Plus One

by Christopher Noxon

  Dr. Hudson pulled off her gloves and adjusted a knob. “Dark is good—means the bleeding’s not ongoing. You’re not passing any tissue, and your cervix looks great. Really, gorgeous. But there’s still the possibility of something sub-chorionic. Let’s check the sonogram.”

  Figgy pulled up her shirt and Dr. Hudson flipped off the lights, then squirted her stomach with a strand of clear jelly and pressed down with a plastic knobbed wand. Alex kept his eyes locked on the monitor as the ghostly image wobbled with static. After a moment, the blur of white formed into something Alex was sure was a head, bobbing over the rounded curve of a spine. One second it was just pixelated fuzz and the next it was something entirely different: an unmistakable shape. A body. A little life. A baby.

  Time seemed to slow, then stop. “Well hello there,” he heard himself say.

  “Strong heartbeat,” the doctor said. “Looks like there may be a small clot here, but nothing to worry about.”

  Alex unballed his fists as the doctor clicked the lights back on and pulled off a glove. “My guess is this is just some attachment bleeding.”

  “Attachment bleeding?”

  “Common in early pregnancy,” she said. “Happens when the embryo attaches to the placenta. It’s no longer just a mass of dividing cells—it’s latching on, getting comfy. Which doesn’t guarantee this can’t still proceed to miscarriage, so I want you to take it easy for at least a few days. Pelvic rest—no sex, no douching. Take your time getting dressed—and I’ll see you for your regular exam in two weeks. Okay?”

  And with that, Dr. Hudson winked at Alex and headed out the door. Alex left his place in the corner and pushed a strand of Figgy’s hair away from her face. At his touch, her eyes went glassy and her brow screwed up into hard knot. “Oh my God,” she said, her voice froggy with emotion. “Oh my fucking God.”

  “Didn’t you hear? You’re fine. The baby’s fine!”

  Figgy sat upright and began sobbing. “It’s attached,” she cried. “I don’t know what I thought—maybe I thought it was coming out today? Then I wouldn’t have to go through all this. How am I going to have a baby, with two shows and the kids and you coming apart?”

  “Oh, honey,” Alex said, conviction clicking into place. “Of course it’s a good thing. You saw the ultrasound, right? I know it’s early, but I’m pretty sure I saw a little something between the legs. A little brother for Sam and Sylvie—you’ll finally get your Abe!”

  She looked up at him and blinked, a fat tear trailing down her cheek.

  He went on: “The vasectomy, I never should’ve done that without telling you. I’m sorry.”

  She sniffed. “Well, I guess I’m sorry for getting knocked up without really talking it over.”

  Alex shook his head and laughed. Her eyes were bright and moist behind her glasses, her cheeks slick with tears. “You really thought I was filing papers on you?”

  “I did, yeah.”

  “Stupid man. You’re stuck with me. Get that through your skull, will you?” A droplet trailed down her cheek.

  Here they were again, she collapsing just as he came together—their same old dance. Their insanities moved in tandem, magnetic poles held together by some invisible force. He flashed on a memory from two summers ago—they’d taken a family trip to the mountains near Arrowhead, renting a cabin with wood-paneled walls. On their first night he and Figgy had made love in the narrow bed, the firelight and the thin, pine-scented air giving their usual dance a hot, dreamy urgency. In one particularly intense moment, Alex grunting, Figgy moaning, and the headboard thumping against the wall, a voice called out from the adjoining room: “Daaad? Mooom? Are you okay?”

  Alex froze. How was Sam still awake? “We’re fine honey,” he called. “Go back to sleep.”

  He and Figgy giggled and held each other close, whispering worries about what sort of mutual torture their eight-year-old son had imagined. The next morning over oatmeal, Alex decided he better have a little father-son talk. Maybe this was a teachable moment. “So I guess you heard some noise from our room last night?”

  “Mm hmm,” he said, spooning a mound of oatmeal.

  “Do you want to talk about it at all?”

  Sam rolled his eyes.

  “Are you sure? It’s okay. I mean, do you know what was going on?”

  Sam swallowed and looked into his lap. “You were struggling,” he declared. “But not bad. It was the good struggle.”

