by Amy Sohn
It would be three years in October. October 7. He didn’t like that he knew the date. In A.A. they were all about dates. He had gone to a few meetings after detox, but the people seemed dead and gray, reminded him of old people eating early-bird specials. He hated the religiosity of the program, even the word “program,” which sounded like Scientology. The God stuff represented everything he’d hated about Catholicism growing up, blind allegiance to authority. He and his brothers had been raised Catholic. His father, Ricardo Goldstein, converted to Catholicism to please his mother. Her God was punitive.
And Marco didn’t like that pharmaceuticals were so controversial in A.A. He’d had a meeting with a sponsor who refused to take him on when he found out Marco was on Antabuse. Soon he gave up on A.A. and relied on his drug. He just wished it didn’t make him so tired. He thought about the prescription sitting there waiting for him at Neergaard Pharmacy. He tried to remember the date on the prescription from Dr. Haber. Had it been a month yet? More? Maybe it would be expired by the time he got back, and he could try not being on it for a while, see how he felt. He wasn’t going to drink, he just didn’t want to feel so tired.
He closed the cabinet. Maybe he didn’t need the drug. He knew how to resist alcohol all on his own. Different remedies worked for different people. George Bush used Jesus, others used A.A. Marco had used Antabuse, and now he was going to use this baby. He was a father again, and he would never forget finding Enrique in his own shit that day. He would never be that person again.
He fixed the formula for Jason, sat on the futon to feed him. It took a few minutes for the baby to settle enough to take the bottle, but soon he was sleeping in Marco’s arms. Why now? Why so difficult before and so calm now?
In the bedroom Marco slipped Jason into the co-sleeper and covered him with the blanket. He fetched his iPhone from the living room, where Enrique had fallen asleep in front of the TV. Marco pressed the mute button, enjoying the sudden silence. He sat on the futon with his iPhone and loaded the app, which was free. “Grindr—Gay, bi & curious guy finder of the same sex.” The logo was a yellow and black image of alien eyes with a cat mouth.
He wondered why Todd had told him about the app. Had he used it? Was this his way of trying to confess to Marco without confessing? Was he unhappy sexually, too? Maybe the reason the sex had dried up was because Todd had been fucking other guys on Grindr when he was supposed to be at work. “The app is 100% free, easy to use, anonymous and discreet, and does not require an account to access or use. Simply download Grindr, launch the app, upload an optional photo, edit your profile details, browse photos of guys nearby, and strike up a conversation by sending an instant message or text to like-minded men in your own community or wherever you plan on traveling next.”
Marco created a profile, providing only the barest information. He named himself Carlos because sometimes on Manhunt.com, guys thought he was Israeli, and he wanted it to be clear he was Latino. He didn’t post a picture. If he posted a picture, that meant he was really doing this. He just wanted to see who went on here. Soon there was a screen of nearby guys. Linky. Chris. Christian. Butterpecan. Al. Fitz. Rob. Vince. Robert. Marky. Switch. Versatile. Harris. Mitch. Funtime. Kipper. Tony.
Load More Guys. Never “men.” Only “guys.” Guys were fun, chums, young, buddies. They all posed with their shirts off, built, with cut abdominals. They were mostly white—this was the Cape, after all. A rare few were older and bearded. The shots were torso only, holding phones.
He must have sat there loading guys for half an hour. Neg. You host. PnP, party ’n’ play. He knew the abbreviations from Manhunt. When his neck started to hurt, he adjusted his position. The sun had come out and was radiating through the picture window.
Karen
Karen decided to bring the Marian Burros farro salad to the Park Slope Single Parents potluck. It was vegetarian, and Darby liked it—with sweet white corn, grape tomatoes shaped like tiny red pears, shaved almonds, and mint chiffonade. She had found it on her favorite food blog, the Wednesday Chef, written by a woman in Berlin who had an engaging pleasant voice and loved food as much as Karen did. The salad was fast and easy to make. Karen packed it in a large Tupperware.
