"Can I get you something to eat?"

"No," she says, "I really have to get home. I've a thousand things to do today, and it's already noon."

Stacy Shanahan finds and puts on her coat. At the door, Futterman asks if he can get her a cab, but she says she prefers to take the El, which at this time of day is quicker. 

"Good luck in the new job," he says at the door, sounding silly to himself saying it.

"Take care," she says, and is gone.

Futterman feels a gust of tremendous relief. He takes his coffee into the living room, flops into the chair in which he watches television, where he falls asleep until four that afternoon. 

Early in March, Futterman's secretary informs him that he has a telephone call from a Ms Shanahan.

"Hello," he says, apprehensive, "how are things?"

"Not so great, Mr Futterman," she answers. "Seems I'm pregnant." 

Futterman gulps. Calm is needed here, he thinks, great cool calm. Steady, he tells himself.

"I see," is all he says, returning the ball weakly to her side of the court. 

"I'm afraid this is our office Christmas party child," she says, in a slightly quavering voice. 

"You're certain?" says Futterman, in his authoritative, lawyerly voice. 

"Yes. I hadn't slept with anyone for months before, nor have I slept with anyone since. There's no other possibility." 

"Look," Futterman says, "maybe we shouldn't be talking about this over the phone. Are you free for dinner?"