  Alex had left the conversation there, happily reporting back to Figgy that Sam was fine. The boy had gotten it exactly right. Alex thought of those words now—struggling, but not bad: the good struggle—and looked at Figgy collecting herself on the exam stable, his chest swelling, her pregnancy in this moment becoming real and even inevitable. Of course they would have a third child. That had always been the plan. They’d have a big life, a big family—it would be impossible, and they’d make mistakes, but they’d struggle through.

  “It’s good, Fig—it’s really good,” he said. “All this puts everything in perspective. New life. Dwarfs everything. Even the money—it’s all just a side issue, right?”

  Figgy buttoned up her shirt and shot him a look. “What money?”

  “The two hundred thousand,” he said. “Two hundred thirty, really. The investment in Clive’s show. That’s what I was telling you in the closet.”

  Figgy jammed a foot into a sneaker and shook her head. “Two hundred thirty thousand—you gave Clive two hundred thirty thousand dollars? For his dog show?”

  “It wasn’t about the dogs—” he began, then thought better and stopped. “He wanted a lot more—that’s when I got out. He wanted another sixty.”

  Figgy pulled on her other shoe and stood up, her expression consumed with calculations. “Two hundred thirty thousand—after taxes,” she repeated. “This isn’t fucking play money, do you know that? Do you have any idea how many scripts that is? How much work I’ve got to do to make up for that?”

  Alex kept quiet. He had no idea.

  “And besides, do you realize that all the work I’m doing could stop tomorrow? That’s how my work is. It comes—and then one day, boom, it stops coming!”

  He winced and sat down on the exam table. “I get it. But this was an investment. You don’t know anyone who’s made a bad investment?”

  “Maybe—but not like this, not in secret.” Her voice was loud. “Tell me, you’ve been keeping this to yourself how long?”

  “Just a few weeks. Since you were away.”

  She got up and went for the door, then swiveled around and faced him, her nose a few inches from his face. “I’m going up to the nurse’s station to make my appointment, but I need to know right now—is there anything else you want to tell me, now that we’re sharing?”

  Alex held up his hands defensively. “No… no! Absolutely not,” he said. “That’s it. Let’s go home.”

  Figgy turned toward the door. “I fucking hope so.”

  • • •

  Alex knew he owed nothing to Clive and would be better off avoiding him entirely, but in the two weeks since he’d walked off the set of Top Dog, he’d come to accept that he couldn’t duck him forever. So when Clive called suggesting they meet at the Top Dog storefront for a progress report, he agreed, setting the time for 3:30 on a Tuesday, after pickup at the Pines. Showing up for their meeting with kids, Alex thought, would send a clear message: Sam and Sylvie were now his priority.

  “Look kids—a dolly!” Alex said, ushering them through the door and pointing toward a wheeled cart in the corner. “Doesn’t that look fun?”

  Clive stepped forward and flashed his palms up in a feeble attempt to ward them off. “Please, kids! Careful! That’s rental equipment! I’ve got a security deposit!”

  The kids charged past him, Sam grabbing the handle of the cart and shoving Sylvie across the empty floor. The ramps, the hurdles, the tunnels, the cones—everything from the agility course was gone. All that remained were the lights, the cables, and the carts loade
d with sound and camera equipment. Alex turned and wrinkled his nose at Clive. “So—the business, not happening? What happened to the Barsaghians?”

  “They lost at regionals,” Clive said. “Fiasco. Gina was right—the shar-pei actually peed on one of the judges. Gina went nuts. Which would’ve been great, but the cameras missed it all. So we lost our third act. Then the dad came in and said they’ve reconsidered the whole thing. Their relationship is too important, he says—they want to close the new place and get off the show.”

  “So the show’s done then? What’s all this stuff still doing here?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Clive said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “I want to extend an offer. I know everything didn’t work out quite how we’d planned in phase one, but really Alex, you were so great. You could have just capitalized and dematerialized, but you didn’t. You showed up, got your hands dirty. You showed real creativity, real enterprise.”

  Alex shook his head and frowned. “Thank you Mr. C,” he said, wanting very much not to feel flattered but feeling flattered nonetheless. Clive had worked him over, played on his vanity, fleeced him—but being back here, he was reminded that Clive was right about one thing: He’d actually done his job pretty well. And he’d liked doing it, working with him, doing stuff in the world. As he ducked his head into the darkened kitchen area, Sylvie toppled off the dolly and landed sideways against a coil of cable, her screech echoing across the room.

