and the bigsmile came back, only this time without the tears. “He’s broke. He doesn’t have a job-job because he’s supposed to be working on his dissertation. But he’s not working on his dissertation because he’s so depressed about how shitty his life is. And any day now he’s going to really start resenting me because I make more money than he does.”
Malcolm was suddenly starting to look pretty good by comparison.
“So what should I do?” she asked. “Should I dump him?”
While I silently searched for a noncommittal answer, she continued.
“But I don’t want to dump him. I’m in love with him. And I don’t know if I can go back to being alone again. I just don’t think I can do it again.”
I thought about what she’d said tonight and what I’d said tonight and about what we’d talked about every single time we’d gotten together: my Pickle and her Pumpkin, and our desire for commitment—Amy wanting one from Will and me wanting one from Malcolm. And yet maybe we were the ones who had to commit to what we wanted: children. I looked over at the magazine, squished at the end of the table like a big dead bug, then took a deep breath.
“Maybe we should give ourselves a deadline.”
“What kind of deadline?”
“A deciding deadline. A set amount of time that we’ll use to come to a decision, one way or another, about what we’re going to do.”
“Do about what?”
“About having kids.”
“You mean, by ourselves.”
“Maybe. Presumably—in my case anyway, given what I’m working with. At least you and Will have sex. You’re
way
ahead of me in the anything-is-possible department.”
“By ourselves how, though?”
“I don’t know. The way other women who are in the same position as we are do it.”
“With turkey basters? Like lesbians?”
“No. Not with turkey basters. You know, like sperm banks. Or by accident. Or the direct approach, by asking someone to—”
“To donate?”
“I guess.”
“Who would you ask?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t even thought about it.” Which wasn’t a complete lie. The idea of asking Malcolm had crossed my mind once or twice, but in the past I’d always dismissed it out of hand. Until recently it had seemed too far-fetched, too disconnected from reality—the reality of our relationship and of Malcolm’s state of mind. But now that we’d had some kind of emotional breakthrough, I wondered if I myself shouldn’t exercise some positivity.
She sat back in her chair and considered my proposal.
“I could just stop using my diaphragm,” she said, “only I’m not sure I want to do it alone. I’m not sure I even could do it alone—emotionally or financially.”
“I’m not saying we’ll have to. We’re still only thirty-five. And I’m not sure I want to do it alone or could do it alone, either. I’m just saying we should start investigating it. So when the time comes—when our gum-ball machines are on their last eggs—we’ll have a backup plan.”
She looked at me and said nothing, but I could tell she wanted me to go on, since having a plan—any plan about anything at all—made us feel like we had control of our futures instead of waiting for them to pass us by.
“Let’s say we give it nine months,” I said matter-of-factly, as if I were talking about a diet, or a fitness plan, and not genetic reproduction. “Just like Arlene Schiffler’s column. Nine months from now”—I counted on my fingers andmouthed the names of the months from November on—“by August—by
Labor
Day, let’s say”—and I paused to smile goofily at my stupid but remarkably apt target-month pun—“we’ll each come to a decision. Either to do it and how to do it. Or to not do it.”
“Or,” Amy said, “to keep waiting.”
After Amy left, I packed my black nylon overnight bag and took a taxi up to Malcolm’s apartment so we could leave early the next morning for Sag Harbor. We went out to his house most weekends, and while
Malcolm was suddenly starting to look pretty good by comparison.
“So what should I do?” she asked. “Should I dump him?”
While I silently searched for a noncommittal answer, she continued.
“But I don’t want to dump him. I’m in love with him. And I don’t know if I can go back to being alone again. I just don’t think I can do it again.”
I thought about what she’d said tonight and what I’d said tonight and about what we’d talked about every single time we’d gotten together: my Pickle and her Pumpkin, and our desire for commitment—Amy wanting one from Will and me wanting one from Malcolm. And yet maybe we were the ones who had to commit to what we wanted: children. I looked over at the magazine, squished at the end of the table like a big dead bug, then took a deep breath.
“Maybe we should give ourselves a deadline.”
“What kind of deadline?”
“A deciding deadline. A set amount of time that we’ll use to come to a decision, one way or another, about what we’re going to do.”
“Do about what?”
“About having kids.”
“You mean, by ourselves.”
“Maybe. Presumably—in my case anyway, given what I’m working with. At least you and Will have sex. You’re
way
ahead of me in the anything-is-possible department.”
“By ourselves how, though?”
“I don’t know. The way other women who are in the same position as we are do it.”
“With turkey basters? Like lesbians?”
“No. Not with turkey basters. You know, like sperm banks. Or by accident. Or the direct approach, by asking someone to—”
“To donate?”
“I guess.”
“Who would you ask?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t even thought about it.” Which wasn’t a complete lie. The idea of asking Malcolm had crossed my mind once or twice, but in the past I’d always dismissed it out of hand. Until recently it had seemed too far-fetched, too disconnected from reality—the reality of our relationship and of Malcolm’s state of mind. But now that we’d had some kind of emotional breakthrough, I wondered if I myself shouldn’t exercise some positivity.
She sat back in her chair and considered my proposal.
“I could just stop using my diaphragm,” she said, “only I’m not sure I want to do it alone. I’m not sure I even could do it alone—emotionally or financially.”
“I’m not saying we’ll have to. We’re still only thirty-five. And I’m not sure I want to do it alone or could do it alone, either. I’m just saying we should start investigating it. So when the time comes—when our gum-ball machines are on their last eggs—we’ll have a backup plan.”
She looked at me and said nothing, but I could tell she wanted me to go on, since having a plan—any plan about anything at all—made us feel like we had control of our futures instead of waiting for them to pass us by.
“Let’s say we give it nine months,” I said matter-of-factly, as if I were talking about a diet, or a fitness plan, and not genetic reproduction. “Just like Arlene Schiffler’s column. Nine months from now”—I counted on my fingers andmouthed the names of the months from November on—“by August—by
Labor
Day, let’s say”—and I paused to smile goofily at my stupid but remarkably apt target-month pun—“we’ll each come to a decision. Either to do it and how to do it. Or to not do it.”
“Or,” Amy said, “to keep waiting.”
After Amy left, I packed my black nylon overnight bag and took a taxi up to Malcolm’s apartment so we could leave early the next morning for Sag Harbor. We went out to his house most weekends, and while
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