False Conception Read online

“It’s quite a lovely unit, as you can see,” Mrs. Hapwood was saying. “Remodeled four years ago. All-electric kitchen.”

  “Are utilities included?”

  “You pay everything but water and garbage, and if we go on rationing like three summers ago, I bill you for the surcharge. It’s covered in the lease.”

  I crossed to a pair of sliding doors and stepped onto a small patio enclosed by a wooden fence. I looked right and left and up. “It could get pretty noisy if I need ventilation and there’s a party going on up there. I don’t like to be picky, but I’ve had some bad experiences with inconsiderate people. She’s not a musician, is she?”

  Mrs. Hapwood had turned from gray to pink. “Greta Hammond is as considerate as the day is long. But she’s human, like the rest of us. She’s not a musician but she hums a tune now and then. You don’t like living with human beans, find yourself a mobile home and haul it to Nevada.”

  It was time to back and fill. “I don’t mean to be critical, Mrs. Hapwood. I like the apartment a lot—it’s got great potential, as I’m sure everyone tells you. But it would make it easier if I knew more about Ms. Hammond. Just to reassure myself, you understand. Peace of mind is important in decisions like this, especially if you require a lease.”

  She cocked her head suspiciously. “What do you want to know?”

  “Just about her … lifestyle.”

  Mrs. Hapwood refused to bend, and I admired her stalwart defense of her tenant even though it wasn’t helpful. I don’t run into that sort of courage very often; most people will snitch just to have someone to talk to.

  “I’m not a busybody, mister,” she announced, “She pays the rent; she brings me a plate of cookies along with the check; she comes and goes and no one complains about her, not even one time. That’s all I need to know. If it’s not enough for you, you know the way out.”

  “Is she friends with anyone in the building? Maybe it would help if I could talk to them.”

  “Only one I ever see her with is the woman across the way.”

  “What woman is that?”

  “Heard Greta call her Linda. Lives in the ugly green duplex, don’t know which unit. Has a child, it looks like—little girl. Don’t know if she has a husband; not many seem to these days.”

  I walked to the door and Mrs. Hapwood took one last look around the apartment. By the time she was finished, she seemed to be considering another remodel. “You want it or not?”

  “I’ll need to think it over, but I’m going to try to decide by the end of the day. Will you be in this evening?”

  “I’m in ’less I’m out. Number’s on the sign out front—if you call before you come, you can save yourself a trip if I’m down at the Wishing Well. That’s a tavern, if you don’t know the area. But I always answer the phone when I’m here—I’m not like those people who let their machines do the socializing.”

  As I walked to the door and thanked her for her time, she put her hand on my arm. “You could do worse than get to know a woman like Greta Hammond, if you don’t mind my saying so. She’s younger, of course, but people with kids shouldn’t live alone! Me, I was an only child. Never learned to share or take turns. Always felt it held me back.”

  She closed the door and left me in the piney hallway. From first to last, the gold cat hadn’t moved a muscle.

  CHAPTER 7

  I took a stroll around the block, in case Mrs. Hapwood was keeping tabs on me, then crossed the street and rang both bells in the pea green duplex. No one responded to either ring—you can’t find anyone at home in the daytime anymore—but it was probably just as well, since I wasn’t sure what I would say to the woman, anyway. Tell me, Linda, is your neighbor a child molester? Dope fiend? Bunko artist? Psychopath? Or is she instead a veritable saint with a hospitable womb who would make a matchless mother?

  I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even noon; I had the rest of the day to kill before I could do anything even marginally productive in the Colbert case. I could have gone back to the office, I suppose, but the office was a long way off and I’d been spending too much time there, anyway—the place had started to depress me, harking back to a problematic past rather than pointing toward a fulfilling future. So I crossed the office off the list, then drove to the core of Golden Gate Park, stowed my car under an ailing eucalyptus, and purchased a pass to the California Academy of Sciences, home of the planetarium, the aquarium, and the museum of natural history. Apparently my search for a starter home for an embryonic Homo sapiens had piqued my interest in other forms of life as well.

