Clara’s husband Bill is away again, after being home for only three days and nights, where he spent all of one night at home, trying to keep the kids off of him so he could read the paper and watch a game on TV at the same time, according to Clara. And Sonia believes it. She’s grateful Bill is not there — he is not Sonia’s favorite person. In fact, she actively dislikes him. He doesn’t flirt. And he’s just a garden variety dick of a man. Never smiles. He may even be dumb, Sonia theorizes, regardless of his good career. And it was clear that regardless of how much Clara complained of the difficulty of being alone with the kids so much, Clara didn’t mind his many absences, nor his tenuous relationship to his own children. Clara often made it clear that having him around was harder than not. One more person in her house to pick up after.
Sonia brings a bottle of wine out of her bag as her sons go off into the living room where the TV is already on.
“Oh, you didn’t need to bring anything!” Clara says, taking the bottle.
“I so appreciate you inviting us over. I’ve been so exhausted lately. And you didn’t have to cook for us. We could have ordered pizza …”
“Let me get my kids out of the bath.” Clara runs upstairs, shouting—“Tom and Mike are here, you guys! And you all get to watch a video!”—then she’s back in the kitchen.
Sonia watches Clara’s back as she aggressively chops things and remembers the day at the park, not so long ago, three weeks maybe? when she told her. And then, when she started to cry, and when she told her how Dick had reacted! Calling her a cunt. When Sonia said the word, quietly then, because other mothers had started to come to the park — alone together they swore like sailors as long as the kids seemed out of earshot — the way Clara looked at her as she said the word “cunt.” It was as if she had said something to turn Clara on, as if Clara’s face turned lascivious upon hearing the word “cunt.” Sonia had wanted Clara to be enraged for her, with her, and instead, she went all glassy eyed and her mouth hung open. And then she snapped out of it. Back to where Sonia needed her.
Clara puts in a two-hour movie, not too scary for the little ones, not too boring for the big ones.
Sonia, in the kitchen, opens the bottle of wine she brought. “Would you like a glass? I hope you don’t mind I just got started while you were getting the video on.”
“I’d love a glass!”
“Cheers,” they say at the same time, laughing at that, the synchronicity of it, and they clink their glasses together.
“Here’s to husbands at work!” Clara says. She adds, “May they stay there forever!” Sonia, her mouth already around the rim of her glass, smiles at her with her eyes.
“I know I’m not supposed to drink, but I’m only going to have one glass.”
“In France they’d be forcing you to drink! Don’t even think about it!”
Sonia sits down at the table. She knows she doesn’t look well. She looks pregnant. Greenish complexion, saggy cheeks, dark circles around the eyes. She looks like something inside of her is stopping her from focusing outward. Clara starts chopping asparagus. The rice bubbles, providing the only sound for a minute. Sonia says, “Yeah, husbands at work forever. Not a bad thought. Actually, I feel bad about how I complained about Dick the other day …”
“Don’t feel bad! I was complaining about Bill. We live with these bastards! What else are we supposed to do but complain about them?”
“No, I know, it’s hard to live with people, anyone really. By the end of each year of college, I truly hated my roommates. After living together for a year, our friendship would end. Living with people made me hate them. Still does, really. It’s just hard, no matter how much you love a person, to live with them. And for eight years? Fifty years? I just don’t know how people do it. It seems so unnatural.”
“Well, that’s why I say, here’s to husbands away at work!”
“But anyway, that night, when Bill came home from Denver, we had a really good talk. And he apologized for yelling at me. I just don’t want you to think my husband is a complete asshole.”
“Ah, they always say they’re sorry, but are they really sorry? Are they? They say they’re sorry because they just want to get us off their backs.”
Sonia laughs weakly. “There’s some truth to that, undoubtedly. But I think he felt real remorse. Work has been really tough on him lately. With the launch of a new business model, brought on by these new partners in his research firm. And he was just shocked that I could be pregnant. Really shocked. And I was too, as you know. It’s hard news to handle. It’s hard news to believe, really.
“So we talked about it. About how I don’t know what to do. And we talked about whether we could afford three kids and the answer to that is, we could, if we go with public schools. As long as we don’t attempt the private school thing, which is OK with me, I guess. I don’t know. And we talked about our apartment and whether or not we would have to move. And that’s a possibility. If it’s a girl, eventually we would need to move. I guess three boys could share that one bedroom. It is big enough. I don’t know. Maybe I should look into the suburbs. Or Kensington. Have you heard of Kensington? Further out on the F train, in Brooklyn? Past Park Slope? I hear it’s got good schools and we could afford a house there. It’s not here though, it’s not Cobble Hill. It’s not nearly as … sophisticated. It’s much more middle class.”
Clara pours herself another glass of wine but says nothing and yet Sonia knows what she is thinking. Public schools? Not in Clara’s life. Kensington? Fucking Kensington? She’s headed toward Greenwich. Sonia knows that. But she goes on.
“But then there’s the fact that we just don’t want, I mean, we always planned for just two, and it’s not too late to do something about it, although it’s getting there. I would have to do something right away. And my painting. And maybe if we got more help I could paint and take care of three kids. But he’s just being very supportive of whatever I decide to do. And giving me time and space. And getting up with the boys in the mornings before he goes to work, because I’m not feeling well. He knows I’m the one who’ll be doing most of the childcare, so he really is deferring to me regarding the final decision. But I look at this man, you know, I look at my husband and I think, could he respect me, would he feel the same way about me, his wife, if I aborted his baby?”
“It’s not a baby yet, Sonia. I mean, I understand what you’re saying and I would be supportive of whatever you do. Having a baby, or not having a baby. And I would never, ever tell a soul if you decided to not keep it,” Clara says, “But you would be aborting a fetus, not a baby. A fetus in the first trimester of growth. I miscarried! Twice! Does that make me a criminal? Or just because it was an accident, instead of premeditated, that makes it OK? Involuntary manslaughter in comparison to first degree murder? I mean, what are we talking about here?”
Clara’s facial expression reminds Sonia of a district attorney on some legal television drama, arguing a case. Professional in her mannerisms — she’s not hysterical, her eyes don’t exactly bulge — but she’s all passion and righteousness.