Nine Months Page 5

  Clara’s husband Bill is away again, after being home for only three days and nights, where he spent all of one night at home, trying to keep the kids off of him so he could read the paper and watch a game on TV at the same time, according to Clara. And Sonia believes it. She’s grateful Bill is not there—he is not Sonia’s favorite person. In fact, she actively dislikes him. He doesn’t flirt. And he’s just a garden variety dick of a man. Never smiles. He may even be dumb, Sonia theorizes, regardless of his good career. And it was clear that regardless of how much Clara complained of the difficulty of being alone with the kids so much, Clara didn’t mind his many absences, nor his tenuous relationship to his own children. Clara often made it clear that having him around was harder than not. One more person in her house to pick up after.

  Sonia brings a bottle of wine out of her bag as her sons go off into the living room where the TV is already on.

  “Oh, you didn’t need to bring anything!” Clara says, taking the bottle.

  “I so appreciate you inviting us over. I’ve been so exhausted lately. And you didn’t have to cook for us. We could have ordered pizza …”

  “Let me get my kids out of the bath.” Clara runs upstairs, shouting—“Tom and Mike are here, you guys! And you all get to watch a video!”—then she’s back in the kitchen.

  Sonia watches Clara’s back as she aggressively chops things and remembers the day at the park, not so long ago, three weeks maybe?, when she told her. And then, when she started to cry, and when she told her how Dick had reacted! Calling her a cunt. When Sonia said the word, quietly then, because other mothers had started to come to the park—alone together they swore like sailors as long as the kids seemed out of earshot—the way Clara looked at her as she said the word “cunt.” It was as if she had said something to turn Clara on, as if Clara’s face turned lascivious upon hearing the word “cunt.” Sonia had wanted Clara to be enraged for her, with her, and instead, she went all glassy eyed and her mouth hung open. And then she snapped out of it. Back to where Sonia needed her.

  Clara puts in a two-hour movie, not too scary for the little ones, not too boring for the big ones.

  Sonia, in the kitchen, opens the bottle of wine she brought. “Would you like a glass? I hope you don’t mind I just got started while you were getting the video on.”

  “I’d love a glass!”

  “Cheers,” they say at the same time, laughing at that, the synchronicity of it, and they clink their glasses together.

  “Here’s to husbands at work!” Clara says. She adds, “May they stay there forever!” Sonia, her mouth already around the rim of her glass, smiles at her with her eyes.

  “I know I’m not supposed to drink, but I’m only going to have one glass.”

  “In France they’d be forcing you to drink! Don’t even think about it!”

  Sonia sits down at the table. She knows she doesn’t look well. She looks pregnant. Greenish complexion, saggy cheeks, dark circles around the eyes. She looks like something inside of her is stopping her from focusing outward. Clara starts chopping asparagus. The rice bubbles, providing the only sound for a minute. Sonia says, “Yeah, husbands at work forever. Not a bad thought. Actually, I feel bad about how I complained about Dick the other day …”

  “Don’t feel bad! I was complaining about Bill. We live with these bastards! What else are we supposed to do but complain about them?”

  “No, I know, it’s hard to live with people, anyone really. By the end of each year of college, I truly hated my roommates. After living together for a year, our friendship would end. Living with people made me hate them. Still does, really. It’s just hard, no matter how much you love a person, to live with them. And for eight years? Fifty years? I just don’t know how people do it. It seems so unnatural.”

  “Well, that’s why I say, here’s to husbands away at work!”

  “But anyway, that night, when Bill came home from Denver, we had a really good talk. And he apologized for yelling at me. I just don’t want you to think my husband is a complete asshole.”

  “Ah, they always say they’re sorry, but are they really sorry? Are they? They say they’re sorry because they just want to get us off their backs.”