  As I made my way into the dark recesses of the aquarium and the museum, I fell more and more under the spell of the natural world and reverted to that magical state of youth that features a trait that deserts us all too quickly—the capacity for awe and fascination. The marvels that were seahorses and sharks and sea anemones soon whisked me off to a world far different from the one in which I made my living, a world of natural balance and functional elegance, a world of infinite variety and essential interdependence, a world in which man was ever and always insignificant. The only thing that world and mine had in common was that man was too often an enemy, even as he built monuments such as this one.

  With increasing fascination, I was absorbed by the yin and yang of exhibited existence, from the giddy dolphins to the grumpy gar, from the glorious wildebeest to the skulking jackal, and a host of other creatures posed behind windows sporting far too many “Endangered” stickers.

  There’s a new hypothesis afloat these days, a concept called biophilia, that says that millions of years of evolution have left human beings with a genetically based need to affiliate with the rest of the living world. It’s why we like rooms with a view, and go to zoos, and fawn over pets and flower gardens, and pull to the side of the road to watch deer scamper off to the forest. The natural world may in fact be a precious source of sanity, the theory suggests. I didn’t know if my tour of the academy was fulfilling a genetic need, but I did know that halfway through my journey I became aware that I was grinning like one of the hyenas that was roaming a barren diorama behind a sheet of safety glass.

  I sobered up and continued my tour. Much as I enjoyed the lower evolutionary orders, the children who swirled about me for a better look at the rattlesnakes and pythons, and pitched pennies onto the backs of crocodiles to prove they were alive, were an even more potent source of vigor. Youth breeds youth, Betty Fontaine liked to tell me when explaining her devotion to her work, and sharing space with so many vital minds and bodies made me feel at one with the universe of man and nature, as if I was some small part of their joint and several destinies. By the time I was sipping some Darjeeling within the cool tranquility of the Japanese Tea Garden, it was three in the afternoon and I felt better than I had in months.

  I still had time to kill before I could make a final pass at Greta, so after I’d finished my tea and my almond cookie, I drove up to the medical center, a perpetually expanding empire that was engulfing its immediate environment inexorably, despite the protests of longtime residents—when it comes to health, we happily waive the rules. I stowed my car in the garage and spent enough time in the library to review articles on surrogate motherhood and alternative reproduction in both popular and professional journals, getting up to speed.

  Nothing I learned was particularly surprising. It was estimated that in the past decade more than four hundred births in California, and over ten times that nationwide, had resulted from surrogate arrangements, but only six of the California births had resulted in legal wrangles, a surprisingly small number. It was also estimated that the medical risks involved—the risk to the surrogate’s health during pregnancy, and the risk that the artificial insemination of sperm, or in vitro fertilization of the ovum, or the implantation of a previously frozen embryo, might be harmful to the resulting fetus—were only infinitesimally larger than the risks from normal conception. Which was as reassuring to me as I’m sure it had been to the Colberts.

  It was also clea
r from my reading that the way the Colberts were proceeding—keeping their participation anonymous through the entire term of the pregnancy and the date of surrender of the child—was not the recommended approach. Nor was it the norm that the surrogate be unmarried. And the pricely sum they were paying Greta Hammond was far in excess of the usual remuneration for such services, which was ten thousand dollars. There was probably a reason for all this; luckily, I didn’t have to find out what it was.

  By the time I’d finished my research, much of the staff was leaving for the evening. I lingered near the elevator that took people down to Irving Street, hoping to see Greta Hammond in the company of a friend or cohort I could tap for information, but my hopes went unfulfilled—I’d forgotten she planned to visit Marie from the restaurant. After half an hour of doing little more than killing time, I joined the parade of vehicles inching their way down the western slope of the hill, and ten minutes later I was back on Kirkham Street doing what I do most, which is waiting.

