I left my bag in the empty house and was back in my office that same morning. The desk was cluttered; a week’s quota of paperwork had appeared in various in-trays. I pushed it aside. Queensland had taught me this: left untouched, paperwork has a life of its own. After a certain time delay in-trays mysteriously empty themselves, letters waiting to be signed become appended with the signatures of others.
I had cleared myself a space in which to think, or at least to read, when Alison poked her head through the door.
‘You’ve got visitors.’
‘Can they wait?’
‘Important visitors, Mara.’
‘The child-bride?’
‘Who?’
‘The divine Mary-Beth.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes. And her husband.’
‘How did they know I was back?’
I rose and peeked through the door. The Schultzes were standing in the anteroom, ignoring the seats, certain that I would not keep them waiting. Mary-Beth looked dressed more for cocktails than outpatients: high-heels, a shimmering outfit of granite crushed silk.
She smiled her high-wattage smile: ‘I hope your mother is feeling better, Mara.’
Schultz said nothing; I wondered how much he knew.
‘Much better, thank you.’
‘Was it serious?’
‘Not in the end, no.’
I stood back to allow them into the office. Mary-Beth slid gracefully into a chair, I drew up another for Hollis.
‘This isn’t a social call,’ he began.
I pulled the door shut: ‘I presume it’s to do with the matter we discussed some time back.’
His eyes met mine: ‘I referred then to “our” problem. Mrs Schultz and myself. In fact the problem is mine. And mine alone. The Lord has seen fit to render my seed barren.’
He paused; a smile stretched between his taut cheeks. The biblical turn of phrase was a joke: he wanted to let me know that he didn’t take those things seriously.
‘The Lord — and a case of mumps some years back.’
‘Of course, there’s no problem with sex,’ Mary-Beth put in, eager to make some important point about their age difference. ‘We have a wonderful sex life.’
She smiled at her husband; he glanced away, embarrassed. I sensed he had heard her on this before.
‘I’d want to check everything again,’ I said. ‘For myself.’
‘Fine by me. But I can’t see the need.’ He slid a blue manila folder across the desk. ‘I’m sure you’ll find everything you need here. We’ve been there, done that as far as tests go. Both of us.’
I opened the folder to find a thick wedge of pathology reports: sperm counts, hormone assays, a needle biopsy of the testis. A curious thing: the name Schultz was nowhere in sight; the label affixed to each report read Richard Brown.
‘An alias?’
He nodded: ‘It might seem a little, ah, over the top, but in my business you can’t be too careful.’
Mary-Beth agreed: ‘Hollis can’t blow his nose without making the papers.’
I browsed through the figures: ‘You’ve got a few sperm.’
‘Wrong shape and size, I was told in L.A.’
‘Immature forms.’ I glanced up: ‘This looks comprehensive. Of course, it doesn’t rule out the possibility that Mrs Schultz also has some sort of problem.’
He passed over another blue folder: ‘The wise men have been over her with a fine-tooth comb. But you’re welcome to cover the same territory again.’
I flipped slowly through this second folder.
‘Of course I want to be treated as just another patient,’ he said. ‘Which is why I came to see you here.’
I didn’t believe him. Not for a moment. He was letting me know, subtly, that he could have demanded a housecall, could have summoned me to an audience in the White House. He was accumulating credit, establishing some sort of bargaining position.
I decided to press my advantage before it vanished: draw some chalk lines.
‘In that case I would rather talk to you separately.’
He turned to his wife: ‘Have we got any secrets from each other, sweet thing?’
She smiled and shook her head; but uncoiled from the chair all the same: ‘If that’s what Mara wants; I’ll wait outside.’
‘Alison will get you a coffee,’ I said.
The door closed after her; Schultz immediately got to the point: ‘I know you are still in the early stages of research, Mara. But I understand that your assistant is close to some sort of breakthrough.’
I glanced up sharply. Had he been talking to Tad too?
‘You seem to know more about it than me.’
He chuckled: ‘I keep my ear to the ground.’
‘You want to be considered for the programme?’
‘If I’m suitable.’
No ‘if’ was apparent in his manner: complacent, selfassured. He knew he was suitable.
‘I don’t want to jump any queues.’
This, also, was so much noise: words without meaning, a kind of music. I had a sudden urge to suggest another needle biopsy of the testis. Both testes.
‘There’s no queue — yet. The work is still experimental. Of course I can’t see why we shouldn’t experiment with your cells as much as with anyone’s. Although I wouldn’t hold my breath. My assistant is prone to … exaggerate.’
‘Nothing to lose,’ he said. ‘I understand that some part of the stomach lining is needed?’
‘Colon. Large intestine. It’s easier to get at than the stomach. I’ll arrange a biopsy if you like.’
‘What do you mean — easier to get at?’
‘Through the anus.’
His selfassurance vanished; he shifted in his chair, discomfited: ‘Am I reading you correctly, Mara: what used to be called a ride on the iron stallion?’
I let him squirm. He had been playing games with me for months; it was my turn.
‘It’s all flexible fibre-optics these days,’ I told him, eventually. ‘Painless.’
He seemed to have risen several inches in his seat, sitting on tight-clenched muscles.
‘I’d like to talk to Mary-Beth now,’ I said. ‘Could you ask her to step in on your way out?’
No doubt there would be further bargaining in the coming months, but I was happy with my position. Miss Tennessee was a different proposition. She sat elegantly poised on the edge of her seat, smiling. I decided to blind her with science.
‘I want to take you through a tracking cycle. Hormone levels, ultrasound morphology of the ovary.’
‘Fine.’
Something about her quest winner perfection made me want to shake it around a bit, even damage it. I turned up the jargon: ‘We need to demonstrate normal ovulation and normal luteal phase.’
‘I do keep a temperature chart, Mara. Every morning, first thing.’ She paused, and smiled in a manner I can only describe as girl-to-girl. ‘Perhaps not always first thing. Hollis is such a red-blooded man. He often wakes up pretty much … um, in the mood.’
I said nothing. She sat across the desk, smiling proudly, wanting me to understand again that they shared a wonderful sex life; that the gulf between their ages was insignificant.
‘Have you brought the chart?’
She slid a neatly folded sheet of graph paper from her handbag: a regular monthly sawtooth. She was ovulating — no doubt about it.
‘You can forget this,’ I said. ‘Daily blood samples give a better indication. But be prepared to be admitted to hospital at twelve hours’ notice, the moment the hormones rise. I want to collect fresh eggs.’
I dismissed her; she rose, a swish of silk and nylon, and held out her hand.
‘I’m so glad I’m in your hands, Mara. And not some insensitive man. I had several terrible experiences in the States.’