  Sonia laughs weakly. “There’s some truth to that, undoubtedly. But I think he felt real remorse. Work has been really tough on him lately. With the launch of a new business model, brought on by these new partners in his research firm. And he was just shocked that I could be pregnant. Really shocked. And I was too, as you know. It’s hard news to handle. It’s hard news to believe, really.

  “So we talked about it. About how I don’t know what to do. And we talked about whether we could afford three kids and the answer to that is, we could, if we go with public schools. As long as we don’t attempt the private school thing, which is OK with me, I guess. I don’t know. And we talked about our apartment and whether or not we would have to move. And that’s a possibility. If it’s a girl, eventually we would need to move. I guess three boys could share that one bedroom. It is big enough. I don’t know. Maybe I should look into the suburbs. Or Kensington. Have you heard of Kensington? Further out on the F train, in Brooklyn? Past Park Slope? I hear it’s got good schools and we could afford a house there. It’s not here though, it’s not Cobble Hill. It’s not nearly as … sophisticated. It’s much more middle class.”

  Clara pours herself another glass of wine but says nothing and yet Sonia knows what she is thinking. Public schools? Not in Clara’s life. Kensington? Fucking Kensington? She’s headed toward Greenwich. Sonia knows that. But she goes on.

  “But then there’s the fact that we just don’t want, I mean, we always planned for just two, and it’s not too late to do something about it, although it’s getting there. I would have to do something right away. And my painting. And maybe if we got more help I could paint and take care of three kids. But he’s just being very supportive of whatever I decide to do. And giving me time and space. And getting up with the boys in the mornings before he goes to work, because I’m not feeling well. He knows I’m the one who’ll be doing most of the childcare, so he really is deferring to me regarding the final decision. But I look at this man, you know, I look at my husband and I think, could he respect me, would he feel the same way about me, his wife, if I aborted his baby?”

  “It’s not a baby yet, Sonia. I mean, I understand what you’re saying and I would be supportive of whatever you do. Having a baby, or not having a baby. And I would never, ever tell a soul if you decided to not keep it,” Clara says, “But you would be aborting a fetus, not a baby. A fetus in the first trimester of growth. I miscarried! Twice! Does that make me a criminal? Or just because it was an accident, instead of premeditated, that makes it OK? Involuntary manslaughter in comparison to first degree murder? I mean, what are we talking about here?”

  Clara’s facial expression reminds Sonia of a district attorney on some legal television drama, arguing a case. Professional in her mannerisms—she’s not hysterical, her eyes don’t exactly bulge—but she’s all passion and righteousness.

  “My mother was a Catholic, you know. I still can’t shake a lot of that Christian shit. I’m haunted by it. But I know, also, that if I choose to have this baby, I have to be happy with my choice. That it’s up to me. It’s not God’s will. It’s up to me. Women ruined their lives to bring me this choice and I have no one to blame. I have no way of playing the victim, you know.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Sonia. It’s a tough decision either way. We’re not talking about what color to paint the bathroom here. We’re talking about another kid. Or not.” Clara polishes off her glass of wine and asks, “Would you like some more wine?”

  “Just a tiny splash,” says Sonia. “I better figure it out soon, though. Cut back on the wine if I decide to keep it.” She grins now at Clara, positively grins at her, with nothing short of mischief in her eyes.

  “Well, as you know, I studied health admin and you really need to drink a lot to cause
any damage. I mean, being pregnant is hard, and a little booze helps you feel better. It’s good for you!”

  “I should move to France where it’s OK to drink a bit when pregnant. But you see, that’s the thing. I feel like if I decide to keep the baby, then all these possibilities go away. Moving to Europe, to be closer to my mother, too, since she moved back to Spain. We talked about Europe, how good it would be for the kids. And we talked about my painting. I feel like it’s unfair to my kids if I don’t make time for what I want. My mother never made enough time for herself and later, blaming us for her misery and failure, and boredom, her lack of life, I remember just thinking, I didn’t ask to be born! I didn’t make any demands on her! But of course, now having children, I realize there are demands made. Sort of. But I don’t want my children to be my scapegoats. I don’t want that.”

