"Roger," I said behind you, wiping my hands on a dish towel,
" w h y don't you come in and talk about it? You seem upset."
W h e n we all repaired to the living room, I noted that Roger's
— 242 —
getup was a little unfortunate; he had too big a gut for Lycra cycling shorts, and in those bike shoes he walked pigeon-toed.
You retreated behind an armchair, keeping it between you and R o g e r like a military fortification."I'm awful sorry to hear about Trent's accident," you said. "Maybe it's a good opportunity to go through the fundamentals of bike safety."
" H e knows the fundamentals," said Roger. "Like, you never leave the quick-release on one of your wheels flipped open."
"Is that what you think happened?" I asked.
"Trent said the front wheel started wobbling. We checked the bike, and the release wasn't only flipped over; it'd been turned a few times to loosen the fork. Doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to conclude that Kevin was the culprit!"
" N o w wait just one minute!" you said. "That's one hell of a — "
"Trent rode that bike yesterday morning, no problem.
Nobody's been by since but you, Eva, along with your son. And I want to thank you for that bread you sent over," he added, lowering the volume. "It was real good, and we appreciated your thoughtfiilness. But we don't appreciate Kevin's tinkering with Trent's bike. Going a little faster, or around traffic, my kid could've been killed."
"You're making a lot of assumptions here," you growled."That release could have been tripped in Trent's accident."
" N o way. I ' m a cyclist myself, and I've had my share of spills.
T h e release never flips all the way over—much less turns around by itself to loosen the spring."
"Even if Kevin did do it," I said (you shot me a black look),
"maybe he doesn't k n o w what the lever is for. That leaving it open is dangerous."
"That's one theory," R o g e r grunted. " T h a t your son's a dummy. But that's not the way Trent describes him."
"Look," you said. "Maybe Trent had been playing with that release, and he doesn't want to take the rap. That doesn't mean my son has to take it instead. Now, if you'll excuse us, we've got some w o r k to do around the yard."
— 243 —
After R o g e r left, I had a sinking feeling that the Irish soda bread Moira had promised to bake me in return would never materialize.
"Boy, I sometimes think you're right," you said, pacing. "A kid can't skin his knee anymore without it having to be somebody else's fault. Country's completely lost touch with the concept of accident. W h e n Kevin broke his arm, did I give you a hard time?
Did it have to be somebody's fault? N o . Shit happens."
" D o you want to talk to Kevin about Trent's bike?" I said."Or should I?"
" W h a t for? I can't see he's done anything."
I said under my breath. "You never do."
" A n d you always do," you said levelly.
A standard exchange—not even exceptionally acrimonious—so I ' m not sure w h y it flipped something in me, like Trent Corley's quick-release. Maybe because it was standard now, and once it hadn't been. I closed my eyes, cupping the back of the armchair that had walled off R o g e r Corley's outlandish accusations.
Honestly, I'd no idea what I was going to say until I said it.
"Franklin, I want to have another child."
I opened my eyes and blinked. I had surprised myself. It may have been my first experience of spontaneity in six or seven years.
You wheeled.Your response was spontaneous, too. "You cannot be serious."
T h e time didn't seem right for reminding you that you deplored J o h n M c E n r o e as a p o o r sport. "I'd like us to start trying to get me pregnant right away."
It was the oddest thing. I felt perfectly certain, and not in the fierce, clutching spirit that might have betrayed a crazy w h i m or frantic grab at a pat marital nostrum. I felt self-possessed and simple. This was the very unreserved resolve for which I had prayed during our protracted debate over parenthood, and whose absence had led us d o w n tortuously abstract avenues like "turning the page" and "answering the Big Question." I'd never been so sure of anything in my life, so m u c h so that I was disconcerted why you seemed to think there was anything to talk about.
"Eva, forget it. You re forty-four. You'd have a three-headed toad or something."
"Lots of w o m e n these days have children in their forties."
