Who's The Father?

An old voice talent I once dated for a moment called me the other night and I said, "Who's this?" He said, "Peggy, don't you recognize my voice?"
"No. Should I?"
"It's Scott?"
"Scott who?" I was kidding by then. (He'd driven by my back gate early in the spring and I was out in my grubbies wrestling with the overgrown garden, my hair gone as wild as the yard. He stopped his car. Oh no. Not good.
I said, "My eyes are bad. I can't hear you. I have company coming." Anyone could look at me and see this was a lie.  I actually waved him on.  As if we didn't speak the same language. And in a way we didn't. He's a really old man. I'm just an old womam.)
"I had a dream about you."
"Really.  What sort of dream?"
"I was living in a big house and you came to my door in the middle of the night. You woke me up.  I came to the door and you looked awful.  I said Peggy, you look awful.  What happened to you?  You said, "I'm pregnant."  Then the phone rang.  I answered it.  It was our agent.  I told her you were pregnant. She asked me to ask you one question."
"What was it, you tactless bastard?"
"Who's the father?"