Blade Dafner stood and stretched, his seven-foot two-inch frame relishing the freedom from the confines of the repertory theater's chair. His wife, Daisy, had dragged him to the play tonight (he rubbed his sore armpits at the memory), because The Taming of the Shrew was her favorite. Blade found it quite apropos. Daisy, as usual, was off hobnobbing with her friends in their ceramic hideout and he was quite sure she wouldn't return until well into the second act.
His mind wandered as he glanced around the theater. He spied a dark-haired little girl chomping a sucker in the fourth row and grinned. A child. How long had he been hoping for one? Blade sighed and thought again of Daisy.
His marriage was merely a shell—and had been for as long as he could remember. He and Daisy hadn't had marital relations for years. He missed the closeness of being attracted to someone he cared for and, of course, sharing mutual lust, but he didn't miss the stark emptiness that their sexual union had evolved into before it had ultimately dissolved altogether.
Daisy had recently promised him that they could have a child (only after she realized that he would sever their union if she disagreed), but she'd refused to have her figure 'ruined' in the process, so they were searching for a surrogate. The cold, hard truth was that if their marriage dissolved, their fortune would as well. Blade barely even cared about that anymore and Daisy nervously knew it.
While in the process of this thought, he saw a vision. A thin, yet voluptuous blonde with brazenly blue eyes and a nose that veered to the right was coming his way. Good thing her nose was off center, he thought. If it weren't she'd simply be too perfect. The lady was gliding up the aisle, her arm draped around a small, whimpering boy who appeared to have lost his mommy. As she passed him, he blurted out, "Hi. Anything I can do to help?"
The luscious lady shook her head no and strutted forth only to stud-trip over Blade's well-manicured feet housed within his shiny $400 shoes.
Immediately he offered his hand to help her rise, but she refused it. She used his seat to pull herself up—her glossy lip turned up in a snarl. It was then he spotted her nametag. Dali Wright—Head Usher. Blade felt a surge of lust. A career woman.
Dali's snarl finally faded. "Come on, honey. Let's go," she whispered.
"Sure," Blade exclaimed without thinking, while reaching for his coat. "But where?"
Dali eyed him disbelievingly and pointed to the child, who by now had finally stopped crying.
"Not you," Dali hissed at Blade. "Him!"
"Oh," said Blade. "Of course."
Dali and the tot continued their march up the aisle, the boy pausing long enough to turn around and stick his tongue out at Blade.
Blade struggled to hold his own tongue inside his mouth and shrugged. What had he been thinking anyway? He was a married man, for cryin' out loud. Granted, it was a marriage of convenience and nothing else. He put his head into his hands.
It was his fault. How could he have compromised his once stellar morals? How could he allow his family and Daisy's family to pressure them into matrimony? What had been going through his mind? Blade cringed. He knew darn well what had been the selling point of his marriage.
Dollar signs. The 50 million-dollar trust fund he and Daisy had been offered as 'inducement' by their parents had influenced him a tad. Bull, he thought, cringing. It (along with Daisy's butt) had influenced him a lot. Why had their parents offered the couple so much money to wed? Because it ensured that neither of the young fools would marry for love and out of their precious social class. At the time Blade had been dating a young hairdresser originally from the Bronx, and Daisy had been quite interested in a Hell's Angels biker from Des Moines.
But that was ten years ago. He had been so young. Hadn't he thought that he loved her? Yes. He'd told himself he did but now he realized that he had been perpetually fooling himself. During those first few years he even prayed that he would one day truly love her. He felt one eye well up. The truth was, Daisy had recently told him that she could never, ever love the sorry excuse of a man that he was.
Blade's other eye welled up. Strangely enough, he didn't counter her sniper-filled remark with an attack of his own. Truth be told, he wasn't as angry at Daisy as he was with himself for getting into the situation in the first place.
"Why not divorce?" his psychotherapist once asked. Daisy had flatly refused when he'd asked her. The remainder of the 50 million would immediately be revoked and the alimony she'd get from his measly 200-grand-a-year job wouldn't be enough to keep Daisy in bobby pins. And if Blade persisted and filed for divorce anyway, Daisy said she would tell the world the "Dafner family secret" that she'd uncovered during their first year of their marriage. Blade had no idea what the "Dafner family secret" was, but Daisy had assured him that if the secret got out, his mother would be devastated to the point of no return. Blade could never bear to put his mother through that. Never.
