by Kim Izzo
“Did you know that half of all men start an affair during their wives’ final trimester?” I lied pleasantly.
I went back to my desk, grabbed my things, and ran, but not before stomping back into the baby shower to find Ellie. I didn’t do it on purpose but as I stuffed the ultrasounds into her hand, the images flew onto the floor like a deck of cards, scattering in all directions. I heard the surprised shrieks from the women but I didn’t stop to help. Maybe I was crying.
Marianne tried to chase after me. But that’s the thing about pregnant women: They’re easy to outrun, even in four-inch Mary Janes.
2.
A Male Perspective
Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they have.
—Mansfield Park
That’s rough,” Brandon admitted after listening to me recount my lousy day. “But those girls in the bathroom? They’re jealous.”
I looked at Brandon, who had just emptied a martini glass in three slurps, clearly skeptical.
“Jealous of what? They have everything they want. They’re married and pregnant.”
Brandon gnawed on a helpless olive. “Katharine Billington Shaw”—he always said my full name when he wanted to make a point—”you’re tall, thin, gorgeous, and single,” he said, as though that explained everything. “They’re married to men who bore them, who they don’t want to have sex with except to get knocked up. And now they’re scared witless that their lives are no longer going to be glamorous—no more cocktail parties, free trips to Paris on the magazine’s dime, or squeezing into sample sizes. But you … you’re free.”
Let me explain Brandon. He’s my other best friend, alongside Marianne. Super cute, super smart, and super sweet, Brandon. We were madly in love in sophomore year at college. Naturally I dumped him. But he was devastated. It took the entire junior year for Brandon to forgive me and then one day he was my friend again. Every once in a while in between boyfriends I wonder if I should get back with Brandon. But we’re so like brother and sister that the ick factor outweighs any short-term benefits. He makes his living directing television commercials, not exactly his Hollywood dream, but he was always one of those people who could adapt to anything thrown their way.
“I wonder if Gloria was making excuses and they just don’t like my work,” I said feebly. “When is this slump going to ease up?”
“It’s not, Kate. It’s very bad,” he said with sudden urgency. “You should be squirreling away every penny.”
I glared at him.
“Oh God, sorry Kate, but you know what I mean. Be careful with the money you have. It’s really important.” Frankly I hadn’t seen Brandon so worked up since George Lucas refused to release the original Star Wars on DVD.
“Have you been reading your investment statements?”
“Not lately,” I answered glibly. “Can’t bring myself to open the envelopes now that it’s all I’ve got.”
“You’d better,” he explained seriously. “Stocks, mutual funds, your retirement fund, are all worth much less than they were.”
I flinched. I had been contributing to my retirement plan steadily—well, not steadily—for about a decade. I had saved nearly thirty thousand dollars. I was relying on it in case I couldn’t find new work fast.
“What do you mean, ‘worth much less’? How much less?”
“There’s something in the air, Kate,” he said grimly. “We may be headed for another Depression.”
I sighed. He was being overly dramatic. This sometimes happened with Brandon; after four years of film school he saw life in epic movie proportion.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
We turned to see Marianne lumbering up the small steps toward our table by the window. We were at my favorite bar, an elegant space called Avenue, which was in a luxury hotel. I always imagined that I would meet the man of my dreams in a hotel. But so far I’d only ever met my two best friends here. Marianne sat down and ordered a pinot grigio, ignoring the glare from the waitress. She allowed herself the occasional glass of wine, which she’d sip and, more often than not, I would finish.
“Are you okay?” she asked me gently. Her tone was a bit too babying, like she was practicing her mommy voice on me.
“Quit asking me if I’m okay,” I said firmly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know, because you didn’t get the job you thought you were a shoo-in for. Because the publisher isn’t renewing your contract. Because of what happened in the washroom,” she answered. “Belinda and Rosalie confessed.”
I squirmed at their names. As if sensing my discomfort, Brandon piped up to change the subject. “We have to make plans for your birthday, Kate,” he said gleefully. “Forty and fabulous!”
I rolled my eyes and gulped my wine. I was the first of the three of us to turn forty, and in less than two months. “You know how I feel about parties.”
There are two things I have always felt strongly about: I don’t celebrate my birthday and I don’t fret about my age. Even as a child I dreaded having a party. Too much attention and fuss for what seemed, even then, to be a minor accomplishment. After all, there is little achievement in being born; everyone I know has done it. And as my grandmother would say, “age is only a number.”
“But this time we are doing something,” Marianne insisted. “Why not a forties film theme? Those are all your favorite movie stars!”
I stuck my finger in my mouth. They were treating me like a child.
“You can dress up as Katharine Hepburn,” she added.
“You mean as the other unmarried, childless Kate?” I snapped.
“You don’t want to be married with kids. That’s why you’ve avoided the altar—remember?” she reminded me. Not that I needed reminding. “Or have you changed your mind?”
I wrinkled my nose at her to indicate my mind remained unchanged.
“What about Jane Austen then?” Brandon jumped in swiftly. “You never get sick of her stories.”