She realized she was looking forward to the potluck a little too much. She was starved for adult companionship. In late August everyone was gone in the Slope, not just the yuppies but the empty-nesters, too, all of whom had houses in Maine or the Berkshires that they’d bought thirty years ago for a song. August reminded you how poor you were. Restaurants were empty, there were no children on the streets.
Though Karen had a lot of friends on the Park Slope Single Parents message board, she hadn’t met any in person. By the time she wrote her first post, she had been lurking for months, fascinated and titillated by the stories of abandonment and betrayal. That fateful day in June, she had picked up Darby from kindergarten at 282. He had been in a lethal mood, bratty and mean. She took him to the Food Coop for a quick shop. Of course the line was endless, and she had to ply him with Tings to shut him up. At home, she planted him in front of the television as she unpacked, realizing with dismay that she had forgotten milk for the morning. She never would have forgotten milk when Matty was living with her. She had been one of those mothers whose living room was always neat and whose fridge was always full. In those days she’d had a computerized shopping list that she printed out periodically, with each staple listed according to its Coop aisle. Now she shopped on the fly, from memory. Her printer toner had run out months ago, and she hadn’t gotten around to buying more.
She realized she would have to go back to the Coop to get the milk, because the only thing Darby would eat for breakfast lately was a particular kind of Cascadian Farm cereal with Clifford on the box. She went upstairs and knocked on Rebecca’s door to see if she could watch him, but she was out. She tried Apartment One—the Bolands, a tongue-depressor salesman and his nurse wife—but they were gone, too.
She called Cathleen. “Ordinarily, I’d say sure,” Cathleen said, “but Jasper has lice.” It was hard to argue with lice.
Leaning against the kitchen counter, Karen started to cry. She went into the bedroom and lay on the king-size Design Within Reach Reve bed with its charcoal slipcover, the bed in which she had nursed Darby and, later, dreamed of nursing another, and sobbed into the pillow. She had convinced Matty to buy the apartment because, unlike the two units above it, Apartment Two had three bedrooms. She had the idea that if they lived in a three-bedroom, she would be able to conceive again. Now it was just her and Darby, and she used the third bedroom as a den. Every time she and Darby watched iCarly together, she would look at the yellow walls and imagine how perfect the room would be for a baby.
She vacillated between being furious with Matty for cheating and wishing he would come back. When he was around, she was angry with him for not helping with Darby. But what did it matter that he seldom took out the trash or that he came home most nights after Darby was in bed? She missed the breakfast-table chatter. She missed hearing work gossip and feeling proud when he won a case. She had a vision of herself growing old alone in an assisted-living facility like the one on Prospect Park West with all the Russians. Darby would never come to see her because she had spoiled him too much.
Overwhelmed with emotion, she went to her laptop and opened up Park Slope Single Parents. “I know that I should be grateful things aren’t worse,” she wrote, “but I miss my husband. There are times I would give anything to have him back. I have tried relying on neighbors for help, but contrary to popular belief, Park Slope is not really a community. I loved my husband. And now I hate my life.”
Then she grabbed Darby and ran out with him to get the quart of milk. While he was eating dinner, she sneaked into the bedroom and went on the message board to check for responses. There were three—one from a mom who wrote, “The people on this board are sanctimonious schmucks, the ones who go on and on about their good divorces. I hate being a single parent, too, and anyone who d
oes it by choice is out of their mind.” A woman in the South Slope offered to watch Darby any time Karen needed, and a third woman who had inseminated herself on purpose shared that she now regretted her decision. Instantly, Karen felt less alone. She understood that she was not the only person in her predicament.
After that night Karen posted more often, offering suggestions and advice. She began to sign her posts “Karen from Carroll Street.” Soon she had friendly e-mail relationships with a few of the regulars. Even though the members were almost all single mothers, a handful of dads posted screeds about their psychotic ex-wives and divorce law in the state of New York. Karen wondered if these same ex-wives were on the board, too, reading the posts and fuming.
