November Surprise

by Laurel Osterkamp

  I run my fingers through his hair. “I suppose.”

  He looks up into my eyes. “That’s what it was like with Evelyn. I was always afraid she was going to leave. And once she was gone, I couldn’t even remember how we got to that point.”

  “Must have been hard,” I say.

  “Meanwhile, I remember everything with you. Like that time you came for dinner, and you told my dad he shouldn’t have voted for Reagan. Your hair was all frizzy, and Jack was so uncomfortable, and I’m thinking, ‘who is this girl?’”

  I chuckle. “That was when you first noticed me?”

  “The first time, definitely not the last. And I never really forgot. To tell you the truth, one of the reasons I first considered taking the job out here was because of you.”

  I let this statement sink in. It’s incredibly sweet, but is he for real? Is it possible that our entire history is different than I thought, that the lipstick wasn’t necessary, wasn’t even on a pig in the first place? Maybe we’re way more than that. “I can’t imagine ever leaving you.” I whisper and I’m shocked by my own candor.

  “Good,” he responds, “because I don’t know what I’d do if you did. If I take you for granted, it’s because all I can think about when we’re together is how happy I am.”

  I clasp one of his hands and bring it to my lips. For the last few evenings, mostly what we’ve done is talk. I’ve been trying to set my fear aside, and talk about the difficult stuff as if I was a shamed politician doing a tell-all expose’.

  “I really am excited about the baby, you know.” He smiles up at me. “Are you?”

  “Yeah.” I look around my apartment, with its large windows, pale yellow walls, and white shelving. When I first moved in, I thought it was perfect, so bright and cheery. I couldn’t imagine ever being sad here. But now, I have no idea how it can possibly be enough. “I am excited about the baby. I just don’t know where we’re going to put it.”

  Monty sits up. “Wow,” he says. “It’s funny you should mention that.”

  He gets up and grabs a flier from his briefcase.

  “I went for a walk during lunch today, and I found this.” He hands me the sheet of paper, and it’s from one of those boxes that are outside of homes for sale. “Severe Price Reduction!” It says this in bold, large letters at the top of the page. Below is information about the home: 2,845 square feet, three bedrooms, two baths, built in 1964. There are also pictures. It looks like it gets lots of light, and the dining room has a sliding glass door that leads out to a deck. There’s also a yard with a garden, and a round stone patio with a fire pit in the center. Inside there’s a large kitchen with white cabinets, and upstairs there is a fireplace in the master bedroom. One of the other bedrooms is painted a light, sunny yellow, and it looks like the perfect size for a nursery.

  “There’s no ocean view or anything, and it probably needs work. But still—pictures don’t lie. It looks beautiful. I think we should call and request a showing.”

  I look from the flier to Monty’s face. I don’t know how to respond.

  He cocks his to the side and gives me a questioning look. “Don’t you think it would be worth it to check it out? It’s because of the tanking economy that it’s so cheap. Maybe we can actually benefit from this as first-time buyers.”

  “I didn’t know we were actually buying,” I say, trying to sound casual.

  “I thought we decided to keep all our options open.”

  I shrug my shoulders so it doesn’t look like I’m panicking. “Buying a house just seems like an awfully big step.”

  He laughs. “We’re having a baby. It’s too late to worry about ‘big steps’.”

  “Yeah, I suppose…” I start to rub my temples. It’s not that I’m afraid of committing to Monty. But having a baby is just one way that we’re doing things out of order. Buying a house will make it two. We haven’t mentioned marriage since that time he winked at me, and that’s okay. I’m in no rush to get married. But a house? It feels like we should sign a marriage certificate before we sign a mortgage.

  Monty takes the flier back and studies it. “I have a good feeling about this place. The outside is really pretty, with a vine-covered trellis over the walkway leading to the front door. It just felt like a home, you know?” I place my hand on his back and gently rub as an answer. “There’s no harm in just looking, right?” As he says this, he reaches into his pocket for his cell phone. “How about tomorrow evening, after work?”