" G e t out of here! I thought that n o w Kevin's going to be in school full-time you were planning to go back to AWAP! W h a t about all those big plans to move into Eastern Europe post-glasnost? Get in early, beat The Lonely PlanetV'
"I've considered going back to AWAP. I may still go back. But I can work for the rest of my life. As you just observed with so m u c h sensitivity, there's only one thing I can do for a short while longer."
"I can't believe this. You're serious! You're seriously—serious!"
"I'd like to get pregnant makes a crummy gag, Franklin.Wouldn't you like Kevin to have someone to play with?" Truthfully, I wanted someone to play with, too.
"They're called classmates. And two siblings always hate each other."
" O n l y if they're close together. She'd be younger than Kevin by at least seven years."
"She, is it?"The pronoun made you bristle.
I shrugged my eyebrows. "Hypothetically."
"This is all because you want a girl? To dress in little outfits?
Eva, this isn't like you."
" N o , wanting to dress a girl in little outfits isn't like me. So there was no call for you to say that. Look, I can see your having reservations, but I don't understand w h y the prospect of my getting pregnant again seems to be making you so angry."
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Anything but. I thought you've enjoyed being a parent."
"I have, yes! Eva, what gives you the idea that even if you do have this fantasy daughter everything's going to be different?"
"I don't understand," I maintained, having learned the merits
— 2 4 5 —
of playing dumb from my son. " W h y in the world would I want everything to be different?"
"What could possess you, after it's gone the way it's gone, to want to do it again?"
"It's gone what way?" I asked neutrally.
You took a quick look out the window to make sure Kevin was still patting the tether ball to spiral first one way around the pole, then the other; he liked the monotony.
"You never want him to come with us, do you? You always want to find somebody to dump him with so we can waltz off by ourselves, like what you obviously consider the good old days."
"I don't remember saying any such thing," I said stonily.
"You don't have to. I can tell you're disappointed every time I suggest we do something so that Kevin can come, too."
"That must explain why you and I have spent coundess long, boozy evenings in expensive restaurants, while our son languishes with strangers."
"See?You resent it. And what about this summer?You wanted to go to Peru. Okay, I was game. But I assumed we'd take a vacation as a family. So I start supposing how far a six-year-old can hike in a day, and you should have seen your face, Eva. It fell like a lead balloon. Soon as Peru would involve Kevin, too, you lose interest. Well, I'm sorry. But I for one didn't have a kid in order to get away from him as often as possible."
I was leery of where this was headed. I'd known that eventually we would need to discuss all that had been left unsaid, but I wasn't ready. I needed ballast. I needed supporting evidence, which would take me a minimum of nine months to gather.
"I'm with him all day," I said. "It makes sense that I'd be more anxious than you for a break—"
"And I never cease to hear about what a terrible sacrifice you've been making."
"I'm sorry that it means so litde to you."
"It's not important it mean something t
o me. It should mean something to him."
— 246 —
"Franklin, I don't understand w h e r e — "
" A n d that's typical isn't it? You stay home for him to impress me.
He just never enters in, does he?"
" Where is all this coming from? I only wanted to tell you that I'd like us to have another baby, and for you to be happy about it, or at least start getting used to the idea."
"You pick on him," you said. W i t h another cautionary glance at the tether-ball court up the hill, you had an air of just getting started. "You blame him for everything that goes wrong around this house. And at his kindergarten.You've complained about the p o o r kid at every stage of the game. First he cries too much, then he's too quiet. He develops his o w n little language, and it's annoying. He doesn't play right—meaning the way you did. He doesn't treat the toys you make h i m like m u s e u m pieces. He doesn't pat you on the back every time he learns to spell a n e w word, and since the whole neighborhood isn't clamoring to sign his dance card, you're determined to paint him as a pariah. He develops one, yes, serious psychological problem having to do with his toilet training—it's not that unusual, Eva, but it can be very painful for the kid—and you insist on interpreting it as some mean-spirited, personal contest between you and him.
