Ruby Red Slippers

Saturday, September 1. No, we are not breaking for Labor Day. That is a Federal Holiday, and the Judge wants the trial wound up. John calls at 6:30 in the morning, asking if I remembered to call the fertility specialist. He always leaves me an assignment when he leaves town. I tell him, yes, I called on the break yesterday, and my appointment is next week, which is all a lie.
He says, “Good. That’s good. Let’s put all this big hairy bullshit behind us.” Then speaking with a rare voice of uncertainty, as if someone might overhear, he says, “Charley, tell me the truth. Do you think of me as less of a man, you know, less desirable, because I can’t get you pregnant or because of my surgery?”
“John, I love you for you. Sex and babies are totally separate for me. While I am making love, I’m in Emerald City, not thinking about babies, trust me.”
I surmise there are tears in John’s eyes, and it breaks my heart for him. I lay back down on the bed, “John, I knew you couldn’t have kids when we got married. I was terrified to have another one after Minako. I don’t think I would have wanted another baby, if it weren’t for you, knowing you would be there, always. You’re my Marine. Semper Fie, right?”
He cannot see me rolling my eyes.
We are quiet for a minute, but I know he’s sad, maybe even crying. There is a human being cracking through his exterior. I only saw him cry once when he found out he had cancer.
I speak again. “Anyway, the way I see it, you pick out the donors from the seed catalog, so whatever baby we conceive wouldn’t be in the world if it weren’t for you. So, if you’re not the daddy, who is?”