At last, Gretchen smiles serenely. “Not until the house is done.”
Harris leans back, showcasing his jolly belly, and glances at Mark with a look that says, How nice for them.
A flame lashes Mark’s insides. “We’ve talked about joining the Peace Corps,” he pronounces.
The baron does not appear to have heard. Gretchen’s eyes widen. “Oh,” she intones in her deep-sea voice. “That’s so admirable. I have so much respect for people who do that kind of thing. I can’t even imagine.”
They move on to Armagnac. The Von Maurens inhabit the pair of fauteuils like extensions of the damask itself. Mark rarely sits on these himself, for fear of flattening the cushions, taxing the bowed legs. His love for them is jealous. And yet he could sell them, he thinks. He should sell them, sell everything in the room, escort these guests away, divest himself.
The next morning, Mark confronts Harris. “I can’t believe you asked if they want to have children.”
“I don’t think that’s too intrusive, do you? People ask all the time. People ask us.” He looks meaningfully at Mark.
“What if they’re infertile? What if they’ve tried and can’t?”
“Like I said, people ask us all the time. And we obviously can’t conceive children. There are other ways to have a family you know.”
Mark is silent.
“I really think we should talk to Camille.”
“I’ve already said I don’t want to do that.”
“Well, what do you want to do?”
Again, Mark is silent. Harris knows that Mark has never wanted children. Part of the relief of coming out at eighteen was knowing that he would never be expected to anchor himself that way. He’d be released from conventional latches; free to travel, sleep with whomever he wanted, reinvent himself infinitely. That was the upside of losing popular approval. But then, like piercings and tattoos, gay culture had insinuated itself in the mainstream, and all at once, same-sex marriage had become legal. This, despite years of activism, had taken Mark by surprise—and had coincided with the deepening of his relationship with Harris.
“We have so much to offer. A stable home environment, a great town, financial security. It would be a shame to keep it all to ourselves.”
He is trotting out the practical argument, but his eyes tell a different story. Mark has seen the way Harris melts over infants. It was amusing, at first, the way he behaved like a woman overtaken by maternal hormones. Now, it makes Mark’s groin turn cold.
“What you want is a baby,” Mark says. “But you’re forgetting that they’re only babies for five minutes, then they’re snotty teenagers and have to go to college. Do you know how much college is going to cost in eighteen years?”
“What else would we do with that money?”
“Are you serious?” Mark goes quiet. He does not have the strength to continue this argument. If Harris can’t think of a better way to spend—what? two hundred thousand dollars?—then they are truly ill matched.
The larger truth is that Mark is not interested in the kind of sentimental living, the relentless diminution, that parenting imposes. A child would drain all of their energy, all of their resources—both of which could be better spent on bigger issues. How could a man he loves bear witness to this ruptured, calamitous world without taking action? Their circumstances are perfect. They are two men in good health, somewhat young. The house can be rented, the store leased and reopened at a later date. There is no excuse not to go, not to make their best years count.
He thinks of Seth, sandaled and dusty in some medina. The thought makes him hate himself. To any observer, he has dwelled too long in pampered comfort to peel off the caul of materialism. He has terminally softened.
After a long moment, Harris says, “I know what you’re thinking. That we should devote ourselves to saving the world.” There is no sarcasm in his voice. “But the way I see it, having a child, or adopting one, would be a way to do that. It would be a meaningful contribution. It’s no small effort, committing ourselves to a human being who needs us.”
Mark is suddenly tired. It is too early in the morning to discuss this. He ends the conversation with a kiss to Harris’s stubbled cheek, a stroke to the sleeve of his robe. Harris returns the kiss, his brown eyes softening, turning liquid with hope.
On Monday, Mark completes an estimate for the full scope of services. He will supervise the renovation and work with the clients to select furnishings, cabinetry, appliances, lighting. To justify postponing his own travels to the Third World, he is compelled to furtively raise his prices by 10 percent across the board. He pulls in his breath and types in the total—$342,000—plus contingency fees for special purchases.