Damaged Goods, page 16
“This dinner’s on Williamson Trust Financial,” Tom said.
“It’s been wonderful,” Brendan said, “but we never discussed the legal agreement.”
“Come back to our place for a nightcap,” Mark suggested. “You and Tom can take care of your business in the library while Laura and I stargaze. The view is truly spectacular.”
Laura nodded her head in agreement.
“We’ll stop in for a quickie,” Brendan said. “We don’t want to keep you guys from bed.” He wondered if his remarks sounded awkward.
After a short drive, they found themselves in the foyer of Tom and Mark’s gray mid-century modern beach house on Pilgrim Hill, which overlooked Herring Cove.
“Nice place,” Brendan remarked. Once more, he regretted sounding so crass.
“It’s a Gropius. We’ve added a few contemporary touches.”
“Functionality dictates form,” Brendan said. He’d read about Walter Gropius, but he’d never been in a house designed by the Bauhaus architect.
“Well done, Brendan. Now come with me, Laura,” Mark said, gesturing toward his recent remodel: new granite countertops, a stainless-steel refrigerator, bamboo floors, and custom windows imported from Portugal, tinted to reduce ultraviolet rays and glare, along with electronically controlled window treatments. Two white armchairs flanked a life-sized purple porcelain greyhound figure across from an angular navy-blue sofa. A red squeeze ball rested at the center of a glass and chrome coffee table. “Step out onto the balcony, Laura,” Mark said. “I’ll make whiskey sours to enhance the moment.”
“You’re coming with me, Brendan,” Tom said, his raspy voice in full force. Inside the library, Brendan browsed Tom’s collection of books, neatly arranged on the mahogany shelves—Moby-Dick, The Brothers Karamazov, Remembrance of Things Past, Les Fleurs du Mal, and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Melville, Dostoevsky, Proust, Baudelaire, Joyce. The Hours, Middlesex, and Interpreter of Maladies lay on a separate table, anchored between two crimson leather bookends embossed with the Harvard Law School crest.
“You have excellent taste in literature: French symbolism, nineteenth-century Russian works, Joyce, the Great American Novel, and authors trained right here in Provincetown,” Brendan said. He thought he might be sounding like a dilettante and wondered why he was trying so hard to impress this adversary.
“Novelists aren’t trained,” Tom said. “They simply are.”
Brendan attempted to recover from Tom’s slap by discussing the book he was reading (though he was still on the first page), eventually admitting he was too busy to read fiction.
“Sad,” Tom said. “In our line of work, it’s crucial that we compartmentalize and safeguard our personal time.”
“Compartmentalizing isn’t easy to do.”
“I’m a gay corporate attorney representing the brightest minds in the most type-A, male-dominated, macho-oriented industry in the world,” Tom said. “I don’t do what’s easy; I do what’s best.” He handed the contract to Brendan. “The red sticky notes highlight the changes in black,” Tom explained. “You’ll find that the changes are mutually beneficial.”
“Whenever I hear that oxymoronic phrase, I wonder how I’m getting screwed,” Brendan said, attempting to gain the upper hand. He quickly skimmed through the black-lined changes and found nothing particularly egregious. “In principle, I can accept this. But I’m tired right now. Send it to Bill, and I’ll discuss it with him when I return to work next week.” Brendan handed the document back to Tom.
“The world doesn’t stop while we’re on vacation, Brendan,” Tom snapped, slapping the document down on the edge of his desk.
“Look, Tom, I canceled date night with my wife for dinner with you and Mark. I refuse to spend the rest of my vacation working.”
Tom shook his head as they left the library and rejoined Mark and Laura in the living room. Brendan sat beside Laura on the edge of the blue sofa as she sipped a second whiskey sour from a crystal tumbler. Tom and Mark settled into the white armchairs. Mark stroked the purple porcelain greyhound figure while Tom squeezed the red stress ball so hard that his fingers turned white. The decor, stunning views, and whiskey sours seemed to have fueled Laura’s curiosity.
