Yellow

"Jen gaining weight?"

Rob senses rather than sees Vince turn to glance at him, his whole body shifting to do it, the leather creaking beneath him: a big, stiff-necked man.

"Saw her through the window this morning. In her robe. Looked a little, I don't know--plump?"

Plump. Has Jen grown plump? Rob debates the matter, watching the snowflakes rush past the windshield, too light, too dry to stick; Vince hasn't bothered to turn on the wipers yet. Well, why not? Plump is as accurate as any other word. Portly, padded, porcine: His wife is growing plump, a little pink pig posing before the window in her bathrobe.

"Pregnant," he says, surprising himself. He has no idea where the word comes from but, having uttered it, accepts it and lets it hang there in the darkened car.

That shifting glance again from Vince, but quicker this time, a double take. "No shit?"

Rob nods. A joke, he thinks. They'll spend the ride home talking about due dates, doctors' appointments, all the changes a child would thrust upon his life. He tries to think of funny names, imagines Vince struggling to seem supportive: Anatole and Erasmus, Barbie and Petunia. Or Orange, maybe--a girl named Orange. Why should Vince always be the one to make the jokes?

Vince slaps the wheel with his big hand. "Well, fuck, man! That's great, isn't it? I mean, it's good, right? It's something you wanted?"

Rob lifts an arm, an abbreviated shrug, still running names in his mind. Would Yellow be better than Orange? He smiles again, picturing a jaundiced little girl, plump and blonde like her mother. Hello, Yellow.

"Jen's happy? Jen must be happy."

"Of course," Rob says.

She would be, too. Jen comes from a big family; she'd want to quit her job, embrace the thing wholeheartedly. They'd have to move, he supposes, to a larger house, a better school district, something they can't afford just now. Rob works in the Parks Department, in procurement, a civil servant. He spends his days arranging for the purchase of fertilizer and grass seed, new swings for the playgrounds, dark green uniforms for the rangers. That's what Vince likes to call him--Ranger Rob. He's a bureaucrat, a pencil pusher, but Vince won't accept this. At barbecues, when someone's struggling with the grill, he'll shout, "Let Ranger Rob do it. He knows how to build a fire." Vince is an estate lawyer. He already has a bigger house.

Vince flicks his blinker--click, click, click, click--shifts lanes. "How far along?" he asks.

Time for bed, Red, Rob is thinking. Tie your shoe, Blue. Don't frown, Brown. A little rainbow of children. A boxful of crayons. "Hmm?" he says.

"When's she due?"

"August," Rob answers, reflexively, thinking of his own birthday, then briefly panics, worried it's too distant, a 10- or 11-month pregnancy. He counts quickly in his head, but he's safe. Seven months. A December conception.

Vince is obviously making the same calculations. "No way--on the trip?"

The trip. Barbados, the two couples sharing a condo for a week. Rob and Jen lying in their bed each night, listening through the thin walls as Vince and Grace fucked their way into sleep. One of them, he and Jen couldn't decide which, made an odd barking sound in the climb toward climax. Jen had hid her face in her pillow, laughing. There was the sense--was it something Jen had said?--that Vince and Grace themselves had been trying to get pregnant. Unsuccessfully. For some time. But had Jen actually known this or merely been guessing? Rob wavers for an instant, contrite, searching for a way to wave his joke aside, harmlessly, a silly prank, but it doesn't come, not easily enough, and Vince is waiting. So he nods. "Little island baby," he says. "How cool is that?"

"Well, Christ. I...." Vince can't seem to find the words. Both hands grip the wheel, and he stares at the car ahead of them, the telegraphic dot-dot-dash of its brake lights. The snow is growing thicker, traffic slowing. "Big news," he says, finally. "Big, big news."

And that's it. No more congratulations, no more questions. Yellow is poised in Rob's head; he's waiting, eager to speak the word--Yellow, we're thinking of naming her Yellow--but Vince refuses to indulge him. He's sunk into himself, mute, concentrating on the driving, the pavement growing slick beneath them. Rob glances toward him, the hunch of his shoulders. His jaw is working--flexing, relaxing, flexing.

They reach their exit off the turnpike, then the long wait at the tollbooth, inching, inching, inching, the lowered window with its refreshing draft of cold, the wordless exchange of money, the acceleration onto route 78--a span of 10 minutes, maybe even 15--and still Vince is silent. The snow is growing wet now, the flakes larger. Vince turns on the wipers, and they go thump-thump, thump-thump as they slide across the windshield. "Can I ask you something?" he says, finally. "Hypothetically?"

"Shoot."

"You're an honest guy, aren't you? I mean, in a deep way?"

"I suppose."

"Always the best policy, right? Even if there might be a little pain involved?"

"That's what they say."

