It had been Lawrence’s plan from the beginning, and after they were married, there was no stopping him. Charles, on the other hand, had never truly visualized himself with a baby. He had Bobby and Sylvia, after all, and other friends had pipsqueaks for whom he could buy expensive, dry-clean-only clothes and other impractical gifts. Wasn’t that one of the perks of being homosexual, being able to adore children and then hand them back to their parents? Lawrence didn’t see it that way. Some of their friends had gone through lawyers, which were more expensive but also more private. Lawrence said they’d try that, too, if the agency didn’t work. They went to informational meetings at Hockney, at Price-Warner, everywhere gay couples were welcome. They sat in brightly colored waiting rooms as quiet as an oncology ward, trying not to make eye contact with the other hopeful couples in the room. Charles was surprised that the carpet wasn’t polka-dotted with holes burned by a thousand downcast stares. There were no balloons or cheery smiles in the waiting rooms, only in the glossy brochures.
Now the best they could do was keep themselves busy. Lawrence wished for a Rubik’s Cube, or knitting needles, not that he knew how to use either. Mallorca would have to suffice. It was a hot day, and Bobby and Carmen and Franny seemed happy enough to stay in the pool. Jim read a novel in the shade. Lawrence couldn’t take another whole day of nothing, and the Miró museum was nearby, a fifteen-minute drive down the mountain. They took Sylvia and went.
The museum itself wasn’t remarkable—a few large, cool rooms, and Miró’s playful paintings and drawings on the walls. One room had an exhibition of other Spanish artists, and they walked through quickly, pausing here and there. Lawrence liked one painting of Miró’s—oil and charcoal on canvas, large and beige, with one red spot in the middle—that looked like a giant swollen breast. Charles took his time in the last room, and Lawrence and Sylvia waited for him outside.
Outside the museum, below the city, the ocean was enormous and blue. The day smelled like jasmine and summertime. Sylvia put her hands on Charles’s and Lawrence’s shoulders, and said, “This’ll do.” Up a hill and around a corner were Miró’s studios. They crunched along the gravel and peeked inside his rooms, set up as though he would be home any moment. Easels held canvases, and half-used, rolled-up tubes of paint sat uncapped on his tables. Charles loved visiting other painters’ studios. In New York, the younger artists moved farther and farther out in Brooklyn, to Bushwick and corners of Greenpoint that nearly kissed Queens. His own studio was neat and white except for the floors, which were spotted with so many years of accidental drips. In Provincetown, he worked on the sunporch, or in a small, bright room that had once been an attic. Had Miró had any children? Charles leafed through the small pamphlet they’d been given at the door, but it didn’t say. Lots of artists had children, but they also had wives, or partners, someone to stay home. Why hadn’t they talked about that? Lawrence could take some time off, of course, a few months, but then wouldn’t he go back to work? Who was going to watch the baby? Charles wished that the social worker had sent a photograph, but they didn’t do that—as they’d explained in the meetings, it’s just like when people have a baby biologically. You see the child when it’s put into your arms.
Lawrence tilted his head and walked around to the room on the other side of the studio, so respectful of this man’s sacred space. Charles loved that about his husband, his willingness to see what other people couldn’t, that art was both mining and magic, a trade and a séance at once. It hadn’t been easy to convince Lawrence to come—two whole weeks with the Posts was not everyone’s idea of a vacation. Charles reached over and petted Lawrence’s head. They never had time like this in New York, when Lawrence was always running to the office. When they were in Provincetown, Charles would walk over to the bakery to get them breakfast, or would be in his studio while Lawrence slept in. It felt luxurious, the two of them just wandering through a museum on a weekday. Sylvia walked back out onto the gravel lookout, leaving them alone. Maybe it would have been easier to imagine if the child—Alphonse, his name was Alphonse—was a girl.
“Hello, there,” Lawrence said, circling back toward Charles. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head down so that it rested on Charles’s shoulder. It wasn’t comfortable—Lawrence was three inches taller—but it was good for a moment.
“I was just thinking about how nice it will be to go home,” Charles said.
“What have you done with my husband?” Lawrence said, laughing.
“What?” Charles pinched him in the side, sending him scooting a few inches away. “You act like I’ve been ignoring you.”
Lawrence groaned. “Of course you’ve been ignoring me.”
Charles poked his head outside, checking on Sylvia, who was lying prone on a bench, ignoring the other tourists, who were all taking photographs of the view. “Honey, no.”
“Honey, yes.” Lawrence stayed put. He recrossed his arms.
“Lawr, come on. How have I been ignoring you? We’re with half a dozen other people. What am I supposed to do, pretend I don’t hear or see them?”
“No,” Lawrence said, walking slowly back to Charles’s side. A German couple tromped in, and they lowered their voices. “I’m not asking you to be rude. I’m just asking you to be slightly less of a bloodhound, always three inches behind Franny’s ass.”
“Your ass is the only one I want to be three inches behind.”
“Don’t try being nice to me now, I’m mad at you.”
Charles had often thought that if they’d had the wherewithal or the money to actually produce a biological child, a boy or a girl made with Lawrence’s sperm, he wouldn’t feel remotely conflicted. How could he not love anything that had a face like that?
“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “I’m sorry. I know I get distracted when I’m around her. You are more important to me, I promise you.” This was not the first time they’d had this conversation, but it always surprised Charles. Luckily, he knew what Lawrence needed to hear. Whether he believed him or not was another story. Sometimes he did, and sometimes he didn’t. So much depended on Lawrence’s mood, on the hour of the day, on whether their most recent sex had been good or merely passable.
Lawrence closed his eyes, having heard what he’d needed to hear. “Fine. I think we’re both just anxious, you know? This is it, don’t you think? Can’t you just feel it?” He shivered, and then Charles did, too, as if an icy breeze had somehow made its way through the studio.
“Of course,” Charles said.
Franny hadn’t packed proper exercise clothes, but luckily her feet were the same size as Carmen’s, so she could borrow a pair of sneakers, and Carmen was so happy to lend them that it seemed like she might levitate. Fran wore leggings and a T-shirt she liked to sleep in, even though it had small, soft holes around the neckline. Her hair was too short to put into a ponytail, but she didn’t want it flying in her face (Franny imagined herself moving as quickly as a Williams sister, zooming from one corner of the court to another), so she’d also brought along the stretchy black headband she used when she washed her face.