There you have it. What I’m known for: a love of 1940s movies and Jane Austen. All I needed was a house full of cats and I was ready to age gracefully into spinsterhood.
I sipped my wine in silence. They took the hint. I had a theory about where my determination and confidence to skip my birthday came from. Forty wouldn’t bother me as long as I was in a good place—in a home of my own, a job I enjoyed, with family and loved ones around me. In other words, being perfectly fine with forty depended on where I was when it hit. But after today one of those prerequisites—the job—had vanished.
“So how is the quest for fatherhood going?” Marianne asked Brandon. Our conversations always diverted back to pregnancy when Marianne was around. She had a rather militant approach to the process.
“Fine,” he said uncomfortably. “I’m having sex on demand.”
“How arousing,” I said sympathetically. Brandon’s live-in girlfriend, Lucy, was desperate to get pregnant. They had been trying for a year with no luck. I didn’t like Lucy. If a woman could be described as a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, this was she: plain, sturdy, and tightly wound. But Brandon was nuts about her. I never understood the appeal: Lucy was one of those girls that men drooled over but women couldn’t stand. Marianne’s theory was that Lucy wasn’t a girl’s girl—she didn’t like the company of women and that was why we disliked her so much.
“It’s how babies happen,” Marianne said patiently.
“With a temperature reading and a command performance?” I asked sarcastically. She glared at me. I was the only woman on Brandon’s side.
“It’s a bit of pressure,” he admitted softly. “I do want a baby, but she’s obsessed. I feel like I’m not really involved, except in the obvious way.”
Marianne rolled her eyes.
“Maybe I’d like to get a girl pregnant the old-fashioned way,” Brandon confessed sheepishly. “Lust.”
“Don’t be silly,” Marianne snapped.
Brandon shrugged and
proceeded to choke on an olive. Coughing, he said, “But forget about my issues. Poor Kate!”
“Yes, I know.” Marianne’s voice had softened once again. “I’m so sorry about the job. I had no idea. I’ll make sure we have loads of freelance writing for you.”
“Maybe I could get a job outside of publishing?” I suggested. After I’d stormed out of the office I had called around every magazine editor I knew and got the same resounding response: there were no jobs, not even maternity leave contracts, available anytime soon.
“You could be a wardrobe mistress again!” Marianne said happily. I had spent my twenties on independent film sets sewing buttons and steaming period costumes. I shuddered at the thought of the eighteen-hour days and minuscule pay.
“Or you could try bartending again,” Brandon added, smiling. I had been a bartender for one horrifying day back in the nineties. I still can’t open a wine bottle or mix a cocktail without having a panic attack.
“I could temp,” I said meekly.
We sat in silence for a few moments, trying to think of what I could do for money.
“Too bad you couldn’t teach classes on Jane Austen.” Brandon smiled.
“Too bad I wasn’t one of her young heroines, then my mother would marry me off and I wouldn’t have to bother with all this work crap.” I shrugged. “Women had it easier when all they had to do was find a husband.”
“That would have been a challenge for you considering your aversion to becoming a bride,” quipped Brandon. “You’re too independent for that anyway.”
“Touché!” Marianne said and clinked my glass. I rolled my eyes and took a slow, deep sip. As the wine coated my tongue a disturbing thought crept into my mind, so unnerving that I shivered.
“Do you think I’m too old to marry well?” I asked cautiously. Marianne and Brandon chuckled. They thought I was joking. Maybe it was the wine or all our talk about birthdays and money but as they laughed the reality hit me square on the jaw. Soon I would be forty. A middle-aged woman. Maybe it was too late to make what Austen called an “eligible match.” Maybe marrying a wealthy man had an expiration date, and I had reached it. I was past due. I was best before. I shook myself free of the thought. It was silly to worry about that. My love of Jane Austen aside, I had never aspired to marry, let alone marry well. I was in a bad spot financially, but otherwise I was just fine, thank you very much.
“I’m ready to go,” I announced. “I’ve had a hell of a day.”
3.
The Misses Shaw
There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it …
—Pride and Prejudice
I lived in Scarsdale in a house I shared with my grandmother and mother. After the Chris debacle left me with no money and no roommate to split the rent I had to give up the fifth-floor walk-up on West Ninety-first Street I had called home. “Give up” is generous. “Eviction” is more accurate. Still, the commute by train into Manhattan each morning didn’t bother me one bit; after all, I’d grown up doing it. And in a stroke of genius my family had kept an old beater just in case, a black Chevy, which made the trip from train station to home passable.
The asphalt on our driveway was warped and cracked from years of snow and salt but we never had the money to repave. The tires rolled comfortably to a full stop in their familiar sunken grooves and I switched off the engine and sat staring straight ahead.
I was out of work. I looked up at my family home with its pale blue paint and white shutters and trim. It was always a pretty little house kept neat and tidy due to my grandmother’s handiwork. What a relief its existence didn’t depend on me. It was paid off thanks to my grandparents’ diligence and frugality back in the day. I felt the corners of my mouth turn up into an involuntary smile. Our home was no Mansfield Park, but at least I would always have a roof over my head. With this happy thought I got out of the car.
