Just as he kept muttering, “Sleeping,” into his pillow.
“Adam. Please! There’s been an accident!”
The next thing Wendy knew, Adam was standing in the window of their bedroom, facing out, one hand gripping his forehead, the other gripping the receiver. His hair was standing up. His boxers were down around his hips. His legs were splayed and squared like those of the high school wrestler he’d once been. “I don’t understand,” Wendy heard him say into the phone, his voice high and thin. And “What do you mean?” And “Where is he?” And “What are the doctors saying?”
Finally, he hung up. Saying nothing, he strode into the living room, threw himself on the sofa, and covered his eyes with his fists. “Dad was in a car accident on the Mass Turnpike,” he began. “An SUV sideswiped him and he rolled over the divide. He was on his way back from a client dinner in Hartford. He’s in intensive care, in a coma. They don’t know if he’s going to wake up.” He let out a sob as he delivered the uncertain verdict.
“I’m so sorry,” Wendy whispered into the darkness, her completely bald father-in-law’s favorite joke rushing back to her: A colleague of mine asked me if I was going to start wearing a rug. And I told him, “What’s the point? Hair today, gone tomorrow.” Once, that punch line had made her recoil in horror; now it seemed eerily prescient. She felt terrified for Ron, terrified for Phyllis, terrified for Adam, terrified for herself, too. She wasn’t ready for the older generation to die —or for that buffer layer between herself and Death to be removed. She wasn’t ready to concede that she was “all grown up.” Because if she was, why did she still so often feel like a little kid playing house?
3.
IF WENDY AND Adam slept at all that night, it was only for a few hours. The next morning, Adam left on a train for Newton, Massachusetts, where his parents lived, and Wendy got ready for work. She’d volunteered to skip out and accompany him, but he’d declined her offer, promising to send for her only if his dad’s condition changed. Secretly, she’d been relieved. She was bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. She didn’t know what she could do up there, anyway. Some childish part of her couldn’t deal with bad news, wanted to hide from it and pretend it had never happened. It was also rare that she had the apartment to herself. Plus, Adam had left his computer out, and she was dying to sneak a look at the “Screenplay” document on his desktop.
Wendy waited for the faint clack of the front door closing behind him. Then she sat down at his desk. Her heart was in her throat as she switched on his laptop, then double-clicked on the file. Seconds later, two sentences popped into view. The first read, “Concept: a nuclear disaster that reduces the sperm count of New York City’s male population to zero.” The second said, “Hero: a sarcastic but essentially decent thirty-something househusband / former Web site copy chief trying to knock up his wife.” The rest of the page was blank.
For a brief moment, Wendy allowed herself to feel amused, even hopeful, insofar as Adam’s thinly veiled description of himself seemed to suggest that he was more intent on impregnating her than he’d previously admitted to being. After reflecting upon the situation, however, she felt deceived. So much for Wendy’s “supporting the family” while Adam “pursued his art.” Never mind the fact that the plot of his apparently unwritten movie sounded, to Wendy’s mind, truly asinine. But that she should even be thinking about her husband’s career prospects at a time like this! As Wendy closed the file, she felt deeply ashamed of herself.
Arriving late to the office, she sat down in her cubicle and pulled out Barricade’s phone list. She had to call a writer about a piece on the Abu Ghraib prison scandal that was already two days overdue. She had the phone in hand when she thought of Daphne. Etiquette dictated that Wendy get in touch with her at some point during the day to say how much she’d enjoyed meeting Jonathan. It occurred to her suddenly that the news of Adam’s father’s accident might relieve the two of them of the need to discuss the previous evening, which had clearly been a disaster, in any detail. It was also rare that Wendy had a dramatic story of her own to relay. She put down the phone, opened a new message, and began to type:
D, It was so nice to meet Jonathan! He’s very handsome and smart—and also so clearly madly in love with you. It was really very sweet to watch. Also, thanks for schlepping out to Brooklyn to see us. Hope the restaurant was all right. The waitstaff was really rude, I know, but the food was good, right?…
Meanwhile, some awful news on this end. Adam’s father was in a car accident last night and is in intensive care up at Mass General—apparently in a coma. Adam left this morning on the train. I may or may not go up tomorrow morning, depending on the progress report. Anyway, just wanted to let you know what was going on here. xo W
Wendy was leaving a message on the Abu Ghraib writer’s machine, threatening to waterboard him if he didn’t get his copy in by the end of the day (a dumb joke, but then, eight hours were a lot of hours to fill), when her other line rang.