The best thing about the board was the way it put her own predicament in perspective. The ex-husbands the women complained about made Matty look noble by comparison. Men who’d bailed right after the wives had second babies. The South Slope father who bought a Chevy van, rehabbed the inside, and drove it clear to Mexico, never to return. The roadie who left his wife for a closeted gay rock star. There were lesbian moms, and single moms by choice, and immigrants whose spouses were in other countries, like Poland or Pakistan.
The potluck was to be held in a brownstone on Sixth Street. Rita Fisher, the host, had adopted a little girl from China with her lesbian partner before they broke up. Now that she was raising Ruby alone, she frequently ranted on the board about how the only thing less romantically appealing than a single lesbian in her forties was a single lesbian mom in her forties.
While Darby ate a pre-dinner of grilled cheese (Karen always fed him before parties, because at most of them he was too excited to eat), she changed into a flowery wrap dress she had bought at the Brooklyn Flea. When she had tried it on by the vendor’s mirror, she had thought it was slimming, but now she decided it was too tight. She put on a pair of Spanx to see if they helped, but they were the midthigh kind, and through the dress, she could see the line of the Spanx cutting into her flesh. She took them off and sighed.
For footwear, she selected a pair of Rachel Comey gladiator-style platforms that she had splurged on at the high-end women’s shoe store near P.S. 321. Every time she wore them, she felt like a million bucks, and even now that the money situation with Matty was unclear, she had no regrets about the $357 cost. The only part of her body that Karen loved was her feet. She got biweekly pedicures at d’mai Urban Spa on Fifth Avenue; it was quiet inside, and she felt it was more hygienic than the Korean nail places that dotted Seventh Avenue. Matty had never appreciated her feet, even though pedicurists and other women frequently told her how pretty they were—as she looked back, it seemed another sign of his blindness.
Her dating life since the separation had been nonexistent. She was hoping there would be some cute single guys at the potluck. One night, demoralized, she had logged on to Match.com with the thought of putting up a profile but had stopped halfway through. She was a twenty-pounds-overweight single mother who was probably infertile. Even bald widowers wouldn’t want her.
It was terrifying to think about dating, but one day she would be a divorcée, and there was no point in clinging to hopes of a reconciliation with Matty. She had gotten him on the phone the night of Governors Island to ask about his “unforeseen circumstances.” He said all the lawyers at the firm had taken a voluntary 7 percent pay cut, and he had some stock investments go bad. That was why he could do only four grand a month. This despite the fact that he was probably making over three hundred a year now! She suspected the truth had to do with Valentina. Valentina needed something, like another breast surgery, and wanted him to help pay for it. He’d resisted, and somehow she’d convinced him to pay Karen less. It was sick, the way she was manipulating him, the way he had lost sight of his priorities. She hung up the phone furious.
Darby had finished dinner and was watching Phineas and Ferb in the living room. His TV consumption had soared since the separation. “Let’s go,” she said.
“No!” he shouted. She felt nostalgic for the days when she could do “1-2-3 Magic” and it worked.
After she bribed him with a Tootsie Pop, they were on their way. He rode in the Maclaren stroller. At six, he was old enough that Karen frequently got quizzical looks when she strolled him, but she was afraid that after the party, he might do walk refusal. At fifty-two pounds, he couldn’t be carried anymore.
Rita’s building was wide and in immaculate condition, as though the facade had recently been redone. A half-dozen strollers were lined up against the wrought-iron gate in front. Karen made Darby stand up as she folded the stroller, set it by the others, and rang the bell. A moment later, she was face-to-face with a tall, rockerish woman. There were shouts from inside the house, children frolicking. “Welcome,” the woman said in a deep but soothing voice. “I’m Rita.”
“Karen.”
“Karen from Carroll Street!” Rita said in what Karen imagined was the closest she could get to a squeal. She embraced Karen warmly and then said, “Come on in, Darby.”
