Part 4 (1/2)
In fact, there are five weeks. But Jennifer's leave starts soon and she's getting nervous. ”I'll have something to show you next Monday,” I say. ”First thing in the morning.”
She groans, and just as I am about to say, OK, Friday, she comes over to my desk, leans against it, takes my hand, and puts it on her stomach. ”It's kicking,” she says.
This is awkward, looking up at her huge round belly, so I stand up, leaving my hand where she's placed it.
”Wait,” she whispers.
At first there is nothing, then I feel her take a quick, deep breath. ”See?” she says.
”That was it?” I was expecting a real kick, aimed outward, fierce, sudden.
”That was it.”
It was like a wave rolling across her stomach. It had a wonderful, mysterious feel, as if it were a tiny manifestation of some grand, universal movement. Her face is flushed, and I realize that this is due only partly to exertion. The rest is pride.
I smile at her. ”I'll have the outline for you on Friday,” I say.
I HAVE A blind date tonight. My brother called me from Charlottesville, the location of his current school, and told me that a friend of his from the microbiology lab was coming to New York for a conference. He said the guy, whose name was Hank, didn't know a soul here, that it would be great if I could take him out, show him the town. That's how my brother talks: ”Show him the town.” It's as if he only arrived in this country a few years ago, and his studies have prevented him from learning the language.
Dating, I often think, is like applying for a job. You go all out in the interview, proving your intelligence, your reliability, your suitability for this particular position, and then when-if-you are offered the job, you realize that the actual work would be tedious beyond measure.
Promptly at eight, the buzzer rings. The intercom is broken, but I go ahead and hit the b.u.t.ton that releases the door downstairs. Up here on the fifth floor, I figure no one will bother with the climb unless his purpose is legitimate.
I wait a minute or two, then start listening for his footsteps. Nothing. I unlock my locks, poke my head out the door, and listen. No one is on the stairs; I can tell. The buzzer rings again, and again I push the b.u.t.ton for the downstairs door. I stick my head out my open door and listen. Nothing.
After a few minutes the buzzer rings again, and now I realize that what I've always feared has happened. The wiring that enables me to open the downstairs door from inside my apartment has worn out, or whatever happens to wiring.
I fly down the stairs, composing apologies in my head. When I reach the door, there is Hank; it can only be Hank. He has a distinctly microbiology look about him: tall and thin, with overly large hands and a quizzical expression on his face.
”I'm sorry,” I say, out of breath. ”The thing must be broken, you know, the door-opening thing. What happened, there was no little sound, or did the door just not open when you pushed it?”
”Virginia?” he says.
I am standing here, holding the door open with my foot, panting. Who does he think I am?
”Yes,” I say. ”I'm Virginia, and you're Hank, right?”
He offers me a large hand, which I shake. ”Nice to meet you,” he says.
”You, too,” I say. ”Sorry about the door.”
”Huh?”
”The door,” I say. ”When you buzzed, and the door didn't work. Was there a little sound at all? Or did it just not open when you pushed it?”
He looks confused for a moment. Then he says, ”I heard a noise, but I wasn't sure what it was, so I just waited for you.”
Oh.
”Did I do something wrong?” he says.
”No,” I say, ”not at all.” I take a step backward. ”Come on in.”
He steps through the doorway, smiling shyly, and of course he didn't do anything wrong, anything at all. He's probably a perfectly nice guy. But I already know how this is going to end up: a series of small advances and retreats-his advances, my retreats-over c.o.c.ktails, over dinner, over one last drink in a small, dark bar, until we are back here, at this very spot, negotiating an awkward good-night kiss. Sometimes I don't even feel like going through with the interview.
SAM AND I are having lunch. The place is full of people, most of them eating in groups of two or three. It is very noisy. The tables are quite close together, and with the extra room Sam needs the waitresses can barely squeeze between her chair and the chair of the person behind her. It makes me very uneasy, watching the waitresses, huge trays of food over their heads, edging behind Sam.
”Are you ladies ready?”
Our waitress is here, order pad out, already impatient.
”Let's see,” Sam says. ”I'll have a bowl of the cream of celery soup, and a house salad, and the breast of chicken with the milanese sauce, and an order of hot French bread. And a gla.s.s of milk.”
The waitress scribbles on her pad. ”Anything else?” she says, not quite sarcastically.
”That's it,” says Sam.
She turns to me.
”I'll have the same,” I say. ”Except the milk.”
Since the pregnancies, I have been giving myself small indulgences: extra time with the newspaper in the morning, full square meals at lunch, bed a little earlier than usual. Sam says that not even Josh has had such a sympathetic reaction.
When the waitress has left, I lean toward Sam. ”Have you decided about breastfeeding yet?” I ask. She wants to, but she's worried about what will happen when she comes back to work. They have those pumps now, so you can extract your milk and leave it in a bottle with the baby-sitter, but Sam thinks that would defeat at least half the purpose of breastfeeding, which is having the baby actually feed from your breast.
She shakes her head. ”I'm still not sure,” she says.
”You will,” I say.
She nods and looks away, and a kind of distant smile comes over her face for a moment. Then she turns back to me. ”I'm not ready to throw away my huge 32-B bras yet,” she says. ”I'd better breastfeed for as long as I can.”
THE AD IS coming along. I've decided on a setting: a park. The guy is taking his adorable little girl and his golden retriever for a walk. He's throwing a stick for the dog, whose name is Sunny. The dog's name may not actually figure in the ad, but it helps me to visualize the thing. The little girl's name is Lizzie. She's about two, with big blue eyes and soft blond curls. She's wearing a dotted Swiss dress, yellow with white dots, and little white sandals.
She is sitting on her daddy's shoulders, and suddenly she puts her hands over his eyes. Moments later the dog comes back with the stick, and the daddy can't see to take it from her mouth and throw it again. The dog is jumping around, the stick in her mouth, nuzzling the guy's leg, being cute and frisky.
Enter the semiglamorous woman with the terrier. Sunny drops the stick and begins sniffing at the terrier. The woman is immediately drawn to Lizzie and starts talking to her. They have a cute few seconds of conversation, which the daddy enters with a mixture of friendliness and irony, because his eyes are still covered.
Finally Lizzie takes her hands away and the grown-ups start in on the dogs.
That's as far as I've gotten; now I just need to figure out how to bring in the product. The woman: ”She's a happy-looking dog.” Lizzie: ”That's 'cause her name is Sunny.” The daddy (laughing): ”It's because she knows she's going home to eat soon.” The woman: ”Mealtimes aren't any fun at our house, are they, Fido?” (I haven't thought of the terrier's name yet.) The daddy: ”You must not be using Kanine Krunch.” Etc., etc.
Well, it's a start.
BABES IN ARMS just got in a new line of stuffed animals. They're just the right size: smaller, as we used to say when playing Twenty Questions, than a breadbox, but larger than a shoe. There's a wonderful, soft grey rhino; a plush brown bear with heartbreaking b.u.t.ton eyes; an adorable, jaunty little penguin.
”They're sure to be very popular,” says the saleswoman, chattily, arranging the animals on a shelf. She's gotten to know me a little.
I pick up a rhino; who could resist? But the bear is great, too. And I'm not even ready to buy.
”We're putting them on special this week,” the saleswoman says. ”Half off. It's a special promotion to introduce them. They're from Sweden.”