It was relatively early in our relationship when I agreed to cut off contact with ex-girlfriends; eventually, in the wake of a few disturbing scenes, I destroyed all forms of pictures and correspondence. There had been only one fit since then, when my wife insisted, because my mom has pictures all over the house and two of them—group shots from weddings—happen to include two of the women in question, that we get a hotel room instead of staying with my parents. When I picture my wife during that fight, I see her stalking and muttering like a grumpy old woman trying to find the source of a rancid smell, but in the glances I snuck now she looked plain-old furious, with fluctuating shades of disappointment. Eventually I stood to clear the last of the dishes.
“Wait.”
I sat back down.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” my wife said, unwinding her limbs.
But instead of spelling it out she stared at some bookcases along the wall for what felt like a half-hour, but was probably five minutes. Then she surprised me. “This isn’t how I imagined telling you,” she said. “But I’m pregnant.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so…”
“I’m already trying to forget this night ever happened. So stop apologizing.”
My wife stayed in her chair as I applied an awkward hug and kissed her head and recited lame-sounding sentiments that included the words amazing, incredible, unbelievable, best, and happy. She stayed quiet. I don’t think she intended it as punishment, exactly—it was more like her best attempt at resolution, a way forward—but it was punishing.
Almost from the day we met I knew my wife desperately wanted children, and the sense of relief I always experienced when she reported that our latest attempts had failed made me feel like an impostor. While loading the dishwasher and wiping down the counters, I wondered if my uncertain enthusiasm now was due to my being an impostor or just very tired.
I found my wife waiting up for me and she answered my questions, about the due date and what came next and so forth, patiently. Improbably, considering I had just indicated to her, in the most leisurely and taunting of ways, that the child in her belly wouldn’t be there if not for a shady Polish roofer, I had the sense we would be friends again sooner rather than later.
Unable to sleep, I found myself replaying scenes from the evening, thinking about why I’d told the story that way. And about my wife, who’d had more on her mind, it turned out, than challenging me with a glare. The easy explanation was that I resented the constraints my wife’s jealousy put on me, the lamb-like accommodations I’d made, but I reconciled myself to those accommodations a long time ago. My wife’s friends, I knew, would say I’m just an asshole, a valid opinion but not an explanation. Alcohol and bed bugs and bad listeners were accomplices, for sure, but they hadn’t summoned the little voice that dared me.
Eventually I moved to the recliner in our living room, which was lit only by street lamps, and looked at the couch opposite, which made me think again about Audrey and her husband and that feverish moment in the attic. It occurred to me that Audrey was probably the only person I would ever tell the story of telling the story to—a nice twist.
Audrey’s gnomic attempt at an explanation, when I did tell her, was that sometimes a person opens his mouth and can’t stop talking. True enough, I suppose, insofar as it goes. I do have good news for our dinner guest, the husband. Audrey is resuscitating the screenplay, but this time the wife will feel so much guilt initially that she breaks down and tells her husband she had been planning on leaving, and tells the Lover she’s staying, and when the zero result comes back, she’s stuck.
Still not the happiest ending, but at least it makes sense.