“I’m forty, too,” I said. “What about me?”
She looked at me closely, as though detecting something in my tone, then dismissed it with a wave. “You’re a man. You’ve got time.”
* * *
After lunch, I walked the streets. The restaurant’s glass door launched me into the gathering Friday evening. It was four thirty and already getting dark in the caverns of Manhattan. From a striped chimney buried in the asphalt, steam shot up into the air. A few tourists were standing around it, making low Swedish sounds, amazed by our volcanic streets. I stopped to watch the steam, too. I was thinking about exhaust, anyway, smoke and exhaust. That school bus of Tomasina’s? Looking out one window was my kid’s face. Our kid’s. We’d been going out three months when Tomasina got pregnant. She went home to New Jersey to discuss it with her parents and returned three days later, having had an abortion. We broke up shortly after that. So I sometimes thought of him, or her, my only actual, snuffed-out offspring. I thought about him right then. What would the kid have looked like? Like me, with buggy eyes and potato nose? Or like Tomasina? Like her, I decided. With any luck, the kid would look like her.
* * *
For the next few weeks I didn’t hear anything more. I tried to put the whole subject out of my mind. But the city wouldn’t let me. Instead, the city began filling with babies. I saw them in elevators and lobbies and out on the sidewalk. I saw them straitjacketed into car seats, drooling and ranting. I saw babies in the park, on leashes. I saw them on the subway, gazing at me with sweet, gummy eyes over the shoulders of Dominican nannies. New York was no place to be having babies. So why was everybody having them? Every fifth person on the street toted a pouch containing a bonneted larva. They looked like they needed to go back inside the womb.
Mostly you saw them with their mothers. I always wondered who the fathers were. What did they look like? How big were they? Why did they have a kid and I didn’t? One night I saw a whole Mexican family camping out in a subway car. Two small children tugged at the mother’s sweatpants while the most recent arrival, a caterpillar wrapped in a leaf, suckled at the wineskin of her breast. And across from them, holding the bedding and the diaper bag, the progenitor sat with open legs. No more than thirty, small, squat, paint-spattered, with the broad flat face of an Aztec. An ancient face, a face of stone, passed down through the centuries into those overalls, this hurtling train, this moment.
The invitation came five days later. It sat quietly in my mailbox amid bills and catalogues. I noticed Tomasina’s return address and ripped the envelope open. On the front of the invitation a champagne bottle foamed out the words:
Inside, cheerful green type announced, “On Saturday, April 13, Come Celebrate Life!”
The date, I learned afterward, had been figured precisely. Tomasina had used a basal thermometer to determine her times of ovulation. Every morning before getting out of bed, she took her resting temperature and plotted the results on a graph. She also inspected her underpants on a daily basis. A clear, albumeny discharge meant that her egg had dropped. She had a calendar on the refrigerator, studded with red stars. She was leaving nothing to chance.
I thought of canceling. I toyed with fictitious business trips and tropical diseases. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want there to be parties like this. I asked myself if I was jealous or just conservative and decided both. And then, of course, in the end, I did go. I went to keep from sitting at home thinking about it.
* * *
Tomasina had lived in the same apartment for eleven years. But when I got there that night it looked completely different. The familiar speckled pink carpeting, like a runner of olive loaf, led up from the lobby, past the same dying plant on the landing, to the yellow door that used to open to my key. The same mezuzah, forgotten by the previous tenants, was still tacked over the threshold. According to the brass marker, 2-A, this was still the same high-priced one-bedroom I’d spent ninety-eight consecutive nights in almost ten years ago. But when I knocked and then pushed open the door I didn’t recognize it. The only light came from candles scattered around the living room. While my eyes adjusted, I groped my way along the wall to the closet—it was right where it used to be—and hung up my coat. There was a candle burning on a nearby chest, and, taking a closer look, I began to get some idea of the direction Tomasina and Diane had gone with the party decorations. Though inhumanly large, the candle was nevertheless an exact replica of the male member in proud erection, the detailing almost hyperrealistic, right down to the tributaries of veins and the sandbar of the scrotum. The phallus’s fiery tip illuminated two other objects on the table: a clay facsimile of an ancient Canaanite fertility goddess of the type sold at feminist bookstores and New Age emporiums, her womb domed, her breasts bursting; and a package of Love incense, bearing the silhouette of an entwined couple.