"Hmm." Vince taps the wheel with his fingers, thinking. "It's tricky. A tricky situation. Not certain how to play it."

Rob is silent, waiting.

"Play it straight, don't you think?" Vince asks. "Friends, even if it's tricky, they ought to play it straight."

"That's right."

Vince shifts in his seat, clears his throat. He reaches toward his collar, as if to loosen his tie, but then just drops his hand back to the wheel. "So. Here's the thing. This baby. Jen's baby."

Silence.

"Go on," Rob prompts.

But Vince has changed course suddenly; he waves the whole thing away. "Fuck it. Nothing. It's great. Congratulations. Really. That's all."

Rob turns to watch him. Vince's jaw is still working, his hands tight on the wheel. Jealous, maybe. Rob experiences a hint of pleasure--guilty pleasure, but pleasure nonetheless. He likes having something in his life for Vince to envy, even if it's imaginary. There's a fraternal quality to their friendship, and with it a sense of hierarchy: Vince has always played the big brother--gregarious, confident, worldly--leaving Rob to tag along two steps behind, hesitant and deferential. But now Rob has found himself out in front, and he likes the feeling. He has to fight to keep from smiling.

Vince senses his gaze, shifts to meet it. "What?"

"Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"What you were gonna say. About the baby."

"Fuck it, Rob. Seriously. It was stupid."

"I want to hear."

"No you don't."

"Don't be an ass, Vince. You started to say something. You have to finish it."

Vince sighs. He reaches toward his neck again, and this time he follows through, loosening his tie, undoing the top button on his shirt.

"All right. The baby."

"Yellow."

Vince falters at this, peering toward him through the darkened car. "What?"

"We're going to call her Yellow."

"You're joking."

Rob shakes his head. "We talked about it. Last night. Yellow Keegan."

"That's dumb, Rob. You can't name a baby Yellow."

"Of course we can."

"What do you think you are? Hippies?"

Vince sounds genuinely angry at the idea, and it sets off a responding rush of anger in Rob. They've picked a name for their baby; what right does Vince have to criticize it? He gives Vince an impatient wave. "Just say what you meant to say."

They pass a snowplow dropping salt, its flashing lights briefly illuminating the car's interior. Vince sighs. He speaks without looking at Rob, his eyes on the road in front of them, the swirling snow. "Fine," he says. "Here's the thing. The tricky thing. About the baby. What I maybe shouldn't tell you, but then again--"

"Would you please just say it?"

"It might not be yours."

There's a little parenthesis of lost time here--maybe 10 seconds--while Rob struggles to grasp the import of this remark. "What're you saying?"

A shrug from Vince. "It's something you'd want to know, isn't it? If it were true?"

"The baby might not be mine."

"That's right."

"Because?"

"Well, that's the pain part."

"Why wouldn't it be mine, Vince?"

"You have to listen now, all right? You have to wait to get mad till you've heard the whole story. Because maybe it sounds like something it's not. Something worse."

Rob waits.

"It might be mine," Vince says.

Rob sees something close to a smile tug at Vince's face, just a hint, quickly suppressed. Immediately, he thinks: The dog, the Fowlers' yellow Lab. He sighs. "Fuck you, Vince. You botched it--you smiled. That same little half smile you had when Jack Fowler came to ask about their dog."

Vince doesn't say anything. He's squinting slightly, as if trying to decipher what Rob is talking about: Jack Fowler? A dog?

The Fowlers had gone to Europe for a month. They'd left their dog--still a puppy, not quite a year old--with (continued on page 118)Yellow(continued from page 110) Grace and Vince. Vince spent the month training the dog. Every morning, before he left for work, he gleefully mixed up commands, crossing wires. A joke. By the end of the month the word stay would send the dog running off across the yard. Down would get him to jump against your chest. Sit, and he'd stand on his hind legs. Shake, he'd lift his leg and pee. Rob was there when Jack Fowler came calling, with a puzzled expression on his face, two days after their return. He remembered that half smile of Vince's as he denied everything. Rex was the dog's name: the king of confusion. It was great fun, an immense hit at the neighborhood cocktail parties and barbecues, until stay sent the dog running into the road one afternoon, under the wheels of a school bus.

"It's not funny," Rob says. "I was excited to tell you. This is...." He searches for a phrase with the necessary heft. "A huge moment in my life. It's not something to joke about."

Vince hits his blinker, shifts to the far right lane, eases them onto the median. He brings them to a stop, hazards flashing. It's a narrow median. There's a low cement wall on one side, traffic rushing past on the other. Vince puts the car in park, shuts off the wipers, then sits for a moment, silent, his hands resting lightly on the wheel. The traffic sends snow swirling across the windshield in sudden gusts. When a truck passes, the entire car shudders in its wake. "I'm not joking," Vince says.