So, that was that. There was no way around it. He was trapped in a life without love—until...until he held his child for the first time, that is. Blade wiped his eyes and looked forward to a future of diapers, bottles, and nubby baby toes.
His wife's telltale laughter smacked him out of his dream.
"Move over," Daisy ordered, pushing him with her arm. "your seat's got a better view. I didn't come here to miss the front of those actors in tights."
He mutely obliged.
For some unknown reason, for that night and many nights to follow, no matter how hard he tried, Blade couldn't get the image of the head usher out of his mind. When she had snarled, something inside his boxers stirred. That hadn't happened with Daisy for years, and even though he was upset with the career woman's treatment of him, he couldn't deny the attraction he felt. He recalled the look on her face as she was falling. Had she also been 'falling' for him perhaps? Stop it, he told himself, you must forget her. Sham or no sham, he was still married, and besides, that usher was way too easily irritated and altogether too sensual.
"Hey, don't forget, three years ago you were ushering at the Blaine Cinema—now look where you are." Dali's best friend, Lizzy, clinked steins with her moping friend, and they settled back to ponder the menus at their favorite pub.
"But I'm supposed to be a director," Dali said, gazing across the table at her fiery-locked, green-eyed buddy who never failed to pick up her spirits. "My career isn't progressing. I need my MA degree, and I won't have the funds to obtain it within my limited span of yuppie-hood on the salary of head usher."
Dali took a sip of her lite beer and dropped her head into her hands. It was undeniable. Something was missing in her life.
Weeks had passed since she'd tripped over the incredibly attractive man's really shiny shoes at work, and Dali couldn't help but acknowledge that the plummeting experience had somehow signaled a turning point for her. When had she last found love? She couldn't remember, likely because the answer was never. She thrust the thought of a man and a future with him from her mind, instead forcing her thoughts back to her dismal career situation.
"Oh, Lizzy," she lamented. "Am I fooling myself? Will I ever be a director? I mean, something besides community theater projects where I pray the local butcher will relent and do the play so I won't be stuck with 32 hammy women and that one guy who lives in the tent by the river. Oy."
Lizzy lightly patted her friend's hand, then abruptly slapped her across the cheek.
"Ow!" Dali rubbed her face. "Why'd ya do that?"
Lizzy's expertly drawn-on eyebrows furrowed.
"Snap out of it, girl. You know darn well you're gonna make it. You already have what you need: talent, hard work, perseverance, and patience." Lizzy lowered her voice and leaned across the table. "Now that I think about it, Dali, you really could work on the last one." She stretched and rose. "I gotta go take a whiz. Order me the chicken fajita, senorita. I'll be back in a flash."
Dali sunk back into the squeaky naugahyde. She wanted to believe that it would just take time. So what if her directorial debut came at the same age as her age spots? Eyeing their waitress, Dali raised her finger. "I'd like to ord—"
"Wrong finger, doll," the home-permed server said, stopping only long enough to plunk down some popcorn and the local personal pages, before disappearing again.
Dali popped some dark yellow kernels into her mouth and opened the paper.
Boy Needs Girl, Lady Looking for Lithe Linebacker, Fred and Pebbles hoping to find Wilma were just a few of the many ads that jumped out at her. "Ridiculous," she muttered, finally utilizing the paper as a coaster.
"I'm back," Lizzy said, slipping inside the booth. "Sorry it took so long, but the Red River's been un-dammed. I had to bum a quarter off some bratty kid in the next stall. Can you believe she wasn't gonna give it to me? Said she was saving it for the bubble gum machine. I told her it was a female emergency and if she knew what was good for her, she'd better hand it over."
"Lizzy," Dali exclaimed, taking a swig out of her mug. "You're terrible. I bet you scared her to death."
"I doubt it." Lizzy replied, looking around (presumably for the vanishing waitress). "She told the next person that came into the bathroom that she needed a quarter for feminine reasons. And the old lady gave it to her."