“Hello?” she said.
“WEN! I JUST READ YOUR EMAIL. I AM SO UNBELIEVABLY UPSET FOR ADAM!” It was Daphne, and she was practically screaming into the phone. “That is just horrible, horrible news. How is Adam doing?”
“To be honest, he seemed pretty bad when he left for Boston this morning,” said Wendy, noting that Daphne sounded more upset than she needed to be, even if it was the role of “supportive friend” she imagined herself playing.
“Ohmygod, poor thing. I just feel so awful for him,” Daphne continued. “And for his mother, too, of course.”
“Yeah, it’s really awful.”
“If there’s anything at all I can do on this end while Adam’s away, PLEASE let me know.”
“That’s very sweet of you,” said Wendy. “But I really don’t think there’s anything anyone can do in New York.”
“I guess I could go up there—” Daphne began in a hesitant voice.
“I really don’t think that’s necessary.” Wendy cut her off, taken aback by what she felt to be the presumptuousness of Daphne’s suggestion. It wasn’t as if Daphne and Adam were that close! But then, Daphne was probably only trying to be a good friend, Wendy reminded herself. And Daphne was an emotional person. She was a performer, too, but sometimes even her acts were born of authentic feelings. “But if you want to leave a message or something, I’m sure he’d appreciate it,” Wendy went on, then wondered why she had.
“Do you think? I mean, that’s the least I can do!” declared Daphne. “But wait—can you give me Adam’s cell again? I know I have it somewhere. I’m just not sure where.”
He doesn’t have to pick up, Wendy thought as she read out the digits to Daphne. And besides, who knew: maybe he’d actually be touched. Then again, maybe he’d be mad at Wendy for spreading around his family trauma as if it were just another piece of idle gossip. “Meanwhile, it was great to meet Jonathan,” said Wendy.
“Oh, I’m glad!” Daphne emitted a tentative laugh. “I have to admit I was a little worried when he and Adam got into the whole Israel thing—and then you, too!” She laughed again. “I hope you don’t all hate each other now.”
“Oh, please,” said Wendy. “Adam loves talking politics. And, I mean, that’s basically what I do for a living. You know, argue for the Left.” She laughed herself.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay, well, I won’t worry, then. Anyway, there’re more important things going on right now. So, when did you guys get the news about Adam’s dad?…” Wendy’s plan had worked: for the rest of their phone call, Ron Schwartz remained the focus of their conversation.
Why was it, then, that Wendy hung up the phone feeling so unsettled?
Adam called at three o’clock, sounding glum but resigned. He’d already been to the hospital to see his father and to talk to his father’s doctors, who reported that at some point, Ron might wake up. On the other hand, he might not. Conceivably, the situation could continue as it currently stood for months. Understandably, Phyl
lis was a mess. “Why don’t I come up in the morning,” offered Wendy, suddenly anxious to become involved (and still feeling guilty about having spied on Adam’s computer).
But Adam said it was probably better if she waited until next week and that his mother wasn’t “ready for visitors.” Adam also said that since his brother, Bill, couldn’t leave his family in Worcester for any extended period, he’d agreed to stay in Newton indefinitely. Wendy told him she understood on both counts. But secretly she felt on the one hand, hurt (was she really still a “visitor” in the Schwartz family?) and on the other, blue (it was one thing to have the apartment to herself for the weekend, another to be abandoned for weeks or even months).
And if Adam was always away, how would she ever get pregnant? How would he find a new job when his twelve months were over? (Almost three of them were already gone.) And would he use his father’s accident as an excuse to get out of looking for one? Wendy had begun to suspect that her husband enjoyed his life of leisure a little more than he let on. At the same time, she was aware that to complain about his absence right then would make her look unspeakably selfish. (Before hanging up, she made Adam promise only to keep her posted.)