Another truck passes, shaking the car again. We shouldn't be parked here, Rob thinks. We're going to get hit. "You're saying--"

"That's right."

"You and Jen."

Vince nods, still not looking at him.

Rob laughs, but it feels forced. "This isn't funny. Really. It's stupid."

Vince stares straight ahead, waiting him out.

"You're such an ass. You know that?" Rob's voice has jumped in volume, rebelliously, against his will. He tries to bring it back, but it only grows louder: "You're such a goddamn--" But he can't think of another name to call him. Ass is all he can drag up, and it seems silly to say it again. "You're jealous, aren't you?"

Vince gives him a startled look. "Jealous?"

"You can't have your own baby, so you try to shit on mine."

"What're you talking about?"

"You and Grace, you're trying to get pregnant, and you--"

"We're not trying to get pregnant."

Rob falters at this, frowning. "You're not?"

Vince shakes his head.

"Jen said you're trying to get pregnant."

Vince lifts his hands, lets them drop. "News to me."

The snow is falling heavily now, coating the car's windows, muffling everything: the passing lights, the wet sound of tires speeding through the salt melt. Only the trucks maintain their proximity; they seem to slap at the car as they rush by.

"This doesn't have to be a big deal, Rob."

Rob gives him an incredulous look. He wishes they weren't in the car; he wants to jump up, pace about. "You fucked my wife?" he says. "You had an affair? And that's not a big deal?"

"It's not like that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"We slept together ... a moment of weakness."

"Once?"

Vince frowns, seems to conduct an internal debate.

"How many times, Vince?"

"Three."

Rob takes that in. There was a first time, then a second one and then a third. "You and Jen," he says. "The two of you. Three times."

Vince nods. "It was a vacation thing. It was stupid. I have no idea what we were thinking."

The car's heater is on too high; Rob can feel his shirt sticking damply to his back. He considers struggling out of his jacket, but he can't find the strength to move. He's heard enough; they should go home now. "Tell me," he says. "Tell me everything."

Vince spends long enough thinking this through that Rob starts to suspect he might not speak at all. Then, abruptly, he begins to talk:

"It was our third day down there. You got too much sun in the morning. On your neck." He reaches up, touches the back of his own neck. "Remember? You forgot to put on sunscreen?"

Rob nods, feeling it again for an instant, that band of burning rawness. Just turning his head had threatened to bring tears to his eyes.

"Grace drank too much the night before. She was hungover--you know how she gets. When you said that you were heading back to the condo, she went too."

Rob nods again--he remembers all this well enough.

"She slept, I think," Vince says. "A nap. I don't know what you did."

"I took a bath."

"Yeah?"

Rob makes a rolling motion with his hand, urging Vince back on course.

"So we're on the beach, reading. You know, just a normal sort of afternoon down there--"

Rob makes the rolling motion with his hand again. "I don't need you to paint a fucking picture. I just--"

"All I'm--"

"Get to the point, Vince. Don't tell me about the beach. Don't tell me what you were reading. Either tell me--right now--how you fucked my wife, or I'm climbing out of the car." He reaches for the door handle.

Vince pats at the air, calming him, nodding. "We went for a swim," he says. "Late in the afternoon, right before we were gonna leave. The two of us, standing out in the water, just beyond where the waves were breaking. Bobbing up and down in the swells. That warm water--remember how warm it was?"

"The point, Vince."

"Right. The point. We were bobbing up and down in the swells, and one of them--it sort of threw Jen against me. I caught her, held her up. And she slipped her arm around my neck. It was innocent, you know? Nothing sexual. We were just deep enough that it was hard for her to touch the bottom, so it seemed natural to keep standing like that, my arm around her waist, her arm around my shoulder, bobbing in the waves. Talking. And I guess at some point she kind of straddled me--my hip, I mean. Like a baby would--can you picture that?"

He turns to look at Rob, but Rob just stares at him. Of course he can picture it.

"There was nothing flirtatious about it--like I said, it seemed natural. We kept talking--where we might go for dinner, that sort of thing. We were bobbing up and down, pressed together, me in my trunks, Jen in that little yellow bikini of hers. And I guess at some (continued on page 147)Yellow(continued from page 118) point, without even realizing it, I started to get an erection. But even then, I wasn't ... I mean, I didn't have any intention of... you know...." He makes a vague gesture, as if he were shooing away a fly.

"Go on," Rob says.

"Her leg brushed against it. And she laughed." He thinks for a moment, smiling. "She's got such a great laugh, doesn't she? I love Jen's laugh."

"The point, Vince."

"She said, 'I felt a fish!' And then we both laughed. I was embarrassed; I was ready to pull away, but she kept her arm around my neck. And then, kind of smiling, she reached down and touched it."

"Your penis."

"That's right. Just pressed her hand against it. Through the suit, I mean."

