“Okay, Abe. You got it.”
Abe sat on the upholstered bench before Ruth’s vanity and watched as Dabney and Alan lifted the enshrouded corpse of his wife of forty-eight years. Five minutes later, they cast her from the roof of the northernmost building like a perished sailor at sea. That roof dropped to another roof, rather than the street, so her body would remain unmolested, to decompose in peace.
Hunched over Ruth’s vanity Abe held his head in his hands, the grief beginning to hit him and take hold. All her powders and liniments, her tinctures and paraphernalia neatly arranged on the low table reminded him of the great pains she’d taken to look attractive for him before it all went south. His nose ran but his eyes remained dry. He sniffled and kneaded his scalp. Wife, children, grandkids-all gone. He snorted back the snot and clenched his eyes shut.
“Allergies?” came a soft, female voice.
Abe started, nearly toppling from the bench. He thought he was alone, but there stood Mona in the doorway, clutching her childish bag.
“What?” Abe said.
“Allergies? Your nose.”
“No, not allergies. Just plain old anguish,” Abe said, adding with a touch of sarcasm, “You got anything for that?”
Rather than look insulted or display any recognizable emotion, Mona opened her bag and rummaged through it. “Valium. Prozac. Paxil. Zoloft. Wellbutrin. Parnate. Nardil. Effexor.”
Not five words in a row from this girl in the last month and now this checklist of multisyllabic antidepressants. Abe wiped his nose with a tissue and stared at Mona as she crouched by the door, still foraging in her cartoon backpack. The backpack reminded Abe of the baby snowsuits. The more he looked at her the more she reminded Abe of his granddaughter. Danielle hadn’t been as phlegmatic, but she took her job as a teenager seriously and was as sullen and uncommunicative as possible. Abe missed her.
“You take much of that stuff?” Abe asked.
“Not much.”
“What constitutes ‘not much’?”
“Enough. You want?”
“Yeah, I guess I’ll try some of that Zoloft.”
“Takes awhile.”
“How long?”
“Couple weeks.”
“And the others?”
“Couple weeks. Maybe more.”
“Never mind, then. I’ll just deal with it.”
“Valium’s quick.”
“Okay, I’ll go with that.”
Two tabs later Abe slipped off into narcotized slumber, his body in the exact spot Ruth’s had been. He slept the untroubled sleep of a babe.
29
“You can’t be thinking of keeping it,” Alan said, trying to sound as reasonable and nonjudgmental as possible.
“And why not?”
“Why not?” Alan had so many reasons at the ready he was at a loss for words. How could she be seriously considering taking this baby to term? He was astonished she’d even been able to conceive. Maybe it wasn’t even his. That was possible. But what the hell did that matter? His, Mike’s, whoever’s. This was no time to be bringing new life into the world. He tapped the home pregnancy tester on his knee. “Why not? I really want to phrase this right. I don’t want to be patronizing or insulting or anything like that, because you’re an intelligent woman and…”
“And you’re already being patronizing. If you’re going to hammer me with a whole laundry list of how shitty it is out there, spare me. I’m not blind, I’m not stupid. I’m fully abreast of the state of the world.”
“Then how can you justify such a selfish act? How could you even remotely think having a baby is a good idea? Just explain it to me. I really want to hear your rationalization, because that’s all it will be. Fuck it, I’m sorry, but there is no good rationale for it. None. Forget telling me. I don’t want to hear it. It would be some irrational female desire to procreate. You need something that will love you unconditionally? That’s the apex of selfishness.”
“Who said anything about that? Don’t go putting words in my mouth!”
“Then explain it. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m totally wrong. Please. Enlighten me.”
Ellen smacked Alan across the face, hard. “You’re totally patronizing me, you asshole.”
“I don’t mean to be,” Alan said, rubbing his stinging cheek, suppressing the innate urge to retaliate. “This is a very emotional moment. Let’s calm down.”
Ellen sat and stewed, eyeing Alan with newfound scorn. Sure, she was good enough to fuck, but like most men it was only if the rutting was consequence free that it was desirable. Alan hadn’t seemed to object to boning her without the benefit of a condom. What, did he assume she was taking precautions? Didn’t most men put the burden of responsibility on the woman? Alan had seemed so atypical at first, but now? Since the reintroduction to creature comforts like video he’d been a lot less attentive to her needs. Sex, at times, seemed a chore that she’d cajoled him into performing. He’d rather watch movies and comedy shows.
And Mona. Presently she was posing with her clothes on, but how long would that last? First a little “innocent” modeling fully draped, as the artistes say. Then, when she’s gotten used to posing, comes the suggestion of undraped sessions. Then, the artist-and Alan had elaborated his theory on the inborn oversexedness of artists during one of their own postcoital bouts of pillow talk-puts the moves on his quarry, and bango, Alan’s boning Mona. What would she be like in the throes of passion? Could she even feel passion? Would she suddenly become a chatterbox? Wouldn’t that be hilarious? Or would she just lie there like a corpse? Maybe Alan would like that.
“You just don’t know what it’s like,” Ellen said, somewhat cryptically.
“You’re right, I don’t.”
“I lost a child! Do you have any idea what that’s like?”
That Alan had been through three abortions probably wouldn’t count, so he kept mum.
“No, of course you don’t.”
Even Mike, her daughter’s father, hadn’t been as psychically wounded by her death as Ellen had. Men just couldn’t feel that connection. With men the whole procreation equation came down to: SPURT! My work is done.
“Does the human race just call it quits?” Ellen shouted. “Like Peggy Lee said, is that all there is? I can’t believe that. Those things out there can’t run on empty forever. Someday they’ll start dropping and then it will be time for us to rebuild and repopulate. That’s the function of every organism, Alan. To perpetuate its kind. Is that so bad?”
“It’s not that it’s bad, exactly, but what kind of risk are you willing to take? What are you basing this optimism on? You see those things out there as being transitory? Maybe you’re right. I hope you’re right. But since their advent they’ve shown no sign of going away. Sure, they’re rotting. You can see it. You can smell it! But they don’t give up the ghost and fall down. Not unless you put them down by force. Maybe I could see what you’re doing as a positive thing if they were keeling over out there, but they’re not. They’re not. Can’t you wait? Wouldn’t that be a reasonable compromise? I could make peace with being a dad a lot easier if I didn’t think that giving birth was the ultimate form of child abuse at this point.”
“Who says you’re the father? Maybe this is Mike’s, in which case this is also my last piece of my husband. Plus, how can I get rid of it?”
Alan had no answer. It was pointless to argue. He leaned over and gave her knee a tender squeeze, mute capitulation, if not actual encouragement. Ellen sat back on the couch and softly began to sing, “Is that all there is, is that all there is…”
“They can’t last forever,” Abe said, his voice chemically softened.