Chris Grabenstein - Free Fall

“Here’s another reason why David did not kick the sand of this crummy little town off his shoes and run as far away as he possibly could and still be in the continental United States: David, gentlemen, is not gay. And newsflash, thirty-some years ago, Sea Haven was not, shall we say, a safe haven for boys like me.”

“And your father?” asks Ceepak. “How did he react to your sexual orientation?”

“Horribly. We’re Jewish, but I think he seriously considered becoming a Born Again Christian just so he could find one of those preachers to pray my gay away. Mom was better. In fact, she’s the one who told me to ‘move as far away from Arnold Rosen’ as I could and make my own life. She said she should’ve done it herself.”

“When did your mother pass away?”

“Seventeen years ago. January 18th.”

“She and your father weren’t close?”

“Who knows? They were never very kissy or huggy, not in front of us. Dad didn’t come home from the office most nights till nine. We only saw him on weekends when he’d take us fishing or to a football game up in New York or on some other god-awful manly adventure.”

“But your mother and father never divorced?”

“Nope. She just did a lot of retail therapy to compensate. In the end, I think Dad just wore her out.”

“How so?”

“My father-sweet and charming as he may seem when you first meet him-was a very demanding, very manipulative, very controlling, and extremely cheap, almost miserly man. Did you know, he always bought his socks and underwear at Sears because ‘nobody saw the labels on your socks and underwear.’ To do otherwise would be a waste of money, he’d say. So, you can imagine how disappointed he was when he heard I was spending a fortune on skivvies from Fred Segal.”

“And who is this Fred Segal?”

“High-end fashion boutique in Beverly Hills.”

“I see.”

“My father had a set way of doing everything. And woe betide anyone who strayed off his very rigid, straight and narrow road. Drove my mother crazy. Me, too. One time, maybe twenty, twenty-five years ago, I made the mistake of going with him to the airport. We were both flying off in different directions. Anyway, we get out of the cab at Newark airport and, being a good little son, I grab Dad’s bags and haul them over to the skycap.

“Well, my father pitched a fit. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘Checking your bags.’ ‘That’s not how it’s done!’ he says, thinking I’m like David and have never flown anywhere on my own. So I say, ‘Uh, yes, Dad, it is. You give this nice young fellow your suitcase and he takes care of everything for you.’ My dad stomped his feet like a little boy. ‘No, Michael. That is not how I do it.’

“And that, gentlemen, is the key. My father could not abide anyone doing anything in a manner that didn’t conform to his well-scripted perceptions of perfection.”

Now Michael pauses.

“I suppose I should’ve thanked him for that.”

“How so?”

“Why do you think I’m such a highly paid television producer? I’m a perfectionist and a control freak. I am, gentlemen, my father’s son.”

Ceepak flips backward to a page he’s already scribbled on in his notebook.

“We spent some time today with Revae Dunn,” Ceepak tells Michael. “At the Garden State Reproductive Science Center over in Avondale.”

“And?”

“Why were you so generous to Ms. Dunn and her sister Monae?”

“I helped Monae because Revae was helping me.”

“How?”

Michael reaches into the mini bar and grabs the little blue bottle of Bombay sapphire gin. He twists open the cap and takes a bracing chug.

“You’ve met Judith’s sister, Shona, correct?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you remember the color of her hair?”

I think for a second. “Black?”

“Correct. Black as a raven’s belly. And Judith?”

“Blonde,” says Ceepak.

“From a bottle,” says Michael, taking another swig on his Bombay. “Little Arnie, of course, also has blonde hair, but, unlike his pudgy mother, his roots are not jet black. And the lazy sow always forgets to do her eyebrows. They’re darker than her roots.”

Ceepak closes up his notebook. Leans in.

“Go on.”

“Item two. Athletics. Little Arnie is very good at sports. Football, basketball, baseball-making him the first Rosen in recorded history who has ever excelled at athletic endeavors. Item three. Intelligence. Little Arnie is very smart. Straight A’s. Honor roll. His poppa? Not so much. In fact, ages ago, Dad-ums had grand visions of David going to dental school. U Penn, just like he did.”

“And?”

“And you don’t get into U Penn or any top tier college with SAT scores in the low 400’s. You go to a Community College outside Atlantic City and pick up a two-year associate degree in Hospitality Management.” Michael shakes his head. “Hospitality Management. What on earth did David study? ‘Reservation Taking 101’? ‘Comparative Buffets’? Item four: Little Arnie has perfect teeth.”

Okay. I think that’s the gin talking. He’s totally lost me.

“Gentlemen,” says Michael, “there hasn’t been a Rosen who didn’t need extensive orthodontia for generations. Item five: Little Arnie’s cute button nose.”

Ceepak has heard enough. “Exactly what are you suggesting, Mr. Rosen?”

“Well, detective, with Revae’s able assistance, I have, over the past year, been doing a little detective work of my own.”

“And?”

“There is no doubt in my mind that Judith is the young Aryan lad’s mother because, as she often says to Little Arnie, giving birth to him is what ruined her bikini body. That and her fondness for Mallomars, noodle kugel, and mayonnaise.”

“But,” says Ceepak, “you doubt the boy’s paternity? You suspect that David is not Little Arnie’s father?”

“All that crap about my father’s ‘living legacy,’ the heir to the royal ‘Rosen bloodline’? What if, gentlemen, at the fertility clinic, one of Judith’s treatments-which of course Dad-ums paid for because he wanted a grandson so desperately-what if it was what they call Therapeutic Donor Insemination?”

“Ms. Dunn mentioned that as an option her clinic offers.”

“And I suspect it’s the option Judith chose.”

“What is it?” I ask, because my SAT’s weren’t so great either.

“Artificial insemination,” says David. “Using the sperm of an anonymous donor.”

“And Revae has been helping you prove your hypothesis?” asks Ceepak.

“Diligently and tirelessly.”

“She has been searching through confidential records, violating her patients’ right to privacy?”

“Perhaps. But you’d have a very hard time proving it. The girl is good. Takes her time. Covers her tracks. She has earned every penny I have ever spent on her or her sister. You boys would get nowhere if you attempt to punish Revae Dunn for violating the sacred trust of a fat cow like Judith and some boy who jerked off in a cup fifteen years ago for seventy-five bucks a pop. The county prosecutor would laugh in your face.”

“But you just told us that Ms. Dunn has been violating her fertility clinic’s ethics for a fee.”

“Ask me again in court and I’ll deny everything.”

“You’d perjure yourself to protect Ms. Dunn?”

“Yes, because you couldn’t prove perjury either. It’d just be your word against mine, and I have very excellent lawyers who know how to waste time with motions and procedural maneuvering. You’d never even get me on the stand.”

Ceepak is busy seething.

So I jump in.

“Did you and Revae find Little Arnie’s real father?”