“Accountant Nick got the son he deserved! All those years harping about the importance of money really influenced his son, huh?” Isabel said. She could always make Anna laugh harder than anyone. Anna thought about what her mother told her after the miscarriage and she felt a renewed appreciation for the fact that Isabel was Isabel. Anna looked forward to being able to spend time with her little sister once the baby was born. Isabel’s maternity leave would overlap with Anna’s sanity leave—the timing was perfect.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Isabel
DURING THEIR LUNCH after the roundtable taping, Isabel picked up on prickly energy from Anna but couldn’t place its source. She felt she’d been negligent to the concerns of her older sister over the past few months, wrapped up as she was in managing Christopher and Sam. Whatever the cause of that energy, Isabel also didn’t feel the need to push. Anna would tell her if it was important enough. Besides, Isabel may well have been projecting her own prickly vibrations onto her sister. Part of her was desperate to share news of her affair with Christopher, but Beth’s rancor about it silenced her on the matter. She’d tell Anna someday, but only after the affair existed in the past tense. Until then, she’d keep it to herself.
She and Anna left the restaurant warm from the wine, welcoming the bright but lowering sun and the snappish autumn air. They walked together the few blocks to the subway entrance, where they hugged good-bye. Anna was heading back to Brooklyn to spend a stolen afternoon with her boys.
Isabel decided to walk partway back to the office. Now in her last trimester, she had vigor to burn, the polar opposite of her first trimester. She handled the excess weight lightly, even reveled in the shifting cadence of her step and breathing. The only impediment was her need to stop every fifteen minutes to pee. It seemed the baby used her bladder as a head pillow.
Isabel zigzagged through the streets, walking vaguely in the direction of her office. It was coming on to three o’clock in the afternoon, and she planned on making it back to the office at least for a few hours before meeting up with Christopher in the early evening.
The bustle of Fifth Avenue pulled her into the throngs of afternoon shoppers. She considered stopping in Takashimaya, the elegant Japanese department store, to buy a tin of her favorite white tea. She would pick some up for Christopher while she was at it. As she headed down the avenue with purpose now, her eyes focused on the spires of Saint Patrick’s. She missed the discreet entrance of the store and instead found herself heading almost weightlessly toward the cathedral. She hadn’t been inside the church since Christmas Eve two decades earlier, when she and her family celebrated a Christmas Eve midnight Mass there. She’d been a lapsed Catholic since she stopped attending church after her confirmation. Once she was old enough to understand the exclusionary politics of the Church, she couldn’t blindly go along with its tenets of ritualized patriarchy and all that went with it.
She hadn’t thought much about the role of religion in her life over the past twenty-five years, but she did wonder now, with the imminent birth of her son, whether she would practice the beliefs she grew up with or turn away from religion altogether. Would it be damning not to christen her son? she asked herself as she climbed the steps to the great cathedral doors. Pascal’s wager was tempting, but seemed the ultimate sin. Belief as prophylactic: only a man could construct that gamble.
Sunlight angled through the thousands of stained-glass panels, pushing rays of refracted light, cloudy with dust, onto a few chosen pews. Isabel headed for the light. She sidled into a narrow pew and sat down, heavily now, the manic energy ebbing into an echoing calm. Her heart throbbed in that sacred space and she thought she could hear it beat outside of her body.
The smell from the incense and candles brought her back to the church of her youth in New Jersey. The gold-spired Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, where Isabel had been baptized and received her first Holy Communion, stood immodestly in the middle of the modest ethnic enclave where her parents grew up and where she was born. The family still gathered at Mount Carmel to celebrate weddings and christenings and to mourn at funerals.
When Isabel was a young girl, the church and the attending priests had intimidated her. Sunday Masses were excruciatingly endless, made more so as they were performed in unintelligible Latin. Isabel could remember the oppressive darkness inside the church no matter the brightness of the day and how her hands shook as she fumbled the donations basket. One Sunday morning just before her first Communion, instead of steadily passing the basket to the elderly woman sitting next to her, she dropped it onto the marble floor, where it rolled to the pew behind her. Her own gasp along with the clanging coins echoed through the church and she thought she would die of shame. She and Anna giggled nervously as they tried unsuccessfully to recover the basket and money now scattered beneath the knee rests and pew stands. They were shushed by a habit-wearing nun, who came to reprimand them for their disrespect in God’s home.
It seemed another age ago when Isabel would, with hands pressed together and pointing toward heaven, slowly approach the altar and bend down to kiss a statue of baby Jesus. The man Jesus hung two stories above her head in ecstatic agony on a crucifix. His crown of thorns seemed most cruel to young Isabel. She knew the prick of a single thorn, and the image of a wreath of them stuck to poor Jesus’s head gave her nightmares.
The images she confronted and contemplated weekly during her youth had seemingly disappeared from her consciousness. Visiting now those powerfully impressionable images made her realize that she had lived much more closely to them than she had ever known.