  “Tell me,” says Clara, dishing out the red snapper, the chutney, the perfectly cooked rice, the tender stalks of asparagus, “you say Dick might not respect you if you decide to abort. But have you expressed that fear to him? Do you think he really wants you to keep it?”

  “This looks amazing, Clara. I haven’t been feeling that great. But this looks so great.” Sonia feels a queasiness upon her but is determined to hide it. Is it the wine? Sonia’s stomach is probably a mess. She’s pregnant. She’s in that first trimester when the smell of food makes you want to vomit. She tentatively picks at the fish. She is going to force herself to eat it and she already knows what the result of that will be. “I think he wants me to keep the baby. I think he’s hoping this one will be a girl. I think he wants a daughter.” At this thought, Sonia relaxes, smiles at Clara, who again seems to be giving her one of those slack-faced looks, drunkenly so, and she shoves an enormous piece of fish in her mouth.

  Later that night, after the kids fall asleep without a bath—but who cares, they get one almost every night—after she shuts off the lights in the kitchen and bags the garbage which stinks to high hell—maybe that’s what did it, the garbage—Sonia throws up red snapper and chutney in her bedroom bathroom. She only drank one glass of wine, it couldn’t be that. No, it’s because she’s fucking pregnant. Her body tries again, but nothing comes out, and now it’s the dry heaves. Again. And again. Fuck. And it was so nice of Clara to cook for her. So nice to see Clara, and this time, no problems with the kids. The kids were great, albeit stoned in front of some crazy Disney movie. And Clara, so sympathetic, really. She drank the rest of the bottle of wine and then opened the next and Sonia was a little surprised, but not really. Because Clara’s weird wild streak hiding under her pageboy haircut and navy blue Izod always reared itself. In some way or another. And Sonia likes to think of her as the friend with whom she could go see a band, the friend with whom she could go to a bar. Of course, Bill is never around so Clara can’t leave at night, unless she hires Nadine to work late. And what’s wrong with Sonia anyway, wanting to go out to bars at night? A married woman? Why would she want to do that?

  Because she does. Because she just fucking does. She misses bars. She loved bartending. It was something, besides painting, that she was good at.

  Sonia rinses her mouth, but is afraid to use toothpaste, the thought of minty bubbles making her want to dry heave some more. She rinses and rinses and tries to get the fish taste out of her mouth. She can’t. Why didn’t she say no? Why didn’t she say, I’m pregnant and I can’t eat this fish? I’ll just have some mac and cheese with the kids. She wants to please Clara, that’s why. As Clara wants to please her. Ice cream is the answer. Sickly, exhausted, Sonia heads downstairs and quietly—she doesn’t want to wake the boys—removes a pint of ice cream from the freezer. Cookie dough ice cream. Afraid even to turn on the lights, she goes into the living room with the pint of ice cream and there in the dark, stuffs her mouth. First slowly, then quickly. And then she sits there, the wet cardboard pint melting in her arm, her eyes off into the dark.

  Did Clara try to kiss her? When the movie was over and they gave the kids Oreo cookies and then she got her stuff: the diaper bag, the Spider-Man action figure that Tom brought over to show Sam, and the stroller out on the sidewalk (the sun was really going down), did Clara, who doesn’t do the air-kissy thing and never sits too close—did Clara try to kiss her? The strange lunge, the face next to hers, those big brown eyes, Sonia felt a little woozy from the wine, but it’s possible that Clara was full-on drunk. What was that? Was it a pass?

