On her way to Coinkydink, Shawna stopped at an installation that had caught her eye from a distance. It reminded her of one of those carnival Tilt-a-Whirls, a slanted spinning disk that held its contents by centrifugal force. In this case, though, the contents were not people but little bonfires that scattered sparks as they orbited through the night sky. It was a simple concept—all iron and fire—and its operation was even simpler: two people on the ground alternately throwing muscle into a giant crank. Two people, it suggested, could do wondrous things working together.
Was she totally out of her mind, chasing down a stranger who had lured her with graffiti and promised to disappear? Had this offer of no-strings-attached sperm so caught her fertile imagination that it had destroyed her ability to reason?
She stood for a while and watched the whirling embers, partially to absorb their magic, partially seeking postponement of potential folly.
That was when Otto appeared.
“Well, hello, ladylove.”
He had called her that back in the day. Ladylove. It had bothered her with its faintly sexist overtones and corny echoes of his stint at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire. Tonight, however, she found it curiously reassuring. Go figure.
“Oh, hi,” she said. “I was just heading to Seltzerville.”
“To see me?”
“No. Ronald McDonald.” It was a nervous response, but it came off a little snide, so she added: “I wanted to tell you how amazing the temple is, Otto. Really. Just stunning. You guys did an amazing job. Seriously. It’s the best one ever.”
He pressed his hands together and touched his fingertips to his red rubber clown nose. She thought for a moment that he was going to say “Namaste,” and was hugely relieved when he didn’t. She could not have suppressed the laugh.
He turned and looked at the flaming Tilt-a-Whirl. “This is unbelievable, right?”
“Truly,” she said. “So primal and . . . elemental.” She scrounged for something else to say. “So how’s Ottawa coming along?”
He shrugged. “I’m still going.”
“Well, that’s good. I mean . . . I know how much you want to.”
He nodded. A long silence followed.
“Do you think we could talk for a bit?” she said finally.
“Sure. What about?”
“Just . . . things. I’d like to get your take on something.”
“You wanna go to Seltzerville? It’s not far.”
“Perfect.”
Otto looked genuinely pleased. “We can kick back. Drink some tea. Ada makes a smokin’ herbal tea. Calls it Moose Juice.”
Shawna blinked at him.
“It’s kind of an Ottawa joke.”
She nodded, taking it in. “Ada is from Ottawa?”
“Oh, sorry . . . thought I mentioned that at Martuni’s.”
“Nope. Nothin’ about anybody being from Ottawa. Nothin’ about her, actually. You mentioned two other exes since me.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Takes a while to get it right.”
“Yep. Sure does. I’m glad, though. That’s cool, Otto.”
“Yeah.” He nodded with a look of surprising tenderness. “It is.”
She had to go to Seltzerville; there was no way around it. And there was no way she could ask Otto for sperm with an adoring Canadian clown-lass hanging on his every word—not to mention his leg. So they sipped that nasty tea and spoke with concern about a sixteen-year-old girl who had reportedly gone missing from her parents’ camp, prompting the rangers to seal off the exits to prevent any attempt at abduction. Shawna wondered out loud who would bring their teenage daughter to BRC in the first place, only to realize how priggish and judgmental she sounded. She hated pretty much everything about herself at that moment.
When she had finished her tea, she bade them farewell and headed off in the direction of Coinkydink. Otto’s new ladylove had been a sign, she decided, the final indicator that anonymity was the only way to go—at least, a form of modified anonymity in which she could actually lay eyes on the sperm donor and get a sense of what sort of person he might be. It wasn’t so much a question of his physicality (though a degree of attractiveness would be nice) as the need to assess his spirit.
Coinkydink took a while to locate. There was no signage at all, just a ragtag circle of tents that she found troubling. She had not expected (nor had she desired) some grandiose Temple of Immaculate Conception, but this place was laidback to the point of disinterest. She had to ask around before she could even identify it.
“You’ve found us,” said a petite brunette with a gleam in her eye.
“Oh, thank God.”
“ ‘There’s no such thing as Coinkydink.’ ”
“What?”
“That’s our camp slogan.”
“Well—I was beginning to think it might be true. I’m looking for someone named Dustpuppy.”
The woman frowned. “Sorry, I don’t think . . . oh, wait . . . that might be Jonah.”
“Might be?”
“I just got here. I don’t know everybody’s playa name yet.”
“Ah.”
“Do you know what he looks like?”
“Sorry, I don’t.” Shawna considered explaining the reason for her visit, then decided against it for fear of compromising the contract. Dustpuppy might not be out to his campmates about the nature of his gifting. After all, it would not be an anonymous act if other people knew about it. Not to mention the fact that the whole damn thing could be a hoax, a wild-goose chase perpetrated by a prankster.
“I’m afraid everyone’s gone right now,” said the woman. “They took off in our art car.”
“And you’re here all by your lonesome?” Shawna had just noticed the perky coral nipples punctuating the woman’s loose fishnet top.
“I don’t mind,” said the woman. “I’m glad for a little peace and quiet.”
“I know what you mean.”
“You’re welcome to wait here for Jonah.”
“Uh . . . well, thanks. I’m not even sure that Jonah is the one I’m looking for. Could you tell me what he looks like?”
The woman shrugged. “Youngish. Blond. Kinda cute.” A kittenish smile flickered across her face before she added: “For a guy.”
Shawna smiled back, letting her know she got the message.
“I know you,” said the woman.
“Oh yeah?”
“Shawna Hanson, right?”
“Hawkins, actually.”
“Right. I saw you on The View.”
“Oh . . . yeah. That was fun. Whoopi was fun, anyway.”
The woman stood there for a moment, bouncing on her heels, hands thrust in the pockets of her loose linen trousers.
“So,” she said at last. “I haven’t read your book.”
“I won’t hold that against you,” said Shawna.
They did it in Juliette’s tent—that was her name, Juliette. Their lovemaking was all meandering mouths and fingers, with no purpose at all beyond pleasure. No bicycle couriers were involved, no artisanal twat cozies. It was way uncomplicated and hot. And there was something about Juliette that smelled alluringly of home.
They lay there together, sticky and dusted as fresh pastries.
“Holy shit,” said Juliette.
“I know,” said Shawna.
“Where do you live?”
“I’m staying in the gayborhood.”
“Not Beaverton?”
“No—just with some guys. I mean—gay guys. What’s wrong with Beaverton?”
“Well—those gals are kinda tough.”
“Nothing wrong with tough sometimes.”
“No—I guess not. Anyway, I meant . . . where do you live in the default world?”
“Oh. San Francisco. Valencia Street.”
“Me too. Well . . . Sixteenth, just off Valencia.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Why uh-oh?”
“Well . . . you’re just around the corner. I might come a-callin’.”
“That would be nice,” said Juliette.
“You’re single, then?”
“Yep . . . in the way you mean, at least.”
“I don’t get it.”
Juliette reached down and touched her faintly rounded belly. “Next year there will be two of us.”
Shawna was struck dumb for a moment.
“If that’s too much for you,” said Juliette. “Just say so now. I promise I won’t be offended.”
“No,” said Shawna. “It’s not too much for me at all.”
She moved her hand to Juliette’s belly and let it rest there as she gazed through a patch of tent mesh at the bursting blue moon she’d been promised.
Immaculate conception.
Maybe there was more than one way to do it.