  “Sure,” I say, because I’m not up for a fight. Monty calls and schedules a showing.

  I feel the baby moving inside me, and I rub my belly. Sarah Palin can see Russia from her house. I wonder what new portion of the world I’ll be able to see from mine.

  October

  “…And not only is he not a plumber, his name isn’t even Joe!”

  “You’ve already told me that a couple of times, Lucy.”

  “I know, and I know you don’t think it’s any big deal. But people are going crazy over this guy. He’s so far right, he’s almost to the left, like he’s a libertarian or something. And he’s spurred something. There’s this whole group of people who want to do away with government altogether. It’s becoming a movement.”

  Monty flicks his turn signal and hangs a left. The houses gain color and personality the further down the street we drive. On our right there’s a park with a large slide, picnic shelters, and a wading pool. Two blocks down there’s a coffee shop, a book store, a tapas restaurant, and one of those new, designer baby gear boutiques. Monty was spot-on when he said we’re the right demographic for this neighborhood.

  “You can’t be surprised,” Monty says. “There’s always a segment of people who feel disenfranchised by the government. It’s been that way since we began, back in the 1700s.”

  “But they’re so vocal now,” I reply.

  “Only because things are about to change in a big way.” He rolls his shoulders back, and I’m pretty sure I know exactly which muscle it is he’s trying to relax. “But I wouldn’t worry. Joe the Plumber was McCain’s attempt at an October surprise. He’s making a last ditch attempt to turn things around, and it isn’t going to work.”

  “I’m talking long-term, Monty. These people aren’t going to be happy if Obama is elected, and they could really cause problems.”

  He gives me a sideways glance. “There are always going to be problems. You know that. It’s what makes life interesting.”

  “Then I’d prefer for life to be boring.” The baby kicks inside me, and I rub that spot on top of my belly. I suppose I lost my chance for boring several months ago.

  Monty pulls up to the curb and turns off the ignition. “Here we are,” he says. “Welcome home.”

  He gets out and comes around to the passenger side. By the time he’s there I’ve opened my door. He gives me his arm, and helps hoist me up.

  We walk under the vine-covered trellis, up the walkway, to our evergreen-colored front door.

  Monty holds out his keys. “You should do the honors.”

  I shake my head. “It’s your house.”

  “It’s our house.”

  “It’s your name signed on the dotted line.”

  “A technicality,” Monty says. “And only because you insisted that we do it that way.”

  I take his left hand in mine and give it a squeeze. “Just open the door.”

  He grins in answer, inserts his key into the lock, and turns the doorknob.

  We step inside. What’s left of the day’s sunshine is pouring through every window, and the hardwood floors glisten.

  Monty leads me towards the kitchen, where a platter of bread, cheese, sausage, and mustard is sitting out. There is also a bowl of fruit, a bottle of champagne and a chocolate cake.

  “I thought we could have a picnic,” he says.

  “Champagne?”

  He wraps his arms around me. “One glass won’t hurt.” He kisses me on the forehead. “We’re celebrating.”

  �
��The new house?”

  He brushes my hair away from my face, and leans down to kiss my mouth. “Of course.”

  It’s a nice evening, so we decide to sit outside, on the patio steps, where at least I’ll get a little bit of back support. I gnaw on some bread and cheese, and Monty pops grapes into his mouth.

  “Have you found out about your travel schedule?” I ask.

  “I shouldn’t have to go until March,” Monty replies. “And it wouldn’t be for more than a couple of weeks.”

  I think about this. It’s important to have him around for the last few weeks of my pregnancy. But if he takes off for Ghana in March, I’ll be by all myself with the baby while it’s just a few weeks old. Still, I was ready to be a single mother if I had to be, and Monty’s very committed to his work. I have no interest in holding him back. “That’s not bad, but what about the anti-malarial policy? Don’t you need to go sooner so you can finish it?”

