The Essence

Jon Fain

The Center for Life Research was housed in a new building, a mostly-glass structure in the city’s outskirts, an area filled with fast food restaurants, car dealerships, and discount houses. There were landscapers working the grounds as I pulled into the parking lot, deeply tanned young men unrolling long strips of green grass and laying them onto the bare brown dirt. Others were digging holes, and planting shrubs. Both inside and out, these people were concerned with making things grow.

          It was a sperm bank. I wasn’t there for myself, however. I had been hired by Mrs. Gloria Eaton, whose son Alan had recently passed away, and whose “essence”—as she put it—was in the bank’s possession. She and her daughter-in-law Liza were not being allowed to withdraw this particular deposit, due to a legal technicality. Alan Eaton and his young wife had not been married to each other when he had gone to the sperm bank. Since he had neglected to leave any provision in his will, there was no proof the sperm he had left in the bank’s care was for her. I had done some work for Alan Eaton while he was alive, and he had left his mother my name as someone she could trust.

          Mrs. Eaton had turned to me because she was unwilling to see the case go through the courts. Even though she had an army of lawyers, she had grown impatient; she wanted a grandchild before she died herself. She was a blunt, rich lady, and a practical one. I had ten grand in my pocket, and I was at the sperm bank to approach its Director with a rather obvious and time-honored business proposition. If I succeeded in bribing the man, I was to receive the same amount myself. For an ex-cop, getting by on a modest disability and the occasional job like this, it was an easy assignment to accept.

          Inside, the Center for Life Research’s waiting room was filled with men, mostly middle-aged, but a few younger, sitting on comfortable chairs, reading magazines, or tapping on their phones. Some seemed nervous; a few of them were talking, making jokes. There was an attractive receptionist, good-looking enough to get the men in the mood, and I gave her my name.

          I’d decided to go in as a prospective donor. From what Mrs. Eaton had said, and with the lawyers involved, I doubted the Director of the facility would see me if he knew why I was really there. With a phone call, I had discovered that any man who wanted to make a deposit had the option of meeting with him. Behind closed doors I would show the man the money and see what happened. If he agreed to do business, I would get what I came for and take it to the Eatons. If he was stubborn, I would take it from there.

          As I waited, I found myself thinking about Liza. I had about twenty years on her, but that was all right, so had Alan Eaton. I had expected to see a grieving widow at the Eaton estate, but the woman I was introduced to was a smiling, long-legged, athletic blonde in a tight-fitting black halter top. She said all the right things about wanting to have a child by the man she had (and still, she claimed) loved, no matter what it took, but by the way she was looking at me as she spoke, I had my doubts. My guess was that Mrs. Eaton had threatened to hold up any inheritance Liza was to get, if she didn’t go along.

          Finally, after about a twenty minute wait, I was called in. Following a female aide of some type, I went down a short, carpeted hallway with a series of closed doors on either side. At the end of the hall, she knocked at the corner office. She opened the door, and then stepped aside to let me enter.

          A man sat behind a desk that was covered with papers and crammed manila file folders. He had a large desktop system and monitor set-up. There was a couch against one wall, a large abstract painting above it. Through the window behind him, I could see a shimmering pond. The man’s name was Paul LaFleur.

          He wore dark-framed half-glasses that he took off when he stood up and we shook hands. He put his glasses back on for a moment to look at something on his desk. He wore a well-tailored, expensive looking blue pinstriped suit and a custom-made white shirt.

          “Mr. Stuart Roman? I’m glad you’ve chosen the Center.” His accent, while noticeable, was slight.

          “You might say the Center chose me, Doctor,” I said.

          “Please,” he said, as I sat down in the chair he motioned to, “I am not an M.D. merely a—”

          “Banker?”

          LaFleur laughed. “Caretaker, I was going to say. In France there are dozens of institutions like our modest one here, all run by the government. Here in America, we get to make a little profit. Over there we were known simply as... ‘conservationists.’”

