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    Pale Male and the Infertile Girl
    Pale Male and the Infertile Girl
    Pale Male and the Infertile Girl
    Ebook53 pages53 minutes

    Pale Male and the Infertile Girl

    By Clark Casey

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    About this ebook

    A young couple inherits a 10 million-dollar apartment on Fifth Avenue, and soon after the windowsill becomes inhabited by Central Park’s famous red-tailed hawk. The novella follows the general chronology of Pale Male’s nesting and controversial eviction from one of the most exclusive buildings in Manhattan. A finance executive and his heiress girlfriend give a glimpse into the lives of wealthy Upper East Siders. As the birds proliferate, the power couple is torn apart by their inability to conceive a child. An intriguing tale of infertility and infidelity that challenges the ideas of matrimony and monogamy. A classic New York story of real estate lust and instinct vs. human pride.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherClark Casey
    Release dateAug 2, 2011
    ISBN9781465929273
    Pale Male and the Infertile Girl
    Author

    Clark Casey

    Clark Casey is a glass-completely-empty kind of guy.

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      Book preview

      Pale Male and the Infertile Girl - Clark Casey

      Pale Male and the Infertile Girl

      by Clark Casey

      Copyright Clark Casey 2011

      Published by No Dead Trees Press at Smashwords

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

      The doctor said that she had an inhospitable womb. As if it were one of those outer-borough lofts where hipsters in knit caps glared at you without offering you so much as a drink. Sure, the sperm cells could visit, and perhaps buy some artwork, but forget about moving into the neighborhood. And, of course, bring cab fare.

      Kim’s fertile ovary-bearing friends were all of the general opinion that I was supposed to simply understand—and keep understanding for the rest of my life as the family name and all of my ancestors’ struggles faded into obscurity. They failed to see that after my younger sister Sarah’s death, I became my family’s only hope for genetic continuance. Generations of peasant farmers broke their backs pulling sour buds from the cold earth, fended off Viking raids and survived a potato famine just to end up extinct on a rock in the wealthiest nation in the world. As I was listening in on Kim’s Junior League meeting from the butler’s pantry, wearing mended socks in order to afford our $6,000 a month maintenance fee, it occurred to me that I was truly the last of my kind.

      You understood when he said he never wanted to get married, her friend Samantha was quick to remind her.

      It was true. I believed in the till death do you part part. I just didn’t want to sign anything on it. Not that Kim would ever sue me or, for that matter, that my assets would ever be even in the same ballpark as hers. Financially, marrying Kim would have been like winning the lottery, but without all the taxes and news cameras letting distant cousins know that I was an easy mark.

      My parents’ divorce had gone on for a little over a decade during my formative years, so I tried to avoid arguments that can last longer than it takes for treasury bonds to mature. As a child, the kitchen table was always cluttered with stacks of vanilla folders, files of motions and lists of dad’s modest assets. I wedged my breakfast plate in between the giant paper trail of their inability to get along.

      Dad had been a professional golfer on the Nationwide Tour for a couple of years, but never qualified for the PGA. When I was 7, he became a teaching pro at a country club in Long Island. To make ends meet, he spent the winters in Florida giving lessons to retirees, but Mother was convinced that he had a small fortune stashed away in some secret bank account.

      Mom always seemed to me like an important person when I was growing up. She was constantly getting ready for court and throwing around words like adjournment to the other mothers at the playground. When friends asked me what she did for a living, I’d say in all earnest, She divorces my father.

      "She could have just become a lawyer by now," dad liked to remark. Her Irish stubbornness was focused solely on the one battle, though. In the courthouses, she was known as the crazy Irish lady who once asked the judge for permission to treat her son as hostile witness when I spoke on dad’s behalf.

      Kim’s parents, on the other hand, were two doctors whose only courtroom visits were as expert witnesses. The glue of their 30-year marriage was having absolutely no money problems and very little free time in which to get sick of one another. When we all sat down for dinner once a month, they seemed to be looking across opposite ends of their Louis XIV table as if trying to recognize their spouse among the dinner guests. Kim’s mother was a biologist who spent her days peering

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