"You're kidding," Dali said with a laugh. "What a quick study. How old was she?"
"Oh, 'bout 80 I'd guess," Lizzy replied. "Did you order yet?"
Dali shook her head no. (They'd had this waitress many times before. No explanation was needed.)
"Gee, Dali, here I am in the middle of my peak childbearing years—racing toward middle-age and the only prospect I've got for love is..." Lizzy looked around furtively until her eyes rested beneath Dali's glass on the personal pages. "In there." Lizzy rolled her sparkling eyes and tapped a long, crimson-tipped finger against the already soggy coaster. "I predict this paper will change my life forever."
Dali rolled her own orbs.
"Go ahead. Scoff," Lizzy said, peering at her gorgeous friend. "If I looked like you—blonde, tall, long-legged, blue-eyed, and with a perfect smile and a nose that always knows which direction it's headed—I wouldn't have to worry. However," Lizzy said, stuffing her a fistful of salty yellow nuggets between her perfectly lined lips, "I duhnt."
"You're beautiful and you know it, Liz. But you and your biological clock are starting to get on my n-n-n-nerves," Dali said, scanning the restaurant for the great almighty frizzed one.
"You're telling me you don't feel the urge to get wed and preg?" Lizzy countered incredulously. "Bull. You, my friend, can't pass a stroller—or your landlord's son—without dropping to your knees, and you know it."
Lizzy grabbed the passing waitress' apron, slowing her up long enough to order another round.
"I'd like the stea—" Dali began, but the waitress was already at the bar.
The beer appeared pronto. To their delight, their waitress actually paused and tapped her pad with her pen, but when Dali dared raise her menu to see if fries were the potatoes that she desired, the woman was off before she could say "salmonella poisoning."
Lizzy swigged her draft, and Dali examined the foam mustache it left behind. "No wonder you can't get past the first date. Nothing like seeing a woman across the table who resembles Walter Cronkite."
Lizzy smirked and licked her lips as she picked up the personal pages. "Say, listen to this: Great guy, nifty outlook on life. Lookin' for the gal who says 'yah you betcha' more often than 'unh-uh.' If you're that gal—from my daydreams—and you appreciate the merits of milkin' a heifer or scooping pies on the farm, then I'd like to hear from you— yah, you betcha!"
Lizzy slopped on another moustache. "Oh, that'd be me all right. I'm the gal. Yah, you betcha. I can summon the bacon every night." To prove it, she squealed her infamous pig call, which, in turn, blew out the squat red candle between them. Lizzy and Dali looked at each other and promptly lost it.
Just as promptly, home-perm arrived to take their order, but Dali could only manage a feeble flutter of her hand. Without a twitch, the waitress was once again on her way.
Recovering, Dali grabbed the paper from her friend's hand and searched for another ad.
"Wanted: Surrogate mother/housekeeper." Dali rubbed her eyes and peered closer.
"Yeah, right, Dal."
Dali looked at up at her friend and snickered. "It's real. I'm not making it up."
Lizzy plucked the paper from Dali and found the ad. "We are in need of a donor uterus for our baby to-be. Applicant must be under 35, healthy and a non-smoker, non-drinker." Lizzy downed her second beer and silently burped. "Why, that'd be me, wouldn't it, Dal?"
Dali giggled. "So far, so good. Read on."
"We also require that the candidate be proficient with a mop and broom." Lizzy snorted. "Would I be implanted with their baby before or after I scrub their linoleum?"
"Oh, before, you betcha. 'Cause then you're stuck and can't sweep yourself out of the picture."
"I just can't believe anyone in their right mind would consider this. How demeaning." Lizzy shook her head. "Hmmm. It says here on the bottom by the phone number that the pay is highly competitive."
"Highly competitive?" Dali echoed. "What do they base that on? How many surrogate-slash-housekeepers have you known?" Dali took a deep breath. "Could it be enough to pay for one's schooling perhaps?"
"Oh, no, Dal, you can't be serious," Lizzy said. "You are kidding. Right?"
Dali smiled, folded the paper in half, and tucked it into her purse.