  “I’m okay!” she called, already on her feet and charging at Sam.

  Clive motioned at the kids. “Maybe you could’ve left the kids at home? I thought this was going to be more of a business meeting.”

  “There’s no real business here from what I can see,” Alex said. “Besides, as long as the kids are free to run around, we can talk all we like.”

  Clive took him by the elbow. “So, look, I know you have a nice thing with Al—talk to him, get him back on board. Then we reshoot the pilot, do it right. We just need to get going on round two. All that’s missing is capitalization.”

  And there it was again. The ask.

  Alex stepped back and motioned around the room. “Would you look around, Clive? You really want to drag that poor guy back into the mess we made? Let Al and Gina stay in their shop with their dogs. Let them be. Besides, I can’t just keep sneaking money—from my wife, remember? Your stepdaughter?”

  “It’s yours just as much as hers. You’re married, remember? I’m just saying, I know that girl, and I know she doesn’t need to be bothered with this now—she’s got enough on her plate.”

  “No. She doesn’t need to be bothered with it now because you already bothered her with it a year ago. And she turned you down—not because she had a lot on her plate but because she knows you better than I do. Look Mr. C., I loved working with you, I really did. And maybe you can salvage this thing—you’ve got enough footage for a pretty decent pilot. Cut it together right and you might really have something. Maybe it’ll be the next Cornpone, and we’ll all come visit you on the macadamia nut farm. But I can’t keep going.”

  Clive stiffened and puffed out his chest. “I get it. Not everyone has the stomach for show business. But hey: I’ve got other investors. I’ll get the Barsaghians back in here, get up and running again. I’ve still got a two-year lease on this place.”

  Just then Sylvie ran the dolly into a six-foot high lighting rig. It went toppling to the floor, the sound of crashing metal and glass exploding into the room. She froze in place, then turned to the two of them with an apologetic grimace.

  “For godsakes, Sylvie,” Clive exploded, his face now deep red. “I told you to be careful!”

  Alex started across the room to help, then stopped short and swiveled around to Clive. “Wait a minute—you know what? You don’t have a two-year lease on this place. I do. And I think you better get all this stuff out of here.”

  • • •

  Over the next two weeks, Alex and Figgy fell into an unfamiliar routine. She worked from home, and he eased off on the good-dad campaign, enlisting Rosa to help with shopping and carpool. Figgy propped her laptop on a pile of pillows on the sofa while Alex churned out meals in the kitchen and scribbled notes in a pocket-size Moleskine. They let the phone ring and shut off the WiFi, limiting their media exposure to a stack of Hayao Miyazaki DVDs they put on when the kids came home from school. They didn’t talk about the pregnancy or work or Top Dog—it was as if they were hunkered down against a storm, and they’d all resolved to stay safe inside until they got the all clear. Figgy was pleasant enough despite being almost completely silent. She’s processing, Alex thought. She’s still pissed about the money, wiped out from Baltimore, and scared about the baby. Give her time.

  The kids greeted the news of the pregnancy with wild enthusiasm, Sylvie especially. She burrowed her face in Figgy’s belly, closely examining the still-tiny bulge and announcing that she and her new baby sister would be best friends forever and ever. Sam begged to differ, telling her she should stop pawing at Mom and let their little brother alone.

  With each day, Figgy seemed to soften just a little. He’d bring her a blanket or a bowl of soup, and he’d see in her face an old, familiar fondness. It wasn’t the happily unhinged look she used to get when she’d pull him close to inhale his smell. It was more like the warmth he felt from her in those foggy, disoriented years when the kids were small. She used to say that that’s when she really fell in love with him, when she saw him with their babies. Now that another was on the way, he could sense the recommencement of an old rhythm between them, steady and equal, each beat animated by their combined love. It was true what she’d said that night when he’d decided to quit his job, for her anyway: Caretaking was hot.

  By the time the big Pines fundraiser rolled around, Alex was antsy, ready for reentry to the world. He rallied Figgy to get up, get dressed, and join him. He’d done all the menu prep with the caterer and had promised Helen Bamper he’d help coordinate—and anyway, he said, “it’ll be fun. There’s a fortune teller!” Figgy groaned but reluctantly agreed.

