Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

"Is all this necessary?" Stern asked again.

Peter simply pointed to the small john down' the hall.

Stern went, as directed. He stood in the tiny room, petting his organ for stimulation, experiencing the usual difficulty -of performing on command. Immediately outside the door, two nurses gabbed about a patient.

Was Peter gay? The question, afamiliar One, struck like lightning, timed to arrive, as usual, so that it would inspire maximum discomfort.

Nevertheless, there was no putting off the thought. The young man was thirty years old; and his sisters and mother had always seemed to be the only women in his life. He had never had a live-in girlfriend; indeed, when his parents saw him he rarely, if ever, had a female companion.

That did not mean much. Who willingly exposed an outsider to the neurotic fun house of his family? Nonetheless, Stern, at moments, saw what in an amateurish and bigoted fashion he took for signs: Peter's close attachment to his mother. A certain prissiness. Well, even this speculation was vicious. And, if for no one else, inappropriate from a parent. The fact was-and here at last was the truth with its contained explosive effect, like a charge set off in a strongbox-that the thought always managed to please Stern vaguely. It would be a permanent advantage. It would serve Peter right. Stern, with little consciousness, shook his head while this river of resentment poured forth. Today in this smelly closed space the clarity of his ill feelings was bleakly, unremittingly sad.

Back in Peter's consultation room, his son waited with an elastic strap and a syringe. After the beaker was relegated to a nurse, Peter knelt beside his father and inserted the needle. In the meantime, Stern gathered himself for another question he knew was required.

"I take it this is the kind of matter which ought to be shared with partners?"

When Stern looked back, his son's mouth was parted and his eyes were widened. Unable to master his own pretense, Stern had not thought about the impression this question would make. There was woman number one who had the problem. Now he was speaking of other partners-using the plural. It had been quite a couple of months.

"It would probably be advisable," Peter said at last.

"Overall. If the blood work would be quicker, I'd say that you could save yourself the embarrassment. But five, six weeks." Peter shook his head. "You'd better say something, just in case. Ninety-nine out of a hundred, you're fine. But if something were to show up, you'd want them to know what it is."

"! see." Well, the Lord only knew what Margy had heard in her time, but the thought of informing her still made Stern shudder. He would never explain the true circumstances to her any more than to anyone else. It would appear to her 'to be another example of the bad faith men were always capable of. "And I take it, for the present you recommend abstinence?" he asked almost hopefully. He had resolved over the weekend to revert to ret'nment.

Peter smiled in a quickly fading trace, amused by the thought of his father with a sex life, or, more likely, by the."fact that he had the right to govern it.

"Well, you're not active. And we'll know soon whether or not you're prodromal. If it's subclinical, a sheath is adequate to protect your parmer. All in all, I'd think that's enough. Assuming you're consistent."

"'Yes, of course." Stern fluttered a hand to show that this conversation was purely speculative. Truly, he no longer cared.

Peter withdrew the lavender-topped vial from the syringe.

He shook the blood, eyed it, and went back to his desk to make various notes. While he busied himself, Stern pondered his final inquiry.

"This disease cannot be contracted by accident, can it, Peter?" He could not keep himself from asking, but the question sounded, even to him, lame and pathetic.

'"Is that how you're afraid you got it, PaT' Peter's amusement, when he glanced up, was clearly no longer. guarded.

Not that this remark seemed particularly rancorous. Peter was always waspish, sarcastic. But Stern realized that there was little chance that his daughters would not hear of some of this. Peter's professional confidence could be expected o reach only so far. This tidbit was far too delicious. Details would be sparing, but something telling would be said. Kate, for example, needed some comfort. 'You know how concerned you were because Pa was coming in late in the -morning?" The tittering, at least, would be fondly in-spired-and-far from the real problem.

"I was not thinking of myself."

"Your ladyfriend?"

Stern made a noise of assent. His ladyfriend. Peter took a second, intent on labeling the tube.

"I would love to help you harbor illusions, but the odds are pretty slim. If your friend has been tested, that means a vital culture, and ff it's HSV type 2 that's been identified, then sexual contact is almost certainly the source. You know, the old toilet-seat thingm" Peter didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he simply made a face.

In spite of himself, Stern sighed. He had been prepared for that verdict. Clara Stern, as he had known her, was a woman of attractive bearing and, as she herself was inclined to acknowledge, looks that had improved with age. As adipose and crow's-feet, all the usual corporeal failings, had overcome others, Clara maintained her pleasant eternal look, dignified and composed. Stern had always admired her because at any age she was a far handsomer person than he.

But certain women, married women, mothers prototyp-ically, became too involved with the dense network of their activitiesrathe nurturing, organizing, doing, and attending-to broadcast any ostensible sexual interest. In thtirty-odd years, he could not recall an instant of conscious jealousy, a man whose attentions, for whatever reason, had seemed to excite her. She was a person who defined by her daily conduct what was not wayward. She was on a higher plane than that.

Thus, even days later, Radczyk's news remained unfathomable. It went, somehow, beyond right and wrong. The idea of a fifty-eight-year-old woman,-this fifty-eightyear-old woman, on the eve of grandmaternity-with a sexually transmiRed disease was as horrifying as some freak-show grotesque. Would the antecedent practices erupt only in late middle age? Perhaps he had spent a married lifetime playing the fool. He refused to believe it. It was like the concept of a fourth or fifth dimension. Beyond the capacities of an ordinary mind-or at least of his. Call it machismo or personal limitation, he could not envision his wife, as she clearly had been, with another man.

And it was for this reason that she had done what she had.

In his ravaged state of the last few days-amid the torment, the anger, the reviling and utter disbelief-that fact had not been lost. Her intent had been to spare him.

This was not sentimentality or self-delusntence. Instead, he simply made a face.

In spite of himself, Stern sighed. He had been prepared for that verdict. Clara Stern, as he had known her, was a woman of attractive bearing and, as she herself was inclined to acknowledge, looks that had improved with age. As adipose and crow's-feet, all the usual corporeal failings, had overcome others, Clara maintained her pleasant eternal look, dignified and composed. Stern had always admired her because at any age she was a far handsomer person than he.

But certain women, married women, mothers prototyp-ically, became too involved with the dense network of their activitiesrathe nurturing, organizing, doing, and attending-to broadcast any ostensible sexual interest. In thtirty-odd years, he could not recall an instant of conscious jealousy, a man whose attentions, for whatever reason, had seemed to excite her. She was a person who defined by her daily conduct what was not wayward. She was on a higher plane than that.