“Where did you grow up? How did you two meet?” she asked.
Mark finished the last of his drink. “We met at a Harvard–Yale football game four years ago, in 2004. Tom was the backup quarterback when he was at Harvard and has attended every Harvard–Yale game since graduating. I went to the game with colleagues from McLean Hospital. We sat beside each other and immediately hit it off. We dated for a few months, moved in together, and married in P-town. It’s a haven for us and keeps improving every year. It has become much more family-friendly for gay and lesbian couples.”
“In what ways?” Laura inquired.
“For one, I’m sure you’ve noticed the baby carriages,” Mark said. “Many of these children are biologically related to one of the parents. And the more we saw these happy families, we thought why not us? So we researched IVF and gestational surrogacy. Tom handled the legal work while I explored fertility clinics and looked into our options. It’s a complex web and a big business. The range of choices is astonishing. It’s similar to finding the right college for your high-schooler. You visit a website, check the desired characteristics, and let the computer algorithm find a match: race, ethnicity, gender, height, athletic ability, musical talent, and family health history. It’s a complete circumvention of chance—a brave new world.”
“Any prospects for you?” Laura asked.
“Not yet,” Mark replied, “thanks to Tom. He tends to focus on the things that can go wrong.”
“From a legal perspective, Tom, what worries you the most?” Brendan asked, thinking about Cassie’s eggs languishing in the fertility clinic, with time running out before they would be destroyed.
“Custody battles,” Tom said. “One case in California stands out as particularly alarming. You may have heard about it. The Los Angeles Lakers drafted a seventeen-year-old high school prodigy and signed him to a thirty-million-dollar contract. The prodigy’s parents underwent IVF treatments using the husband’s sperm and eggs from an anonymous donor. It turned out that a six-foot-two Lithuanian woman in UCLA’s premed program had sold her eggs to fund her tuition. Fast-forward eighteen years from the time she sold her eggs; she’s now a gynecologist in Santa Barbara. She spotted a front-page photo of the basketball prodigy in the LA Times next to Magic Johnson. The kid bore a striking resemblance to her, prompting her to hire an aggressive lawyer, who discovered that the player was her biological son. She ultimately secured kinship rights. It was a warning about the fraught custody law.”
Tom stood and paced the living room, squeezing the red ball so hard that Brendan thought it would bleed.
“I’ve thoroughly researched Massachusetts case law regarding gestational surrogacy and child custody, and I found a troubling local case where a married couple used their own sperm and egg to create an embryo. After the child was born, the surrogate sought parental rights despite having waived all her rights in a legally binding surrogacy contract. Ultimately, she was denied parental rights because she was unmarried and had not used her own egg. But the judge said that had the surrogate been married, or if the married couple had used donor sperm or donor eggs instead of their own, he would have ruled in favor of the surrogate. The judge’s opinion was blatantly antigay because gay men obviously must use donor eggs. We’re left in a conundrum. Our egg donor will have a custody claim that even extends to her husband upon her death. The only scenario that ensures gay men have uncontestable custodial rights is if the egg donor is deceased and was single or divorced at the time of her death, and the gestational surrogate is single.”
The red stress ball bulged between Tom’s fingers.
“We know the odds are slim, but we still have hope,” Mark interjected. “And if anyone can untangle this complicated mess, it’s Tom.”
While Tom paused and met eyes with Mark, Brendan thought about how Cassie’s eggs fit into this puzzle.
“We’re looking for a single woman from Massachusetts who will agree to our surrogacy contract,” Mark said. “We’ll pay for a luxury apartment in our building in the South End, just a short ride to Brigham and Women’s Hospital, where she’ll give birth. We’ll compensate her generously and cover the expenses for uterine preparation, embryo implantation, doctor visits, and prenatal exercise classes. We’ll even provide her with groceries, which is the least we can do considering that she must follow the strict diet we’ll set for her.”
“I can’t believe surrogates aren’t clamoring to sign up,” Laura said.
