His wife had craved sweets since the day the rabbit died—although, in truth, he didn’t know the exact date of her pregnancy test. Lola’s constant gifts of sugary shit didn’t help. Last week, his mother-in-law had brought a bakery bag stuffed with chocolate chip cookies and blueberry muffins, and then yesterday she gave them yet another Ebinger’s blackout cake. Both her daughters would be bigger than houses if Lola’s will prevailed. Deb still carried half her pregnancy weight around her gut despite having dropped the baby months ago. Her husband didn’t seem to care, though. Ben still stared at her as if she hung the moon and the sun to boot.
Well, good for him. Ben could afford having a blimp for a wife, the happy-go-lucky schlemiel. How much elegance did a biology teacher at Stuyvesant High School need? The guy had yapped for hours at Sunday’s dinner about how life would change when Stuyvesant turned coed next year.
Good luck, buddy.
Married men with pregnant wives lived in horny hell these days. Hemlines rose every day—soon the fabric would barely graze a girl’s ass. Breasts of every size bounced free. Silky hair swung in all directions. Business took all his focus, and having a not-in-the-mood Phoebe sapped his concentration; sex kittens taunting him everywhere made life a bitch. Just to cover his nut, he needed to work harder every day—not having relief in the bedroom killed him.
Jake had learned a few lessons since starting JPE.
One: stocks that go up, come down.
Two: you can’t rely on clients. They want their money. They want perfect records. They strut around when they win—with amnesia about who made the win—and throw fits when they lose.
Three: you always need more clients.
Four: stay loose.
He needed sex for number four, but since being pregnant, instead of reaching for him, Phoebe begged for Vanilla Wafers, Tetley Tea, and lemon Italian ices from the place down the street—hell to get home before they melted. After she had passed the six-month mark, he maybe got a pity hand job once a week, and that only took the edge off. He took care of himself in the morning shower. When he’d married Phoebe, he’d sworn he wouldn’t be a cheater. A cheater was a lowlife. Totally without class.
Tea sloshed as he carried the tray with the overfull mug and plate of dry toast into the bedroom.
“Toast! I didn’t even have to ask.” She beamed as though presented with a platter of gold. Making Phoebe happy was so easy that he felt like shit for not doing it more often.
“Least I can do while you’re cooking Popeye in there.”
“Olive Oyl.”
He set the tray on the bed and put an ear to her belly. “I hear a boy.”
Phoebe stroked his head. “Do you honestly care?”
“Not one bit.” He lay against the mound of his child again, thrilled with the oceanic sounds. His son or daughter formed in his wife, and he vowed to do anything to build them perfect lives. Make them proud.
“What’s happening with the real estate agent?” Distress sounded under her casual words.
“The guy said we’re reaching too broad. We need to concentrate on one area.”
“How are we supposed to choose?” She placed a hand on her mound of a belly as though protecting the baby from evil house brokers skulking in the bedroom corner. “We’ve only ever lived in Brooklyn.”
“Your cousin lives on Long Island. You know her neighborhood. You like where she lives.” Phoebe got so jumpy when they talked about moving, you’d think leaving Brooklyn would kill her. What had happened to the girl who adored City College?
“At least in Brooklyn, my mother will be around to help. Your mother.” Phoebe blew on the tea before taking a sip.
Jake snorted. “My mother? Forget it. Your mother and Red can drive out wherever we are. Or I’ll pay for a cab.”
She rolled her eyes. “Big shot rolling in money. You’re too hard on your mother. She’s gonna be a grandma.”
Jake held up his hand. “Logistics will be my department. My parents will come out plenty—don’t worry.”
“How far will we have to go to afford what you want? I don’t want to be stuck in some New Jersey cow town.”
“No money talk. That’s my problem—you need to rest between Popeye and that cold.”
Phoebe struggled upright and swung her feet to the floor. “Rest? The place is a wreck.”
Memories of her miscarriage kept him from agreeing; from tearing his hair out at the state of the apartment every time he came home. He spent nights scrubbing after she passed out from pregnancy exhaustion.
“I promised Deb to help with her baby.” She tried to stand. “I need the practice. I’ll take a shower and then go over to my sister’s house with my mother.”
“No. Take the breaks while you can.” He helped her to her feet. “I’m not letting you take a shower while you’re alone in the house. Not while you’re running a fever. I’m calling your mother to come over. Meanwhile, I’ll stay here.”
“Jake—”
He put a finger to her lips. “Shush.” Looking around and seeing no robe of hers—not surprising, as they were so behind in laundry; nor could she fit into those tiny silky things she wore before pregnancy—he grabbed his flannel robe and draped it over her shoulders.
Their undersized bathroom steamed up in moments. Like so many Brooklyn apartment house bathrooms, theirs had small black and white tiles and white subway tiles with impossible to clean grout doomed to forever dinginess. Jake sat on the closed toilet, listening to Phoebe wash. He couldn’t resist peeking through the place where the shower curtain parted, watching her gleaming belly jut out from her tiny frame. Her breasts had grown; the once-rosy nipples were now brown. He’d thought that her gravid body would turn him away from her, but instead it brought forth strange combinations of lust and worshipful love. She carried their child. They were family.
The water stopped running. He handed Phoebe a towel through the shower curtain. She’d become modest as she grew larger. When she pushed back the metal rings on the rod, he helped her climb over the lip of the tub and then placed a second towel over her shoulders and a third one on her head. He pressed down on the towel, feeling the vulnerability of her hair flat against her scalp and the bumps of her head under his fingers.
If he knew phrenology, would he learn anything new about his wife? Secret pockets of history and futures could be available through the ancient science.
And if she ran her fingers over his head, maybe she’d love him less.
She leaned against him as he dried her back. The thin cloth drank up the moisture too fast. He’d buy thick, absorbent towels for the infant, for her. Next time he went to Madison Avenue, he’d make a side trip to Bloomingdale’s and visit its linen department. Find out who made the very best.
? ? ?
Jake pulled out his ledgers: thousands of dollars separated the pivotal figures—how much he owed and how much was due.