The End of Men

by Karen Rinaldi

  “I thought Georgette was coming. I was looking forward to hearing her version of the reconciliation with John,” Isabel said to Maggie, trying to provoke some lively storytelling. “And I was dying to ask her if it’s true that sex is better with an ex.”

  “Oh, that . . .” Maggie smiled as she answered Isabel and rolled her eyes at the thought of what had actually transpired to get John and Georgette back together. “It was a bit hairy, but it all worked out in the end. I’ll tell you when we have time for a saga. Georgette was going to join us with Jules and Justine, but they all spent the summer in France and they aren’t coming back until next week.”

  “Is John excited about Evvy?” Isabel asked Maggie, referring to the tiny creature blessedly asleep in her chair.

  “‘Excited’ isn’t what I would call it, no,” Maggie said, laughing. “But he was a sport about the whole thing—and he didn’t have to be. It’s not like I gave him a say in the matter one way or another.”

  “We can be selfish bitches, can’t we?” Isabel said with more bravura than she intended. Beth, of course, didn’t miss a thing.

  “What’s this about selfish bitches?” Beth asked, eyebrow raised, as she ran breathless into the kitchen to collect her martini. “Man, the kids are wearing me out! I need a drink, stat!”

  Maggie iced four martini glasses and coated each with vermouth before pouring in the vodka and festively garnishing the cocktails with dark purple kalamata olives. She ceremoniously set the first in front of Isabel and handed the others over to Beth and to Anna, who held Henry on her lap.

  “Did you ever hear about the All-Girl Martini Club?” Maggie asked. “I knew the kick-ass woman who started it a while back. They met once a month, each time at a different bar, and the group gained such notoriety that men started trying to crash it. The women had to wait until an hour before they met to find out the locale to prevent leakage of their whereabouts.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember reading something about them,” Beth chimed in. “I guess it’s hard for men to imagine anything being any fun without them.”

  Isabel held up her glass and said, “To the All-Girl Martini Club. I hope they’re still at it!” With that, Isabel took her first sip, eyes closed in reverent delight. “Maggie, you are a magician!”

  MAGGIE’S IDEA FOR a weekly show on the real lives of women today, entitled The End of Men?, had been green-lighted after the cable network viewed the rough cut of the first roundtable. She had produced five additional segments, which were scheduled to run throughout July. Depending on the success of the initial six episodes, the network had a second season in mind. While Maggie was still consulting at RHM, she now focused most of her work on producing. She’d hired an associate who was able to handle the day-to-day work for the company, and Maggie remained in touch with Beth on a weekly basis.

  Beth’s mini empire was growing exponentially. As a result of her generous employee policies, healthy profit margins, and aggressive ad campaigns (not to mention the press generated by them), she had been profiled as one of the most influential businesswomen of the new millennium. In spite of the many heated voices against it, the company provided a desperately desired product to the millions of pregnant women around the country. And while the ads had stirred up controversy, as more women (and men, for that matter) learned about RHM, the overall consensus applauded their message. Pregnancy was sexy. Mothers were powerful. Beth couldn’t have been happier.

  After Paul’s death, Beth’s attorney had come to her to reveal that the angel investor had been her ex-husband. He must have known that Beth would never have accepted his participation, so he’d set himself up as a silent partner, leaving his shares to Jessie upon his death.

  Anna had dealt swiftly and effectively in the wake of the flood that destroyed the inventory at RHM’s textile supplier. She’d made holidays of the trips abroad, taking the family with her while also getting the company back on track. She’d also set up the launch of a toy division and was working to expand into other children’s and childcare products. Anna had cut her workweek to four days, with three days in the office and one working at home. Delegation, she’d finally accepted, was a working mother’s friend. Fridays Anna devoted entirely to her boys. The new routine addressed everything Anna wanted out of her life. More time with the family, and a rewarding work life that supported her family but didn’t suck up all of her energy in the process.

  Isabel’s work life had become more contentious and her suspicions about job security had been well-founded. The Turtle fired her from Pink just two months after she returned to work from maternity leave, and she was suing the company for discrimination. She’d been warned that initiating the lawsuit would make her untouchable as far as other jobs were concerned, but she saw the warning as an attempt to intimidate her from causing problems for Pink. With support and advice from Sam and friends, she’d decided to risk her future appeal as an employee to make a point. She wondered how many women kept their mouths shut, afraid of the repercussions of speaking out and, unlike her, unable to afford the alternative. Sam’s colleagues enthusiastically took on the case, determined to set a precedent and make some noise. Maggie ensured the lawsuit got plenty of press attention.

  When RHM was approached by a major media company about launching a magazine, Isabel enthusiastically accepted the position of publisher. The much-anticipated launch issue was scheduled for the following winter.

  ISABEL WAS ONLY two sips into the delicious martini when Sammy began to cry. Isabel took him upstairs to quieter quarters, balancing her martini in her left hand—she’d dreamed of this martini since she’d learned she was pregnant a year and a half ago and couldn’t bear to abandon it now.