Her weekend free, Wendy made plans to visit Pamela and Todd and their newborn the following afternoon. After she hung up with Pamela, she called Daphne back to see if she’d come along. (Wendy tended to find baby visits less trying when they included other women who’d also failed to procreate.) To her relief, Daphne said she’d love to do so and that she’d call Wendy the next morning to confirm.
But the next morning, Daphne canceled, claiming to have a cold and not wanting to infect the baby. Wendy suspected she was simply feeling lazy. Not that she could blame her. Park Slope was a hike from Murray Hill. What’s more, Daphne had always seemed wholly uninterested in children. So Wendy, bearing fresh strawberries and a slightly damaged infant bath set she now regretted having purchased despite its being 80 percent off (what if Pamela noticed that one of the comb’s teeth was missing?), set out alone for Pamela and Todd’s handsome brownstone duplex just off the park.
Lucas Rose turned out to be an absurdly cute baby with fat pink cheeks and a full head of platinum hair. He spent the entire visit sobbing inconsolably. To Wendy’s incomprehension, Pamela and Todd didn’t seem to notice, or mind. Flouting Wendy’s explicit instructions not to cook, Pamela had “whipped up” a duck-and-white-bean cassoulet and a strawberry layer cake for lunch. Miraculously, she’d already lost all of her baby weight except for two pounds. She spent most of the meal peppering Wendy with solicitous questions about Ron’s accident. (Daphne, a decent gossip in her own right—though she always denied it—had already relayed the terrible news to all their mutual friends.) Wendy spent most of lunch yelling, “Sorry, what did you say?” and secretly wishing someone would chuck Baby Luke out the window.
She left their apartment on the verge of tears, if only because they all seemed so happy—at least, Pamela and Todd did. She also had a splitting headache.
Wendy filled the rest of the weekend eating breakfast cereal straight out of the box and reading Anna Karenina (admittedly skipping the boring Levin/joys of agriculture sections in favor of Anna and Vronsky and their steamy if increasingly paranoid affair). In her newfound solitude, she felt alternately listless and liberated.
There was no news from Newton.
Daphne called Sunday night to find out how Ron was doing since she and Adam had last spoken (apparently he’d picked up when she called), and also to report that Jonathan had told her that he loved her and that she’d told him the same.
“Wow, it really is serious,” said Wendy.
“Um, yeah!” said Daphne, as if Wendy’s assessment were obvious.
Daphne also suggested that she and Wendy get together for a “catch-up dinner” the following week. “You must be so lonely without Adam,” she said. “Jonathan and I had to spend the night apart two nights ago, and I swear my apartment felt like a ghost town!”
“I’m doing okay—it’s a little quiet at home,” said Wendy, who appreciated Daphne’s concern but didn’t find their situations comparable. “So when were you thinking in terms of dinner?”
“Well.” Daphne let loose a long sigh, as if her jam-packed schedule required a lengthy mental scrolling. “This week is kind of crazy. Then Snugs and I are going up to his parents’ place in Rhinebeck next weekend. But what about the Monday after that?”
“That’s fine with me,” said Wendy, for whom the proposed date sounded impossibly far-off. “Where do you want to go?”
“What do you say we do something totally ‘old-school,’ like go to the Odeon and eat hamburgers at the bar,” Daphne suggested in a conspiratorial voice.
“That sounds perfect,” said Wendy, who missed her “single girl” years and didn’t miss them, in equal parts.
In the intervening days, Wendy received another invitation—this one from Adam, inviting her up to Newton the following weekend. Apparently, Phyllis was now ready to “see people.” Happy to have been asked, Wendy told him she’d get the train up on Friday afternoon.
“Oh, and would you mind bringing my laptop with you when you come?” Adam asked before he hung up. “I want to try and get some writing done in the off-hours. Also, I could use a few extra pairs of socks. And underwear. If you don’t mind—”
“No problem,” said Wendy.
She felt like a terrible liar that morning as she zipped his computer into its case, as if it hadn’t been opened since he left. Or was Adam, with his unwritten screenplay, the bigger liar of the two?
• • •
He was waiting for her on the platform. “Hey, Pope,” he said, but not with the usual glint in his eye.