          “Saving Humanity, huh?” I said, keeping it light.

          “In our small way, Mr. Roman,” LaFleur assured me. “In any event, I am glad you came here today.”

He nodded toward my cane. It was a bullet in the foot that had taken me off the force but I didn’t really need it anymore. It was mostly for show.

          “Nothing too serious there I hope?”

          “Won’t keep me from making a deposit if that’s what you mean.” I was waiting for an opening. The envelope with the Eatons’ money was in the inside pocket of my jacket. It was beginning to bruise my ribs.

          LaFleur outlined the Center’s work, then moved off the sales pitch and got into the process. I would provide them with my “product,” pay them a one-time fee, and they would hold it until I requested it. I could even arrange to have it destroyed if I wished. The sperm would be frozen, and kept that way through an intricacy of refrigeration fail-safes. Now, if I was ready, a private room would be provided—after I completed the required forms, of course. And was I aware they took both MasterCard and Visa, and even Discover, although a personal check was acceptable? With proper ID, of course.

          “Ever hear of Alan Eaton, Monsieur?”

          LaFleur’s expression fell like a young pastry chef’s first chocolate tort. “I have heard of nothing else for weeks,” he said, in a suddenly tired voice. His attention was on me in a way that indicated I was no longer so welcome.

          “Alan recommended your fine organization to me before he passed on. Said you in particular were a man of high intelligence.”

          LaFleur grunted something. I reached into my jacket and took out the envelope and tossed it onto the desk where it smacked down with authority on the man’s paperwork.

          I looked at the condition of my fingernails. They could have used some work. I was about to be able to afford some upgraded personal care.

“That’s good money for doing nothing more than making a rich old lady’s day.”

          LaFleur let the envelope sit there, pushed his chair back from the desk. He spun and watched some ducks float around on the pond outside.

          “Tell me, Mr. Roman,” he said, turning back to me, “if that’s even your name. What is preventing you people from simply coming in and stealing this poor man’s sperm, if it means that much? Why don’t you just send in the Marines?”

          “This is easier,” I said, nodding to the money. I thought if he took a look at what was in there, I had him. In my experience, they were all high-minded and moral, until they saw the green. You could now pay with your phone and all that, but a wad of cash was still as inviting as a warm summer breeze.

          “I shall tell you why,” said LaFleur. “Because, even if you managed to get through our alarm system, and found your way into the proper room...do you think it is all so easy? No, our file system is quite intricate. We have so much product it takes time for our trained staff to process an impregnation request. And there must be the participation from a licensed physician. Do you think anyone, even a man who has just done business with us, that man can arrive at the door the next day and make a withdrawal? That we tell him to wait a moment, and come back with his frozen sperm in a nice container, and he brings it home to his wife like so much ice cream?”

          “Come on,” I said, “just count it. You’ll turn what Alan left here over to the widow, they’ll get a doctor on it and we’ll have a happy grandma.”

“And what about you, my friend, what is in it for you? Money, I assume. Surely, it is not out of love for the late Mr. Eaton that you are doing this.”

          I was growing weary of the man. His nice clothes, his holier-than-me attitude. I twirled my cane so that its tip left a mark in his plush carpet.

          LaFleur glanced at the envelope again and I thought I might have him.

          “Our charter is quite clear,” he told me. “It must be established without doubt that the use of the sperm conforms to the wishes of the deceased. In the case of Mr. Eaton, there is no written evidence to support the claim it was to be for his wife. He came here early in his illness, when he thought the treatments he was about to undergo might make him sterile. This was before they were married.”

          “Look,” I said, “you seem to make a big deal about how what you’re doing here is so wonderful, but it’s not. You think you’re helping people, but here, when you have a real chance to do it, you’re backing down, you’re hiding in the courts. You take a piece of a man and put it aside and you forget about the man himself.”