  As the two of them were heading upstairs to get ready, Alex looked over at Sam, who’d been strenuously ignoring Alex’s pleas to go outside and play all afternoon. He was now splayed out on the couch with a copy of Elle Decor. “Hey kiddo,” he called across the room. “Come upstairs to the bathroom? Just for a sec.”

  Alex hurried ahead and found what he was looking for under the bathroom sink. “Okay—let’s try this,” he said, pulling a bee-pollen moisturizer from an assortment of Sammy’s Salves. “Could you maybe, I don’t know—moisturize me?”

  Sam crossed his arms and gave Alex an appraising look. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not. I’m all yours. This is a big-deal party and my skin is—I don’t know—chapped? Dried up?”

  “It’s dire, Dad,” he said. “You’re like Lee Van Cleef.” Sam moved to the counter and picked up a bottle. “But we’re better off with a mint-cucumber mask—that ought to bring some life back.”

  Alex spent the next half hour submitting to Sam’s treatment—which was, he quickly discovered, entirely lovely. As Sam applied a warm washcloth to his face and the layer of hardened lotion cracked and began to melt away, he let out a long, contented groan. Figgy rummaged through her closet, trying on various dresses and modeling them for her boys. After Sam had signed off on a bright green cocktail dress for Figgy and a three-button suit for Alex, the two of them kissed the kids and headed for the door. On their way out, Figgy told Alex she wasn’t bringing a wallet or keys. “You got me, Big Daddy?”

  “I do.”

  On the freeway, Alex looked over at her applying a fresh coat of lipstick. “Look—no traffic,” he said. “Five clear lanes on a Friday—at rush hour. How lucky is that?”

  She snapped on the lipstick cap. “Would you be quiet? Say that out loud and you’ll jinx it.”

  He rolled his eyes and poked his head out the car window, looking
toward the dusky sky. “You really think the traffic gods are listening right now? You know we don’t actually control the traffic with our words, right?”

  “Just keep quiet, will you?” She tugged at her bra strap and asked, “Why are we going to this thing again?”

  “It’s important. The school is raising money for a sister school in Pico Union—they’re getting iPads for all the fifth graders. It’s the least we can do.”

  “Can’t we just write a check?”

  “We could, sure—but I feel like we need to show up.” A moment passed, the hum of tires on pavement rushing through his open window. Was this how people in their position made peace with themselves, by overpaying for fancy parties where they bid on things they didn’t need and socialized with people they never saw otherwise? He pushed his head back into his leather seat and tugged at his necktie. “Doesn’t it bother you?” he said slowly. “How lucky we are? We have it so good—it’s incredibly unfair.”

  “Hey—I earned what I have. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked? How much shit I’ve had to shovel?”

  “I didn’t mean that—absolutely you deserve it,” he said. “I’m just not sure I do.”

  “Sure you do,” Figgy said, smiling. “You were clever enough to marry me, weren’t you?”

  Alex leaned forward in his seat and slapped the steering wheel. “It’s just—I’ve been a bit of a Federline, you know? I’m not blaming you, but it’s just hard, being married to someone like you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘someone like you’? Like me, how?”

  “You know—queen bee. Bacon bringer. Power Jewess. All that. I guess I just have this deep down thing that wants to be at the top of a mountain with you kneeling next to me in a bikini. I’m not sure I can ever just look after you and the kids and have that be it for me—I can’t not do anything else.”

  “Okay—so what? What else can’t you not do?”

  Alex took a long breath. “Hear me out,” he said. “The storefront where we did the dog show—it’s three thousand square feet, great location, twenty-space lot in back. The other day, when I was there with Clive—the kids were running around and I just kind of saw it. Tables around the perimeter, all the adults eating and talking, all the kids climbing around one of those cool sculptural play structures in a sunken play area in the middle, visible from everywhere. Good food, too—no chicken strips. I’ve got a whole menu—Hawaiian barbecue, yakitori, plus some fun stuff like frozen yogurt balls, glow-in-the-dark lollipops! A family restaurant—but for real foodies. Call it Familia? Or maybe Brat Haus? Or if we want to get really punny, Time Haute?”