I ' m relieved he seems to be over it, but with your attitude I ' m not surprised it lasted a long time. I do what I can to make up for your—and I ' m very sorry if this hurts your feelings, but I don't k n o w what else to call it—your coldness. But there's no substitute for a mother's love, and I am damned if I am going to let you freeze out another kid of mine."
I was stunned. "Franklin—"
"This discussion is over. I didn't enjoy saying all that, and I still hope things can get better. I k n o w you think you make an effort—well, maybe you do make what for you is an effort—but so far it's not enough. Let's all keep trying. —Hey, sport!" You swooped Kevin up as he sauntered in from the deck, raising him over your head as if posing for a Father's Day ad. "At the end of your tether?"
— 2 4 7 —
W h e n you set him down, he said, "I wrapped the ball around 843 times."
"That's terrific! I bet next time you'll be able to do it 844
times!"
You were trying to make an awkward transition after an argument that left me feeling run over by a truck, but I can't say I care for the Hollywood gaga that's expected of modern parents.
Kevin's own expression flickered with a suggestion of oh-brother.
"If I try really hard," he said, deadpan. "Isn't it great to have a goal?"
"Kevin." I called him over and stooped. "I'm afraid your friend Trent has had an accident. It's not too bad, and he'll be all right.
But maybe you and I could make him a get-well card—hke the one Grandma Sonya made you when you hurt your arm."
"Yeah, well," he said, moving away. " H e thinks he's so cool with that bike."
T h e AC must have been turned too high; I stood up and rubbed my arms. I didn't remember mentioning anything about a bicycle.
4
FEBRUARY 1 , 2 0 0 1
Dear Franklin,
For some reason I imagine it will reassure you that I still get the Times. But I seem to have misplaced the grid I once imposed on it to determine what parts were worth reading. Famines and Hollywood divorces appear equally vital and equally trifling.
Arbitrarily, I either devour the paper soup to nuts, or I toss it smooth and cool on the stack by the door. H o w right I was, in those days; h o w easily the United States can get on without me.
For the last two weeks I've tossed them unread, for if m e m o r y serves, the earnest p o m p of presidential inaugurations left me cold even w h e n I had clear enthusiasms and aversions.
Capriciously, this m o r n i n g I read everything, including an article about American workers' excessive overtime—and perhaps it is interesting, though I couldn't say, that the Land of the Free prefers work to play. I read about a young electrical lineman w h o would soon have been married, and w h o in his eagerness to salt away funds for his family-to-be had slept only five hours in two and a half days. He had been climbing up and d o w n poles for twenty-four hours straight:
Taking a break for breakfast on Sunday morning, he got yet another call.
At about noon, he climbed a 30-foot pole, hooked on his safety straps and reached for a 7,200-volt cable without
— 2 4 9 —
first putting on his insulating gloves. There was a flash, and Mr. Churchill was hanging motionless by his straps. His father, arriving before the ladder-truck did and thinking his son might still be alive, stood at the foot of the pole for more than an hour begging for somebody to bring his boy down.
I have no strong feelings about overtime; I ' m acquainted with no electrical linemen. I only k n o w that this image—of a father pleading with onlookers themselves as powerless as he, while his hardworking son creaked in the breeze like a hanged m a n — m a d e me cry. Fathers and sons? Grief and misspent diligence? There are connections. But I also wept for that young man's real father.
You see, it was drilled into me since I could talk that 1.5
million of my people were slaughtered by Turks; my own father was killed in a war against the worst of ourselves, and in the very m o n t h I was born, we were driven to use the worst of ourselves to defeat it. Since Thursday was the slimy garnish on this feast of snakes, I wouldn't be surprised to find myself hard of heart. Instead, I ' m easily moved, even mawkish. Maybe my expectations of my fellows have been reduced to so base a level that the smallest kindness overwhelms me for being, like Thursday itself, so unnecessary. Holocausts do not amaze me. Rapes and child slavery do not amaze me. And Franklin, I k n o w you feel otherwise, but Kevin does not amaze me. I am amazed w h e n I drop a glove in the street and a teenager runs two blocks to return it. I am amazed w h e n a checkout girl flashes me a wide smile with my change, though my own face had been a mask of expedience. Lost wallets posted to their owners, strangers w h o furnish meticulous directions, neighbors w h o water each other's houseplants—these things amaze me. Celia amazed me.
