Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel

30


“Well, I just can’t believe this,” David says. He is keeping his voice low; the restaurant is crowded, but I imagine he feels like screaming “How?”

It’s a fair question. I’m not quite sure myself. But, “In the usual way, David,” I hear myself saying. “Sperm meets egg.”

“But aren’t you too old?”

“Apparently not.”

He looks down, stirs the ice in his drink with his fingers. He has such long fingers. I bet this baby has long fingers, too. Travis does. Looking up, David says, “Forgive me. But … my sperm, right?”

I sit for a long moment, then say, “No, I don’t believe I do forgive you.” I stand up, reach for my coat.

He takes my arm. “Please. Don’t make this more melodramatic than it already is. We’ll take care of it, that’s all.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I say. And have the curious sensation, pushing the door open to leave, that two people are doing it.


. . .

“Oh, God,” Rita keeps saying, until I finally say, “Will you stop? Will you stop saying ‘Oh, God’?”

“Well, Sam. This is so unbelievable! I mean, it’s like those teenagers who live in trailers and go to the bathroom one day and deliver. And their whole family’s standing around with their mouths open saying, Goooolllllleee!”

“Thank you for your incredible sensitivity.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I know this is … Well, I guess this accounts for some of the craziness you’ve been feeling.”

“Who knows? It seems like divorce can do a pretty good job of that all by itself.”

“True. Oh, poor Sam. The double whammy. When your hormones get back to normal, you’ll probably feel lobotomized. So, when are you going to have it done?”

“What?”

“The abortion.”

“I called.”

“And?”

“And it’s all set. Next week. But, Rita—”

“Don’t even say it.”

“I have to say it. They asked me these questions over the phone and I just started bawling. ‘Any other pregnancies?’ Yeah, I’ve had ‘another pregnancy.’ It turned into Travis.”

“You can’t have it.”

“Why not?”

Silence.

“I’m raising one on my own. Why not two?”

“Oh, man. Do you need me to go with you? I will. I’ll come back out there, we’ll go together. When’s the appointment?”

“You don’t need to come. Thanks, but it’s okay.”

“Who will go with you?”

“They said it’s preferable to bring someone, but you don’t have to. They’ll assign you someone.”

“Great. Rent-a-friend.”

“But I’m not sure. I want to think about this.”

“Don’t think about it. Just do it.”

“You know, Rita, you’re acting like a f*cking man. You’re not listening, you’re just telling me what to do. I’m not sure it’s the right thing!”

“Well, fine. But you’d better decide fast.”

“I know that!”

“Okay. Okay. Look. You know I’ll support you in whatever you decide. But I really don’t think now is the time. I mean, come on, do you?”

I don’t answer. When Travis was a newborn, I would go in to nurse him at night and I would raise his T-shirt to watch him breathe. His stomach moved up and down so rapidly it pained me. I would look at his soft spots, afraid of them, see the pulsations from his beating heart. After a few weeks, he would interrupt himself while he was nursing to look up at me and smile, milk running down his chin. And I would tighten my hold on him, renew my vow that nothing would ever, ever hurt him. This is what I want to tell Rita. But I can’t. King is right—the words would only hint at all I mean to say.

“What’s David say?” Rita asks.

“What does David say? Yank it out.”

“Well, that’s a little crude.”

“When I told him, I felt so … We didn’t talk much. I wish I hadn’t told him.”

“Why did you?”

“I don’t know.”

Not true. I know. I told him because I wanted his face to soften and for him to say, “Oh, Sam. That’s wonderful. Listen, we’ll work it out. I’m not happy away from you and Travis, this was wrong. Let me move back in.” And then I would not worry about retirement planning, David could do that. And I would not think that I would grow old alone and demented in some filthy apartment with a chair by the window.

“I’ll let you know,” I tell Rita. “I’ll tell you when I know.”

In the dream, I am standing by a large tree, the bark with a deeply etched pattern like dried earth. Out of one of the cracks a red tulip is growing. A hand is reaching toward it, ready to pick it. “Oh no, don’t,” I say. “Don’t pick it. It’s new life. It’s a miracle.” I awaken, blink in the darkness, close my eyes again.