Akhmed and the Atomic Matzo Balls. Gary Buslik
Even as recently as this morning I wondered if I’m doing the right thing.”
He peered over his glasses. “Really, Diane, if there’s something—”
She exhaled. “You know when you said thank heavens you don’t have any kids?”
The glasses slipped off his nose.
“Well,” she whispered, “that thing about not having kids isn’t exactly true. I hope the ‘thank heavens’ part too.”
He fumbled with his glasses, trying to flip them back on but poking himself in the eye.
“Remember that night after the Paul Simon concert, when we went back to your office to toke and get wild? Remember how you put your reserve condom next to the ashtray, and your joint fell and burned the package? How you thought it would be all right because foil doesn’t burn? Well…foil does burn, apparently.”
“Good goddamn God.”
“Karma’s your daughter, too. She’s a cool young woman, Les, and I think you’ll dig her.”
“You’re not kidding, are you?” His knee thudded against the desk. “This isn’t a joke.”
“I’m so sorry to intrude on your life, I truly am. Truly, truly. But something’s come up, and I think I should tell you so you’ll be prepared.”
He shot a look at the door, making sure it was closed. Still, he lowered his voice. “You mean something besides this?” He sprang up and paced. The office began to smell of sweat and toxic exhalations. Every few seconds he dinged her a glance and bleated, “You aren’t kidding, are you?” and she shook her head glumly, and he resumed pacing and looking at the door. He yanked open a desk drawer, found a gnarled pack of Kool cigarettes and a lighter, torched himself a smoke, and finally collapsed back into his chair, raking his fingers over his scalp.
“I knew in those days you didn’t like kids, and after you stopped calling me, I—”
“How can you be sure she’s mine?”
“You’re the only guy I was getting it on with.”
“Yes, yes, but what I mean is—”
She put her cup on the edge of his desk and took her wallet from her purse. “For one thing, look.” She handed over Karma’s picture. “Recognize anyone?”
He studied the picture. “Oh, God. God.”
“It’s her real hair color, too,” she said of her daughter’s flaming red mop, glancing at Les’s own rusty lid.
“God, God.”
“I’m not here to hassle you,” she repeated. “Only to let you know.”
He wasn’t listening. He was deep into his panic. “Twenty-seven, you say?”
“No financial support required or sought.” Despite Diane’s renewed crush on him, she was getting a little vexed. “Les, listen up for a second. She doesn’t need money from either of us.” She grimaced. “She’ll soon have plenty. I mean plenty.”
“You mean I actually have a child? A daughter, you say?”
“Karma. And she’s a good, devoted daughter, even though sometimes she’s…misunderstood.”
“God, God, God, God.”
“Les, something happened. I was always afraid it might come up. When she was little I told her her father was a brilliant man whom I loved and who loved me, but that he had another life now, and she understood. She never asked about you. She’s always been very mature and basically a decent person, even though some people might get the wrong impression.” She took a sharp breath and let out a gurgle. “But now that she’s getting married, something”—tea spilled into her napkin—“changed. I know how middle class it is, how utterly bourgeois, but”—she winced—“she wants her father to walk her down the aisle.”
Autistically he rocked and swiveled, swiveled and rocked.
“She’s become obsessed with the idea, and I can’t seem to talk her out of it. She says it’s a ‘family values’ thing.”
He slathered her a basset-hound look. “Family values?”
She lowered her head. “I’m so ashamed.”
He tugged his dewlap, scratched one ear, then the other. He licked his lips. He rubbed his nostril red. He seemed to swirl into a mental abyss, as if trying to translate Marcel Proust. Finally, he said, “You told her who I am?”
“Absolutely not,” Diane assured him. “But if she’s determined to find out, she will. Karma can be very…focused. Anyhow, she’s now got the”—she paused—“resources to find out whatever she wants.”
“Why not tell her I was a one-night stand?” he offered frantically. “You know, a hippie passing through? Or that I’m dead? That’s it, I’m dead.”
“Because, for one thing, I don’t lie to my daughter. And she’d find you anyway, trust me.”
He returned to rocking.
“I thought I should prepare you, that’s all. It seemed the right thing to do.”
He bellowed his shirt to circulate air.
“In the name of full disclosure,” she stuttered, “there’s something else I need to tell you. Could you please sit still for a second?”
He stopped, and, before putting out the first, lit another cigarette.
“I did my best to bring her up with good values,” she went on, wiping her palms on her jeans. “When she was a teenager she was a strict vegan—totally organic. Never wore leather, let alone fur. Wouldn’t step on an ant. Volunteered at hospitals, was a big sister to underprivileged kids, helped out at a nursing home. She was a totally far-out, out-of-sight chick. Wore Earth Shoes, recycled, shunned Styrofoam, always chose paper over plastic—”
He started slapping his head.
“—refused to spray fluorocarbons, rode her bike instead of depleting earth’s unrenewable resources, worked the phones for PBS, passed out fliers for Bill Clinton and—” She sighed. “Then something happened, Les. Something weird, and I don’t know what to do. I did my best with her. I thought she was going to be all right. But now—” She began to cry. She pulled a wad of recycled tissue from her purse and covered her face. “Oh, Les,” she sobbed, “we’ll need all your brain power now.”
He raced around with his box of Puffs, handed her a half-dozen with which to smother her hysteria, all the while glancing nervously at the door. “Diane, listen to me,” he whispered. “Please. Control yourself. Listen, listen.” He paused until she nodded. He knelt in front of her. “The fact is,” he said measuredly, “I’m currently dating the chancellor, and any hint of a scandal would destroy—” He shook his head and started over. “What I mean is, I’ve worked assiduously to advance in the department and, hopefully, beyond. I have a chance of becoming dean of Liberal Arts, and it all depends on her, the chancellor, Leona Beebe.”
Diane peered up, dark-faced, from the tissue.
“I know, I know. I used to belittle the whole administrative infrastructure,” he said. “But practicality being what it is, I—”
“He’s a Republican,” she whimpered.
He looked around, as if to be sure no one was in earshot of such language. “Please, Diane, you’re distraught—”
“Karma’s fiancé. Angus.” She choked back a sob. “A conservative. And now she’s one, too.” She pulled the tissues from her face, squeezed them into an even tighter ball, drew a mournful breath, and moaned,“They’re both Republicans!”
He reeled as if shot. He tried to get up,