“You mean doulos?” I said.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Gottwald, and she might as well have had the words “Grave Misgivings About Hiring a Male Doula” stenciled on her forehead. Call it what you will. Reverse sexism. Substitute racism. It’s all the same. But not.
“I’m the only man certified in the city, though I hear there’s a kid training with a friend of my old mentor, or sensei, if you will.”
“Sensei?” said Mr. Gottwald. “Do you study the martial arts?”
“Never did, no. I guess I just like those movies.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Gottwald, nodded to a corner of the loft. A pair of sleek mahogany nunchucks and a bandolier of throwing stars dangled from pegs in the brick.
“Just likes the movies,” he said.
The Gottwalds traded a look I’d seen before, especially growing up, the one where it’s almost as though I’m not in the room, and I knew right then they’d decided not to hire me, vetoed the dude with the yellow teeth and the ratty (vintage) buckskin jacket who wanted to make a positive and tremendous impact on their birth experience. People crave something else during this precious time, barren spinsters overgentle with envy, or else those doughy breeding machines in pastel-colored sack dresses. But I knew something the Gottwalds didn’t. It was an extremely busy season. Maybe my name sat at the bottom of their list, but they’d call their way down to it. They wouldn’t be sorry, either. These uptight success types with their antique Ataris and sarcastic sneakers make me sick, but it’s not about them. It’s not even about the baby. It’s about the job.
* * *
The Gottwald baby is only a few days old, just a tiny blind worm of boy, but it’s already quite obvious he’s going to be dealing Ritalin in clubs or else become some seedy megachurch youth leader by the time he’s seventeen. The Gottwalds are that demented, especially while I’m trying to demonstrate efficient swaddling techniques. So folding is not my forte.
“You’re choking him,” says Mrs. Gottwald.
“They like it tight,” I say. “Womb-y.”
“You’re crushing him!”
I peel the blanket away. Baby Gottwald is gasping.
“Okay,” I say. “You’ve seen how it’s done. Now it’s your turn.”
“Gee, thanks,” says Mrs. Gottwald.
To think that yesterday not only did we do a group hug but later, while the baby slept, I gave them all shoulder rubs, even Ezekiel. We ate comfort lasagna from the gourmet store, and Mrs. Gottwald said, “I can’t believe we almost went through this without you, Mitch. This is so much better than the last time. Do you remember when we came home with Zekey, hon?”
“A goddamn nightmare,” said Mr. Gottwald. “Hooray for the doula.”
“Doulo,” I said.
“Gentle now, Big Fella,” said Mr. Gottwald.
Big Fella has always been a trigger for me, not least of all because I go two fifty-five or sixty on a good day, most of it solid flab, but I forgave him. There was such high gladness in Mr. Gottwald’s eyes, not to mention the pillowy shimmer of his wife, all that evolutionary love dope coursing through her, I felt us all cocooned in some invincible sweetness.
But that was yesterday.
* * *
Today Mr. Gottwald paces the loft, fiddles with the earpiece in his ear. He’s been talking to his office nonstop since the hospital. Apparently the man is a crucial component of the pharmaceutical industry’s advertising efforts. We’d all forget to ask our doctor about pills for shyness and soft penises if he took a day of paternity leave. Ezekiel sobs quietly on the carpet, hovers over a toy cheese board, tugs apart some Velcro’d wedges of fake Manchego. We may need to have a chat.
Mrs. Gottwald lies in bed with her newborn, the blanket bunched at her feet. She shivers with fever. Clogged milk ducts, would be my guess. She’s also having bowel trouble, and I may have to administer an enema. I’m beginning to believe the mister could use a good flush, too.
The baby cries, sleeps, cries, sleeps, cries, then doesn’t cry or sleep, curls up against Mrs. Gottwald. Here on the leather sofa, where I’m drinking Gatorade, catching the American League highlights, I can just make out his pinched mug. I’m wondering if I can sneak out for another smoke before he goes off again.
“Mitch,” says Mr. Gottwald, steps in front of the TV, blocks a particularly insightful slugging percentage graphic.
“Yes, sir.”
“The baby is crying.”
“Good call.”
Mrs. Gottwald’s trying to tuck the baby under her breast the way they teach in birth classes, the so-called football grip.
“Fumble!” I say, and stride over, remote in hand, but I guess nobody’s in the mood for sports jokes. Baby Gottwald wails louder, lunges for his mother’s breast, gums the cracked flesh. His lips slide on a film of milk and spit.
“Oh, sheesh,” says Mrs. Gottwald. “It hurts.”
“It’s like a beer keg he can’t quite tap,” I say.
“Oh, is that what it’s like?” Mr. Gottwald says.
“It really hurts,” says Mrs. Gottwald. “It wasn’t like this with Zekey.”
“Work the hurt,” I say.
“What the hell does that mean?” Mr. Gottwald says.
“It means whatever helps it mean something.”
“You’re an idiot,” says Mrs. Gottwald.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“No, it’s not.”
* * *
Nobody’s born a doula. Or maybe the early doulas, those slaves, maybe they were born doulas. I’m no historian. It’s the future I care about. The future of the families I assist in these first fragile and hugely awesome hours. The future of my bank account, too.
It’s true I just sort of fell into this work while stalking my ex-girlfriend, but once I came under the tutelage of Fanny Hitchens, former doula to the stars, I knew I’d found my calling, even when the calls never came. It was tough going, but Fanny encouraged me from that very first day I crashed her lactation and newborn-care class at the church. My ex-girlfriend’s new goon of a boyfriend, Kennesaw, a Special Forces interrogator and one of the few troops I have truly in my heart never supported, had shown up at my AA meeting across the hall, and I needed someplace to hide. Fanny just nodded when I slipped into the room, invited me to join the others, the swollen ladies and their sullen men, on the rubber wrestling mats. Soon enough the tricks of the miracle-of-life trade had me hooked.
Fanny hoped I’d become a birth doulo, and I tried to oblige. Childbirth is a beautiful thing. Even all the poop and gunk that slides out of a woman during childbirth is beautiful. The plastic bag under the woman’s butt to catch the poop and gunk is beautiful, too. But I was a birth doulo bust. I couldn’t fend for women and their families in the hospitals or stand up to the godlike doctors. They all reminded me of my older sister, Tina. Tina’s not a doctor, but she’s godlike, at least to me, and godlike in that cruel, capricious Greek way, too, even when we were growing up. Once, I remember, she bought me peanut brittle. Then, a few minutes later, when I asked her to buy me more peanut brittle, she said no, she’d just bought me some. What the hell was that? Mixed messages can damage a child.
Anyway, I eventually decided my talents were best served in what I like to call the postpartum arena. I just felt better without the white coats breathing down my neck. Still, things could get tough. Nobody wants to hear this, but bringing home a newborn is not all cuddles and fluff. It’s more like a boat crashing into a dock. And I’m the skipper, yanking on the wheel, trying to steer this heap to safety. But the boat’s already crashed.
So now I’m guiding Baby Gottwald’s little fish mouth back toward his mother’s thick burgundy nipple. It’s true the words “thick burgundy nipple” excite me, but it’s also a fact that latching on can be a monumental bitch.