I’m pregnant, she says.
At first you don’t register it. You joke: And?
You asshole. She starts crying. It’s probably your stupid fucking kid.
There are surprises and there are surprises and then there is this.
You don’t know what to say or how to act, so you bring her upstairs. You lug up the suitcases despite your back, despite your foot, despite your flickering arms. She says nothing, just hugs her pillow to her Howard sweater. She is a Southern girl with supremely straight posture and when she sits down you feel as if she’s preparing to interview you. After serving her tea you ask: Are you keeping it?
Of course I’m keeping it.
What about Kimathi?
She doesn’t get it. Who?
Your Kenyan. You can’t bring yourself to say boyfriend.
He threw me out. He knows it’s not his. She picks at something on her sweater. I’m going to unpack, OK? You nod and watch her. She is an exceptionally beautiful girl. You think of that old saying Show me a beautiful girl and I’ll show you someone who is tired of fucking her. You doubt you would have ever tired of her, though.
But it could be his, right?
It’s yours, OK? she cries. I know you don’t want it to be yours but it’s yours.
You are surprised at how hollowed out you feel. You don’t know if you should show enthusiasm or support. You run your hand over the thinning stubble on your head.
I need to stay here, she tells you later, after the two of you fumble through an awkward fuck. I have nowhere to go. I can’t go back to my family.
When you tell Elvis the whole story you expect him to flip out, to order you to kick her out. You fear his reaction because you know you don’t have the heart to kick her out.
But Elvis doesn’t flip. He slaps you on the back, beams delightedly. That’s great, cuz.
What do you mean, That’s great?
You’re going to be a father. You’re going to have a son.
A son? What are you talking about? There’s not even proof that it’s mine.
Elvis is not listening. He’s smiling at some inner thought. He checks to make sure the wife is not anywhere in earshot. Remember the last time we went to the DR?
Of course you do. Three years ago. Everybody had a blast except for you. You were in the middle of the great downturn, which meant you spent most of your time alone, floating on your back in the ocean or getting drunk at the bar or walking the beach in the early morning before anybody was up.
What about it?
Well, I got a girl pregnant while we were down there.
Are you fucking kidding me?
He nods.
Pregnant?
He nods again.
Did she have it?
He rummages through his cell phone. Shows you a picture of a perfect little boy with the most Dominican little face you ever done saw.
That’s my son, Elvis says proudly. Elvis Xavier Junior.
Dude, are you fucking serious with this? If your wife finds—
He bridles. She ain’t going to find out.
You sit on it for a bit. You’re posted up behind his house, near Central Square. In summer these blocks are ill with activity but today you can actually hear a jay chivvying some other birds.
Babies are fucking expensive. Elvis punches you in the arm. So just get ready, buster, to be broke as a joke.
Back at the apartment the law student has taken over two of your closets and almost your entire sink and most crucially she has laid claim to the bed. She has put a pillow and a sheet on the couch. For you.
What, am I not allowed to share the bed with you?
I don’t think it’s good for me, she says. It would be too stressful. I don’t want to miscarry.
Hard to argue against that. Your back doesn’t take to the couch at all, so now you wake up in the morning in more pain than ever.
Only a bitch of color comes to Harvard to get pregnant. White women don’t do that. Asian women don’t do that. Only fucking black and Latina women. Why go to all the trouble to get into Harvard just to get knocked up? You could have stayed on the block and done that shit.
This is what you write in your journal. The next day when you return from classes the law student throws the notebook in your face. I fucking hate you, she wails. I hope it’s not yours. I hope it is yours and it’s born retarded.
How can you say that? you demand. How can you say something like that?
She walks to the kitchen and starts to pour herself a shot and you find yourself pulling the bottle out of her hand and pouring its contents into the sink. This is ridiculous, you say. More bad TV.
She doesn’t speak to you again for two whole fucking weeks. You spend as much time as you can either at your office or over at Elvis’s house. Whenever you enter a room she snaps shut her laptop. I’m not fucking snooping, you say. But she waits for you to move on before she returns to typing whatever she was typing.
You can’t throw out your baby’s mom, Elvis reminds you. It would fuck that kid up for life. Plus, it’s bad karma. Just wait till the baby comes. She’ll fucking straighten out.
A month passes, two months pass. You’re afraid to tell anybody else, to share the — what? Good news? Arlenny you know would march right in and boot her ass out on the street. Your back is agony and the numbness in your arms is starting to become pretty steady. In the shower, the only place in the apartment you can be alone, you whisper to yourself: Hell, Netley. We’re in Hell.
—
LATER IT WILL all come back to you as a terrible fever dream but at the time it moved so very slowly, felt so very concrete. You take her to her appointments. You help her with the vitamins and shit. You pay for almost everything. She is not speaking to her mother so all she has are two friends who are in the apartment almost as much as you are. They are all part of the Biracial Identity Crisis Support Group and look at you with little warmth. You wait for her to melt, but she keeps her distance. Some days while she is sleeping and you are trying to work you allow yourself the indulgence of wondering what kind of child you will have. Whether it will be a boy or a girl, smart or withdrawn. Like you or like her.
Have you thought up any names? Elvis’s wife asks.
Not yet.
Taína for a girl, she suggests. And Elvis for a boy. She throws a taunting glance at her husband and laughs.
I like my name, Elvis says. I would give it to a boy.
Over my dead body, his wife says. And besides, this oven is closed for business.
At night while you’re trying to sleep you see the glow of her computer through the open door of the bedroom, hear her fingers on the keyboard.
Do you need anything?
I’m fine, thank you.
You come to the door a few times and watch her, wanting to be called in, but she always glares and asks you, What the fuck do you want?
Just checking.
Five month, six month, seventh month. You are in class teaching Intro to Fiction when you get a text from one of her girlfriends saying she has gone into labor, six weeks early. All sorts of terrible fears race around inside of you. You keep trying her cell phone but she doesn’t answer. You call Elvis but he doesn’t answer either, so you drive over to the hospital by yourself.
Are you the father? the woman at the desk asks.
I am, you say diffidently.
You are led around the corridors and finally given some scrubs and told to wash your hands and given instructions where you should stand and warned about the procedure but as soon as you walk into the birthing room the law student shrieks: I don’t want him in here. I don’t want him in here. He’s not the father.