“Funny.”
“The irrepressible Kit Winston, cracking jokes even as she goes under the knife. Or under the vacuum cleaner, as the case may be. You could have fathered a child that somebody aborted. I mean, sleeping around, one-nighters. Look at me, there were three guys I slept with during the period of a couple weeks when it must have happened. And they’ll never know. What could I tell them? ‘I just had an abortion and you’ve got one shot in three of being the father’? So if you slept with somebody who slept with other people too—”
“I get the picture.”
“Or if she had the baby, as far as that goes. There could be all these little Guthrie Wagners scattered around, and they wouldn’t know it and neither would you.”
“Hey, cut it out, huh?”
“I’m sorry. Did I touch a nerve?”
“‘I’ll be gentle,’” he said. “Some gentle.”
Halfway between Cottage Grove and Eugene she said, “You figure it’s a sin?”
“Abortion?”
“No, jaywalking. You weren’t brought up Catholic, were you?”
“Baptist, but then my mother had an argument with somebody and we started going to the Methodist church.”
“I suppose there’s a difference.”
“No end of differences.”
“I always figured goyim was goyim. How are the Baptists and Methodists on abortion?”
“I suppose they’re against it, but it was inconceivable that the question would arise, because screwing was sinful enough in the first place. What are you smiling at?”
“Inconceivable.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t think Jews believe it’s a sin. Oh, the orthodox ones do, but not Jews like my parents.”
“What kind of Jews are your parents?”
“Practical Jews.”
He frowned. “Is Winston a Jewish name? I thought it was English. Winston-Salem, Winston cigarettes.”
“Weinstein, darling.”
“Oh.”
“You didn’t know that? My grandfather changed it. His brother stayed Weinstein, but his brother’s sons changed to Winston, too. And for my sixteenth birthday I got this cute little shiksa nose to match my name.”
“That’s not your nose?”
“It is now. Dr. Perlmutter’s finest work, and I should have asked him to sign it, don’t you think?”
“What was your old nose like?”
“You know, there really wasn’t anything wrong with it. It had character, that’s all. Not quite as much character as Streisand’s, but character all the same.”
“Why did you have it—”
“Done,” she supplied. “Why did I have it done? Beverly fucking Hills, man. And sixteen years old, and my nose was one more thing about myself not to like. Maybe it was a rite of passage, you know, circumcision for girls. How do I know why I did it? It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Jesus, the things I’ve said that about.”
“How about you? That your original nose, kid?”
“My original shiksa nose.”
“Your original sheggitz nose, you mean. Speaking of names, how’d you get named Guthrie? They name you after Woody?”
“You asked me this before.”
“I did?”
“Years ago.”
“Ms. Memory. So tell me again. They named you after Woody?”
He shook his head. “Arlo.”
“Come on.”
“What’s the matter?”
“How old are you? Thirty-six?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“And when did Alice’s Restaurant come out? Twenty years ago?”
“My parents were always on the cutting edge.”
“Anyway, imagine naming a kid after Arlo Guthrie.”
“What’s wrong with Arlo Guthrie?”
“Nothing, you lunatic. Did they name you after Woody or didn’t they?”
“I don’t think they ever heard of Woody Guthrie, and if they had they wouldn’t have named a dog after him. Guthrie was a family name, my mother’s mother’s maiden name. I told you all this.”
“You told some other girl.”
“I told several other girls, but I definitely told you.”
“It does have a faintly familiar ring,” she admitted. “If it’s a family name, maybe you’re related to Woody.”
“Maybe.”
“That’d make you related to Arlo, too.”
“I guess it would, wouldn’t it.”
“I think take the next exit. Not this one but the next one.”
“All right.”
“Guthrie? Honey?” Her hand again, cool on his. “Thanks for doing this. Really.”
The clinic was a compact white clapboard building with parking space in front for a dozen cars. The waiting room was done in Grand Rapids Early American — maple furniture, an oval braided rug. He sat with Kit for twenty minutes. Then her name was called and she followed a nurse through a door.
Another woman, much younger than Kit, sat across from him turning the pages of Runner’s World. The magazines all seemed to be either running magazines or business publications like Forbes and Business Week. They probably indicated the interests of the doctor or doctors who ran the place, he decided, rather than that of the clientele. No Parents’ Magazine, no Modern Bride, no Jack and Jill—
I’m not the father, he wanted to tell the woman across from him. I’m just a friend, just a shoulder to lean on.
Jesus.
You couldn’t smoke in there. One sign told him so, while another thanked him for not smoking. The carrot and the stick, he thought. The good cop and the bad cop.
Outside, he lit a cigarette. There were seven cars in the parking area, he noted, and all of the others looked better than his. Maybe it was time to start feeding the savings account so he’d be able to trade before the end of the year. Of course he could trade now, as far as that went; he had a few dollars in the bank, and the Buick would serve as the down payment if he didn’t go after something fancy. He made good steady money behind the bar at Paddy McGuire’s. His rent was cheap, he owned the Buick free and clear.
No alimony to pay. Thirteen years since he married Aileen, almost eleven since the divorce, and she hadn’t sought alimony. He hadn’t the slightest idea if she’d remarried, or where she was living.
No child support. No children — unless Kit’s fantasy was true and one of his one-nighters had borne fruit.
Not that there had been so many one-nighters. But every once in a while some lady thought it was a good idea to go home with the bartender, and over the years all those ladies added up.
But at least the kids you didn’t know about didn’t cost you anything. Well, check that — there might be a karmic debt, that was always a possibility, but even if there was it didn’t amount to much in dollars and cents. Bastards or no bastards, he could certainly handle a car payment.
Except that he didn’t want to buy a new car. Or another used one.
Nor did he much want to hang onto this one, with its fenders rusting out and its springs starting to sag and its paint checking and God knew what going on under the hood.
He leaned against the car now, a tall lean man with a thick growth of shaggy nut-brown hair. He wore a red plaid flannel shirt and a pair of Lee jeans with the cuffs folded up. His belt had a large brass buckle with Coors in flowing script, a promotional gift from the salesman. He had a pair of waffle-soled Nikes on his feet, good running shoes, but he’d never run in them. He’d gone through a couple pairs of shoes since the last time he did any running.