  And then, the door opens. In comes Dick. Quietly, as he knows the kids are asleep. He’s home so late. It’s nine thirty. He looks ruined and Sonia feels very sorry for him. This job, sometimes, seems as if it’s sucking his very soul out. It seems like he goes to an office where they stick a vacuum cleaner on his chest and turn it on, without any nozzle, no, just the round metal pole, one of those kind of vacuum cleaners, where the body of it is attached to a long tubular thing, and they put it in right where his heart and soul is and suck out his very life essence. Wordlessly, he sits next to her. He smells like the stale stink of dry, office sweat. The sweat of fear and horror. A different smell than the ripe, wet stink he gets after playing basketball. Not nearly as pleasant. Not pleasant at all actually, whereas sometimes, after basketball on Sundays, they’d put the kids in front of the TV and go upstairs and fuck, quickly and quietly, because Sonia likes that kind of sweat, the liquidy, tangy sweat of his body out in the sun, running around. Yes, that sweat she loves, but this one, this office-hell, are-they-gonna-fire-me, do-I-suck, God-I-hate-my-job sweat, no, this sort of body odor burns her nostrils, especially now that she’s pregnant. She moves down the couch a little away from him. He puts his head in his hands.

  “Why are you moving away from me? Why would you do that to me? Is it because I’m late? I called to tell you I’d be late. Please don’t hate me tonight. I just can’t take it.”

  “No, sweetie, I don’t hate you. I’m not mad at you, honestly.” She reaches out to him, stretching her arm out, because she doesn’t want to get too near to him. He really, really stinks. It must have been an awful day and night at that office. “It’s just that you smell bad, honey. And you know how it is when I’m pregnant.”

  “I smell bad? I SMELL bad?”

  “Do you want some ice cream? I threw up the dinner Clara made me. And then I couldn’t even brush my teeth because the toothpaste was going to make me vomit. So I couldn’t get the fish taste out of my mouth and I’d been dry heaving and I thought ice cream might do the trick. Get rid of the fish flavor, the vomit flavor. Not be minty and bubbly.”

  “I SMELL bad?”

  “Keep your voice down, Dick. The kids are sleeping. What do you want me to say? You want me to lie to you? I’ll lie to you from now on and not tell you that you stink when you do. OK? From now on. But I’m pregnant, so just cut me a break. My sense of smell is hyperacute and everything makes me want to vomit. And you know sometimes when you’ve had a bad day at the office you get a little funky smelling.”

  “I had a bad day at the office.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” Dick crumples into the couch. The day won. The day clearly defeated him. His eyes are watering, probably from staring at a computer all day, but Sonia is worried he might cry. He rubs them, then puts one of his hands down his pants and audibly scratches his balls.

  Sonia, despite her not being able to get too close to Dick, because he stinks like an acidic pile of roach feces, loves her husband just then. His strong bones. His wide shoulders. The fact that the man has a real job. That he is adult enough, responsible enough to have a real job. All of the ones before him sucked with money, pissed money away like it was nothing. And then there was Dick. Quiet, not boring her with his work stuff. So emotionally strong, so dependable. Sometimes he talked to her about work, and it interested her some, it did, but he didn’t always talk about work. He wasn’t a bore, like some other husbands she knew. His research firm was the best of its kind and Dick’s strange, photographic memory made him brilliant at his job. He kn
ew everything he ever looked at. Just stored it all in the vast computer that was his brain. Stinking, or not stinking, she loves this man. And she’s sad he’s down. She feels for him. She doesn’t want him to have bad days.

  “Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m here. Ice Cream?”

  “No, thanks.” He looks at her, his eyes filled with something bad—despair? fear? anger? Dependable, yes, brilliant yes, but inscrutable. And he knows it. And nothing is given away. “You didn’t call the doctor or anything, did you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re going through with the pregnancy, right?”

  “I was just talking about it with Clara.”

  “And?”

  “You know, I thought you wanted me to keep this baby and now I’m trying to figure out your expression and I’m getting the feeling that you don’t want me to keep this baby.”

  “I thought this was about what you want, Sonia.”

  “Fuck you, Dick. I care what you think. I know it’s up to me, but I need to know where you stand.”