  Monty doesn’t answer. He just chews his grapes and swallows roughly.

  “Are you okay?”

  He jolts himself a little, as if out of reverie. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

  “About?”

  “Nothing.” He taps his fingers against his leg. “So you like the house?”

  “Of course. I love the house. I’ve told you that already.”

  “I’m glad you love the house,” he says, and then he pauses and clears his throat. He picks up a twig that was lying on the patio floor and flicks it off into the distance, towards a grove of trees. Then he looks back at me, and his eyes, wider than usual, stare into mine. “Do you love me?”

  For a second, my heart stops. “You know I do.”

  Monty and I began saying ‘I love you’ after our fight. Okay, so I mostly say it when he says it first. Still, let’s consider the facts: we’ve been together less than a year, he has a complicated romantic history, we’re moving into a house together, and having a baby. I’ve attached myself to him even though he travels to Africa for work several weeks out of the year, and I’ll worry about his health every second that he’s away. That’s a lot of leaps of faith to make all at once.

  But I do love him. Even more than I want to.

  Monty moves closer to me, and picks at a leaf that’s attached to the sleeve of my maroon cardigan sweater.

  “I hadn’t noticed that was there,” I say.

  He examines the leaf, and I can tell he’s choosing his next words carefully. Monty always thinks before speaking; sometimes I wonder how much inner-dialogue he has going on that I’ll never be privy to.

  “If things had been different eight years ago, when we were in New York, we might have been together all this time.”

  “Possibly,” I reply.

  “Or at Jack’s wedding. What if we’d started something serious then? We’d be going on fourteen years now. Our kids would be tweens.”

  “I suppose, if you’d knocked me up that night, they would be.” I playfully nudge his foot with mine, trying to keep the mood light.

  But Monty’s serious. His shoulders tense as he speaks. “What if I had known you in high school? I could have taken you to the prom.”

  Before I can stop it, a cynical laugh escapes. Monty raises his eyebrows in question.

  “Sorry,” I say. “But that never would have happened.”

  “It could have…”

  “Monty.” I speak in my most focused of tones. “We had Calculus together. We sat diagonally from each other. There’s a reason why you never noticed me, and it’s not because you didn’t have the opportunity.”

  His brow wrinkles in confusion. “Am I supposed to apologize?”

  I shake my head. “It was a long time ago. Besides, I never talked to you back then, either. Two-way street, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “And it’s fine.” I pat him on the leg to reassure him. “I just think we should live in reality, rather than rewriting the past into some fantasy version of what could have been.”

  He covers my hand, still resting on his leg, with his. “That’s not what I was trying to do.”

  “But it is what you were doing.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” He’s starting to sound tense again. “Can’t I have regrets?”

  I slide my hand out from under his. “Regrets? What, that you didn’t notice me before? That when we were at that bonfire party and you told Reggie Hanson to let go of me, you still struck up a conversation with him and ignored my existence?”

  “What?”

  I pivot away from him, and look straight ahead, towards the yard. There’s a squirrel climbing a tree. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “No. Look, I honestly don’t remember that.”

  “Of course you don’t.” I sigh and try to relax. “You were a little drunk, and it was one party of many for you. I never went to parties, but I went to that one because Sharon begged me.”

  “Maybe you should have gone to more parties. We probably would have known each other if you had.”

  I flush, and heat courses through my body. Is it anger or is it hormones? “I doubt it,” I say in a tight voice.

  “Lucy, I know people would have liked you if you’d given them the chance. Or at least, I would have.”

  “Can we please change the subject?”

  Monty looks at me, and my face must betray my emotions. “Why are you so upset?” He asks.

  “Because you’re wrong. I did go to a party, to give people the chance to like me. Do you want to know what happened?” Before he can respond, I continue. “Reggie convinced me to talk to him upstairs.” My words just tumble out. It makes no sense, but I’m angry at Monty for not knowing this story that I never told him. “Then he got some friend of his to sneak up behind me and hold me down, so he could spit in my face and tell me I’m ugly, pathetic, and that no guy will ever want me. So don’t talk to me about what could have been in high school. I’m well aware of how things could have been different. They just weren’t, and there’s a reason for that.”

