“In just a minute. In just a minute.”
A young woman, Sonia can’t tell how old she is, maybe twenty, maybe thirty, God knows, she could be fifteen, walks by, slowly. She’s got big, perky tits, visible through her tight tank shirt. She’s wearing jeans, in this heat, tight ones, her flat stomach out for the world to see, her bellybutton small and round and dark. Why is it that Sonia can’t tell the difference between a fifteen-year-old and a twenty-five-year-old? Sonia’s babysitter, Carrie, is twenty-two, a college student at Brooklyn College, from Trinidad. But she could be thirty for all Sonia knows. She just can’t tell anything anymore. All she seems aware of is that her children are very young, she’s not, and old people suck shit. The girl, or woman, slows to a stop and says, “Is everything OK?”
But the problem is, she doesn’t care. She’s got a smug look on her face. Her voice is condescending, not caring. She has a hand on her exposed hip bone. She isn’t worried about Sonia. The girl-woman looks at the stain on Mike’s shirt. She cares not at all if everything isn’t OK. She’s lying. Her inquiry is about how she’s OK, very OK thank you, and Sonia’s not, and that is making her feel good, as she stands there, with her bellybutton winking at Sonia. No, she doesn’t care if Sonia is OK at all and this is a big problem.
“I am not really OK. I am pregnant. And I am about to throw up on your shoes.”
“You should get some help, lady.” She says this, and shifts from one long leg to another.
“Well, that’s pretty funny considering that you just asked me if I was OK, and I’m not, clearly, which you already knew. But you didn’t ask me if I were OK because you actually wanted to help me, did you? Why ask a question like that? Why mock me when you have no intention of helping me? Is your life that pathetic that you get off on rubbing other people’s weaknesses in their face? I am having a bad moment. You’re aware of that. And yet, you stand there, so superior. Can’t you just be happy with your big tits and be gone? Must you torture helpless, sick pregnant women?”
“Lady, do you want me to call someone?”
“Mommy, can we go cook our meat?”
“No, I don’t want you to call anyone. But help me stand up. Just give me your hand. That’s all. I can make it. I can make it home. I can.” And, awkwardly, not having intended to do so, the young woman stretches out one of her long, tan arms, scented with a sweet, vanilla perfume, and Sonia grabs it like it’s a life preserver and she’s drowning in the hot, Caribbean Sea, and pulls so hard that the woman nearly topples over. But she doesn’t, she braces herself, and Sonia climbs up her arm, all the way to standing, and marches the three blocks home.
THAT NIGHT, AFTER SONIA fries hamburger meat for her children and husband, after she herself eats part of a hamburger bun with a little bit of butter on it and drinks flat ginger ale, after the kids fall asleep, and the TV’s turned off, Dick and she go to bed. Sonia tries to read The New Yorker. This is one of the worst things about being pregnant. She can’t read. She can’t concentrate. She reads two sentences and then her mind wanders — was that a gas bubble or the baby? when I bumped into the counter tonight, did I hurt the baby? what will I cook for dinner tomorrow? my head hurts so much! — and then she forgets the two sentences she just read. So she tries to read them again. Soon, she’s just flipping to the cartoons. Dick puts his hand on her breast.
“It’s been months.”
“I think weeks. Months? I don’t know. You know I don’t feel well.”
“I’m starving.”
“Why don’t you fuck your secretary?”
“My secretary? You mean Alex? He’s a gay man and I like women.”
“I bet he gives a mean blowjob.”
“Feel this.” He takes her hand away from The New Yorker and puts it on his hard dick. He smiles at her, mischievously.
“I hate you right now.”
“I like you.” He looks at her gently. She’s got the upper hand right now. “Could you kiss it?”
“Kiss it?”
“You could start by just kissing it. A little kiss.”
“I hate my life. I almost had a nervous breakdown today. A woman at the butcher shop was mean to me. And I couldn’t control myself. I sort of freaked out on her. And now I feel like I can never go to the butcher’s again.”
“Please. Just one little kiss?”
“I’m going to cry, Dick. What if I cried?”
“Just for a few minutes? I won’t come in your mouth if you think that’ll make you feel sick.”
“I hate you. Did you not hear me say that? Are you listening to me at all? I hate you.”
“Please? Pretty please?”
I hate you, I hate you, thinks Sonia, her head being pushed down the fleshy expanse of her husband’s belly. I hate the smell of your cock, the feel of your pubes. I hate your white belly. I hate you, she thinks, as she heads south, and begins calculating what he’ll owe her for this pleasure.
GIVING ONLY ONE BLOWJOB every three months bestows on Sonia a kind of power over her husband that fucking him regularly doesn’t. He deeply appreciates the blowjob. He wakes up with the kids, which he’s been doing for months really, but this morning, the morning after the blowjob, he brings her coffee at eight thirty, just how she likes it, with milk and sugar, very warm, maybe he warmed the milk in a pan for her, and when she comes downstairs, the kids are dressed, their teeth brushed, their hair combed, and they’ve had scrambled eggs for breakfast. The toys are picked up, put away in their little toy bins. The swooshing sound of a load of laundry being washed can be heard from the downstairs bathroom. Dick stands at the sink, scrubbing the pan in which he cooked the eggs. He smiles at her warmly. Wow, thinks Sonia. Wow. He could do this every morning. He doesn’t need me. No one needs me, really. So why doesn’t he do this every morning? Because he makes the money and I don’t, thinks Sonia? Because he makes the money then it’s OK for him to do as little as possible, as much as it takes to get by without completely alienating her. Where, where is the generosity? The apartment glistens at her and it fills her with rage. Why does he only do what it takes? Where is the love?
“Do you want some breakfast, honey?”
“No.”
He wants her to say something. He wants her to thank him. Thank you! Thank you for usually doing as little as possible! Thank you for taking advantage of me! For assuming I’ll do everything! Thanks for making it clear that when you do something, it’s a big fucking favor.
“The kids are dressed.”
“I noticed. Why don’t you always dress them? Why doesn’t the house always look like this before you go to work?”
“What do you mean? I thought you liked getting the kids dressed.”
“Fuck you!”
He walks up to her and puts his hand over her mouth, whispering, “Don’t talk like that in front of the kids. Just don’t.”
“I hate my life.”
“Man, I can’t wait until this part of the pregnancy is over. This is the worst part. You know it, too. You’re not rational. You’re not well. Your hormones are sending the wrong messages to your brain.”
“I hate that you don’t do this every morning, don’t you see? That this is some kind of favor to me for sucking your dick last night.” She’s talking quietly now, so the kids can’t hear her. But her voice is sharp. “I don’t want any favors from you, do you understand that? You either have responsibilities or not. You either give me your best around here, or you don’t. And clearly, you usually don’t. What makes you the king, huh? Your salary? That’s what makes you the king?”