Suddenly the waitress was hovering over them. "I hope you're ready to order 'cause I don't have all night." She ran a finger through a rock-hard curl. "Well, you want the usual or not?"
The two women abruptly nodded and minutes later a dinner they'd never ordered in their life landed in front of them.
"She's something, ain't she?" Dali commented, dipping a sweet potato fry in guacamole after the waitress once again disappeared.
"Yah, you betcha," Lizzy said, eyeing the surprise meat stew stuff on her plate.
Later that night, Dali rubbed her cat McGnar's neck and reread the ad. Was she crazy to consider it? she wondered. The truth was, after nine months she could probably pay for 2 years of grad school and maybe even have money left over.
She stared at the pile of bills on her coffee table. Once those were paid she'd be broke again. She was tired of living paycheck to paycheck. But was it worth losing her figure, maybe forever?
And what about the joys of giving birth to her first child created out of love between two people? That would be taken away. Taken away forever. There was a gargantuan lump in her throat. Was it worth it? No, she decided, pulling on her nightgown and crawling beneath her quilt. It wasn't.
The next morning, a Saturday, Dali awoke at 6:30—just like every other morning—and brewed some coffee.
Carrying her caffeine and a bagel into the living room with McGnar on her heels, she put her feet up on the coffee table and planned her day. Grocery shopping, then return that spandex thing Lizzy had bought her for her birthday—it was cheek-less. As she sipped her Colombian Supremo, her eyes fell upon the open personal pages. She picked them up and reread the housekeeper/surrogate ad.
"Time to toss you into recycle," Dali said, holding the paper over the plastic bin. Her fingers, however, had a mind of their own and refused to release their grasp.
"What is happening to me?" Dali moaned. "Have I lost all of my morals?" She repeated the mantra as she headed straight for the phone.
"Dafner residence," an older male voice grumbled. Dali quickly hung up.
"Chicken! What'd you do that for?" she asked herself, then picked up the phone and pressed redial.
"Dafner residence," the same crotchety voice said. Again, Dali quickly hung up.
"What am I? Nine years old?" She stood and went to get her car keys. "The store it is, with my self-worth in tact, thank you very much."
When Dali got to the front door, she spun around, grabbed the phone and redialed the number. What self-worth? She hadn't seen it around for quite a while, anyway.
"Dafner residence," the guy said, sounding truly agitated by now.
Dali frowned. Did she imagine the "damnit" that followed the strained salutation? She opened her lips to speak, but all that came out was a choking sound. Her mouth was suddenly cotton.
"Who is this?" the grandpa-on-steroids voice demanded.
Dali tried to speak, but this time she couldn't even manage a choking sound.
The man hung up.
"Well, I can't call back now, can I?" Fool, fool, fool, Dali lambasted herself as she reached for her coffee.
The shrill ring of the phone made her jump, causing the brewed liquid to diffuse into her T-shirt. Holding her shirt away from her skin with one hand, she picked up the receiver with the other.
"Yes?" she hesitantly whispered.
"How do you do? I'm Blade Dafner." The voice was smooth. As smooth as real expensive nylon. "Do you know me? We've just received three or four calls in a row and the other party keeps hanging up and well...it's rather upset our gardener."
"Your gardener?" Dali echoed.
"Yes, he's doubling as our house-help right now," Blade said.
"Why, for heaven's sake, would you think it was me calling?" Dali asked, her voice raising an octave.
"Because we have caller ID and your number appeared in that cute little box each time. Dali Wright, Dali Wright, Dali...." Blade paused. "Goodness, that name sounds familiar."
Dali's palms wept. Familiar? She didn't know him, did she?
"I can assure you I have better things to do with my time than phone people I don't know, Mr. Dufnerd."
"Dafner," Blade interjected.
"What?"
"My name is Dafner, Blade Dafner."
"Whatever," Dali replied, her mind racing.
"This certainly is strange," he said. "Caller ID is usually quite accurate."
"Well, it wasn't me," Dali shot back, and then blessedly a way out of this mess suddenly wormed its way into her muddled brain. "It must have been my son. Yeah, that's it. My little, er, boy. Oh, that crazy, um, tike. He's been randomly calling people and hanging up. I guess it's a phase or something he's going through."