“They are, but we haven’t found anyone who’s emotionally intelligent, physically fit, and willing to accept our drop-and-run provision,” Mark said.
“Drop and run?” Laura asked, setting her drink on a coaster.
“Slang for carrying a child to term, cashing the check, and vanishing,” Mark said. “We’re in regular contact with local doulas, but we haven’t had any success so far.”
Doula? Brendan immediately thought of Emily, with whom he had spoken once since Cassie’s funeral eight months earlier, to finalize the sale of Cassie’s house.
“And, of course, we need to find the right egg donor,” Mark said. “Tom is being a bit too legalistic about this. I’m afraid we’ve missed several good opportunities.”
Tom frowned, and the conversation paused for a beat too long.
“Is it already midnight?” Laura asked, nodding at Brendan. “We’ve overstayed our welcome. We should head home to wait for our teenage son.” Laura stood up and ran her palms down her thighs, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles in her white jeans before giving Mark a playful hug. “Thank you for your hospitality. I hope we see each other again,” she said with a smile.
* * *
“Why did you suddenly decide it was time to leave?” Brendan asked during the drive home. “I was curious about their story. It offers a different perspective on IVF than mine.”
“I’m tired and a little tipsy, and I wanted to talk to you privately. I realize I haven’t shown much interest in what you’re facing with Cassie’s eggs, but they’re always on my mind. Her eggs could solve Tom and Mark’s conundrum.”
“It would be a good fit, but even with the shift in how America views gay marriage, it would be hard for a child to grow up with two dads. It wouldn’t be what’s best for Cassie’s child,” Brendan said.
“First, these eggs won’t result in Cassie’s child,” Laura said, tapping her fingernails on the dashboard. “Second, it’s time you look beyond gay and straight. Tom and Mark will be nurturing, protective, and loving parents with plenty of financial and emotional resources. Plus, they live in the South End and Provincetown, two of the most LGBT-accepting communities in America.”
“I don’t know, Laura. Mark’s a nice guy, but Tom can be a jerk,” Brendan said.
“He’s strong-willed. Focused. A lot like you, to be honest.”
“Me?” Brendan exclaimed, slamming on the brakes to avoid a coyote crossing the road. “Tom and I don’t exactly see eye to eye.”
“That’s because you have conflicting interests,” she said. “You might see things differently if he was on your side.”
Brendan had reluctantly arrived at the same conclusion about Tom when they faced off against each other in business several months earlier, but it hurt to hear Laura say it. He was about to tell her so when his phone rang.
“Hello. Yes, I’m Brendan O’Shay. Yes, Shannon is my son. What’s this about, Officer? Is Shannon okay?”
“What happened to Shannon?” Laura shouted. “Not a car accident. Oh God. Is he okay?”
“Yes, Officer. We’ll be there in ten minutes.” He hung up the phone, glanced around, and made a sharp U-turn.
“Is Shannon all right?” Laura yelled again.
“He’s in jail, Laura. Shannon’s in jail.”
“Jail!? Behind bars? How could that be? Shannon’s not someone who goes to jail.” She grabbed Brendan’s arm and tugged hard. The car swerved across the road. He turned the wheel just in time to avoid an oncoming pickup truck.
“Laura! Calm down! You could’ve killed us!”
“What’s he doing in jail?”
“He got into a bar fight,” Brendan said.
“A bar fight? What’s he doing in a bar? He’s underage. I hope he’s not hurt.”
“He’s not hurt,” Brendan said, “but the other guy is—pretty badly. The police are calling it a hate crime.”
“Hate crime? That’s ridiculous! Is that what the cop said? Shannon doesn’t hate anyone.”
“Call Tom,” she said. “We’ll need a good lawyer.”
“Not Tom,” Brendan said. “I don’t want to owe him anything.”
“Our son is in jail for a hate crime! Tom is a great lawyer, or so you say. Call him. Now.”