"And then?"

There's something in Rob's voice that gives Vince pause. He turns, examines Rob, squinting slightly.

"Maybe you don't really want to hear this."

Of course not, Rob thinks. "Tell me," he says.

Vince hesitates, as if expecting him to change his mind. Then he sighs. "We kissed."

"You kissed her? Or she kissed you?"

"Both." Vince thinks about it, then shrugs. "I mean, I guess I kissed her."

Rob tries to feel some relief in this, but it doesn't come. She reached down and touched his penis: Who cares who kissed whom first? Again, he says the two words: "And then?"

"She sort of swung around so she was straddling me from the front, and we kept bobbing like that in the waves, kissing and smiling at each other, like we were maybe gonna stop at any moment, but then not stopping, kissing some more, pressing together. Then she reached down and pulled me out of my suit and kind of guided me ... you know ... into her."

"You fucked her. In the ocean."

Vince nods. "Ever done that?"

"Fucked a friend's wife in the ocean?"

Vince waves Rob's words away, a little impatient. "Had sex in the water." He glances at Rob, waits for him to shake his head. "Me either. Always kind of fantasized about it. Not with Jen--just the general idea of it. Grace isn't much of a swimmer. So I never had the chance. Bit of a disappointment, actually. Not Jen's fault, of course. The water gets in and...." He shrugs. "Everything feels kind of far away. Didn't even come, tell the truth."

Rob doesn't mean to speak but can't help himself. "Did she?"

Vince makes a strange noise. "This is weird, right? Talking like this? It's probably not the right way to do it. I wish I'd had time to think things through. You told me about the baby, and I just...." He shakes his head.

Rob's hands have begun to cramp. He's been making fists in his lap, without realizing it, squeezing them. He opens his fingers, flexes, wiggles. Time to go home, he thinks. Definitely time to go home. "Did she come, Vince?"

"Yeah, she came."

"And then?"

"She gave me a hand job."

"In the water?"

Vince nods. "Laughing, you know? Both of us. Like it was a joke. And it was, too. I'm sure it doesn't feel that way to you right now, but that's how it was to us, something funny that happened on the beach that day. An odd little adventure."

Rob can remember Jen coming back to the condo. He had that drugged, too-much-sun, half-dressed-in-the-afternoon feeling. She came in, her hair still damp from the ocean. Happy--smiling and chattering. And why not? She was 30 years old, tan and rested, on vacation with her husband and their two good friends. They'd left their window open the first night and in the morning had awakened to find a bird perched on the bedpost above them. Bright blue. It had roused them with its singing. Of course she was happy. She hugged him--bent for a quick embrace as she headed to the shower. They went out to dinner that night with Grace and Vince, lobsters all around. Everyone drank too much, became loud and giggly. Grace knocked over Vince's water glass, and it shattered on the stone floor. Waiters converged on the table, bearing towels, a broom. There was much laughter, slurred apologies, a little extra in the tip, then it was back to the condominium, Rob and Jen lying on their bed, laughing into the pillows as Vince and Grace jounced their way toward climax. It must be Grace who makes the noise, Rob decides. Or maybe not. Maybe Vince barked, seal-like, as Jen jerked him off, bobbing up and down in the waves.

It's not a big deal. Rob wants to believe these words, react with a pensive shrug, a knowing smile. The capriciousness of love, the volatility of desire. Cupid, after all, is a child with a bow and arrow; terrible things are bound to happen, and in the end, one has to admit that it's not a big deal. But he knows he'll never let this go.

"You said three times."

Vince sighs. "Is this really how you want to do this?"

Rob just stares at him, waiting him out, and finally Vince begins, once more, to speak.

"Remember that restaurant we went to? On the other side of the island? Like a chateau, with those weird gables?"

Rob nods.

"Toward the end of the meal, Jen and I got up to go to the bathroom. We weren't planning anything. It sounds weird, but we hadn't even spoken about it--what we'd done. Two whole days together--no meaningful looks, no guilty smiles, nothing. And this was no different. Down the stairs talking, just like normal. You go to the bathroom there?"

Rob half shakes his head, half shrugs. He can't remember.

"There was a men's and a women's room, side by side at the base of the stairs. Jen stepped inside the women's room, and there was this odd moment. She turned to shut the door and sort of hesitated, smiling at me. Not really an invitation--I don't think you could call it that--just that playful smile of hers." He shrugs. "I stepped forward, slipped into the little room with her. 'We can't,' she said. But she was already shutting the door. Then she was hitching up her skirt, and we were both laughing again. She said, 'We have to be quick.' I got my pants down around my knees, and she bent over the sink. And we just went at it. We were laughing the whole time--nervous laughter, giddy. Just pounding away--it probably didn't take more than two or three minutes, just fast, hard fucking." He pauses, seems to debate if he should stop, but then can't help it: "It was great, man. I know it's totally wrong to tell you that, but it was the best sex I've ever had, hands down."

