Oh, and he’s about to be a father. There’s that.
***
A guy in his Zionism class has talked about his basement apartment and how much room he has, so Jack sends him a text and tells him he needs a place to crash for a couple days and the guy, Ringer—Jack doesn’t know his first name, or maybe Ringer is his first name—says, “Cool, come on over.” After he’s packed up, he sees Carter in the living room, drinking orange juice out of the carton. “They like guys with pretty mouths in prison,” Carter says. He laughs and takes another chug of orange juice.
“Check the date on that. It expired at least three weeks ago,” Jack says to him.
Carter sprays juice all over himself, the sofa, the carpet. By the time he sees Jack has made up the expiration date story, Jack’ll be long gone.
***
Ringer lives in Mar Vista, south of Westwood. He has dark hair, cut close to his scalp. And one time, Jack thought he was wearing silver nail polish. But that might have been the light. The house is on a quiet street, in the middle of a row of bungalows with well-tended lawns. Quiet, except for the occasional roar of a jet taking off from LAX.
He walks up the driveway toward a pink house. Ringer’s directions say to go around to the back. Three cement stairs lead to a faded blue door. Jack knocks and Ringer appears, holding a beer in one hand. “Welcome,” he says.
Ringer gives Jack a tour. It’s a big space but dark, like being in a cave. “I don’t see any windows,” Jack says.
“Yeah,” Ringer nods. “That’s sort of a drag. But you get used to it after a while.”
Where does the ventilation come from? Jack wonders. Is that why the place smells like urine and dirty socks?
“Your room,” Ringer says, pointing out a dark bedroom. When he clicks on the overhead light, a dim bulb sputters and glows an orangish yellow. “A bug light,” Ringer explains. “Another thing about living in a basement. Sometimes you get critters.”
Critters?
Jack looks around his room. The single bed feels comfortable, but there’s an overwhelming sense of wet all around—the sheets feel moist, the knobs on the dresser, the carpet. I’m living in a science experiment on condensation, Jack thinks.
That night he dreams about swamps and beautiful women in one-piece bathing suits being dragged into the water by college students wearing SAE T-shirts.
When he wakes up, Ringer is already gone, but he’s left a note on the kitchen counter. “Eat what you want, just replace stuff, and we’ll square up at the end of the week.” Jack sees a bag of bagels on the counter and takes one out of the package. It feels wet. Naturally.
He wonders about Ringer. There is something vaguely subterranean about him, like he’s some kind of creature of the earth. And a basement apartment? Well, where else would a creature of the earth choose to live?
Ringer has left him a key on a key ring. When Jack picks it up, it slips out of his hand and he hears a plop when it hits the carpet. A plop? Of course. Because it’s wet. Because he’s living in a cave with a monster.
When he gets outside, he gulps air. It might be Mar Vista air tainted by jet fuel, but he’s out of the basement.
***
Normandie calls around lunchtime when he’s sitting out on the UCLA quad. There’s something about needing to inhale as much fresh air as possible before going back into the Bat Cave. She’s been calling for a couple days, but Jack is avoiding her. He’s not sure how to explain his expulsion from the SAE house. But this time he picks up.
“Hey,” he says, wondering if living in the Bat Cave is depleting his supply of vitamin D and if he should take supplements or not.
“Where have you been? I was going to call the campus police.” Normandie sounds more annoyed than concerned. “I called your fraternity and they said you moved out. I knew it must be serious if you’d miss our sex date.”
With all the SAE drama, he’d forgotten about the sex date. “Too many people around there,” he says. “I need to concentrate. To study.”
“Did they kick you out? They can’t do that. You should sue them. Want me to look into it?”
“You’re not in law school yet. There’s nothing to sue them for.”
“I can’t believe I have to plan the sex date again—the restaurant, my period schedule. I should just break up with you.”
“Fine,” he says. One less potential crisis in his life. He hears Normandie gasp.
“Oh my God, you’re cheating on me,” she says.
“What are you talking about?”