I stood there as my pupils dilated. Slowly the room bodied forth. There were a lot of people, maybe as many as seventy-five. It looked like a Halloween party. Women who all year secretly wanted to dress sexy had dressed sexy. They wore low-cut bunny tops or witchy gowns with slits up the sides. Quite a few were stroking the candles provocatively or fooling around with the hot wax. But they weren’t young. Nobody was young. The men looked the way men have generally looked for the past twenty years: under threat yet agreeable. They looked like me.
Champagne bottles were going off, just like on the invitation. After every pop a woman shouted, “Ooops, I’m pregnant!” and everyone laughed. Then I did recognize something: the music. It was Jackson Browne. One of the things I used to find endearing about Tomasina was her antiquated and sentimental record collection. She still had it. I could remember dancing to this very album with her. Late one night, we just took off our clothes and started dancing all alone. It was one of those spontaneous living-room dances you have at the beginning of a relationship. On a hemp rug we twirled each other around, naked and graceless in secret, and it never happened again. I stood there, remembering, until someone came up from behind.
“Hey, Wally.”
I squinted. It was Diane.
“Just tell me,” I said, “that we don’t have to watch.”
“Relax. It’s totally PG. Tomasina’s going to do it later. After everybody’s gone.”
“I can’t stay long,” I said, looking around the room.
“You should see the baster we got. Four ninety-five, on sale at Macy’s basement.”
“I’m meeting someone later for a drink.”
“We got the donor cup there, too. We couldn’t find anything with a lid. So we ended up getting this plastic toddler’s cup. Roland already filled it up.”
Something was in my throat. I swallowed.
“Roland?”
“He came early. We gave him a choice between a Hustler and a Penthouse.”
“I’ll be careful what I drink from the refrigerator.”
“It isn’t in the refrigerator. It’s under the sink, in the bathroom. I was worried somebody would drink it.”
“Don’t you have to freeze it?”
“We’re using it in an hour. It keeps.”
I nodded, for some reason. I was beginning to be able to see clearly now. I could see all the family photographs on the mantel. Tomasina and her dad. Tomasina and her mom. The whole Genovese clan up in an oak tree. And then I said, “Call me old-fashioned but…” and trailed off.
“Relax, Wally. Have some champagne. It’s a party.”
The bar had a bartender. I waved off the champagne and asked for a glass of scotch, straight. While I waited, I scanned the room for Tomasina. Out loud, though pretty quietly, I said, with bracing sarcasm, “Roland.” That was just the kind of name it would have to be. Someone out of a medieval epic. “The Sperm of Roland.” I was getting whatever enjoyment I could out of this when suddenly I heard a deep voice somewhere above me say, “Were you talking to me?” I looked up, not into the sun, exactly, but into its anthropomorphic representation. He was both blond and orange, and larg
e, and the candle behind him on the bookshelf lit up his mane like a halo.
“Have we met? I’m Roland DeMarchelier.”
“I’m Wally Mars,” I said. “I thought that might be you. Diane pointed you out to me.”
“Everybody’s pointing me out. I feel like some kind of prize hog,” he said, smiling. “My wife just informed me that we’re leaving. I managed to negotiate for one more drink.”
“You’re married?”
“Seven years.”
“And she doesn’t mind?”
“Well, she didn’t. Right now I’m not so sure.”
What can I say about his face? It was open. It was a face used to being looked at, looked into, without flinching. His skin was a healthy apricot color. His eyebrows, also apricot, were shaggy like an old poet’s. They saved his face from being too boyish. It was this face Tomasina had looked at. She’d looked at it and said, “You’re hired.”
