Other Plans by Constance C. Greene

with Leslie. But she’s different. Les will work things out to her satisfaction, make a success of her life, whatever she chooses to do. And make some man, men, maybe, very happy. He knew he had to fight smugness where Leslie was concerned. John was the one who troubled him. Tonight, when he’d called off their talk, John’s face had been transfigured and joyful, so joyful it had cut to his heart and he’d thought, God, how he must hate me. How he must dread our encounters. I must let up on him. Then, immediately, he’d thought, no, I must not. He will be a man soon, and a man has a tough row to hoe. He was old-fashioned enough to think a man’s lot was tougher than a woman’s, even though he knew it made Ceil angry.
    â€œWomen are supposed to hold the family together,” Ceil had said once when they argued about the new roles of women. “The whole climate of the house is supposed to hang on the woman. That’s man’s way of getting off the hook, if you ask me. Men can do any damn thing they please, but as long as they bring home the bacon, that absolves them of further responsibility.”
    â€œDad’s not like that,” John had cut in, defending him.
    â€œNo, he’s not, and it’s a good thing,” Ceil went on, impatient at being interrupted. “With all the marvelous things they do in the medical profession these days—in vitro babies, heart implants, all that—it is my fervent wish they get it together enough to enable a man to become pregnant and have a child. Not,” she’d said, her voice dry and sardonic, “not that I envision men lining up to be the first one to try. Men know when they’ve got a good thing going. They see pregnant women, they know all about labor pains and water breaking and all that inelegant part of childbirth. They wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.” He’d laughed at her then to alleviate the tension, but he knew she felt very strongly on the subject. She’d been a little cool to him afterwards, for a while.
    â€œLet him know you love him, Henry,” she’d said earlier that evening. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Is there?”
    â€œHe knows I do,” he’d said.
    â€œNo, I don’t think he does. Show him. Put your arms around him. Kiss him, even.” At the look on his face, she laughed, a short, clipped sound, without humor.
    â€œThere’s nothing wrong with kissing your son. You used to. Just because your father doesn’t go in for kissing doesn’t mean it’s bad. European men kiss one another. No one thinks any less of them. Try it some time.”
    â€œHe’d think I’d gone crazy,” he’d answered, imagining John’s face if, out of the blue, he kissed him. But now, lying in the dark, he wasn’t so sure. My father wasn’t affectionate, he thought, and I didn’t suffer feelings of rejection. I don’t think I did. People didn’t dwell on things like rejection when I was a boy. My father was reserved. There’s too damn much dissection today, too much pulling apart and examining of relationships. Even the word “relationship” had turned into a buzzword. Nothing is simple anymore. If it ever was. Take those fool how-to books. How To Make Love. How To Make Your Kid A Winner. How To Get Pregnant. It was ludicrous. Only this morning he’d read a story about a woman who was suing her lover because he refused to impregnate her. She agreed to drop the suit if he agreed to artificial insemination, using his sperm. If that didn’t say something about the world today, he didn’t know what did. Diamonds used to be a girl’s best friend. Now it appeared sperm was.
    Next to him, Ceil murmured in her sleep.
    â€œNo,” she said, her voice gutteral, unfamiliar. “No, no.” He tugged at one corner of her pillow. She shifted position and breathed deeply once more.