          “This is not the case, Mr. Roman. And I assure you we feel for Mr. Eaton’s mother in this situation as well. It is indeed unfortunate that she may never experience the joy of having a grandchild.”

          “Yeah and what about the man’s wife?” I said, remembering how she’d winked at me when her mother-in-law had left the room for a moment.

          “If she truly did love the man then it is unfortunate as well,” said LaFleur. “But tell me, you and I both know that she is young, beautiful, and soon, I presume, rich. Eventually she will find someone else and will no longer care.”

          The visions of the easy ten grand that I had thought I was going to get began to fade. I stood up, my foot throbbing, as it usually did when I was angry. I picked up the envelope of money from his desk. All that was left was the satisfaction of the last word.

          “Well, Monsieur,” I said, “as long as I’m here why don’t I take advantage of your fine establishment and make a little deposit of my own. Break out the magazines and a sample cup, and maybe your assistant out there can—”

          “Mr. Roman!” shouted LaFleur, “Please! Your presence here is no....”

          Then he almost smiled.

          “The Eatons have chosen well... but perhaps they have gotten more than they have bargained for, yes?”

          “What the hell are you talking about?”

          “You leave us product as you suggest…but then you pocket this money meant for me. You return with a pliable doctor and he co-signs the proper forms...you pass your product off as the late Mr. Eaton’s and collect your money again from the mother. They drop the lawsuit...everyone is pleased. Brilliant, Mr. Roman, brilliant! If I were another type of man I would perhaps be tempted to go along in such a scheme. It would solve everyone’s problems, including mine. The old double-cross!”

          I shook my head and headed for the door.

          “And tell me... Monsieur,” he called out. “What would happen when the long-awaited grandchild arrived and looked like you?”

I gave it all a few hours thought in a bar near where I lived, going over it while I kept the bartender busy. LaFleur had been right, or at least held the proverbial cards. It would have to go through the courts. Then I thought about how I might persuade my client to give me something for getting nothing done.

          I called up the Eaton house and found out from the maid that Mrs. Eaton was with her lawyers and Liza was at her penthouse apartment downtown. I got the phone number after finally convincing the maid that I was who I said I was. As I tapped in the numbers, I wondered what I was going to say.

          When she answered, her voice did something to me. There was the fit young body, the way she had looked at me. The wink. I had had a few.

          “It’s me,” I said. “I got it.”

          “Who? Is this Mr. Roman? Stu?”

          “Yeah. Listen, I got to get it right over.” My mind latched onto something LaFleur had said. “You got to keep it cold... keep it in the freezer.”

          “You got it? He took the money and gave you—”

          I was getting used to the weight of the cash in my pocket. “How ‘bout mine, you got that?”

          “Well I don’t, I’ll have to call Alan’s mother and the lawyers and tell them, and then the doctor who—”

          “Let’s hold off telling CNN. You want it or not?”

          She didn’t care for my phone manner. “Who do you think you are?”

          “Just get the cash Liza and we’ll do the deal. Small bills, big bills, or something in between. I’ll be right over.”

          My foot was throbbing again, as it did when I was thinking on my feet.

          Her apartment was in one of the more prestigious buildings in the city. The doorman gave me the fisheye and he seemed especially interested in what I was carrying. But like all those guys, if you looked halfway respectable, once you gave him a name to call, it wasn’t their problem. I heard Liza’s voice come back on the house phone and he pressed the button to the front door, and let me in.

          In the elevator, I felt the side of the bag. Still cold. It reminded me of the old days, stupidly charging into buildings where someone waited with bad intent. At least there would be no guns in this case.

          No, not that. Something better.

          She stood in the open doorway of her apartment, waiting for me. She was wearing one of those dance-exercise outfits, the kind cut high up above the hips, showing long legs. If she had ventured out on the street like that, she wouldn’t have stopped traffic, she would have destroyed it.