  She came down the street at a little after six, carrying another bag of groceries, exactly as chipper as she had been that morning. I gave her half an hour, then rang her bell.

  “Yes?” The voice that emerged from the intercom seemed excessively alert.

  “My name is Tanner, Ms. Hammond. We met at Leo’s cafe this morning. I was looking for an apartment and you were nice enough to mention that there was a place in your building for rent.”

  She hesitated, then spoke with measured graciousness. “I remember. Have you rented it?”

  “No, but I talked to Ms. Hapwood, and looked at some other places in the area, but before making a decision I need to know more about the school situation. I was hoping you’d be willing to answer some questions. It will only take ten minutes,” I added when she didn’t say anything encouraging. “I’d be happy to talk in the lobby, or meet you at the café. Or wherever.”

  “I’m fixing dinner.” She paused, then sighed, then relented. “You might as well come up. Number seven, second floor rear.”

  She buzzed me through the entrance, and opened the door to her apartment after my second knock. The look on her face was far more wary than the untroubled countenance she’d worn at breakfast, but even so, there was an expectant look about her, as though life had given her more good than bad over the years, even in the form of serendipity.

  I bowed and smiled and gave her a flyer that had been stuck in her box—I think it promoted Prell. She was out of her work uniform and into a pair of faded Levi’s and a snug yellow T-shirt. Her feet were bare, her eyes were greener than I remembered, and her shaggy mop of brown hair seemed more lustrous and uninhibited. If she was drained by her day with the sick and dying, there weren’t any signs of it.

  I wrinkled my nose and she caught me at it.

  “Sauerkraut,” she said with a grin. “Sorry. I fix a batch every six months or so. I’m not that crazy about it, frankly; I think I only eat it to make everything else seem better.” She regarded me closely, and took a step back. “I have to check the stove. Sorry I can’t ask you to stay, but there isn’t enough to go round. I’m careful not to leave leftovers.”

  “No problem,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have come at dinnertime. I shouldn’t have come at all without calling beforehand, but I was walking down the street and there wasn’t a telephone in sight and my quarters were all gone anyway, so …” I shrugged. “I’m not big on sauerkraut, either,” I added, just to be back on track with the truth.

  Greta gestured at the couch, told me to have a seat, then went off to the kitchen. When she got there, she banged some pans and opened some doors and gave me a chance to take inventory.

  The house was tidy but not antiseptic, cozy and lived in and comfortable. The furnishings were simple and cheap and derivative—fake Eames chair, spindly Scandinavian couch, scarred Mediterranean table, and genuine Levitz dinette. Three throw rugs diluted the relentless beige of the carpet and some Degas reproductions enlivened the off-white igloo formed by the featureless walls. There were lots of books lying around, mostly historical novels from the library, and some tapes of what looked to be primarily vintage rock and roll. I was glad to see someone besides me was holding out against the CD and living like a grad student.

  Along one wall was an old oak table that served as a desk. When I heard more noises coming from the kitchen, I decided to snoop. The first drawer held bank statements, utility bills, and shopping receipts scattered among rubber bands and paper clips and broken ballpoint pens. I wrote as many account numbers in my notebook as I could, along with a phone number in San Bruno that was her only extra charge.

  Near the back of the other drawer was a small stack of photographs, old and faded, bound with a rubber band that was close to wearing out. The top photo was a yellowing snapshot of two couples who looked to be in their forties, handsome, dapper, and carefree, wearing the wide lapels, elaborate neckties, and short thin skirts that dated the shot from the sixties. I thought one of the men looked familiar; the rest of them were strangers. The man and woman on the ends were gazing fondly at each other; the other couple looked straight ahead with impatience.

  I extracted the snapshot and turned it over. The note on the back was scrawled in pencil, faded nearly to oblivion: “Just something I’d like you to have. Love, Dad.” I looked at the photo a second time. One couple who loved each other and one that didn’t any longer was my guess, and my next guess was that it wasn’t relevant to what I was doing.