As you instructed, I never raised the matter again. A n d I t o o k no relish in deceiving you. But the eerie certainty that descended in August never lifted, and you'd left me no choice.
Kevin's cast had been removed two weeks earlier, but it was as of Trent Corley's bike accident that I stopped feeling guilty.
Just like that. There was no equivalence between what I had done and what I would do—it was totally irrational—but still I seemed to have arrived at the perfect antidote or penance. I would put myself to the test. I was not at all sure that I would pass a second sitting.
You did notice I'd become "a horny little beastie," and you seemed glad of a desire that, though we never alluded to the abatement outright, had sadly ebbed. With one or the other of us yawning theatrically before bed "a litde beat," we had slid from having sex almost nightly to the American average of once a week. My rekindled passion was no contrivance. I did want you, more urgently than in years, and the more we made love the more insatiable I felt during the day, unable to sit still, rubbing my inside thigh with a pencil at my desk. I, too, was glad of evidence that we had not yet sunk irretrievably into the mechanical bedtime rut that drives so many spouses to the arms of strangers at lunch.
For ever since we'd had a little boy sleeping down the hall, you'd so turned down the volume in bed that I had often to interrupt, "What?...Sorry?" Talking dirty by semaphore was too much effort, and at length we'd both withdrawn to private sexual Imax. Unembellished by your improvisations—and you had a gift for depravity; what a shame to let such talent lie fallow—my own fantasies had come to bore me, and I'd given over to floating pictures instead, rarely erotic in any literal sense, and always dominated by a certain texture and hue. But over time the visions had grown corrosive, like close-ups of a scab or geological illustrations of dried magma. O t h e r nights I'd b
een afflicted by flashes of fdthy diapers and taut, undescended testicles, so you can understand why I might have contributed to reducing our schedule to once a week. Perhaps worst of all, the vibrant scarlets and ceruleans that once permeated my head w h e n we made love in our childless days had gradually muddied and lost their luster, until the miasma on the inside of my eyelids c h u r n e d with the furious pitch and u m b e r of the drawings on o u r refrigerator door.
O n c e I started leaving my diaphragm in its sky-blue case, the vista in my m i n d during sex went light/Where my visual perimeters had once closed in, n o w I saw great distances, as if gazing from M t . Ararat or skimming the Pacific in a glider. I peered d o w n long hallways that shimmered endlessly to the vanishing point, their marble parquet blazing, sunlight pouring in windows from either side. Everything I envisioned was bright: wedding dresses, cloudscapes, fields of edelweiss. Please don't laugh at m e — I k n o w what I ' m describing sounds like a tampon commercial. But it was beautiful. I felt, at last, transported. My m i n d opened up, where b e -
fore my head had seemed to be spelunking into an ever narrower, more dimly lit hole. These wide-screen projections weren't mushy soft-focus, either, but sharp and vivid and I remembered t h e m w h e n we were through. I slept like a baby. Rather, like some babies, as I was soon to discover.
I was obviously not at my most fertile, and it did take a year.
B u t w h e n I finally missed a period the following fall, I started to sing. N o t show tunes this time, b u t the A r m e n i a n folk songs with w h i c h my m o t h e r had serenaded Giles and me w h e n she tucked us in for the night—like " S o o d e S o o d e " ("It's a lie, it's a lie, it's a lie, everything's a lie; in this world, everything's a lie!").
W h e n I discovered that I'd forgotten some of the words, I called her and asked if she might write t h e m out. She was delighted to oblige, since as far as M o t h e r knew, I was still the willful little girl w h o decried her A r m e n i a n lessons as burdensome extra h o m e w o r k , and she inscribed my favorites—Komitas Vardapet's