Normandie’s words come quickly. “That’s why you didn’t call me back. You moved in with your girlfriend.”
“I didn’t move in with a girlfriend. I’m staying with a guy.”
Normandie snorts. “How attractive is she?”
“He isn’t attractive at all. He’s sort of like a character out of Twilight.”
“You’re living with a vampire?”
He’s ashamed to admit it, but the thought crossed his mind. Why is Ringer so comfortable living in a dark, wet, underground bunker?
“Where’s your new place?” Normandie asks.
That’s the last thing he wants, for Normandie to see the Bat Cave. “On the west side,” Jack says, hoping that’s vague enough and yet offers enough information for Normandie to lose interest. He’s wrong.
“Where on the west side? I could come by tonight.”
“I don’t want to start bringing people over. Not yet. We’ll have a party soon and you can see the place.”
See the place. Good luck, bring a flashlight. When Jack goes to sleep at night, he has a feeling he’s not alone. That once the lights go out, hundreds of cave creatures appear and watch him sleep. He hears crackling and faint shuffling noises. They are watching him, getting ready to make their move.
“Are you there, Jack?” Normandie says. “I know you’re lying.”
“Why don’t we have dinner one night? Okay?”
Silence from Normandie. “Okay. Sorry if I sounded bitchy. I was worried about you. You’ll pick up when I call again?”
“Unless I’m in class.” He looks up and sees Megan walking across the quad. She waves at him.
“Good. I miss you tons. Miss me?”
“Tons,” Jack says as Megan puts down her backpack and does a cartwheel. It’s not the best cartwheel in the world, but several students applaud and Megan takes a bow.
“Do I hear people clapping?” Normandie says.
“My phone. AT&T sucks. Got to go.” He clicks off.
Megan comes up and kisses him on the end of his nose. “Was my cartwheel excellent or what?”
“Excellent,” Jack says. Megan sits beside him and brushes grass off her jeans.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “You look sort of…pale.”
***
Jack and Megan walk to class together and he tells her about his new place, how it’s funky and dark and creepy, and naturally she wants to see it. “Maybe we can shoot a movie there, like Paranormal Activity? We could make a zillion dollars.”
“It’s probably too dark to photograph,” Jack says.
He’s told her how he left the fraternity, describing his departure as a mix-up over financial bullshit. Megan thinks it’s fine he’s gone. “Fraternities soften your edges; they take off the most interesting bits, you know?”
Jack doesn’t disagree. He’s never really thought of himself as a nonconformist, but maybe that’s what he is after all. He should tell his parents. There’s a good chance they’ll be impressed. Well…possibly impressed.
He owes them a call. They’re excited about his upcoming graduation, although his mother has managed to get in a dig about “the five-year plan.”
He owes his sister a call too. She texts him about “how the project is coming along,” meaning the baby. They debate about tell
ing Jack’s parents. The debate is more on Subhra’s side—Jack absolutely refuses to tell them. It would just be another example of his incredible ability of disappointing his parents.
“What were you thinking, donating sperm?” his mother would say. “Who would do something like that? Homeless people. People who use the money to buy drugs and prostitutes. People sell their sperm and their blood, what will you sell next?
“And why would prospective parents choose your sperm? They want smart boys, the ones who graduate in three years, who have advanced degrees. Rhodes scholars, MENSA members. Ask them at the sperm bank, how many people have requested your sperm, Jack. I bet it’s none.”
He should call Laurie to check in. They’ve talked a few times; she told him everything was fine, that Alan appreciated the answers to his questions. Jack knows she thought Alan’s questions were stupid. “You don’t have to call back,” she said. But he wants to make sure she’s taking care of herself.
***
Megan is rehearsing a play by Conor McPherson, an Irish playwright, and the director wants the actors to practice Irish accents, but all Megan has done so far is add “boyo” to the end of every sentence.
“That’s kind of annoying,” Jack tells her.
“Aye, it would be, listening to meself talking that way, boyo.”
