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his shoulders, craning his neck, rubbing his long hands together, like an athlete alone in the locker room.
    “So what is that?” Alex asks. “Vitamins? Diet?”
    “It’s all done in one appointment,” Johnson says. “You’re in, you’re out, you’re pregnant.”
    “Each and every time?”
    “So he says. I won’t lie to you, Alex. I don’t really know his success rate. The people who told us about him were certainly successful. And he charges enough—not that that would be an issue for you.” Again that quick zipper smile.
    “And he’s a doctor.”
    “Indeed he is.” There’s a bit of irony in Johnson’s tone. “All very cutting edge, etcetera.”
    “I still don’t know what it is he does.”
    “Fertility enhancement.”
    “I know. You said that. But that’s what they all do. Fertility enhancement—you either interfere with fertility, and that’s called birth control, or you enhance it, and that’s called the last three years of my life and, oh, something close to three-quarters of a million dollars for everything from laser surgery to Chinese tea.”
    “This doctor treats both the woman and the man. He has a formula that radically increases the motility of your sperm and the viability of her eggs. God only knows what’s in the stuff he gives you, but it fucking works, I’ll tell you that. And I’ll tell you his name, and how to get in touch with him, and everything else you need—but I need something too, Alex. I need to work here. My firm—well, you know all about it. It’s a nothing place with flea-bitten clients and I’m not making any money, not the kind of money I need, not the kind of money I see around here. I’m an okay lawyer. Not great, I’m nobody’s hero, nobody’s salvation. But I know how to grind it out. Am I going to be one of the bright lights here? No, probably not. But I can do the work and I’m not going to embarrass myself or you.”
    “I’ll say this for you, Jim. For you to come here and dangle this possibility in front of me and then to make it a precondition that I give you a job here—you’ve got to have some big brass balls to try something like this. Big. Fucking. Brass. Balls.”
    “Then, judging by your words and your tone,” Johnson says, “I assume we have a deal. I’m asking for a three-year contract—and if you try to get rid of me for some personal reason or for some Mickey Mouse screwup or for anything short of gross incompetence, I will sue you for breach. And retire.”
     
    After his negotiation with Jim Johnson, Alex called Leslie at her office and said he would be bringing dinner home tonight and there was something he wanted to tell her. He’d thought it was obvious what this conversation was going to be about—after all, she had been standing right there the night before in Central Park when he made his appointment with Johnson—but Leslie had seemed distracted on the phone and didn’t ask for any further elucidation. She simply said, “Oh, all right,” and left it at that.
    And now, hours later, Alex is laying out the carry-in sushi and ice-cold dai ginjo sake in their dining room while Leslie watches him, sitting in a tufted leather Queen Anne sofa that Twisdens and their spouses had been sitting in since 1808, her legs drawn up, her arms wrapped around her knees, a distracted look on her face.
    “I’ve been looking forward to this conversation all day,” Alex announces as he pours the sake into two small pale green earthenware cups.
    “There’s something I need to talk about too,” Leslie says. She brushes her bangs away from her eyes, takes a deep, steadying breath.
    “Well, you first,” Alex says.
    From the next room, the telephone sounds—their answering machine is programmed to pick up on the first ring, and they hear Alex’s deep voice instructing the caller to wait for the tone. (Alex believes that those who call it “the beep” ought to be thrashed to within an inch of their lives!)
    “Remember meeting