in Jersey City they stood like that for what seemed like a very long time, spared from looking into each other's face.

I , Roger didn't accompany Naomi Volpe to the Dominican Republic. If that's where Volpe went, Roger wasn't certain. She understood that he had little enthusiasm for being with her, obviously he didn't love her. "I can go alone. I'm a big girl. Thanks for your solicitude!" Feeling generous as well as guilty, for it was Christmas, Roger made out a check to Naomi Volpe for $,; seeing the figure, Volpe smiled nervously, and put the check away. "Mr. C.! You're a gentleman."

Roger laughed, embarrassed. Thinking I'm a prick.

Volpe was granted a leave of absence from the Project. She disappeared, and Roger didn't hear from her. Weeks passed: it was January, and finally February. By chance Roger learned that Volpe was back in the States but working temporarily in Washington, D.C., and traveling to Memphis and New Orleans. He called her Jersey City number and left polite, friendly messages-"Naomi? It's Roger. Just checking in. Wondering how you are. Give me a call sometime, will you?" Unexpectedly, Volpe did call Roger, but at such shrewd times when she could assume Roger wouldn't be in. Her recorded messages were brief and guarded. She was "making progress" in her death-penalty research; she was "feeling optimistic, some days." Her voice sounded strained. Roger thought She has had the abortion, and is in mourning.

Roger felt the loss, it seemed to him a second, bitter loss. First, there was Robin. And now this wisp of life, unnamed, a fetus of less than two months. Another chance and he'd destroyed it.

J C O*

A V to work in Manhattan, in early March. Roger was surprised and hurt she hadn't informed him: he discovered her in the office one afternoon when he came in. Unmistakable, the paralegal's rapid-fire telephone voice, corrosive as Drano. Roger stood in the doorway of her cubicle, dry-mouthed. There she was: the woman he'd impregnated. She was tanned, and her hair had been dyed a vivid plum-purple, no longer shaved up the back of her head but scissor-cut, covering just the tips of her ears. Both her earlobes glittered with metal and the nose ring was back. She was wearing a black jersey top loose over black wool trousers and, seeing the swell of her breasts, and the ruddy fullness of her face, Roger was stunned. This woman is pregnant.

Seeing Roger, Volpe quickly glanced away, and continued her vehement conversation. When at last she hung up the receiver she said, disgusted, "What an asshole! I'd be better off talking to a recorded message."

Roger said, "Naomi, we need to talk, yes?"

Volpe said, "I'm busy now, Roger. I've got weeks of e-mail."

Roger said, "We do have something to talk about-don't we?"

Volpe said, evenly, "Mr. C, how do I know? I can't speak for you. I don't have much to say to you."

"But-how are you?"

"I'm fine, I've never felt better."

Roger was staring, in a daze. He heard the most banal words issuing from his mouth. "Yes, you're-looking good, Naomi."

At once Volpe flared up, "Shouldn't I? What'd you prefer, I should look like shit? I should've hemorrhaged to death, or OD'd on barbiturates?

That's the preferred scenario?"

"Naomi, let's go somewhere private, we need to talk."

" 'Need,' who says? Whose 'need'?"

"For just a few minutes? I only want-"

"I told you, Mr. C., I'm fucking busy. I'm overworked, I'm underpaid, I'm a slave to this system, I never got my law degree like you hot-shit fellas, still I'm dedicated to the cause, see, so stop harrassing me. Go beat on some other disadvantaged female assistant."

Roger was trembling. He saw the fury in Volpe's ferret-eyes, and knew he'd better back off.

Middle Age: A Romance

In the office he shared with another lawyer, Roger clicked onto his e-mail and typed out a message for Naomi Volpe- Dinner at Union Square Cafe at 8 PM? I'll be the guy with a spike through his groin.

R.

Within minutes Volpe e-mailed him back- Mr. C.! You are a gentleman.

Roger knew Naomi Volpe couldn't resist the lure of a first-rate restaurant.

A * R , to his astonishment: yes she'd originally intended to have the abortion, no she hadn't planned things quite as they were turning out, yes she "liked" him, "thought well" of him, "respected"

him as a lawyer and a man, no she hadn't meant to "deceive" him. But her body was her body after all. Her life was her life. The life of the baby-to-be was her responsibility, not his. "The father's role is minuscule. In nature. It's over in an instant." Volpe snapped her fingers. Her eyes shone, she was sleek with well-being, the most attractive Roger had seen her.

And she was certainly enjoying the wine.

Roger knew better than to inflame this woman, he chose his words with care. "Naomi, it's just that I'm shocked. I am the father, after all." He paused, to allow them both to think But is this so? Without a test, is it a fact?