  Monty’s mouth hangs open in shock. “Why didn’t you ever tell me this before?”

  I start to cry and I squeeze my eyes shut to keep the tears from falling. Damn these pregnancy hormones; lately I’ll cry at Hallmark commercials. “I never told anyone. It was a really long time ago and I was stupid to trust him, even for a second. I knew he hated me, I guess because I showed him up in class all the time.”

  Monty presses his nails into palms. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. Not physically.”

  “But he needed some friend of his to hold you down? Because you’re so large and heavy, right? What a fucking coward.”

  His face contorts into something I don’t recognize: eyes flinty, jaw ready to snap.

  I don’t know how to respond. He shakes his head vigorously and continues to talk. “He’d better hope we never run into him again. I’ll kick his ass.”

  “Monty, he’s in a wheel chair now.”

  His cheeks grow red. “I don’t care! He could be nothing more than a torso with a head, I’ll still demolish him. You don’t treat people that way.”

  His anger shocks me, but the image of Reggie as nothing more than a torso with a head is more powerful. I laugh despite myself.

  “What?” Monty demands. “I’m serious.”

  I grab his hand and kiss his palm. “You’re sweet. But honestly, I’m fine now. And you’re missing my point.”

  He sighs. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, that it’s our history that brought us to this point, and it’s made us who we are. So maybe the hard times have been worth it, because without them, we’d be somewhere different. And I’d rather be here.”

  The sun is setting, and it’s creating an orangey glow over everything. Monty’s white work shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, appears almost peach. It looks like he’d radiate warmth if I touched him. I test the theory, and press my arm and shoulder against his. Abruptly, he wraps himself around me and gives me a fierce embrace.


  With a heavy exhale, he says, “I still wish I had known. I could have made things better for you back then.”

  I hug him back, but after a moment I pull away, caress his cheek, and then I kiss it. “You’ve made things better for me now, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  He sniffs and smiles in answer.

  “Why are you thinking so much about the past?” I ask.

  He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. It is what it is, I suppose.”

  “So we’re okay now?”

  Monty faces me, opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again without saying anything. He looks down, and I stroke his cheek with my hand.

  Finally he talks. “I just really love you, Lucy. And I want you to trust me, that everything will be okay.”

  “I do,” I whisper. “I just need a little time.”

  His face changes again. His eyebrows pull together, he squints and he smiles. “Okay,” he says with his normal nonchalance, “what’s a little more time, when we’ve already gone through twenty years?”

  I laugh and lean in for a kiss. The air between us returns to feeling light, happy, and full of potential.

  “You know,” I tease, as I gently tug his earlobe, “if we’re going to dredge up the past, we need to mention that earring you used to have. What ever happened to it?”

  “I came to my senses a long time ago, and took it out.” He laughs self-consciously. “Why do you ask?”

  “What if I told you it was sexy, and I wanted you to put it back in?”

  He shakes his head no. “My ear was pink and crusty for months. Not a chance.”

  I rub his earlobe between my thumb and forefinger, gently, as if I can erase that forgotten pain. If I could, I would tell him about all the possibilities I see when I think of our future. But I’m afraid that if I tried, it would sound like an empty promise, no different than a stump speech from a losing candidate. And this time, I’m determined to win.

  November 4th

  I’m later getting home from work than usual. It was a great day. My morning lecture was on the effects of diversity on community, which is my precursor for a series of lectures on the history and outcomes of desegregation. It went really well, and many students stayed past class time with questions. Then I met my friend Sally for lunch. She teaches in the political science department too, but her focus is on law. She’s married to the systems tech here at the university, and they have a two-year-old son. Monty and I have already had two couple’s dates with them, but I like spending time with her individually even better. We sat and talked over soup and breadsticks for way too long.