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A short story I wrote for a radio short story competition in 2011 in Ireland (and you guessed right, it didn't win!). Subsequently tweaked, the story was published by Zouch Magazine (an online short story journal) in 2012 and I thank them for that.
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Who’s the Daddy?
A short story by Connla Stokes
The thought first struck Frank during Nora’s pregnancy. Suddenly, he
caught himself thinking, “Maybe the child isn’t mine…” He had no
actual reason to believe Nora had slept with another man—or that she
had ever even contemplated having a bit on the side. But she could have.
That is to say, it was a possibility.
It was just a wild, capricious notion. But as a writer and a compulsive
daydreamer Frank’s imagination often latched onto such hypothetical
scenarios—no matter how ridiculous—and ran riot. He was lazily
ensconced at home when this fantasy first reared its head. The telly was
on but he wasn’t really watching anything. Nora was stretched across the
couch with her legs draped over Frank’s thighs. She was blithely flicking
through the pages of a glossy magazine; Frank’s left hand was resting on
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her implausibly large stomach, and initially his thoughts had been of the
small child cloistered within, but his mind was soon elsewhere. He
started picturing the day of the delivery—or ‘D-Day’ as Nora liked to
call it. He could see himself in the hospital’s maternity ward, dressed in
O.R. scrubs, eagerly clasping Nora’s hand and whispering carefully-
chosen words of encouragement. He’s so busy egging Nora on, at first
he doesn’t realise that the baby now wailing in the midwife’s arms is
clearly the fruit of an African man’s loins. An awkward silence engulfs
the room as Frank finally spots the new-born babe. It’s a tumbleweed
moment as everyone stares at Frank staring at the baby. Eventually, the
doctor and nurses click back into gear and take care of the formalities.
The umbilical cord is snipped. The baby is cleaned up and wrapped in a
towel before being tenderly placed in his mother’s arms. The whole
time, Nora doesn’t utter a word to Frank and more distressingly she
doesn’t even seem surprised, as if having an affair with some random
Senegalese guy nine months ago was a trifling matter that had just
slipped her mind: “Sorry Frank, didn’t I mention there was only a fifty-
fifty chance the baby was yours?”
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Interrupting this reverie, a tiny limb nudged into Frank’s clammy hand
through Nora’s stomach and he told himself (not for the first time) he
was being utterly ridiculous. But his own imagination wouldn’t let him
off so lightly. Over the following weeks this needling anxiety came back
to haunt him again and again. It didn’t matter where he was or what he
was doing. He could be walking to the shops, waiting for a bus or sitting
on the toilet, and he’d suddenly catch himself thinking, “But maybe the
child really isn’t mine…”
And if he wasn’t the father, who was? An old flame that had resurfaced
via Facebook or a wandering silver-tongued Lothario, who perhaps Nora
met while buying a phallic schlong of chorizo at that farmer’s market
she was always so suspiciously keen on… once Frank let his
imagination go, the possibilities became endless.
But at the heart of Frank’s paranoia was an unsettling detail. He and
Nora had spent some time apart, roughly 10 to 11 months before Sam
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was born. Their lives had been filled with frustration; sales at Nora’s art
gallery had abruptly nosedived as the Irish economy fizzled. Frank had
been working as a freelance writer, reviewing films, books and plays for
various papers and magazines, while ultimately hoping to find a
publisher for his children’s novel, but all at once work dried up as
editors were forced to tighten the budget strings or magazines folded.
Frank and Nora had always been sweet and easy-going lovers. They
weren’t used to having fights, let alone hurling insults at each other.
During their first (and only) blazing row, foolish things were said and
neither of them had thick enough skin to forgive and forget. Nora was so
upset she packed a bunch of bags and drove to her sister’s. Frank was
left to brood alone at home and for a few weeks there was total radio
silence—no texts, no calls, no emails, nothing. But, in a sense the
sabbatical worked. They both cooled off and reassessed. Frank
eventually used his free time productively, rehashing the structure of his
novel and securing a deal with an American publisher. Nora soon
returned home, refreshed and upbeat over plans to get back to teaching
art and painting more. A month and a half later, they discovered she was
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pregnant and it seemed like a whole new chapter in their lives had
begun.
Perhaps, Frank pondered, she’d had an affair while they were separated
and had still been seeing this other man even after she moved back in
with Frank. One last dalliance is all it would have taken.
When the baby boy was born, Frank examined him from top to bottom.
He was pasty, pudgy and squidgy much like most Irish babies he saw.
He had brown eyes like his mother and blonde hair, like neither of them.
Frank, who had webbed toes on both feet, ran his fingers along the
baby’s 10 toes and feigned a smile when he looked up at Nora.
“He’s really blonde…” he said.
“Yeah, I was fairly blonde as a little girl,” replied Nora, who had mousy
brown hair, not unlike what was left of Frank’s receding mop. “So I
guess it’s in the family.”
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Frank’s mother chipped in with a tentative observation, almost as if she
instinctively sensed her son needed reassuring: “I think he has your
nose.” But Nora dismissed that claim. “Nah, it’s too early to tell with
that button nose.”
Of course, Frank wouldn’t have cared if the baby had an otter’s nose,
just so long as he knew he was the father. But he did feel as if he needed
some kind of indisputable, physical proof so, like the drowning man
clutching at straws, he said, “What about the ears? I think they’re like
mine…” Both his mother and Nora erupted in laughter and they were
still giggling a minute later when he toddled off to his study feeling like
an utter dolt.