“My wife and I have two kids. We had trouble getting pregnant the first time, though. So we know how it can be. The anxiety and the timing and everything.”
“Your wife must be a very open-minded woman,” I said. Roland narrowed his eyes, making a sincerity check—he wasn’t stupid, obviously (Tomasina had probably unearthed his SAT scores). Then he gave me the benefit of the doubt. “She says she’s flattered. I know I am.”
“I used to go out with Tomasina,” I said. “We used to live together.”
“Really?”
“We’re just friends now.”
“It’s good when that happens.”
“She wasn’t thinking about babies back when we went out,” I said.
“That’s how it goes. You think you have all the time in the world. Then boom. You find you don’t.”
“Things might have been different,” I said. Roland looked at me again, not sure how to take my comment, and then gazed across the room. He smiled at someone and held up his drink. Then he was back to me. “That didn’t work. My wife wants to go.” He set down his glass and turned to leave. “Nice to meet you, Wally.”
“Keep on plugging,” I said, but he didn’t hear me, or pretended not to.
I’d already finished my drink, so I got a refill. Then I went in search of Tomasina. I shouldered my way across the room and squeezed down the hall. I stood up straight, showing off my suit. A few women looked at me, then away. Tomasina’s bedroom door was closed, but I still felt entitled to open it.
She was standing by the window, smoking and looking out. She didn’t hear me come in, and I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, looking at her. What kind of dress should a girl wear to her Insemination Party? Answer: The one Tomasina had on. This wasn’t skimpy, technically. It began at her neck and ended at her ankles. Between those two points, however, an assortment of peepholes had been ingeniously razored into the fabric, revealing a patch of thigh here, a glazed hip bone there; up above, the white sideswell of a breast. It made you think of secret orifices and dark canals. I counted the shining patches of skin. I had two hearts, one up, one down, both pumping.
And then I said, “I just saw Secretariat.”
She swung around. She smiled, though not quite convincingly. “Isn’t he gorgeous?”
“I still think you should have gone with Isaac Asimov.” She came over and we kissed cheeks. I kissed hers, anyway. Tomasina kissed mostly air. She kissed my semen aura.
“Diane says I should forget the baster and just sleep with him.”
“He’s married.”
“They all are.” She paused. “You know what I mean.”
I made no sign that I did. “What are you doing in here?”
She took two rapid-fire puffs on her cigarette, as though to fortify herself. Then she answered, “Freaking out.”
“What’s the matter?”
She covered her face with her hand. “This is depressing, Wally. This isn’t how I wanted to have a baby. I thought this party would make it fun, but it’s just depressing.” She dropped her hand and looked into my eyes. “Do you think I’m crazy? You do, don’t you?”
Her eyebrows went up, pleading. Did I tell you about Tomasina’s freckle? She has this freckle on her lower lip like a piece of chocolate. Everybody’s always trying to wipe it off.
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Tom,” I said.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Because I trust you, Wally. You’re mean, so I trust you.”
“What do you mean I’m mean?”
“Not bad mean. Good mean. I’m not crazy?”
“You want to have a baby. It’s natural.”
Suddenly Tomasina leaned forward and rested her head on my chest. She had to lean down to do it. She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. I put my hand on her back. My fingers found a peephole and I stroked her bare skin. In a warm, thoroughly grateful voice, she said, “You get it, Wally. You totally get it.”
She stood up and smiled. She looked down at her dress, adjusting it so that her navel showed, and then took my arm.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go back to the party.”
I didn’t expect what happened next. When we came out, everybody cheered. Tomasina held on to my arm and we started waving to the crowd like a couple of royals. For a minute I forgot about the purpose of the party. I just stood arm in arm with Tomasina and accepted the applause. When the cheers died down, I noticed that Jackson Browne was still playing. I leaned over and whispered to Tomasina, “Remember dancing to this song!”
“Did we dance to this?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I’ve had this album forever. I’ve probably danced to it a thousand times.” She broke off. She let go of my arm.