“Hey, Potato,” said Wendy, hugging him hello. For a second, she thought he’d contracted a severe case of dandruff. Then she realized it was flurrying.
They walked back to the parking lot. Adam was driving his mother’s previously owned Lexus. (Adam’s family was well-off but maybe not that well-off; Wendy was never sure.)
They arrived back at the Schwartz’s contemporary Tudor in time for take-out Chinese, a family tradition on Friday nights. Smelling of garlic sauce and talcum powder, Phyllis enveloped Wendy in such a tight hug that Wendy felt as if she were inside her mother-in-law’s giant bra.
“I hope I can be helpful,” said Wendy before extricating herself from Phyllis’s coral-colored nails, which were digging into her back flesh.
But as Wendy soon discovered, there was little for her to do, other than to keep her mother-in-law entertained—a feat she attempted with repeated shopping expeditions to the Chestnut Hill mall. On their first visit, Phyllis bought herself wool slacks and Wendy a cute top (both of them off a sale rack at Bloomingdale’s, but who was Wendy to be choosy?). After that, they just window-shopped.
Wendy also paid a visit to her father-in-law at Mass General. There was little reason to believe that Ron Schwartz even knew she was there. But the sight of him lying motionless, machinated, and with his mouth ajar—as if he’d been in the middle of a sentence when calamity had struck, as if nothing but a noun or a verb or even just an adjective stood between life and death—left Wendy deeply unnerved. The institutions she’d built her life around—her marriage, her job, her circle of friends, an unexplained passion for Antiques Roadshow—seemed suddenly as flimsy and immaterial as newspaper blowing in the wind. Or as her own father, Donald. Not that she considered herself to have suffered on account of his absence. Marcia used to speak of Wendy’s “fear of abandonment” as if it were a proven fact. But who was to say you missed what you’d never known?
Then again, maybe we were all hopelessly predictable in our pathologies.
Wendy had come to Newton to support her husband and his family, but it had also crossed her mind before she left that she was likely to be ovulating that weekend. Having sex in your in-laws’ house was, of course, a grotesquerie that was best avoided. At the best of times, there was the chance of an
accidental walk-in. But even if there wasn’t, the thought of one’s father-or mother-in-law being treated to a rhythmic ballet through the ceiling as he or she tried to butter his or her toast was enough to dampen anyone’s sex drive. That said, Wendy was determined to risk such a possibility in the name of a greater good: reproduction.
There turned out not to be any need. The ovulation predictor test sticks on which she urinated on both weekend mornings failed to turn deep mauve, suggesting that she was still several days away from her fertile peak.
Sure enough, the optimum russet shade appeared the morning after she returned to Brooklyn—alone, in a cold rain that later turned to sleet. Laying her hands across her chest, elbows akimbo, Wendy began to breathe in and out in a rhythmic fashion. She’d learned the technique at a Sudarshan Kriya “breathing workshop” at the Art of Living Foundation, which she’d attended two winters before at the urging of Marcia, whose other mantra about Wendy was that she needed to live more in the moment and stop racing toward the next thing. (True to her former therapist’s accusations of impatience, she’d only made it through the first of the workshop’s six sessions.)
Several minutes later, feeling exactly the same only winded, Wendy got dressed and went to work. There’s always next month, she told herself on the subway ride. Besides, she had more to offer society than the next generation of human existence. The work she did at Barricade was important, serious, substantive. That very week, for instance, they were closing a special issue on the current administration’s “crimes against humanity.”
Of course, every issue of Barricade was, to some extent, about the current administration’s crimes against humanity. But this one was going to be special. The editors had invited ten distinguished left-leaning intellectuals, entertainers, and pundits to contribute guest columns. The roster included Mohammed M. Mohammed, a Bethesda-born horticulture grad student at Ohio State University who’d been held in solitary confinement by US authorities for the crime of having the same name as a Yemeni money launderer with ties to Al Qaeda; Dotty Dolittle, a transgender humorist and author of the graphic novel Eat My Bush; and, thanks to Wendy—and, by association, Daphne—Daphne’s father, Richard Martin Uberoff, a distinguished professor of Near Eastern studies at the University of Michigan and (in Wendy’s private opinion) a charming if shameless egomaniac.
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