Isabel rose from her pew to light a candle. She said a prayer for her grandfather, whose death in her young life affected her deeply. Grandpa Ducci connected her to the Old World her parents came from and she thought of him often, especially on the rare occasions she found herself in a church. She remembered how, every time he saw her, he would sing in an operatic voice and broken English, “Here she comes, Miss Amer-eec-a!” and how her own father would laugh with delight. Her grandfather always made her feel like the most important little girl in the world.
Isabel walked to the front of the church and knelt down on the green velvet cushioned bench facing the altar. Her eyes gazed at the statue of Mother Mary, draped in a flowing blue robe, hands held in front of her, palms facing up in supplication. The mystery of Mary had always pulled at Isabel, and yet the turning point for her move away from the Church occurred when, as a teenager, she could no longer accept the concept of the virgin birth.
“Don’t complicate things, Issy,” her mother had told her when she’d asked how a virgin birth was possible. “It’s what the Bible says. It is not our place to ask these questions.”
Isabel looked at the beatific Mary before her now and saw a different truth for the very first time. Mary, far from supplicant, was all-powerful: a single mother to a man who would become one of the most influential in all of history. Why did the nuns never address that in catechism? History has focused only on the miraculous birth of Jesus, as if Mary’s participation ended there. Mary was the ultimate mother not because her womb was a vessel for the Son of God, but because she needed no man to conceive him and then she raised him on her own. Isabel now understood why she was drawn to this sacrosanct place. Reciting the Hail Mary, she surprised herself by remembering every word without faltering:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.
Was Isabel a sinner? She knew that in the eyes of the Church, she more than qualified. She thought to the terrifying moments when, as a young girl, she was forced to disclose her sins to a priest behind a sliding window in the confessional box. When Isabel couldn’t think of any sins she had committed—what sins does a nine- or ten-year-old commit?—she would make things up to have something to say. “I tal
ked back to my parents . . . I was mean to my sister . . . I didn’t do my homework . . .” The practice did little to convince her of her guilt then, and she was sure that a priest in a confessional box would do little to convince her otherwise now.
But Isabel did wonder, What would Mary think?
She closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands, as she was taught to pray as a little girl, but then shook off the shaming gesture and instead looked up, clear-eyed, at Mary on the altar. She surprised herself as she whispered in prayer, “I love Sam and I am grateful that he is my life partner and that we will have this child together.”
And then Isabel asked Mary directly, “What do you make of my affair with Christopher? History claims that you were denied carnal knowledge, which seems like crap to me.” Isabel actually giggled at the use of “crap” when talking to Mary. But then, she was talking woman to woman, and this frankness made Isabel feel closer to her.
“Maybe you knew a man, perhaps without your consent, though I hope without terror.” Isabel bowed her head in unity at her last thought. She grew solemn. “I accept only your judgment if you see me as a sinner, and pray for your grace to absolve me.”
When she returned to the office later that afternoon, she left a message for Christopher that she wasn’t up to seeing him for dinner after all. Isabel went home and heated up some homemade escarole and bean minestre—a favorite soup from childhood that she always kept on hand.
The image of Mary stayed with her. She felt blessed.
ISABEL HAD ENTERED her thirtieth week. Her belly, now grown beyond her breasts, dwarfed them in comparison, even though her bra size had gone to a letter she didn’t even think existed on the scale. Thank God for Red Hot Mama, Isabel thought daily as she got dressed.
Still, Isabel’s energy surged, so much so that after her thirty-week checkup, she leaped off the examining table in the doctor’s office much to his consternation. She felt strong and centered, seeing Christopher when it suited her, spending more time alone than she ever had before. Sam’s absence was a godsend. Without him she was able to greedily cater to her indulgent need to push the limits of acceptability. She was not V Mary or Mary M—she was her own Mary, Mary, quite contrary. And it felt good.
THE HOLIDAY SEASON kicked off with Halloween. Against her better judgment, Isabel agreed to attend a flashy store opening and collection launch with Christopher. They’d often party-hopped together years earlier and had great fun ogling the fashion denizens in all their self-important glory. Isabel stopped attending these parties once she married Sam, but this was a party celebrating the collection of a mutual friend and she thought she’d accompany Christopher as a show of support for the budding designer.
Maxx Tripp’s signature flourish of an imitation codpiece over the crotch of his trousers for men had become all the rage among the fashion elite. Some women had even taken to wearing the trousers in mock defiance, making them look like Annie Hall with a hard-on.
The evening had gotten off to a bad start. She’d met Christopher in front of her apartment building and his face dropped in disapproval the moment he saw her. Isabel had taken to wearing Issey Miyake’s pleats once her belly had grown beyond her wardrobe. Christopher hadn’t seemed to mind her fashion choice before this evening, so she couldn’t figure out what the problem was now. Admittedly, her belly protruded so far beyond the frame of her body that it looked like she was wearing a Miyake tent.
He held her in a blank stare. “I’m sure Miyake didn’t intend his clothing for pregnant women.”
Caught off guard by the insult, Isabel looked down at her bulging silhouette as if to confirm that Christopher was addressing her. She knew the comment was meant to sting, though she was also sure that the intended barb had little to do with what she was wearing. In an effort to avoid any conversation of substance, she offered a silly retort: “I don’t know . . . maybe he would be honored by it. In fact, maybe I’ll suggest to Beth that she contact his company about developing a line specifically for RHM.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Isabel. That would be insulting.”