          Liza moved aside for me to go past her into the apartment. She was perspiring lightly and instead of thinking about what she may have been up to in that body suit, I tried to concentrate on the interior design. The living room was a step down, and ringed by a maroon sofa and matching chairs. There was mauve wall-to-wall, large paintings, plants from rain forests, a long walnut bar, and a big plasma TV. A balcony overlooked the prime real estate below.

          “Is that it?” asked Liza, shutting the door.

          I switched hands; my cane went to my right, the bag to my left. “You show me where the kitchen is, I’ll get it right into the freezer.”

          She came up to me. She made a move as if to take the bag, and I stepped back.

          “It looks like—”

          “LaFleur said I couldn’t just walk out with it... I had to disguise it... that was part of the deal.”

          As I talked I was moving toward where I figured the kitchen was. She came right behind me as I went in and opened the gleaming Sub-Zero and wedged the bag between a package of tofu dogs and a frozen can of pina colada mix.

          “Is it going to be all right in there?”

          “No problem. You got my money?”

          “Alan’s mother wants to see it. She said she’s still at the lawyer’s but you should wait. The lawyer couldn’t believe you did it.”

          Liza looked at the big silver refrigerator as if she couldn’t either. I figured she was thinking about having a kid that way, with no real husband or father. She turned and went back to the living room, went to the bar there, and started mixing.

          “Want one?”

          “Whatever you’re having,” I said.

I had decided to forget about the other ten grand that was coming to me—why be greedy? I would have a quick drink, and leave before Mrs. Eaton and her lawyer got there. The money that had been intended for LaFleur, plus my savings, would get me out of town for a while, maybe into the fresh start somewhere else that I’d been delaying.

          I stood at the glass doors to the balcony, admiring the view and weighing the options, and Liza came up with the drink. She stood close beside me. I hooked my cane over some sort of antique chair.

          “You know, don’t you,” she said, “that you just kept me where I want to be.”

          “Oh?”

          “They would have had the marriage annulled, any claim to Alan’s money taken away...if I didn’t agree to go through with...with all this.”

          She raised her glass to me. It hadn’t been too hard to figure that one out.

          Then she said, “You know, I really go for older men.”

          “You don’t say.”

          She put her glass down. I watched the lime wedge in it float among the ice cubes, and when I looked back, she was pulling down the straps of her outfit. She slid the tight black material down, stepped out of the suit, and kicked it aside.

          She pressed against me, and her hands worked at my belt as I put my glass aside. My pants undone, I kicked off my shoes and took a moment to look at her. Then I took her hand and pulled her close. Our mouths met, our tongues jousted, and in no time we were on the sofa, me and her working at my clothes. Then we took turns with our backs buried in the soft and luxurious maroon.

          I gave it longer than I should have to take her leg away from where it had ended up. I was starting to find gray in my hair, but with a woman like Liza—I shook the thought out of my mind and turned away.

          As I dressed, she smiled up at me. If you were lucky, one thing that came with gray hair was knowing when you were in the danger of doing something stupid. I tucked in my shirt, and took my cane from its resting place. People always underestimate a man with a cane.

          “Where are you going?” she called out in surprise.

          I closed the door behind me, and walked down the hall to the elevator. I hated to leave her like that, but she would have to deal with her mother-in-law herself.

          I went past the dough-faced doorman and under the awning out front. It was a nice day, a nice day for an airplane ride. I just had to go to the bank. Of course, some of us liked what they called direct deposit. That was the difference between me and the late Alan Eaton.

          A limo pulled up, and Mrs. Eaton got out of the back with the help of a well-dressed, middle-aged man. I was around the corner before they got away from the car. So I hadn’t seen her face, but perhaps she was smiling. Thinking about how close she was to her dream of a happy, healthy grandchild, a rightful heir.

I hated to disappoint a nice lady. That’s why I had stocked the fridge. I just hoped she liked chocolate chip.

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