He laughs, shakes his head--he can't help himself, he's so full of the moment. It's as if he were talking to someone else, someone sympathetic: a confidant.

"Know what happened?" he asks. "Jen pulled the fucking sink out of the wall. I'm serious: The bolts came right out of the wall. I'm guessing, if I'm the father, that's when it happened. We came--" He snaps his fingers twice, quickly. "One after the other. Then, up with the pants, tuck in the shirt and I'm gone. Jen stayed to pee. There were two women waiting outside--two prim-looking older women, and they were smirking and shaking their heads, pretending to scold me. They'd heard the whole thing."

Rob remembers the restaurant. He doesn't remember Vince and Jen going off together, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. He and Grace are comfortable together; they're both soft-spoken, quick to laugh, and they would've talked easily enough, covering their spouses' absence without much effort.

"And then?" Rob asks.

"What do you mean?"

"The third time."

Once more, Vince sighs, gives him the pained look, and once more Rob waits him out. "At the airport," he says. "As we were leaving."

"The airport!" Rob exclaims. As if this, finally, is the last straw.

Vince nods. "We dropped you and Grace off at the curb with the luggage, then went to return the car. Remember?"

Rob remembers: wrestling the bags out of the trunk, fumbling with his wallet to tip the porter, Grace offering her own wad of brightly colored bills, which Rob waved away.

"We had to talk, you know. We had to get our heads straight. And we both agreed: It wouldn't happen again. Ever. It was an island thing, and that's where it'd stay. Just this weird vacation adventure. It took maybe 30 seconds to discuss. Then we just drove--around the airport, that long access road to the rental lot. Gravel, or crushed shells--I don't know--but you had to drive slow on it."

"The point, Vince."

"This is the point. If we'd driven faster, we might not have, you know...."

"Fucked."

Vince nods. "Exactly. Jen was driving. We were almost at the lot. Jen said, 'I guess there's one thing we didn't get to do.' Then she licked her lips in this exaggerated way and glanced down at my lap."

Rob can imagine I felt a fish, he can even imagine the sink pulled from the wall, but the licked lips, the coy glance, trips him up: It isn't Jen. "Jen wouldn't do that," he says. His voice is vehement, loud.

"You want to hear this or--"

"She wouldn't. I know her. I just--"

"I'm telling you what happened, Rob. Maybe you don't want to believe it or hear it or whatever, and I can understand that. But what I'm telling you? It's the truth."

Rob is silent, frowning. Finally, he rolls his hand again.

"I said, 'Still on the island, aren't we?' We both laughed, and I started to undo my belt buckle, half joking, you know? But she pulled over and put the car in park."

"She sucked you off."

"She started to. Then I cranked the seat back, and she slid out from behind the wheel, climbed on top of me, her dress up around her waist, both of us trying to do it fast. But it was too cramped, too awkward--it was taking too long. The car was growing hot, and we were both beginning to sweat. Then I saw the rental guy walking toward us up the road, shielding his eyes. The sun was bouncing off the windshield. I don't think he could see what we were doing. 'Someone's coming,' I said. And Jen--she thought I meant me, 'cause I was close, and she could tell. 'Wait,' she said, 'wait for me.' "

He laughs, then notices the way Rob is staring at him and stops.

" 'It's the rental guy,' I said. And she threw herself off me just as I came--half in her, half on her dress. Which she was angry about afterward. She was afraid you'd notice. The stain, I mean."

Rob and Grace had checked the bags, gotten their boarding passes. They waited in a tiny coffee shop for Vince and Jen to return on the shuttle bus. The end of the vacation: Everyone was a little somber. Jen slept on the plane, curled away from him, covered with a blanket, head resting against the window.

"That's it," Vince says. "That's the whole thing."

It's grown dark inside the car. Vince is a dim shape across from Rob, motionless. The windows are completely covered with snow now; the passing headlights offer only a vague glow. If they're not careful, they'll get stuck here, snowed in.

It's not a big deal. Those words again, and then, because they're not enough, because they have no hold on him: He's lying. Vince is a joker, a jester; he prides himself on this. And it's true--he's fun to be around. But he's not a trustworthy person.

"You're lying," Rob says. "She doesn't find you attractive."

Vince turns to look at him. "Come again?"

"You're fat. You smell in the heat--like a dog. And you're coarse. Jen's put off by it. She says she can see the peasant in you. Grunting over a hunk of bread, wiping your snot on your sleeve."

