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Aquitaine until another car rattles in the driveway.
She is perturbed, I can tell; I start tea and gentle her as she uncloaks. The
doctor called, she recites, they want me in for testing.
I hold her and ask, did they say why; she shakes her head.
Tea, news, dinner, work, wine, shower, and bed. I hold her again and whisper
not to worry. She cries out as she clutches me, and in relaxing, weeps.
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The look upon her face next evening is stranger still: They thought I was
pregnant, but I'm not; they want to see you tomorrow at ten.
Penetration, relaxation, penetration, relaxation whose arrogance is it to
classify this act "invasion"? For every woman demanding out, out, is there not
a male whose inner voice screams, keep it in, don't let anything escape, and
then roll away before feeling becomes a fact. Lock it in, lock it out; it is
the violation of surfaces that distresses. I
cannot imagine what it would be to have her squirt inside me, fill me and lie
by my side empty and drained. Nor the inexhaustible transport of her release;
this jealously will never be reconciled. What soft, bleary smile might I drift
with after such elevation, and the warm knowing shit-eating grin that would
mist my eyes till noon?
I cannot know, only cause; rod and tongue march around her flesh like Jericho
horns until she crumbles.
The office is still fey; they pluck fluids from me, prod me, ray me, invade
me, with stiff lights and cold devices up every orifice, and gather like flies
to prognose.
It is evident, it is impossible, I am enceinte.
170 Daniel P. Dem
* * *
A blessed event! Will it be a boy or a girl? Shall I
knit booties and crave pickles? What are the rules in such circumstances? Man
Expecting, tabloids would hawk.
Hubby Takes Turn Mom Stays Mum. Men's faces grow pale; women guffaw. They have
to be carried; their deep laughter overcomes them. The rich chortling echoes
down the hallways and explodes in amazed whispers. 1 sit there,
stomach twisting; I am not amused.
Ectopic pregnancy, they chant. Parthogenetic reproduc-
tion, reverse ovarian drift. Not impossible, not odd. Per-
fectly explainable. Nature not putting all her eggs in one basket. Liber
oparous hominem. Homo anticipatus. Their professional mumbo-jumbo permits them
to gloss over the miraculous with blase jargon, but I am not fooled. They are
staggered and still reeling from the blow; all their fancy words are just a
mask for their fright. I loosen my belt thoughtfully; I've got love in my
tummy.
How do I tell her? Am I going to be a father or a mother? Will she be
suspicious, suspect another woman? Is she willing to accept this child? My
God, suppose she refuses am I prepared to sacrifice this flesh of my flesh,
say yes to the silver knife and sucking tube? Not with my child you don't!
Then again, this could be more than a mild disruption in my life: by what
right would the church and others decide what I will do with my body?
Thoughts avalanche faster than I can cope: what about my job, my career? Is it
all right for me to work, can 1 get paternity leave?
I wonder if my medical plan will cover the hospital bills.
And will my dry breasts blossom in time to suckle my child?
First she is amused, then startled, then shocked. As she slowly believes, her
emotions do a tango. The lawyer's cool
YES SIR THATS MY 171
surfaces, mixed with spousely concern. Unbelief returns;
she cannot grasp the truth. Jealously. Confusion. Love.
Fear. Joy. Humor. Concern. Doubt. She proves equal to the situation; she is no
more capable of accepting it than I am.
We sit and think.
A strange, loving look suffuses her features. Never before has she been gentle
in this way. It is a deep loving we make late that evening, almost irrelevant
to pleasure. 1 hold her close and weep.
My belly is swelling; we have abandoned tobacco, alcohol, aspirin. Loose
trousers hide my precious paunch;
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even so, I get comments Too much beer, old fellow?
Better get to work on those pounds, boy.
I banter back and look chagrined. Conveniently, the clinic has maintained my
delicate condition entre nous and
sub rosa and no doubt oy vey iz mir, but I still fear someone will discover
me.
Is it embarrassment or the inevitable pursuit by the media and fanatics that
encourages my furtiveness? It is not yet too late for this all to turn out a
bad dream, or at least a creative tumor.
No one could be more loving, more supportive than that bright-eyed,
red-haired, long-nosed lawyer who is my wife.
"The entire legal establishment is prepared to defend you."
she assures you. "At least, I pledge myself without cost in your cause, no
matter how prolonged. So long. Mom, and all that. Here is a list of precedents
I have made up for you already."
Spencer Tracy never received so magnanimous an offer from his legal-minded
screenmate Kate; happy am I to have such a wife, to care for the swelling life
within me.
The doctors are very puzzled.
"It's not a par-then," they declare. "It's clearly got both your chromosomes.
Confess, sly scoundrel, how did you do
172 Daniel P. Dem it? Did Johns Hopkins pull this fast one? What perverse
position did your wife and you employ that fatal night?
Talk, or we shall publish!"
I stay silent, aware of my rights. Their bluster cannot budge me. I know they
are relieved that Christmas will come only once this year.
She is gentle with me now, allowing me the bottom in all but our most
energetic moments. Even so, my tongue is more convenient. We do not go out
much; our evenings are preoccupied with reading and talk. We have much to
discuss; all these years she has been a woman and I have failed to take
interest except in the obvious. Suddenly I am very concerned; the rights of
mothers, Lamaze and painless birth, proper nutrition, obligations to the
state I find I am less alert to the outside world than I used to be; my mind
drifts at unlikely moments and fills with thoughts of sky.
To hide our fear, we joke: will she join me in the delivery room, or pace
frantically outside, choking on cigars?
Someone has told the papers, the mercenary scoundrel.
Peace is a forgotten concept; the household, the driveway, the entire block is
littered with newssneaks. Our phone sounds like an ice cream truck. Our
mailbox is overrun;
indeed, the mailman has taken to doing our house as an entire bag drop.
Luckily, no one has yet been violent.
The church is rather off-balance. Hurrah!
I can feel movement already. My body feels light in spite of its new bulk; I
rest my hands on my hairy navel and wonder whether some mistake has not been
made. Surely the noble doctors could not be wrong? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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