She finds an online site that teaches Irish accents. “It’s about softening your vowels,” she explains to Jack, “Os and As, hardening your consonants, and inflection. You have to be lyrical.”
“What’s so lyrical about saying ‘boyo’ at the end of every sentence?” Jack wants to know, but she ignores him.
“They use these really cool words we don’t, like bollocks. They say cheers all the time, kind of like aloha. Means hello or good-bye or whatever the hell you want it to mean.”
“How do they say shut up?”
“Be careful, boyo, or I’ll kick you in the bollocks. Bastard, only you use it like an adjective, ‘Where’s my bastard backpack?’”
“Do you want to see the Bat Cave or not?”
But Megan is on a roll. “Eejit. For idiot. You probably already know what wanker is because you’re acting like one right now. Chips and crisps and bangers—” And Jack thinks she might talk about this forever, so he takes her by the hand and leads her to his car.
***
“This can’t be good,” Megan says as they pull up to the pink house in Mar Vista. Fire trucks and EMT vehicles line both sides of the street. Blue and white lights flash and Jack can see people silhouetted against smoke. Smoke? The Bat Cave is on fire? That seems impossible.
He parks at the end of the street and walks toward the Bat Cave, Megan right behind him. The firemen are rolling up their hoses. Shouldn’t there be more rushing around? Don’t they need to put out the fire?
Ringer is watching the firemen and there’s a large dog at his side, some kind of shepherd lab mutt. “Hey,” he says to Jack. “No worries, our stuff is fine.”
“What happened?”
“A small electrical fire in the kitchen upstairs. The only damage was to the stove. And some water damage from the hoses. They say our place might be a little damp for a few weeks. This is Groucho.”
Jack frowns. Who is Groucho? The large dog barks and Ringer laughs.
“He’s really smart. I thought it would be fun to have a dog.”
Megan is looking from the house to the firemen then back at Ringer and the dog. “Cheers,” she says. “Seems as if someone is living with an eejit, boyo.”
Ringer grins at Jack. “You didn’t tell me your girlfriend was Irish.”
Laurie
Childbirth Then and Now. In Europe in the late 1880s, superstition played a role in assisting difficult labor. The ringing of church bells was thought to hasten labor.
Laurie hates pregnancy clothes. “They’re better than the crap our mothers had,” Grace says. “My mother wore long Laura Ashley tiny floral print dresses. And acid-washed overalls.” Grace shudders. Laurie and Grace are spending Sunday morning at the Studio City farmer’s market. It’s crowded and hot today, and the air smells like popcorn.
“But everything now squishes you in,” Laurie says. “And it’s designed for eating-impaired celebrities who love going out wearing skin-tight outfits—look at me, admire my pregnant belly. Yes, my navel would be an outie now, thanks for noticing.”
Grace laughs. She pushes Emilie’s stroller, filled with fresh tomatoes and lettuce and flowers. Emilie walks beside Grace and occasionally tugs at her hand.
“Stroller,” Emilie says.
“Stroller is for Mommy’s things,” Grace tells her.
“I can pick you up.” Laurie reaches for Emilie.
“No, you’re too pregnant. Come on, Em.” Emilie jumps into her mother’s arms and Grace slides Emilie to her hip.
A perfect fit, Laurie thinks, imagines herself carrying Buddy like that, balancing his weight against hers.
“So when did you get boobs?” Grace says.
“It’s crazy—after life as an A cup, now I’m buying sexy bras, bras with underwire. They won’t shrink back after breast-feeding, will they?”
Grace shrugs. “Who knows? Embrace your bodacious boobage while you can.”
Food Facts. If you’re feeling hungry for something sweet and cold, opt for a 100 percent juice bar, sherbet, sorbet, or frozen yogurt instead of ice cream. If you’re feeling hungry for something sweet and warm, consider low-fat, unprocessed versions of candied yams.
Laurie is regretting coming home from the farmers’ market and eating a slice of chocolate cake, a fistful of honey roasted peanuts, and a Milky Way bar.
Seriously. Candied yams?