This is half true. Vince is a heavyset man, a former athlete going softer each year. And his sweat does have a sharp, pungent odor to it. But the peasant comment: Here things grow more tangled. Jen and Rob have a game they play, peasants and lords. They think of their friends and try to imagine what they might have been, centuries earlier. Most everyone falls into the peasant category, including themselves; it's so rare to meet a lord or a lady. They'd agreed that Vince would've worked in a country tavern, rolling giant barrels of mead across the dirt floor.

And then there's the untruth, the lie that Rob wants to be true: Jen has never expressed a revulsion for Vince.

"You're angry," Vince says. "Of course you are. It's natural. You want to lash out, cause some pain. I would too. But what you have to ask yourself is: Why would I make this up?"

"Because you're bored. Because your life is empty and you're trying to entertain yourself, to show how clever you are. Because you don't know the difference between a joke and the rest of life. Killing a dog--you think that's funny?"

Vince is staring at him, his mouth hanging partway open, lost. "What're you talking about?"

"You killed Rex."

"Rob--"

"To show how clever you are."

"Listen to me--"

"That dog's blood is on your fucking--"

"Jen's nipples." Vince raises his hand into the air between them, the tip of his forefinger touching the tip of his thumb. "They're like this, aren't they?"

Rob falls silent, staring at the O Vince is making. It's the size of a silver dollar.

"And she's got a mole. A dark brown mole. On her right breast." He touches his own chest, poking it with his finger. "A tiny one, maybe a half inch above her nipple."

Rob waves this aside. "You've seen down her shirt."

"Your dick is bent. When it gets hard, it bends to the left. Like a hockey stick. In the beginning, she was freaked out by it. She had a hard time touching it. She asked if there was a way to get it fixed."

Rob doesn't answer. There's the feeling of static in his head.

"How would I know this, Rob? Seriously. Answer me that."

Static. Or steel wool. Steel wool giving off a shower of sparks.

"I was going to tell you anyway," Vince says. "I felt I ought to. Or get Jen to tell you. But this baby--it startled the news out of me."

Not static, not sparks: a wind. A wind rushing through his body.

"There must be a test they can do, don't you think?" Vince is peering at him in the dim light. It's clear he can't sense the static, the sparks, the wind. "DNA," he says. "Can they do a DNA test in the womb? If we catch it early ... I assume you guys wouldn't want to ... you know...."

The static, the sparks, the wind, whatever it is: It's growing more intense, filling Rob with panic. He reaches for the door, pushes it open. Cold air and a swirl of snow leap into the car. The sound of the traffic, too, the smell of exhaust. Rob has an image of himself running down the highway, bounding, deerlike, in the passing headlights, cars honking, but his seat belt is still on, and the door swings only five inches before it hits the low cement wall beside them. Both obstacles stop him, the seat belt jerking him back with a grunt, the door making a grinding thump as it hits the cement.

Perhaps it's not panic. Perhaps it's anger.

Rob starts to bang the door. He pulls it toward him, then slams it outward, with all his strength, again and again and again. There's static, sparks, wind and--above everything--the wonderful sound of cement scraping paint from metal.

He hears Vince's voice, far away: "Hey, watch the--" Then there's a hand on his shoulder, grabbing at him, pulling him back from the door.

Rob spins, swings at Vince: flailing, windmilling. Vince responds with an equal lack of grace. Both of them are still wearing their seat belts: They're like a pair of giant toddlers, strapped into a stroller, slapping at each other. Rob is making a noise that feels fury-filled and fiercely righteous but sounds closer to a wail. It's cut off, abruptly, by the back of Vince's hand, which smacks Rob in the mouth, the final blow in their brief combat and the only one to land with any effect. A sharp stab of pain, the sudden taste of blood, and Rob flinches backward, out of reach.

They sit side by side, struggling to catch their breath. The door is still hanging partway open, the car filling with cold, its dome light on, a steady chiming coming from the dashboard. Rob pulls the door shut. One of his front teeth has been knocked loose. He pushes at it with his tongue, and it wobbles in its socket, an arrow of pain shooting up toward his eyes.

"You boke my toof," he says.

"I'm sorry," Vince starts, "I didn't--"

"I don't care about the baby." If Rob concentrates, he can avoid the slurring: He just has to stop his tongue before it hits his tooth. "She can have it, she can abort it--it's not my problem. It's her problem. Know why?"

Vince just stares at him, rubbing the back of his hand.

"Because I'm leaving," Rob says. "Understand? I'm already gone. If Grace has any sense, she won't be far behind. I hope so. And know why? Because I don't like you, Vince. I don't think I've ever liked you. You're too pleased with yourself. You're a complacent fuck, and I wish you nothing but unhappiness. If I could make one wish, just one fucking wish, that's what it'd be. Pain and suffering and everything else bad that could possibly happen to a man. Now please take me home."

