But then Martin’s eyes cleared. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. He walked over and gave his wife’s belly a little pat. “I know a boy when I feel one.”
Janet looked uncertainly at him, trying to share his confidence. Martin had refused to let the doctor tell them the sex of the child during the ultrasound procedure, claiming that such information was unnecessary. “Wouldn’t make a difference what they told me anyway,” Martin said. “Going to be a boy, and that’s all.”
He turned and left his wife standing in the living room. He wanted to get the new racing sheets set up on the bed before dinner. She was a good wife, Martin thought. Stupid, and with no sense of duty, but that was a woman for you. At least she was attractive. Most of the time. Not half as nice-looking as his secretary, Pauline, but what did that matter? There was fucking at home and fucking at work. No sense in comparing the rickety chair at your dinner table to the plush, ergonomic one in your office.
Both served their purpose.
He pulled the printed sheet over his future son’s mattress, and the bed was transformed into a tapestry of speeding, decal-covered stock cars. Martin stepped back for a moment to admire the effect. As he unwrapped the bright red Mobil Gas pillowcases, he began to whistle.
The midwife was impressed with the first sounds Melissa Hartman made as her life began. She was a good crier, and there is nothing more comforting in a delivery room than the outraged sound of a newborn stretching its lungs.
“Congratulations!” said the doctor. “You have a beautiful, healthy baby girl.”
Martin spun towards him, pulling his own mask down as if it were suffocating him. He glared at the man. “What did you say?”
“Mr. Hartman, please put your mask back on. Your wife will still need surgical attention before – ”
“That’s a mistake!” Martin shouted, his neck cords standing out like tent ropes.
The doctor was taken aback, and he paused before responding. “Don’t worry, Mr. Hartman, her color will be normal in no time. This bluish tinge is only because of – ”
“You shut up!” Martin yelled. “I’m the father here, and I’m telling you that you have made a very big fucking mistake!” He turned and stormed out of the room, peeling off his surgical gown and gloves as he went. “A MISTAKE,” he shouted again, his voice echoing from the hallway.
There would have been a stunned silence in the delivery room, except that little Melissa Hartman was not concerned with her father’s behavior. She continued crying with enthusiasm.
The midwife, for her part, continued to be impressed.
Dr. Ryan clipped the umbilical cord and performed a quick suctioning of the baby’s mouth and esophageal passage, and then he wrapped the little girl up and handed her to her mother.
Janet looked fearfully at her new child.
“It’s all right,” said the doctor reassuringly. “New fathers go through all sorts of strange emotions. I’m sure he’ll be fine in a few hours.”
Janet stared back at Dr. Ryan. If she had not been so drained from the delivery, she might have laughed in the man’s face. Instead, she began to cry.
Melissa Hartman lay on her mother’s trembling chest and found that she liked the sensation just fine. While Janet sobbed from exhaustion and fear, Melissa stopped crying and began to breathe regularly. The smell of her mother’s sweat and tears was strong, and these smells found their way into Melissa’s tiny nose and settled there, heavily.
Janet Hartman stood over her baby’s crib and cried. She had read about postpartum depression in one of the pregnancy books, and she wondered if this was what she was feeling now.
Melissa was five months old, and already she was a happy child. Martin had retreated to the office and to the bars, where the indignity of having a daughter seemed less real. He was far from happy, but no one would have looked at former tailback Martin Hartman and called him sad.
Furious, maybe. Or dangerous.
Alone in her misery, Janet looked down at her gurgling, grinning baby and asked what she should do. “Am I crazy?” she whispered.
Melissa looked up at her mother and made a cooing noise. Janet interpreted this response to mean “maybe.”
“Will I feel better soon?” Janet asked. “I don’t know how long I can do this.”
Some shift in Janet’s tone, or gas, or one of the dozen other things that may irritate a baby, suddenly caused Melissa’s expression to change. Her face froze momentarily in that nothingness between smiling and crying, and then her mouth curled slowly open as she began to wail.
Quickly, Janet reached down into the crib and put a finger gently under her daughter’s nose. Melissa stopped crying immediately. She clutched at the offering with her tiny baby hands. She did not put the finger in her mouth, but held it there, her pudgy legs bicycling slowly through space.
Janet threw her head back, closed her eyes, and sighed deeply. She would have liked it if her own mother had been there to comfort her. Though perhaps not with the scent of maternal skin, which seemed to be Melissa’s favorite thing.
A bowl of soup would have been nice. Or even just a willing, patient ear. Someone to listen.
Martin came home at five-thirty one evening. Which was not like him. Janet was in the kitchen, warming up a pot of water. “Martin?” she called. “Is that you?”
Because at such an early hour, who could tell?
Suddenly he was behind her, his hands on her waist. She hadn’t heard his footsteps on the linoleum. “It’s me,” he said. His breath reeked of gin. “Come out of here.”
“Let me put this bottle of formula into the pot,” Janet said, speaking over her shoulder. “Just a minute.”
“No.” Martin pulled her roughly away from the counter, and she didn’t have time to set the bottle down. He walked her ahead of him, into the living room, leading her with pressure on her hips and shoulders.