"Yes, I remember doing something like that when I was— How old is he?" Blade asked.
"How old?" Dali repeated. "Uh, how old were you when you did it?"
"I guess around 6 or 7," Blade told her, chuckling at the memory.
"He's six," Dali said, "and I guarantee he will not be calling you anymore. I'm terribly sorry for any inconvenience."
"It's okay. I understand. Kids will be kids."
"Er...yeah, I guess so."
"Sorry if I seemed a bit gruff, Ms. Wright. We're all a bit tense around here. We were hoping to have a little tike of our own."
"Oh?" Dali replied, feigning ignorance.
"Are you waiting for some kind of call from an adoption agency?"
"No, no, nothing like that. We're actually waiting for some feedback on an ad for a live-in surrogate mother."
"How interesting. I hope you find someone suitable."
"Thanks, so do I. So far, the applicants have been under-qualified, to say the least," Blade said with a sigh.
"What? They don't do windows?" Dali blurted out before she could stop herself.
"That's strange. How did you know we wanted a housekeeper, too?" Blade asked.
Dali cringed. Would she ever get her foot out of her mouth?
"I, uh.... Why else would your gardener be answering your phone?" Dali said, mopping her brow with the bottom of her stained shirt.
"Oh. Good point," said Blade.
"I was thinking about being a surrogate, you know, housekeeper a while back," she said, shaking her head. She couldn't believe what she heard herself saying.
"Really?" Blade asked, his voice rising a notch.
"Yes, I always thought it would be real...noble to help a childless couple become child...full, plus have the satisfaction of keeping their floors clean and dust repellent."
"You wouldn't still be interested, would you, Ms. Wright?" Blade asked, his voice rising yet another notch. (His octave level could now give Beverly Sills a run for her money.)
"Oooh, I dunno. Haven't really thought about it for a while," she said, picking a fur ball off McGnar's neck.
"Naaaaaar!" squealed the feline. Oops, Dali thought, it wasn't as loose as she'd thought.
"Stomach upset?" Blade inquired at the sound.
"A little. How'd you know?" asked Dali.
"Uh, never mind. Well...if you decide you are interested in applying for the position, would you give me a call so we can set up an interview?"
"I guess," said Dali. "I mean it's a lot to think about. This isn't something you just rush into, you know." Dali flicked her hair back and felt a muscle cramp take hold in her neck.
"I understand, and I don't mean to pressure you at all. In fact we have a young woman, a member of MENSA in fact, coming over this afternoon. She just might be the one."
"Okay," Dali said, rubbing her neck. She noticed that McGnar looked almost pleased at her pained expression on her face.
"Okay what?" Blade echoed.
"Okay. I'll come in for an interview. I can be there in a couple of hours."
"Really?"
Dali hesitated. "Really."
That afternoon, clad in the best suit she owned, Dali rang the bell beside the massive mahogany front door and shivered despite the ancient wool coat that covered her. As the November wind swirled between her nude-colored panty-hosed legs—thank goodness the run was on her upper thigh—she hugged herself for warmth.
She looked around and realized this house was set on thirty acres, at the very least. She couldn't even see the road. Her stomach lurched. What in heaven's name was she doing here?
Just then the door opened and Dali was greeted gruffly by a man who looked to be about 3 days shy of six hundred. He wore coveralls and an apron.
"You must be the Wright girl," he muttered, cracking the door wider.
"We won't know if I'm the right girl 'til after the interview," Dali responded brightly.
The man's expression remained stoic. "This way," he said. "Pay attention or you'll end up gettin' lost."
Dali grinned and entered, but as she stared in wonder at the massive hall and the many annexes leading to and from it, she realized he wasn't kidding.
This wasn't a home. It was a marble stadium. How could she possibly keep this place clean?
"It ain't easy," the man replied.
"Pardon me?" Dali inquired.
"Ain't easy on me knees—this hard floor. Hope they hire somebody quick."
Dali nodded mutely.
She could run for her life, but she feared she'd never find her way out. She was stuck. Like a rat in a maze. As she lifted her leg, she felt the run in her stocking creep lower.
She hoped it wasn't an omen.