"I consider this a mutual responsibility. I thought we'd come to a decision back in December. I'm not accusing you of anything, Naomi, but-"

Volpe flared up, " 'Not accusing'! I hope not! Who the fuck are you to judge me? I'm not your assistant in my private life, Mr. C.! I'm not your sex slave. I'm not some vessel you poured your precious seed into, and walked away and forgot about, like you'd wipe your precious ass and flush a toilet. If maybe I changed my mind and want to bring this baby to term and find a good deserving home for him, or her, what's it to you? This is the twenty-first century, not the first. A woman has autonomy over her own body, I hope!" Volpe's nostrils were dilated, she leaned across the table with such drama that Roger shrank back. In an unnervingly loud voice,

J C O*

which drew the attention of diners at nearby tables, she proclaimed, "I freely chose not to kill my baby, which you'd dictated."

Roger protested, "I didn't 'dictate'-I didn't want-"

" 'I'll pay for it,' you said. The first words that came from your mouth."

"Naomi, I don't think-"

"By which you didn't mean you'd pay for the kid's college tuition, right?"

"At that point, I thought you wanted-"

"You showed no emotion except shock. Possibly a little repugnance.

No, don't look guilty, don't look 'concerned,' it's too late now. You wouldn't even touch me, for Christ's sake. Like I was a leper."

"Naomi, I did touch you. I was very concerned for-"

"The fact is, Mr. C., you didn't want this baby. This baby I'm carrying, four months and one week old, and kicking. Not a fetus but a baby. Get it?- baby. You surrendered your moral and legal right to this baby when you tried to buy me off, made out a check and considered the hit-job done, and couldn't get out of my life fast enough. You prick."

Roger gripped his head in his hands. Was this true? And even if true to a degree, did it bind him? Weakly he tried to explain, "Naomi, I wouldn't have wished for you a pregnancy you wouldn't have wanted. Maybe I mis-read you. Yes, I was in shock. I didn't know how to respond."

Volpe said, in a voice heavy with sarcasm, "Because you were terrified that having a baby would link us. That I might expect you to 'commit'

yourself to me. We might live together, or get married, that terrified you, yes?" Volpe laughed, and swallowed a large mouthful of wine. Clearly she was enjoying this scene. Roger would wonder if she'd rehearsed it beforehand or if-but this was a thought too awful to allow into consciousness-she'd actually played it out before, with another man. Or men.

He remembered the rumor he'd heard about Naomi Volpe: that she'd had a baby, and gave it out for adoption. To a "wealthy" couple.

"If Naomi Volpe comes with the baby, the baby's got to be dumped in the toilet, right? That was precisely what showed in your face, Mr. C.

Every low fucking degrading crap emotion you think you're hiding from the world shows in your face and is decipherable by anyone with half a brain. Tell me I'm wrong."

Roger went silent. Well, it was true. Baby or no baby, he'd rather swallow poison than live with, let alone marry, a female like Naomi Volpe.

What lousy luck! If Roger Cavanagh had been fated to impregnate any woman a few months ago, why hadn't that woman been Abigail Des Pres?

Middle Age: A Romance

Abigail was still young enough, if barely. She was certainly a gorgeous woman. They'd come close to making love more than once. He had loved Abigail-to a degree. She was malleable enough, neurotic enough, to love him. By now, they'd be living together, preferably in her house on Wheatsheaf Drive. They'd be married. They'd have this baby. The Salthill circle would have rejoiced in their union as a major social event of any season. A second chance for both, and naturally Roger had fucked up.

The remainder of the evening at Union Square Cafe passed in a blur for Roger. He would learn from the woman who meant to bear his baby "to term" that, yes, she'd had this experience before-"It was an accident then, too. But accidents can be profitable." They were on their second bottle of red wine. And it wasn't inexpensive red wine. Volpe devoured her grilled smoked shell steak with a zestful appetite, grease glistened on her thin lips.

With the aplomb of a woman undressing in a locker room, not giving a damn who looked on, Volpe informed Roger that, in case he was wondering, she'd had several "successful" abortions, the first at the age of sixteen; but more recently she'd acquired a "radically different perspective" on the reproductive function of the female. "In our capitalist-consumer society, at least." Pregnancy and childbirth were nothing more than physical experiences that had been grotesquely sentimentalized in so-called first-world countries. "I'm not a 'mother' in myself, only in a brief relationship. If the baby is given out immediately for adoption, that is. Through a reputable broker. Adoption is online now, and very efficient. Nobody's 'buying'- that's illegal. True, money changes hands, and we're talking five figures here, but it's elliptical, it's in good taste and nobody's 'selling' per se. It's a charitable act to have a baby for someone desperately wanting a baby, yes?"

Volpe put the question to Roger as if this were a subject they'd been discussing, and Roger should know the answer. "These are educated couples, people with money, and a sense of entitlement. They do pro bono work for liberal causes. They're generous with donations. They're politically active.

But when they can't have babies as they've planned they get crazy. They need to propagate their own kind. Civilization needs superior genes. So they'd be impressed with a pedigree like Baby's: pure Caucasian on both sides. Smart Caucasians. One of them a hot-shit litigator. The other just a paralegal, but with an IQ measured at * when she was tested at age fifteen. (I actually have this document. I carry it in my wallet.) No chance of a crack or AIDS baby. No blind DNA lottery." She laughed, happily.