Vince doesn't move, doesn't put the car in gear, doesn't pull out onto the highway and take them home. Rob sits there, willing him to do it, but it doesn't happen. Three trucks go by in quick succession, buffeting the car, and then Vince does a surprising thing. He starts to laugh. There's a brief, explosive burst, followed by several seconds of clenched silence, while he bends over the steering wheel, gripping it with both hands, his body shaking in soundless mirth. Then he throws himself back against the seat, roaring, great snorts of laughter, uncontrollable, hiccups and chirps, slapping at the steering wheel, shaking his head, wiping the tears from his face with his sleeve.

"I'm leaving," he says, his voice squeaky with held-back laughter. "Understand? I'm already--" But he can't finish; it's too much for him.

"You fucker," Rob says. It's all he can think of. "It's a joke?"

Vince nods, bobbing his body, laughing, eyes shut, his nose beginning to run. Rob watches him, smiling now: He even laughs a little, but hesitantly. "You made it up?"

More frantic nodding.

"You didn't fuck her?"

Vince shakes his head, hugging himself, struggling for breath, still rocking. Nearly a full minute passes before he finally begins to quiet. He wipes at the smear of snot beneath his nose. "Oh, god," he says. "Why didn't I film it?" The laughter threatens to resurface, and he has to fight it off with several deep, shaky breaths. "I was planning to, you know? But then, this baby thing--it just seemed like too good an opportunity. Oh, man." He shakes his head some more. "That was so fucking great."

"You broke my tooth," Rob says. He tries unsuccessfully to insert an appropriate amount of anger into the words. But it's relief he's feeling, and it seeps into his voice: It sounds as if he's thanking Vince.

"Let me see," Vince says. He reaches up, flicks on the dome light.

Rob leans toward him, opening his mouth.

Vince squints, tilting his head slightly, examining Rob's teeth. "Looks all right to me," he says. "Your lip's a little bloody, but--"

"It's loose." Rob pushes at the tooth with his tongue.

"They can save it--that's all I'm saying. A root canal, a little post--be good as new." He flicks off the light. "You were coming at me, you know? I had to fend you off."

Rob is silent. There's a thought in his head that he doesn't want to be there.

"I'll pay for it," Vince says. And then: "Want me to pay for it?"

Rob shakes his head. The thought won't go away; it's there, and Rob has to speak it. "What about my dick? How did you know it's bent?"

Vince laughs, waves this aside. "Jen told Grace."

"And her nipples?"

Another wave of dismissal: "Like you said--I've seen down her shirt. She wears those loose blouses, you know? With no bra? Why does she do that? You should tell her everyone can see her breasts."

"But right after I told you she was pregnant, there was this long hesitation. I told you, and you went silent. It was like you were worried, like you were trying to figure out what to do." Vince nods, looking pleased with himself. "That was smart, right? That's what made it seem so real."

"I don't know. It felt like you were--"

"I was debating, you know? Whether I should wait to film it or just do it right here, in the car."

"But--"

Vince throws up his hands, impatient. "What's your problem, Rob? I tell you I'm serious and you insist it's a joke. Then I admit it's a joke and you--"

"It's a joke then?"

"Of course it's a joke. Jesus. How can you--"

"It's just that you hesitated--"

"To make it real. That was part of the genius of the whole thing."

Rob lets this settle. He wants to believe; he's trying to believe. "I'm sorry I banged the door."

Vince smiles at him. "Kind of lost it, didn't you?"

"I'll pay for it--if it needs to be painted or something."

Vince makes a noncommittal gesture, neither refusal nor acceptance.

"And the other stuff--the names I called you. I didn't really--"

"Don't fucking worry about it, Rob. It was great. I mean it--really, really funny. I almost lost it a couple times." He gives Rob a wink. "A peasant, right? A fat, coarse, complacent peasant who you've never even liked."

Rob stares down at his lap, ashamed.

"That dog's blood is on your hands!" Vince shouts.

"I was angry--"

"No hard feelings. Us peasants have thick skins."

"Vince--"

"I'm just giving you shit, man. Okay? Water off a duck's back." He laughs, shakes his head. "Should've seen your expression when I said she pulled the sink out of the wall. Best sex I ever had! You looked like a fucking corpse. Your face, it just went slack." He mimics this for Rob, his mouth hanging open, eyes blank. Then he laughs again, reaching to turn on the wipers. "Can you really picture me and Jen fucking in a bathroom?"

The wipers clear the windshield, revealing the world outside, which has continued on its course, indifferent to their drama. The snow is still falling steadily. The traffic has grown thick now, and there are piles of dirty slush between the lanes.

Vince puts the car in gear, turns off his hazards, waits for an opening, then guns them out into the flow of traffic. He chuckles to himself as he drives, muttering some of Rob's more outrageous lines. "A peasant," he says. And: "You killed Rex." Then he laughs, throwing a wink toward Rob. The longer he goes on, the more embarrassed Rob begins to feel--exposed and oddly guilty. The ease with which he'd accepted Jen's infidelity is starting to seem like a betrayal in its own right. He keeps poking at his tooth with his tongue as a way to distract himself from this thought.