“Martin, I need to put this somewhere. If you would – ”
“Quiet.”
They came to the big easy chair, the one he sat in on winter weekends when there was a game on and nowhere to go. Janet moved to step around it, but Martin pushed her forward. She almost fell.
“Martin!”
Janet’s legs were pinned up against the side of the lounger, and now Martin’s hands were on her back, pushing her over. She raised her arm to avoid tipping the bottle. Martin reached under her house dress, began clawing at her underwear.
“No, Martin! What – ”
“I said quiet.”
She heard the thud of his belt buckle as his pants dropped to the floor, and then he was pushing her forward again, from inside.
“We’re starting this… whole thing again,” he said, breathing in gasps. “The… right way.”
Then it was over. He stepped back, releasing her. Janet looked at the bottle of formula, still clutched in one hand. She had kept it steady; no spills. With her other hand, she adjusted her underwear and smoothed out her dress. Martin’s pants were already back on, his belt refastened. “I’ll be back tonight,” he said, turning to go.
Janet didn’t move. She stood next to the easy chair and concentrated on taking slow breaths. She wouldn’t cry. Not while he was still here.
The door closed behind him, and Janet gave herself permission to let go. She waited for the tears, but nothing came. A sound from the kitchen made her blink, and she remembered the bottle. And her baby.
She hurried back to finish fixing Melissa her supper.
That night, after three hours of trying, Janet finally fell asleep. She had come close to drifting off earlier, but then the baby had needed to be changed and fed.
Martin’s return later on did not wake her, because she was accustomed to sleeping through his 2AM arrivals. He stood in the doorway to their bedroom, looking at Janet’s sleeping form beneath the covers. If he squinted his eyes just right, he could imagine that Pauline, his secretary, was lying there. Pauline in one of her checked, gingham skirts and cotton, high-necked tops
. Those high necklines were Pauline’s attempt at hiding her tramp tendencies, but Martin knew better. The so-called “conservative” tops were even sluttier than the rest, he thought. Because there was no cleavage to distract you. There were only the breasts themselves, sheathed in fabric, thrusting up and forward with the aid of some unseen underwire fakery.
Pauline had let Martin touch them once. And then, that same night, she had let him do everything he wanted with her. He had been trying for weeks, inviting her to dinner after work and complimenting her hair. Then, suddenly, she had given in.
Because she was a tramp. He had known it when he met her.
But a few nights later, just as suddenly, Pauline had decided that Martin didn’t have permission any more. He had been disappointed, but not terribly so. He assumed that this was just Pauline’s way of keeping him interested. And that was okay with him. To a point.
After two more months, however, Pauline hadn’t given him anything else. Not a feel. Not a kiss. Nothing at all.
Martin was livid. He confronted her in the office.
“How long is this going to go on?” he said.
She looked at him evenly. “What?”
“Enough. When are we going to dinner again?”
“Dinner?” She didn’t smile, but her eyes were laughing. “I don’t remember you inviting me to dinner,” she said.
He clenched his teeth. “Would you like to go to dinner?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hartman. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Martin cringed. Mr. Hartman. She never called him that.
“Let’s stick with business,” Pauline said. She nodded solemnly and shook his hand, as if they were finalizing a negotiation.
“Fine.” He turned away, smoke rising from his head.
That afternoon, Martin had gone home early. There, at least, he could find one woman who would do whatever he said. And whenever he said it.
It had been quick in the living room with Janet, but Martin was surprised to find that it had also been good. Very good, he thought, especially tipping her over the barcalounger like that. She did what he wanted, and that was right.
He felt pleasantly omnipotent afterwards.
Anyway, it had been high time for him to get working on a baby boy. The little girl was getting old – eight months last week, if he was counting correctly – and having a son would set things straight.
Speaking of making new babies, he was pretty sure he had something left in him. It was late now, but thinking about Pauline’s smooth cotton sweaters had gotten him ready in a hurry. Her sweaters always had that effect on him. Her stuck-up attitude, too. She acted as if he were nothing to her. As if she didn’t have to do what he said.
She was his secretary, he thought, seething. She was supposed to do what he said.
He set his jaw, and advanced toward his wife’s sleeping form.
Janet awoke to the sound of Melissa crying. She tried to sit up, but there was something holding her down. Someone.
“Martin?”
He was on top of her, his breathing ragged. Melissa cried out again, louder this time.
“She needs me,” Janet whispered. She tried to push him off.
“Stop that,” he hissed, “or I’ll strap you to the bed and do this all night.” He arched his back so that he could glare at her. “Do you believe me?”
She nodded silently.
Martin shook his head and returned to work, as if he had been interrupted in the middle of repairing a broken light fixture.
Goddamned women, he thought. No sense of duty.
Janet turned her head away and stared at the egg-white wall of their bedroom. She tried not to listen to her daughter’s cries, which were becoming louder. Martin gripped the end of the bed and focused on a mental image of Pauline. In the fantasy, his secretary was bent over the office copy machine, asking for help. “Can you take a look at this?” she was saying. Martin noticed that the bottom of her already-short gingham skirt had ridden up a few extra inches. As he walked towards her, he began giving instructions. I can take a look, he said, but you’ll have to do exactly as I say, exactly when I say it.
