“Sounds nice.”
“Here comes Peter Cottontail.”
“What the mobile plays?”
“Mmmm.”
“You’re gone.”
“Yuhhh.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Work?”
“Going well. Nothing new. Book too. Working hard.”
“Ten?”
“Chairman’s made gestures but I won’t take if offered. Don’t want it. I’ll either try something new, get a better book contract for the next one and live rather penny-pinchingly for two years, or go to another school.”
“Daft.”
“Why? I don’t want to be screwed into the same school the rest of my life or even teaching or the East Coast or maybe even America, I think.”
“Sab.”
“Sabbatical? No, I want to do something different or the same thing in a different place, but not take a year off on the university when I might never come back. It’d seem like cheating and also would be keeping a needy scholar-teacher from getting my job.”
“Bob?”
“Way ahead of you. Months before I leave I’ll tell him and then recommend him to my chairman.”
“Years.”
“Been looking?”
“Two.”
“Delaware.”
“He’d even take a job in Delaware.”
“U. of. In the last MLA listing. And you?”
“Too. But Bob best. Rest. Me. You just talk.”
“My folks are fine. They’ve sent Nicholas something. It’s extravagant, so don’t send it back.”
“Yes.”
“No. They love you and only wish the same for me.”
“Two.”
“Two babies? You’re already planning to have another?”
“Me too for you. Rest.”
“Boy, I’m really getting it about that tonight. If and when the time comes, all right?”
“Now!”
“Stop?”
“Man?”
“Hey, wilt, will ya?”
“Well?”
“Several. Nobody special. This one and that. Part of the reason I called. One I met tonight, not even a this or that, is on his way here—”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing to get excited about — he got himself locked out of his apartment and that’s that. But I’m waiting and waiting. Met him at Sven and Dot’s wedding reception.”
“They?”
“Okay.”
“It?”
“Glittering. Grim-visaging. Wanted to commit partycide. What the hell. Their affair. But this man there — met him for a minute — no, that was at Diana Salter’s earlier homier affair — Dan, and what do you know goddamn, he called and is coming over to sleep on the couch because of that lockout and I’m waiting and have nothing to do, not that I don’t always love talking to you, except when you’re pressing me to get wed — been, remember? been — so thought of calling you.”
“Glad.”
“After this call — even during it if he rings from downstairs — not answering or letting him in. The phone, the door — heck with it, it’s already become something of a joke.”
“Do.”
“What, let him in?”
“Do.”
“Why?”
“Why? Want some honest but for a change good advice? No. Can’t. It’ll still the mill. Rest.”
“I’m curious though. Just take a few elucidative sees.”
“Feel.”
“Feel isn’t to see. Because he doesn’t seem that interesting. Nothing I said made him out to be. Locked out — what’s that? Translates lits — hot stuff? Just a nice nervy and slightly flaky bright guy who’s kept me from sleep too long. And if he was that interesting or more interesting than I see and interested in seeing me again and I thought him interesting enough to want to see, he could always or I could always, call me or call him, but another day next week.”
“Do. Ohhh—”
“Sounds incommunicable.”
“Is. Then painful. Then is. And not just the engorgement and cracked teats. For when it comes down sometimes, pain like knives needling the breasts. Ever hear about that before? No nonmilker did and mixed up the knifing needles likening a twit and I’m not the only feeder to feel this. What, some collusion or my illusion about eternal women where we milkers are only allowed to talk about it among ourselves? Worth it? Yes — Had enough there, schnooky? No. Got its mitts up and wants me to stick it back in. But that tit can’t take anymore and other’s temporarily out of the running. No. Shakes his head. Wronged face. About to grief. Okay, got some drops left in both but gonna talk while you’re bleeding them — Hear him? Whale of a wail Bob’s said. My mind’s felt like pudding since but oh this is so incommunicable having a kid — It’s Helene — Bob just woke up. Rolled over. Missed the kid. Scratched his butt. Squeezed his nuts. Seemed to say hello to you, so hello from Bob.”
“And hi,” Bob says from afar.
“Hi and hello, Bob.”
“You hear the baby say ‘hi’ too?” Marietta says. “An imitative hi but a hi. You say impossible. Well, you can say ‘impossible’ because you’ve some days on him, but so far he can only say ‘hi,’ and twice an ‘oy.’ He really did twice oy, but almost anytime I want, a ‘hi.’ Say ‘hi,’ baby.”
“Hi,” the baby or Marietta imitating the baby says.
“You hear? Amazing, no? Ah, now baying, so back to the breast. It’s…what can I say? How can I put it? The — help me, Helene — what would be the words to best express what you say’s the incommunicable, although you were referring to Nick then on my breast: we both just love the damn kid to death. Helene, you must have a baby. And no differing or quibbling with me either: what I said’s a command. And you want to see your husband cry like a baby, have him there in the room when you give birth. And you want to be as close as you’ve been and maybe ever will be to someone and then two people, have him in the room for those reasons too. Yes, without question, you have to have a baby. With a man you’re stuck on and who’s stuck on you and who’ll stick and I want you to have it soon. It’ll be the second happiest moment in my life. No, the third. First was having this baby and Bob crying like one, second was when Bob and I said our vows, fourth will be when I’m standing beside you at your wedding again and holding the ring you’ll slip on him, the third when you have the baby. Fifth will be when your amnio-C results come in and they say all the tests turned out negative. No, fifth was when we got our results, so sixth when yours come in. No, fifth was when I took the E.P.T. and the doughnut showed. So fifth was the doughnut, sixth the amnio-C results, seventh will be when your results come in negative and maybe eighth when you phone and say your E.P.T. showed a doughnut. So what do you say, Helene? You’ll be the mère of mères. You are this moment depriving yourself of everything incommunicable we spoke about and your unborn child of your maternalness and milkiness and everything else you’ll give it and each day you wait, the world another day of your great child and what you gave it and — rest. Sor. But do. Give birth.”
“When the time comes.”
“Now.”
“I can’t just grab any man and say—”
“Now, damn you, now. This is important enough to take Nicholas off for a minute. Little trick. Stick my pinky between his lips while I pull out the tit — I know, wail. Wake up daddy — Here, Bob, hold him for a minute. I don’t care if Mrs. Larkin from downstairs — Give him the bottle then. On the side table. Has my milk in it anyway, expressed.”