“Who is being ridiculous, Chris? What’s gotten into you? It’s okay to be sleeping with a pregnant woman as long as she isn’t wearing Miyake? We’re on our way to a party in celebration of codpiece trousers for God’s sake. Get a grip.” Isabel let herself be pulled into a nonsensical debate, a familiar pattern in their past, but one they hadn’t played out over these past months.
“Why are you being condescending?” he asked as if she’d started the whole thing. “It’s not the same thing. Maxx has a sense of humor built into what he’s created. This,” he said as he pulled rudely at the pleats of the iridescent blue dress, “this is a misappropriation of Miyake’s intent.”
Christopher seemed either on the verge of tears or laughter, Isabel couldn’t tell which, but the incomprehensibility of his outrage made her burst out in laughter.
“I’m serious about this,” he insisted. His knitted eyebrows quivered with the strain of forced bravado.
“It doesn’t seem possible for anyone to be serious about this, especially you. Misappropriating the intent of a fashion designer? Really, Chris? I think you better change professions.” Isabel hated herself for taking the bait. “You’re losing your mind.”
He walked slightly ahead of Isabel the rest of the way to Maxx’s studio store. The cruel playfulness to his posture—his refusal to acknowledge that his date was just a few steps behind—left Isabel feeling foolish and uncomfortable as she tried to catch up, the additional weight of her belly slowing her down. She smiled sardonically with the realization that Christopher had brilliantly accomplished what he intended. She was, at that moment, an uncomfortable fool.
Neither spoke again until they arrived at the party. Maxx greeted them with raised eyebrows. He’d witnessed Isabel and Christopher in action when they’d worked together.
“What a surprise to see you two together,” he trilled.
“Yes, we’re finally sleeping together, can you believe it? I don’t know you that well, but I feel I can confide in you.” The words came tumbling out of Isabel before she could stop them. They all laughed at the absurdity of the comment. Isabel turned to Christopher and smiled her brightest and mouthed, “Fuck you,” before disappearing into the room.
“Kinky,” Maxx replied as an afterthought, distracted by the swirl of attention surrounding him.
Isabel had forgotten how incensed Christopher could make her. In the past, they’d worked it out by physically attacking each other under the guise of play. All that wrestling, boxing, and snowball fighting helped to blow off steam from the tension between them. Now that they were sleeping together that energy had changed. She questioned whether the recent tenderness between them was the most honest part of their connection. Maybe their true intimacy existed only in the fights they’d had.
After an hour of unbearable small talk with dozens of acquaintances, Isabel went in search of her date. She found him sloppily draped over one of the many statuesque models festooned in TrippWear. Christopher had had too much to drink and the model was clearly growing impatient with her ward.
“Christopher, I’d like to leave now, please.”
The model rolled her eyes and lip-synced an exaggerated thank-you to Isabel, pushing Christopher toward her. “Go to Mama, sweetheart.”
Christopher didn’t resist as Isabel led him outside. “Let’s get you into a cab and home to bed,” she said. “You’re a mess.” His condition had drained her of her anger.
Christopher hung on to Isabel for dear life. He seemed to have lost the animosity he’d had for her earlier in the evening and had now given way to sadness. “What are you going to do with me?” he begged.
“I’m going to take you home.”
“No, no, no,” he interrupted. “I mean later, after, you know, after that . . .” and he pointed sloppily to her belly.
“Christopher, you’re drunk. We’re not having this conversation right now.”
>
Christopher went from slurry and sloppy to rigid and precise. He stood up straight and his sudden sobriety startled her. “I’m drunk, but I’m not unconscious, Isabel. Answer the question.”
“No, Chris, I’m not getting into it right now. And if you’re feeling well enough, then I’m just going to go home to my apartment. You’re a big boy, you can take care of yourself.”
“It’s awfully convenient to just run away, isn’t it?” The man standing with her on the sidewalk resembled nothing of the person she’d known all these years. This new vulnerability made her feel dizzy. The earlier comment about the dress made sense to her now. He was angry with her—angry about the certainty that he would soon be abandoned. Isabel took his hand, which he left limp but didn’t pull away.
“Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s go back uptown.”
They let the argument drop and didn’t speak at all in the cab on the way to Christopher’s apartment. The city buzzed with the millions of lives and dramas being acted out on every corner, in every apartment along the twenty-minute trip three miles uptown. For a moment, their particular unfolding drama welcomingly receded in the context of the huge city.
They remained silent as they solemnly undressed in the darkness and crawled into bed, where Christopher slept spooned against Isabel’s backside through the night. Isabel awoke just before dawn and headed back to her apartment. She left Christopher snoring loudly, curled into a fetal position at the edge of his bed.
WHEN ISABEL ARRIVED at the office that morning, she was greeted by one of her direct reports, Ruth Anders, an ad rep.
“We need to talk,” Ruth said.
“Everything okay?”
The End of Men Page 19