  I was about to make a quick trip through the rest of the photos when I sensed silence in the kitchen. I eased the desk drawer closed as quietly as I could, but I was too slow and she caught me at it.

  She was insulted and let me know it, with crossed arms and a withering look. But for some reason she gave me time to invent an explanation.

  “Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was just wondering where you bank.”

  Her words were as cool as custard. “Why would you want to know that?”

  “I figured I’d bank there, too, if I end up in the neighborhood. You look like a person who would know the best place to do things like that. Rates and fees and all that.”

  I thought she bought it but I wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure, either.

  “I’ve got five minutes before I have to dish up the kraut,” she informed me brusquely, far more guarded than before. “What is it you want to know?”

  I resumed my role as parent and nomad; like most performances, it got easier each time.

  “I spent the day walking around the area, and I like the neighborhood a lot. I don’t know if I’ll take the unit below—Ms. Hapwood didn’t seem to happy when I told her I couldn’t go more than six hundred—but there’s a place over on Judah that … anyway, what I was wondering was where the grade schools are. And how they stack up, academically. And also whether there are any evening and weekend activities for children nearby, like a YMCA or something. Kids have so many temptations these days, I want to make sure Jason keeps active.”

  Greta nodded to how that she shared my concern, then compressed her lips as she drafted an answer. “Let’s see. The nearest grade school is Jefferson, on Irving and Seventeenth. It’s okay, but my friend Linda sends her Ingrid to Argonne. It’s on Seventeenth as well, but on the north side of the park.”

  “Why does she go clear over there?”

  “Argonne’s what they call an alternative school. It’s more … progressive, I suppose you would say—better mix of kids, wider variety of programs, greater opportunity for parent participation and special help. Plus Linda’s gotten to know some of the teachers; they look out for Ingrid on the playground. Linda says these days you want all the help you can get. How old is your boy?”

  “Ten. I suppose he should go to Argonne, too.”

  “You’ll probably have to pull strings. School assignments are very political in the city these days—it’s a full-time job trying to get your child in the right one.”

  I shook my head in wonde
rment. “In Redding you just find the nearest school and go to it. I hope I don’t make a mistake that will set Jason back.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  “I hope so. But he’s getting hard to handle.”

  “I imagine ten is a difficult age.”

  I shrugged helplessly. “Seems to me every age is a difficult age.”

  Greta’s look turned gloomy. “I wouldn’t know.”

  I waited for the explanation she seemed on the verge of making, but when it didn’t come, I made our encounter more personal. “Enough about kids; how about grown-ups? Are there places to go and things to do close by? Or is that kind of action downtown?”

  I’d struck a wrong note—Greta Hammond frosted fast. “It depends on what you mean by action, I imagine.”

  I tried to look suitably shamed. “Places to meet people, I guess.”

  She shrugged noncommittally. “If by people you mean women, I’m not sure what to tell you. There’s Yancy’s down on Irving. It’s just a neighborhood bar, but it’s relaxed and friendly. Sometimes you see people there. The Little Shamrock on Lincoln is nice, too.”

  “Do you go there yourself? Sorry,” I said when her eyes hardened warily. “I didn’t mean to get personal.”

  In spite of my impudence, she couldn’t suppress her friendliness. “I do stop by Yancy’s once in a while, as a matter of fact. Usually with a girlfriend after a movie. Sometimes it’s fun and sometimes it’s boring. And sometimes it’s disgusting.”

  “When guys hit on you, you mean?”

  She nodded but didn’t elaborate.

  I waited till she met my eye, then looked away bashfully. “Are you divorced?” I asked timidly.

  Her nostrils flared as she searched my face for implication, so I became the innocent abroad. “I don’t mean to pry. I just … Jason and I don’t seem to be back to normal, yet. Either of us. I was wondering how long it takes.”

  She blinked to clear her eyes. “Years.”

  “My wife just up and left. Every time the phone rings I think it’s going to be her, saying she wants to come back. I can’t get used to the situation.”