The drive takes 10 minutes, and then they're slowing to a standstill outside Rob's house. Usually Vince turns into the driveway, but in snowy weather he always stops at the curb so that Rob won't have to struggle with the packed-down tire tracks when he comes out to shovel after dinner. Vince is like that sometimes--surprisingly thoughtful.

Lights are on in many of the houses up and down the block, including Rob's. Jen is already home, preparing dinner. It's quiet out, pretty, the snow falling steadily.

Rob can sense that Vince is waiting for him to climb out. Instead, he says softly, "Know what I think?" He waits for Vince to glance toward him, eyebrows raised. "I think you were serious. I think you fucked her. And then, when I said I was leaving, you got scared."

Vince just sits there, watching him.

"I'm not going to leave her. I was angry. I just...." He holds out a hand, beseeching. "Please, Vince."

Vince gives him a look of deep fatigue. "You're gonna keep picking at this, aren't you? You're not gonna let it go."

"The truth, Vince."

Vince sighs, shakes his head. "You're so fucking anal. You know that? Everything always has to be worried over, probed at. It's not an attractive quality. It really isn't."

"You parked in the street to give yourself time, didn't you?"

This is clearly too big a leap for Vince to follow. He blinks at Rob. "What?"

"To call her."

"Call who?"

"Jen." Rob waves toward the house, the snow-covered driveway. "You need the extra time. As soon as I get out, you'll call her on your cell. You'll tell her to deny everything, to pretend she doesn't know what I'm talking about."

"Listen to yourself, will you? I always park in the street when it's--"

"Give me your cell."

"What?"

"I'll give it back in the morning."

"I'm not gonna give you my cell. I have to charge it tonight."

"Then come inside."

"Stop it, Rob."

"Right now. We'll--"

"Just stop, okay? Will you just fucking stop?"

Vince's voice is loud, with an edge of anger, and it has the intended effect: Rob falls silent. He can feel his pulse beating in his neck.

Vince lets the silence gather around them. He reaches, turns down the heater a notch. When he speaks, his voice is quiet again. "What do you want me to say?" he asks.

Rob shakes his head. "This is all so wrong. Can't you see that? How am I ever gonna know for sure?"

"Tell me what you want to hear. Okay? Just tell me."

"The truth. I want the truth."

Vince nods in understanding, in sympathy. But then he doesn't speak: He thinks. He's debating, deciding, choosing, and it takes too long. The truth is immediate; there's no need to think about it. "Just look at our fucking lives," he says.

Rob turns, startled. He isn't certain if he's heard correctly. "What?"

"You're right. I was bored. Trying to entertain myself. Not thinking about the repercussions. And maybe jealous, too--maybe you had a point there. Grace and I, you know, we've...." He sighs, shakes his head. "That's it--that's it exactly. Bored, jealous--guilty as charged. And I'm sorry, man. I really am."

"For what?"

"Everything. I'm sorry for everything."

Rob turns, glances out the window. It seems impossible that he has to climb out of this car, walk through the snow to his house, push open the front door, set down his briefcase, take off his jacket, kiss Jen hello. He doesn't see how he can do it.

Vince reaches across the seat, pats Rob's knee. "Let it go, okay? Can you do that? Just let it go?"

Rob lifts his hand, drops it back into his lap, a meaningless gesture, communicating nothing. He's still staring toward his house.

"And don't name her Yellow," Vince says. "Seriously. It's a stupid idea."

It takes Rob a moment to understand what Vince is saying. He turns to look at him--he's such a big man, slumped there behind the wheel. Yellow. Rob smiles. "It's a joke."

"That's right," Vince nods, with obvious relief. "A joke."

"No--I made it up."

Vince frowns at this: "You're not gonna call her Yellow?"

Rob shakes his head. "Jen's not pregnant. I just ... it was a joke."

For an instant it seems as if Vince might smile, or even laugh, but the impulse collapses before it can gain any momentum. What emerges is a long, weary-sounding sigh. "Oh, Christ, Rob," he says. "Sometimes you're such a stupid fuck."

Rob can't think of a response to this; it seems fair enough, after all.

Vince flicks his hand. "Get out."

Rob doesn't move. "I--"

"Get out!" Vince says.

So that's what he does. He pushes open the door, steps out into the softly falling snow and begins the long walk up the driveway to his house.

"I guess at some point she kind of straddled me--my hip, I mean. Like a baby would--can you picture that?"

"Then I cranked the seat back, and she slid out from behind the wheel, climbed on top of me, her dress up around her waist, both of us trying to do it fast."