A few minutes later, Karen’s farro salad was outside on a table, and she was sitting in an Adirondack chair under a Japanese maple, drinking from a plastic cup of merlot. Darby was running around with Aaron, the adopted black son of an SGD (single gay dad) named Ron. A group of parents was listening raptly to Fern, an SMBC (single mom by choice), tell the story of getting semen FedExed to her while on vacation with her parents in Nantucket. “And when the FedEx guy finally made it,” she said, “I was so excited, I told him what it was. He didn’t say anything for a minute, and then he said he and his wife had struggled with infertility and had twin daughters with the help of IVF.” Everyone murmured at how moving the story was.
These Park Slope single parents weren’t nearly as unattractive as Karen had imagined they would be. While there was a higher gay man component than she felt comfortable with, for the most part, they were like any other parents. Near Karen sat a woman with large breasts, a white tank top, and a slim waist. She had long, dark hair in a 1970s middle part, and she was sipping wine and breathing in deeply through her nose. Rita plopped down next to Karen. “Have you two met?” she said, indicating the long-haired woman. Karen shook her head. “Karen Bryan, Susie Mazelis.” Karen had dropped the Shapiro from her name soon after Matty moved out but had not yet moved to change it legally. “Susie’s son is Noah, over there.” Rita pointed to a big blond toddler who was digging in the yard dirt with his hands.
“Are you Karen from Carroll Street?” Susie asked.
“Yes.”
“I love your posts. I totally related to that one about how you wished it was different. It was like someone was reading my mind.”
“I just wrote from the heart,” Karen said, though her cheeks burned with pride. “I hate those people who try to act like being single is really better. Becoming a single mother is like being white all your life and then waking up one morning and realizing that you’re black.” Ron passed by and raised his eyebrows, overhearing—as though he knew what it was to be black just because he had a black son.
“I loved what you wrote,” Susie said. “I wanted to e-mail you, but I’m mostly a lurker.”
“Are you separated, too?”
“I was never married.”
“You’re an SMBC?”
“Oh, you gotta tell her your story,” Rita said to Susie. “She has the best one on the board.”
Susie took a big sip of wine and smiled. “When I turned thirty-five, I thought I might need to have a baby on my own because there wasn’t anyone in my life. A friend of mine told me I should freeze my eggs. I went in and got a workup, and the doctor said that I had a one-in-a-thousand chance of conceiving. I was really upset, but I figured I could adopt someday. I was dating this Irish bartender. It was a pretty casual thing. When I told him what the doctor said, we threw out the birth control, and just as the relationship was coming to an end, I got knocked up. That little guy over there was the one in a thousand. I tell Rita I’m an SMBA,
a single mother by accident.”
Karen was jealous. When she started having trouble conceiving a second baby, she’d gone on Clomid, but it hadn’t worked. This woman hadn’t even been sure she wanted a baby and had gotten pregnant anyway. “Are you still in touch with his father?”
“No, he went back to Ireland when Noah was a couple months old. I got him to sign this paper saying that I had sole residential and decision-making custody. A part of me was hoping he wouldn’t sign, that he’d want to be a part of Noah’s life, but when I got the papers, I was relieved.”
“That’s so awful, that he just took off,” Karen said.
“He wasn’t ready to be a father.”
“But you weren’t ready to be a mother, were you?”
“Every woman is. There’s a whole book about it. It’s called Maternal Desire by Daphne—”
“I love that book!”
“Let’s not go universalizing female experience,” Rita said. “I know a lot of dykes who would rather be shot than have children.”
“Oh my God!” Ron said from the buffet table. “What is this?”
It had to be the farro salad. Karen knew it had been the right choice. Rita stood and glanced at the table. “That’s Susie’s bouillabaisse,” she said.
“It’s incredible!” Ron said. “You’re a genius.”
Everyone who didn’t have bouillabaisse went to the table to get some from a big Creuset that was on an electric warmer. Karen put some of her own salad and a few other things on her plate. She made a show of biting into the farro salad, but everyone was so busy talking about the stew that no one seemed to notice. Then she tried it. The broth was rich and savory but subtle, the fish delicate, not overcooked. Susie was ten times more attractive than Karen and a better cook.
“A bouillabaisse at a potluck,” Karen said to Susie. “That’s brave.” Karen would have worried about the fish sitting out too long and everyone getting food poisoning.