Melissa finally became impatient in her crib, and she began screaming in earnest. The midwife, had she been there, would have been pleased at the child’s pluck. Even for an 8-month old, she sounded very lively.
Very strong.
There were no scenes in the delivery room this time. Martin Hartman was at his wife’s side throughout her labor, offering supportive words of encouragement. He held her hand. Five months earlier, during the ultrasound, the OB-GYN had looked hesitantly at Martin, but Martin had nodded and told her to get on with it. “So?” he said impatiently. “Are we good or not?”
The doctor turned to Janet. “You’re going to have a boy,” she said.
Janet almost cried out with relief.
Martin began bringing home special vitamins for Janet. He took her out to dinner six nights a week, and refused to let her carry the clothes hamper down the stairs. Now, five months later, he was there, helping, coaxing, cheering her on. Bring our boy into the world. Our Jimmy. Let me see my little Jimmy.
It was the second pregnancy, and so it should have been easier. But after three hours of pushing in the delivery room, Janet’s cries suddenly became louder, more urgent. Martin saw the midwife glance up at the doctor, saw the doctor frown. Martin was hustled out of the room like an intrusive teenager, and then he could only wait.
Dr. Ryan came to him soon after, and Martin studied his face. It was difficult to read. “Your wife is fine,” the doctor said. “She’ll be groggy from the anesthesia for a while, but the C-section went well.” The doctor waited for the customary outburst of relief, but none came. Martin Hartman stared at him, breathless. “Your son is alive,” Dr. Ryan went on, “but we’ve placed him in the NICU. His lungs are not fully developed.”
Martin seemed not to hear the last part. “I have a son!” he announced to the scattering of expectant fathers in the waiting room. Heads looked up. There were congratulatory nods and smiles.
The doctor took Martin by the shoulders and spoke to him with an exaggerated clarity, as if trying to communicate with someone suffering from dementia. “This is still an uncertain time,” Dr. Ryan said slowly. “Your son is not yet strong enough to survive on his own.”
Martin finally seemed to hear. “But Janet took all the vitamins. What happened?”
Dr. Ryan shrugged. “Nothing ‘happened.’ Every child is different. Some need extra help at the beginning.”
Martin considered this. Then he grinned at the doctor. “Yes,” he said. “Of course. At the beginning.” He nodded to himself, as if this were exactly what he had been hoping for. “It will make him even stronger in the end.”
Dr. Ryan kept silent.
Martin did not lose hope easily. His small, silent son was making progress, after all. Jimmy was able to leave the NICU after two months, and that was a triumph. Three months later, he began taking milk from Janet’s breast with something like real appetite, especially in the evenings. After nine months and endless encouragement, Jimmy finally succeeded in rolling himself over onto his stomach. Exhausted from his efforts, he lay in this face-down position for several seconds before Janet realized that he was smothering, and she plucked him hurriedly from the mattress. Jimmy took a relieved but unenthusiastic breath.
When Jimmy was eleven months old, Martin came home one evening to find his wife standing over Jimmy’s crib. Her eyes were red from crying, but this in itself was nothing new. Janet was always crying.
“How’s our little guy?” Martin said. He peered into the crib and smiled. “Huh? How is he?”
Jimmy did not smile or kick his legs. He made no sound. Nothing in his eyes gave any indication that he recognized his father.
“He’s so small,” Janet whispered, almost to herself. “He’s so… weak.”
“Don’t ever say that,” Martin snapped. He stood up from the crib and looked at h
er. “Why would you say that?”
Janet’s nerves were frayed by anxiety over her son’s health, and she had not been sleeping well. She was not herself. “Don’t you remember Melissa at this age?” she said. “She was laughing, crying, standing up in her crib. I could barely buy her enough formula. She was twice this size. She was so much more alive.”
“I don’t give a shit what that girl was doing at this age,” Martin said. His voice was soft.
His wife barely heard. She was on a roll. “Melissa would look you in the eyes,” Janet went on, “and you could tell that she was really seeing you, connecting. I don’t think Jimmy sees anything. By the time Melissa was Jimmy’s age, she already understood words like ‘mommy’ and ‘bottle’ and ‘sleepy.’ She’s incredibly smart, Martin. She’s good at drawing. She likes – ”
Martin slapped her.
Janet stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth frozen open in shock.
It wasn’t the first time. He had hit her harder before, and with worse things than his hand. But in the past she had always been able to see it coming. When he was drunk, for example. Or if she had said something disrespectful. This time, though, she had simply been talking about their child.
She had been praising their own daughter.
Martin spoke through clenched teeth. “I said, I don’t give a shit what she likes. We’re talking about our son here. And he looks just fine. He looks better than fine.” He glanced down at Jimmy, whose head was turned to the side, his eyes at half-mast. He might have been drifting off to sleep. It was hard to tell.
Martin walked quickly out of the bedroom. He grabbed his coat from the hall closet and strode past Melissa, who was curled up on the floor of the living room, concentrating on coloring with crayons. She didn’t notice her father as he stormed by.
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