Over the next few months, Frank concentrated on trying to ignore his
groundless uncertainties. But as fate would have it, one night, when the
baby was about six months old, a documentary show came on the telly
about the very subject that plagued Frank’s mind. The not-particularly-
comforting-premise was that women with steady partners may still be
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tempted to sleep around—especially when they’re ovulating. The
matter-of-fact BBC narrator claimed as many as one in every ten kids
around the world was possibly being raised by a man, who didn’t even
know he was not the father.
“One in ten?” snorted Frank incredulously, but Nora just shrugged in
response, as if that didn’t sound so shocking.
The narrator continued: Women’s life-partners might be a better bet to
bring up children and support a family, emotionally and financially, but
another man might carry genes that produce healthier, stronger children.
The tragic example was a cuckolded widower from Texas, who found
out his youngest son had cystic fibrosis, a horrendous lung disorder
caused by a single faulty gene. Both mother and father must carry the
gene to produce a cystic fibrosis child, so the widower duly went for a
gene test to confirm he was a carrier only to discover that he wasn’t—
that meant he couldn’t be the child’s biological father. His life further
unravelled when subsequent DNA tests revealed that he had fathered
none of his three sons. Now, wouldn’t that guy feel pretty stupid,
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thought Frank, if everyone had been saying for years, “Oh yes, young
Chad’s definitely got your nose…”, “And isn’t little Tommy junior a chip
off the old block…”
“Jesus, the poor bastard, how could he not have known?” said Frank, but
Nora again said nothing.
It crossed Frank’s mind right then to confront her but he pictured himself
saying, “Nora, just for the record—are you sure I’m the father of your
child?” and he decided he’d either look like a complete madman or
utterly paranoid, or both (unless, of course, she had slept with someone
when they were separated…)
But it just hadn’t been that kind of break up—at least in his mind. He
would have to admit that he’d come within a whisker of having a
drunken tangle with a Spanish student in Temple Bar. It had been in the
middle of week number two of the break up. He hadn’t spoken to Nora
and he feared the worst. Rather than call her and try to smooth things
out, he’d gone on an all-day drinking session with his old friend
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Malcolm, who was most commonly single, and the kind of guy that
always loved chatting up girls, even if he had a girlfriend on-the-go. If
you were out with him, you either had to follow suit or drink in shy
silence and sure enough they ended up sitting with these Spanish
students and soon everyone was ordering shots – Jägermeister, tequila,
Sambuca, B-52s – and not long after that everyone was four sheets to the
wind. In Frank’s defence it was the frisky Catalonian who followed him
to the back of the bar and tried to initiate the canoodling. The devil on
his shoulder was screaming, “Do it! Shift her! Take her home and shag
her rotten.” But he mustered enough poise to walk away.
From that day on, he threw himself into his work and he did his best to
forget about that brief, lecherous lapse. About a month later, Nora
moved back in and, another eight months or so further down the track,
Samuel Ethan Hanrahan was born on a cold December night. They chose
the name Sam as it was Nora’s late father’s name and Frank had always
been a Beckett man so he was grand with that. He was slightly more
sceptical when Nora suggested Ethan for a middle name as she had
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always harped on about how sexy she thought the actor Ethan Hawke
was. Taking a leaf from Sigmund Freud’s book, Frank figured that this
could be seen as an admission of Nora’s subconscious desire for
infidelity. But he didn’t protest. He never did. So the name stuck and life
just rolled along.
By the time Sam was nine and half months old, his nose still showed no
signs of morphing into Frank’s. The jury was still out on the ears, too.
Would Frank spend the rest of his life staring at Sam’s features,
wondering, if any of them could be attributed to his bloodline? On one
occasion he had contemplated taking Sam for a DNA test to put his mind
at ease once and for all. He was on the verge of doing it; he even had the
car keys in his hands but Nora came in the door.
“Oh, are you two lads off to the park?”
“Yeah,” said Frank. “I thought we’d go see the ducks.”
“That sounds great—hang on for 20 minutes and I’ll come along. I just
need a quick cuddle with Sam first… and maybe a cup of tea.”
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That was Frank’s cue. He took off his jacket and filled the kettle.
“And maybe some of those ginger snaps,” Nora called out from the
living room.
Frank threw the bags in the teapot, prepared a plate of biscuits and stood
by the window waiting for the kettle to boil, staring at the apple trees
Nora’s father, Samuel, had planted in 1995 when they’d first moved in.
Had it really been thirteen years? The trees were well over four metres
high now and the Cox Orange Pippins were in rude health despite the
long wet summer. On the thickest branch, a fat stray Tomcat sat, smugly
gazing at Frank with an air of greedy expectation, as if the tea and
biscuits were for him. From the living room he could hear Sam
chuckling with glee and Nora saying, “Aren’t we clever making such a
cute little baby?”
As Frank poured the boiling water into the teapot, he was thinking,
“Now, who exactly does Nora mean when she says “we”?” He even
pictured himself strolling in with the tray and saying, “What’s this ‘we’
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business paleface?” but then, if he did, Nora wouldn’t have a clue what
he was on about.
Or would she?
*
Who’s the daddy? was first published online by Zouch Magazine in mid-2012.
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