***
“We need to sign up for a Lamaze class. It’s almost time. Third trimester, ticktock,” Laurie tells Alan. He is reading the L.A. Times sports section at breakfast.
“My work schedule’s a little crazy,” he says. “They’ve fast-tracked the Choc-O label. We need to have the design presentation six weeks earlier than we planned. The company is Belgian and they get anxious. Plus we’re working with the beverage team, and you know what they’re like. It’s a minefield.”
Laurie has a vague memory of Choc-O—it’s some kind of chocolate-flavored water. Sounds terrible, but supposedly it’s “huge” in Europe. “Just give me an idea,” she says. “Grace knows somebody in Encino who’s supposed to be fabulous. Once a week for six weeks.”
“Do we sit in a circle and talk about our feelings?”
“After we make s’mores, sing ‘Kumbaya,’ and pass around a magical acorn and tell our deepest, darkest secrets.”
Alan grins. “I’ll check with Wendy about my schedule.” He looks down at the paper. “And I might have to go out of town.”
“I hope it’s soon instead of closer to when the baby’s coming.”
“Yeah, it would be soon. I don’t know where yet. Chicago. Or Albuquerque.”
“I’ll call the Lamaze lady and tell her we’ll figure it out.”
“Okay,” Alan says.
Childbirth Then and Now. In colonial America, the pain of labor was thought to be relieved by leaving an ax by the bed with the blade up to “cut the pain,” opening the windows, or setting the horses free from the stable.
Alan is scared to death, she tells herself. A lot of men act this way when their wives are pregnant. Every baby book says the same thing: “Don’t forget, they’re pregnant too.” Grace told Laurie when she was pregnant she caught her husband, Hal, crying one night watching The Sound of Music on TV. “All those children,” he sobbed.
Alan stays up late and comes to bed after Laurie’s asleep. Some mornings he’s up and gone before she’s out of bed. But he’ll have made her breakfast and left a note beside her plate (“Hope the two of you slept well last night. XOXO”).
The Lamaze class will
help. He can meet some other fathers; they can sit together and commiserate. “Wow, my wife’s never been so moody before,” they’ll say to each other. “What the hell is life going to be like when the baby comes? Suppose I never get to watch football again?”
Should she tell Jack about Lamaze? No, she wants to take it easy with him. The last time they talked he sounded overwhelmed, complained about finishing his classes in order to graduate, and he’s had some trouble with his living situation too—a zoning violation at his fraternity so a bunch of guys had to move out and he’s been staying with friends. “I’m like a hobo,” he told Laurie.
So she won’t mention Lamaze. But she will insist to Alan it’s time he meets Jack. Seeing Jack face to face will force Alan to accept the inevitable. He can only spend so much time working on the Choc-O project and hiding out in his office playing CityVille.
***
The Lamaze teacher is Kathy and she sounds sweet and practical, not at all Kumbaya crunchy. “My husband’s busy at work,” Laurie explains and Kathy tells her not to worry, suggests a Lamaze website for Laurie to check out and is pleased when Laurie says she’s been doing yoga.
Laurie makes an appointment to meet Kathy at her studio to discuss expectations and goals. “Labor doesn’t scare me,” Laurie says. “But learning more about relaxation and breathing would be a good thing. I’m a little stressed these days.”
***
She and Alan haven’t had sex in weeks. She was the one who didn’t want to have sex in the first trimester when she constantly felt like throwing up. But now in the third trimester, she’s back and good to go. Only Alan is the one who doesn’t seem engaged. “It’ll hurt the baby,” he says.
“Not true,” Laurie tells him. “Dr. Liu says we can have sex as much as we want. Every hour on the hour, those were his exact words.”
“His exact words?”
“Pretty close. Close enough.”
Alan smiles. “Maybe tonight.”
“It’s a date.” She kisses him.
But when Laurie goes to bed, Alan is still working on his computer. “I’ll be in there in a minute, honey,” he calls to her. She waits for him, but when he doesn’t appear, she falls asleep.
Expecting: A Novel Page 15