She didn’t. Preston got nervous. Two hundred might just be the start. And what if she had the kid? There could be child support, no end in sight, and all because she was fucking around.
Preston went to his parents, who called their minister. They met in the family’s living room.
“Son,” said the reverend. “You have to tell her you’ll marry her.”
“But I don’t want to marry her.”
“Don’t worry, son,” said the preacher. “You’re not marrying anyone. This is just to prevent her from having an abortion.”
“Preston,” said his father. “The minister and I have already discussed this. There’s no point in letting some bimbo ruin your life.”
“You have a bright future,” said the preacher. “We’re not going to let this woman destroy it. We just need you to make her believe you’ll really marry her.”
“Say whatever you have to,” said the father.
“Just string her along until the third trimester, when it’ll be illegal,” said the minister.
“Isn’t that lying?”
“You’ll be doing God’s work.”
“Preston, obviously you’re not completely blameless, but we know how it is,” said his father. “You’re a devout young man. You go to church. You’re just the type they’re looking to lead astray.”
“She had sex before marriage, so she’s a harlot,” said the minister.
“But I had sex before marriage, too.”
“Because she used her harlot ways. You were obviously seduced.”
“Well, there was a little of that.”
“Of course there was. Now go and do the right thing.”
Preston was convincing. She had gotten him into this, and now it was up to him to prevent a double tragedy. Preston saw it as a test of character, kind of a proud moment. His parents even helped; they had both of them over for Sunday dinners and talked about the future.
Becky bought the act, even started looking at wedding and nursery stuff. A few months later, she went up to Preston’s dorm room with exciting news. She had the sonograms — it was a girl!
The door to the room was open. She approached slowly. “Preston?” She looked inside.
Empty. Stripped to the walls.
Becky drove to his parents’ house and rang the doorbell. His mother opened the front door, but the screen door on the outside stayed latched.
“Yes?”
“Where’s Preston? His dorm room is empty.”
“Who are you?”
“What?”
“We don’t know anyone named Preston.”
“…I don’t understand… what—?”
“Never come back here, tramp!”
The door slammed.
They had shipped Preston across the country to finish up at another college in Nevada. That was years and years ago. Where was his daughter today? Preston had never really given it any thought. He went on to postgraduate work in the East, then teaching, building an impressive résumé of being fired from some of the most prestigious institutions in the country. He could pull the hypnosis-for-sex stunt as a student, but it was receiving less than enthusiastic applause now that he was on faculty. Women from other parts of the country began showing up on campus looking for him, pushing strollers. In three short years, he was drummed completely out of the teaching field.
His life fell apart in short order, and he ended up living in a Reno flophouse working nights and weekends as a dishwasher. He called his parents for money.
“Didn’t you hear?” said his mother. “We gave it all to the church. And we sold the house, too. We’re going to become missionaries. Isn’t that great news?”
A week later, Preston saw his first stage hypnotist. He was taking a break from scrubbing tureens, standing in the swinging kitchen doors, watching this incredible guy onstage. Some poor salesman from Omaha was making out with an inflatable woman.
“Scoot over,” said Preston.
Xolack the Mentalist was onstage bending spoons.
“How do you do that, anyway?” asked Andy.
“Do what?” asked Preston.
“Get all these women to fuck you. I thought you couldn’t get people to do things under hypnosis they wouldn’t do in real life.”
The audience down the hall grew angry.
“You mean the Svengali effect?”
“I don’t know what it’s called. I just watch a lot of TV.”
“The popular notion you can’t get someone to do something against their nature is a myth. If you rearrange the context, you can get anyone to do anything.”
“Bullshit,” said Spider.
“True story,” said Preston. “The CIA was messing around with hypnosis about the same time they were losing people out high-rise windows on LSD. They were able to get one of the office secretaries to pick up an unloaded gun, point it at another secretary and pull the trigger.”
“How do you know they didn’t hate each other?” asked Andy. “Secretaries can be vicious.”