* * *
It was nearly three in the morning when Tom stepped out of the police holding cell, with Shannon shuffling a few steps behind him, staring at the gray linoleum floor tiles. His knuckles were scraped raw. Brendan reached out to hug his son, but he slouched away from him. Laura rushed to embrace him, and Shannon wrapped his arms around her. She glanced over Shannon’s shoulder into Brendan’s eyes and shook her head.
Brendan reached out to shake Tom’s hand, but Tom ignored him. “I’ve worked this out with the authorities,” Tom said. “The victim is an acquaintance of Mark’s from the Gay Men’s Health Crisis Center. He’s the town libertine, and that says a lot around here. His story lines up with Shannon’s. He thought Shannon was one of his regular hookups, so he gave him a reach-around at the bar. Shannon coldcocked him. Broke his jaw. He wants money. The police know the situation and have agreed not to prosecute as long as Shannon stays out of town for the rest of the summer.”
“Phew! I owe you big-time,” Brendan said.
“Actually, you owe the libertine. Bring me a check in his name for twenty-five grand tomorrow. I’ll make sure he gets it. And a twenty-five-grand donation to the Gay Men’s Health Crisis Center would be a meaningful way to show your gratitude.”
“Done,” Brendan said. “I’ll bring you the checks in the morning. Thanks again, Tom.”
“Take the kid home and clean him up,” Tom said, dismissing Brendan’s words of thanks.
Brendan turned to Shannon, who was leaning against the wall with pale skin and bloodshot eyes. “Are you okay, Shannon? What the hell happened? How’d you even get into a bar?”
“Not right now, Dad,” Shannon said through clenched teeth. “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
Brendan woke up at nine, wrote out two checks, tucked them into the tiny side pocket of his black Lycra bike shorts, gulped down a black coffee, and hopped on his bike, pedaling toward Provincetown under the translucent morning light. The sun-bleached pavement unfurled beneath him as he passed a series of small white cottages strung neatly along the shoreline of Cape Cod Bay. He reached the Province Lands Bike Trail and rolled through a beautiful wasteland of sand dunes, beach grass, and twisted pines. The longer he rode, the more he relaxed.
He turned onto Commercial Street and coasted past the bar where Shannon had fought the night before. Brendan thought about Tom and Mark’s efforts to have a child of their own, free from the burdens of an unpredictable legal system regarding child custody rights. He reflected on how they had saved Shannon, whose life would have been ruined if he had been convicted of a hate crime. Painter College would have revoked Shannon’s acceptance, creating a lasting curse for his son and a stain on him and Laura as parents. He stopped his bike at a café, sat on the bench outside, and sipped an espresso. That was the moment he decided to offer the men Cassie’s eggs. But first he called Emily.
“I thought I might eventually hear from you. Is this about the eggs?”
“You knew about them,” Brendan remarked.
“Of course I did. Cassie told me everything about them when she asked me to give you her memoir.”
“You can only imagine how difficult these eggs have made my life,” Brendan lamented.
“Cassie had a knack for complicating things,” Emily said. “But as you remember from the crowded funeral mass, she made an impact on people.”
Brendan paused, reflecting on how he had avoided Cassie over most of their adult lives, how she had been too much for him, and how he had let her down. He didn’t want to let her down now.
“I found a possible recipient for her eggs,” he said. “Two men who live in Boston and Provincetown. They’re married. One is a lawyer, and the other is a mental health counselor.”
“That’s nice. But why are you telling me?”
“You’re a doula, and if they take Cassie’s eggs, they’ll need a gestational surrogate. Do you know one in Massachusetts?”
“If you give them the eggs, also give them my number,” she said. “If they call me, I’ll help them.”
“And Emily . . . I’m not sure how to put this . . .”
“Just say it,” she urged.
“I don’t think anything good can come from death, but in this case, reconnecting with you has been good.”
Emily sighed deeply, then fell quiet. He immediately regretted his confession.
“Have them call me,” she said, her voice breaking. “Goodbye, Bren.”
He hopped back on the bike and rode to Tom and Mark’s house where he handed the two checks to them.
“I’ll send my bill to Shannon when I return to Boston,” Tom said.
