Everything Nice

The ragged rain clouds were moving out. Like a vast school of fish, the evening traffic swam toward some unseen shoal. The late-day sun burned the sky into mellow ochre smoke as Jake's cell phone chewed up his third call, electrons spewing uselessly into the darkening air.
"Shit". He slammed his fist against the steering wheel in frustration. The day had been an adrenaline blur of urgent voices, warbling phones, system failures. He had been running on coffee and reflexes all day.
Suddenly, the big car slid crabwise on the slick freeway. A huge red truck, blasting its train-like horn, swelled into the lane beside him, the driver's face sliding by in a pale smear, inches from Jake's car, which smoothly took control and corrected the skid. As the cold clutch of fear ebbed, and his grip on the wheel relaxed, Jake thought of his daughter, Terry, his only child after five years of marriage. He realized that in an instant he could be gone. The 11:00 pm news would digest him, and that would be it. Then he was in his driveway, the house looming.
The house still smelled new. Had they really lived here for five years? Joan wasn't home yet; more evenings with clients. Her career had taken off soon after Terry was born, and the late nights had become almost normal. When Lauren, the babysitter, scrambled into the kitchen, flushed and laughing, with Terry clinging to her leg, Jake regarded her closely. She'd be going back to university soon, her genuine combination of small-town friendliness and lithe, 19-year-old body the object of a thousand studly fantasies for another term.
"Joan called. She said she'd be here in an hour," Lauren said. Her use of Joan's first name was casual, companionable; they might have been sisters. Terry—a tiny replica of her mother—ran to Jake, squealing a happy hello.
The next day, at lunch, Jake had been stuck next to a sharp-faced young lawyer from Legal who was trying too hard to impress the table with his litigation skills. "Mega settlement, guys, mega.."
The young lawyer was far from likeable, but he was happy to provide details about cells and tests and, of course how brilliantly he had used the results against a high-rolling real estate developer who had womanized himself into a multi-million dollar paternity suit. Eventually, inevitably, the talk turned to money, but by then Jake was replaying Joan's late nights, and again he was thinking about Terry. Of course he wanted to know for sure—what man wouldn't? But he loved Joan. He had never thought about her being unfaithful. Was he that insecure? But it would be so easy to be certain; all he needed was a few cells: hair, skin. If Joan discovered what he was doing, of course she would feel horribly betrayed. But if—he tried to feel the possibility of it—if Terry really were someone else's, what would he do? What could he do? For a flickering instant, his daughter became a small stranger, and that moment made him decide. He had to know.
Jake felt unclean, slightly perverted as he scrabbled through the bathroom wastebasket. "Epithelial cells". The clinical sound of that, repeated like a mantra, helped to blunt the disgust he felt as he picked through an assortment of multicoloured wrappers, plastic containers, and other things that he tried not to recognize. He found what he was looking for: a few coppery strands of Joan's hair with roots. Contemplating his prize, he felt a sad, strange twinge of tenderness for the woman he had married.
Terry's sample was easier, of course: kids smear themselves over everything. He wrapped the samples and placed them in an ice pack. The testing lab was all tinted glass and soothing earth tones, and the staff was professionally pleasant. He handed the samples to a blond technician in a blue lab coat.
"You say this will be a private account, Sir?" The sleek receptionist smiled up at him. He nodded as he wrote the cheque. He gave her his work number, and then drove back to the office with an odd feeling of excitement, relief and dread, something like the few times he had tried cocaine.
A week later, the lab called. "You mentioned that you'd like to pick up the report yourself?" As Jake pulled into the lab's parking lot, the same edgy depression settled over him. Doctor Steiner was a small, grey man with a silky middle-European accent. He placed a thin folder on the immaculate rosewood desk.
"We double-checked the tests to ensure that there was no error, but they produced the same results. Are you quite sure about the samples?" the doctor asked. Jake was quite sure. He had taken great care.
"Doctor, exactly what are the results?"
"Well, the two female samples are from the same individual, and the male sample does not share any genetic material with them."
Jake focussed on the rosewood desk. The gray folder's outline was razor sharp against the exquisite, glowing wood grain. "How can that be? he asked.
The doctor looked at him with the slightest hint of skepticism. "I'm not sure, but in any case, if you would care to submit new samples? Or you might want to verify the results with another facility?" Jake knew that there was no need; this was one of the best labs in the country.
After he was out of the building, after the car had dutifully reminded him to submit to the prophylactic bondage of seat belts and harness, after he started to drive into the grainy blue night, he began to wonder how many more there were like Joan.