My glass was empty again.
“Can I ask you something, Tomasina?”
“What?”
“Do you ever think about you and me?”
“Wally, don’t.” She turned away and looked at the floor. After a moment, in a reedy, nervous voice, she said, “I was really screwed up back then. I don’t think I could have stayed with anybody.”
I nodded. I swallowed. I told myself not to say the next thing. I looked over at the fireplace, as though it interested me, and then I said it: “Do you ever think about our kid?”
The only sign that she’d heard me was a twitch next to her left eye. She took a deep breath, let it out. “That was a long time ago.”
“I know. It’s just that when I see you going to all this trouble I think it could be different sometimes.”
“I don’t think so, Wally.” She picked a piece of lint off the shoulder of my jacket, frowning. Then she tossed it away. “God! Sometimes I wish I was Benazir Bhutto or somebody.”
“You want to be prime minister of Pakistan?”
“I want a nice, simple, arranged marriage. Then after my husband and I sleep together he can go off and play polo.”
“You’d like that?”
“Of course not. That would be horrible.” A tress fell into her eyes and she backhanded it into place. She looked around the room. Then she straightened up and said, “I should mingle.”
I held up my glass. “Be fruitful and multiply,” I said. And Tomasina squeezed my arm and was gone.
I stayed where I was, drinking from my empty glass to have something to do. I looked around the room for any women I hadn’t met. There weren’t any. Over at the bar, I switched to champagne. I had the bartender fill my glass three times. Her name was Julie and she was majoring in art history at Columbia University. While I was standing there, Diane stepped into the middle of the room and clinked her glass. Other people followed and the room got quiet.
“First of all,” Diane began, “before we kick everyone out of here, I’d like to make a toast to tonight’s oh-so-generous donor, Roland. We conducted a nationwide search and, let me tell you, the auditions were grueling.” Everybody laughed. Somebody shouted, “Roland left.”
“He left? Well, we’ll toast his semen. We’ve still got that.
” More laughter, a few drunken cheers. Some people, men and women both now, were picking up the candles and waving them around.
“And, finally,” Diane went on, “finally, I’d like to toast our soon-to-be-expecting—knock on wood—mother. Her courage in seizing the means of production is an inspiration to us all.” They were pulling Tomasina out onto the floor now. People were hooting. Tomasina’s hair was falling down. She was flushed and smiling. I tapped Julie on the arm, extending my glass. Everyone was looking at Tomasina when I turned and slipped into the bathroom.
After shutting the door, I did something I don’t usually do. I stood and looked at myself in the mirror. I stopped doing that, for any prolonged period, at least twenty years ago. Staring into mirrors was best at around thirteen. But that night I did it again. In Tomasina’s bathroom, where we’d once showered and flossed together, in that cheerful, brightly tiled grotto, I presented myself to myself. You know what I was thinking? I was thinking about nature. I was thinking about hyenas again. The hyena, I remembered, is a fierce predator. Hyenas even attack lions on occasion. They aren’t much to look at, hyenas, but they do OK for themselves. And so I lifted my glass. I lifted my glass and toasted myself: “Be fruitful and multiply.”
The cup was right where Diane had said it would be. Roland had placed it, with priestly care, on top of a bag of cotton balls. The toddler cup sat enthroned on a little cloud. I opened it and inspected his offering. It barely covered the bottom of the cup, a yellowish scum. It looked like rubber cement. It’s terrible, when you think about it. It’s terrible that women need this stuff. It’s so paltry. It must make them crazy, having everything they need to create life but this one meager leaven. I rinsed Roland’s out under the faucet. Then I checked to see that the door was locked. I didn’t want anybody to burst in on me.
* * *
That was ten months ago. Shortly after, Tomasina got pregnant. She swelled to immense proportions. I was away on business when she gave birth in the care of a midwife at St. Vincent’s. But I was back in time to receive the announcement:
Tomasina Genovese proudly announces
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