I opened the front door and tossed my handbag onto the floor. My mother, Iris, was sitting on the sofa checking her lottery tickets. At the kitchen table was my grandmother, who preferred that everyone call her Nana (“Grandmother” sounded too old), calmly sipping a gin and tonic.
“Hi, love,” Nana said with a smile.
“Hi, Kate,” Iris chimed in. “We won a free ticket.”
My mother and grandmother were dedicated lottery people. Winning anything, even a free ticket, justified their obsession.
“How was your day?” Nana asked me with a look that seemed to sense my day hadn’t been all that good. I didn’t want to worry her and decided to keep my situation to myself for now. I could still head to the city every morning; they didn’t have to know.
“It was fine. Here, Nana, I brought you this,” I said and handed over an elegant gold compact with translucent powder in it that I’d taken from the beauty closet. I would miss this particular job perk, free products, very much.
“What’s that for?” Iris asked jealously. “Why do you get a present?”
Iris hated to be left out. Of course I had a gift for her, too, but her childish reaction took away any pleasure in giving it to her. Iris’s fits of jealousy were legendary and something I’d grown up with but had never grown fond of. It was a trait we all endured, except for my father, who couldn’t take it and left when I was four, never to be heard from again. Though according to Nana and my older sister, Ann, Iris had plenty of reasons to be jealous: reasons like Debbie, Sandy, and Suzie, for starters. Apparently my father could charm the pants off of anyone and that was the problem.
“Thanks, love. I needed this so badly.” Nana smiled at me, revealing the gap between her front teeth. She ignored my mother and busied herself by swiping the fresh puff across her skin. “It’s for my nose,” she answered.
“You don’t use that on your nose,” snapped Iris. “You use that Pan-stik makeup.”
“I use this, too.” Nana turned her head side to side examining her reflection in the tiny mirror. I could tell she wasn’t happy about her wrinkles but at ninety-three, even an exceptionally spry and mentally sharp ninety-three, there had to be some. “Can’t you get me something to fix all these lines?”
“Not without surgery.” I grinned. We always had this conversation. I told her the truth once more; that the tiny vertical lines above her lip were from years of smoking. But she never bought it.
“I’ve seen you use the Pan-Stik,” Iris insisted.
Nana rolled her eyes. “I use the Pan-Stik, then I put powder on top.”
“I was right,” Iris said triumphantly. “You do use the Pan-Stik.”
“Iris, just drop it,” I snapped and picked up the packaging for the recycling bin.
“No one ever lets me be right!” she snapped back as she headed to her bedroom to sulk.
This was my home life. Our family legacy was to get knocked up, make a bad marriage, divorce, then move in with your mother. This was how it had been for my great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother. I’d managed to avoid the marriage and baby, but somehow I still ended up living with my mother. Unlike Ann, who lived in a two-bedroom rental in Park Slope and eked out a living as a legal assistant. She’s divorced.
Her marriage had been one of those starter types—two years, no kids—to a regular guy named Matthew. To hear her tell it Matthew was the nice guy, the one good guy she let slip through her fingers. She left him because he wasn’t exciting enough, and fifteen years and as many jerks later, she regretted it.
I consoled myself with the fact that even if I was back living at home I wasn’t one of those freeloading kids who never contribute. Every month I gave Iris a check and she made sure the bills were paid—I paid half the taxes, utilities, and food. She was retired now, but had spent her working life as a civil servant at the Department of Motor Vehicles.
A half hour had passed when Iris came back into the kitchen, her sulk session over. I pulled a lipstick out of my handbag and held it out to her. Iris loved li
pstick and never left home without it. She practically snatched it from my hand and tore at the box like a child at Christmas. That was it: Iris was like a child in her reactions and her tantrums. She was unable to handle adult responsibilities beyond her mundane job so Nana took over and raised Ann and me. She was the only true mother I knew and I loved her dearly. Unlike me, Nana had great sympathy for Iris and indulged her in ways I never understood. Even Ann, who was six years older than me, had a fondness for our mother that allowed her to be supportive of her whims. Maybe because Ann saw her as a true “mom” before our father left, a side I never saw. Iris’s troubles were the reason the house would belong to Ann and me after our grandmother passed away, with the provision that Iris could live out her days here.
She slicked the new lipstick across her mouth and preened in front of the hall mirror like she was a movie star. Then, satisfied with her appearance, she sat down on the sofa once again and furiously scratched the play area of a lottery ticket with a quarter.
“Did you win?” Nana asked warmly.
“Not a thing,” Iris said dejectedly. “Kate, the Lotto is twenty-five million dollars this weekend; you should get a ticket.”
“No thanks,” I answered. I flatly refused to waste money gambling on the lottery.
“You can’t win if you haven’t got a ticket,” my grandmother added.
“I don’t win anyways.” I smiled. “Neither do you.”
They both shrugged; it didn’t matter that they’d never won more than a couple of hundred dollars, they’d still play, no matter the odds. That they believed winning millions was a real possibility always struck me as slightly crazy. No one I knew was ever that lucky, certainly no one in my family.