Roger smiled wanly. "You could take orders, I guess? 'Cavanagh.' "

"That's a cynical remark. I hate cynicism."

J C O*

"Yes, I can see that. You're an idealist."

"You could've used protection, friend. You knew the risk you were taking."

Risk? He'd been dazed with sexual need. And Volpe had seemed to be, too.

(Or had it been a ruse on the woman's part? Shrewdly plotted, executed?) "I don't know," Roger muttered, meaning I don't know why I took the risk. "I assumed you were on the pill. I seem to remember you telling me."

"So? Miscalculations happen."

"It happened, improvidently."

How like a young girl Roger sounded, knocked up as a result of naivete and stupidity. He was knocked up as a result of naivete and stupidity; and maybe, just maybe he wasn't all that surprised that Volpe hadn't had the abortion. Or disconcerted.

"One thing I do know," Roger said, "no baby of mine is going to be marketed."

The lengthy dinner ended with Roger Cavanagh making out, to Naomi Volpe, a check for ten thousand dollars. This was "part-payment"

for services rendered, the remainder to be negotiated when the baby was born and delivered to the father. There would be a contract, Roger insisted. "Of course, Mr. C.! Everything up-front and legal," Volpe said. "I don't intend to bring up this child." When Roger handed her the check she glanced at the figure, then quickly folded the check and slipped it into her handbag. A small portion of wine remained in the second bottle and Naomi divided it between their glasses. "Mr. C.! Let's drink to our future-the three of us."

The shimmering aqua pool floating in twilight. How he yearned to dive into it as if diving into the sky. But he was ashamed: for what if he sank to the bottom?

The red- haired woman was in the water at the far end of the pool, unaware of him. Nor could he see her face. And there was his friend Adam Berendt boldly diving into the water, broad shoulders and scarred chest covered in graying bronze hairs, his strong limbs pumping. Roger cried, Adam? Help me? Tell me what to do. His tremulous voice issued from all sides. It was possible to ignore such a voice, as Adam paid it not the slightest heed, swimming the length of the Middle Age: A Romance *

pool. Roger forced himself into the water. Swimming in Adam's wake. Whether he sank to the bottom or managed to keep afloat, he never knew, for the dream ended in a soft silent explosion.

" I'* . For once, I'm doing the right thing."

Not wanting to think The woman is blackmailing me, I'm helpless.

Not wanting to think What if it isn't even my child?

And yet: how much money Roger would give to Naomi Volpe during the course of their unorthodox friendship, in outright payments and "loans," he would not have wished to calculate. The initial $, for the aborted abortion; $*, in March, and eight thousand in June for "miscellaneous interim expenses"; and a final $*, when the baby was born and "delivered" to the father in July . . . Unexpectedly, Roger's relationship with Volpe became increasingly paternal. As if Roger himself were the young woman's father. (And what did it matter, finally, who the father of the baby actually was? The profound fact was: the baby.) So Roger, in his new infatuation with fatherhood-to-be, told himself.

Rarely now did he and Volpe have sex, and then only when Volpe, aroused from a day of frustrations at the office, initiated it. She was yet more frustrated with Roger's diminished libido, and one evening exploded in a fury of slaps and kicks aimed against him. "God damn you, Cavanagh!

You can't be bothered, can you! Like every other fucking male of the fucking species, a healthy pregnant female who wants sex turns you off." Roger protested, "Darling, I wouldn't want to hurt you. Or the baby." Volpe laughed, "Hurt me! How the hell are you going to hurt me! With that limp cock? That? You couldn't poke that into a bowl of pudding, you asshole. And don't call me 'darling'! You don't love me. You don't even like me. You can't wait to get rid of me, and have Baby all to yourself."

Roger winced, but couldn't deny this. How like a married couple he and Volpe had become, in the final, exhausting stages of combat.

He didn't desire the woman, but he wanted very much to oversee her life, and the life of the baby. (For what if Volpe had a miscarriage? She still smoked, he'd caught her several times. She drank, and was physically careless. What if she fell down in the subway? Climbing out of a taxi? Roger would never forgive himself.) My second chance. I don't intend to fuck it up.

Those evenings when Volpe was with friends in Manhattan, even when

J C O*

she spent much of the night in a lover's flat, Roger insisted upon driving her home to Jersey City, no matter the hour. They communicated by cell phone: Roger worked late at the office, had dinner alone in the neighborhood, waited uncomplainingly in a bar or in his car parked on a side street until Volpe called. "Roger? You awake? O.K. to come pick me up now."

The time might be midnight, one .., three-thirty .. Roger Cavanagh had become the paralegal's private limo service! Sometimes Volpe took pity on him and told him to go home, she'd spend the night in the city, she could take care of herself, but Roger insisted, he didn't at all mind; he hadn't anything "more worthwhile" to do, anyway. Volpe laughed, "Mr. C.!

This is embarrassing."