  Isabel walked her infant around attempting to rock him to sleep. Her martini sat on the dresser top, sweat forming around the glass. A warm August night, the martini quickly lost its crisp coldness. Isabel, determined to enjoy the drink, held her baby to her breast with her right arm as she sat on the floor with her legs crossed in front of her. She deftly lifted the martini with her left hand and brought the glass to her lips. Her baby suckled contentedly, and Isabel considered for a moment the absurd symmetry between mother’s milk and a vodka martini. The thought made her laugh aloud, which only started Sammy crying again. That beautiful martini would have to wait, but not without one last sip before Isabel pulled herself up and paced the room, singing songs she’d made up for her little boy.

  Half an hour passed and Isabel still had no luck consoling her discontented child. She wanted to cry herself. All she wanted was to join the group of laughing women downstairs. Tom Jones played at full volume from below, and the loud group sing-along to “Delilah” sounded ridiculously awesome.

  “My, my, my . . . Delilah! Why, why, why . . . Delilah? . . .”

  Still, as much as Isabel wanted to join her friends, she basked in feeling essential to her infant, that this small sacrifice would be one barely perceptible glitch in a lifelong effort to shield her baby from the discomfort life would inevitably bring.

  But as Sammy continued crying relentlessly, she felt her contentment slipping away. Just as she was about to tear up, Maggie quietly knocked on the door. “Hi,” she whispered, “you guys okay?”

  “Poor little guy can’t seem to get comfortable. I’ve nursed him and rocked him and he still won’t fall asleep.”

  Maggie gently reached for him. “Take a break. Let me hold him.”

  Isabel hesitated before handing over her hoarse-from-wailing baby. Maggie cuddled him and spoke to him, and although it was not his own mother’s voice, Sammy was calmed by it. He let his body relax and fell fast asleep in all of five minutes.

  “How did you do that?” Isabel asked, dumbfounded, grateful, and hurt.

  “He just wore himself out and my timing was good. No magic here.” Maggie’s calm comforted Isabel as well. “Sometimes any change can stop the crying cycle. Lily would do the same thing with me. John would finally take over after hours of my struggling and she
would fall asleep in three minutes. Used to piss me off until I realized that it has nothing to do with technique and more to do with timing and a change in motion, sound, or voice. It really is that frustratingly simple.”

  Isabel welcomed the relief and wisdom of an experienced mother and reached for her room-temp martini. She was dying to drink the damn thing, even if it now tasted like warm metal.

  The sip of the martini encouraged Isabel to change the subject to adult issues. “So, you and Georgette seem to be pals. How’s that working out?”

  “You know, I’ve grown to really like her. And best of all, she and John seem to be really happy together,” Maggie said, smiling, before she grew serious. “I’ve realized I judged her without knowing anything about her. She had to make choices—partly because of the havoc I brought to her life. They may have been different choices from what I’d have made, but who am I to judge? I’ve made some pretty excellent messes myself. She’s a good mother and a better partner for John.

  “As for John, well, I’m sure her struggles with him were not dissimilar to my own, but she was more demanding, so it got John off his ass. It all seems to have worked out fairly.” Maggie sounded centered and assured. Isabel admired how she’d worked her way out of a messy situation to a place of resolution.

  “What about that article she wrote and the smear campaign—how’d you get over that?” Isabel had always wanted to ask this of Maggie but never wanted to fess up to having read it.

  Maggie smiled. “That was about her, not me. She didn’t know me then. And I have to admit, she did have some fair points . . .”

  The two women laughed quietly as they put Sammy down in his crib. Before they reached the bottom of the stairs, Maggie’s own infant daughter woke for a feeding.

  “You go ahead, I’ll try to make it back down after I nurse Evvy,” Maggie whispered. “There’s a pitcher of cold martinis in the freezer. Dump out that tepid one and pour yourself another.”

  Sleep-deprived and exhausted, Isabel couldn’t imagine having two children at that moment—Maggie seemed nothing short of an angel. With Sammy down for the night, Isabel gamely took Maggie’s advice and got herself another drink before joining the others dancing in the living room.

  ISABEL WAS THE first to wake on Sunday morning. Sammy rarely slept past six and usually awoke famished. She nursed and changed him before inhaling a bagel with lox, cream cheese, and a slice of tomato. Isabel couldn’t get used to how hungry she was now. Since Sammy didn’t take well to a bottle, Isabel nursed him all day long, which was an invitation to eat four thousand calories a day. She’d lost all the weight from pregnancy and then some—getting her waist back but also keeping her larger-by-far breasts. She thought nursing was terribly underrated.

  By seven thirty, she and Sammy were already out the door and heading down to the beach. Shortly thereafter, Anna arrived with the boys, pulling their big beach wagon full of front loaders and backhoes, dump trucks and shovels. By eight thirty, Sammy fell asleep on Isabel’s chest and Anna’s boys were nowhere near ready to go home.

  “We’re never going to make it back by nine o’clock to see the show,” Isabel whispered to her sister. She was lying on her back with the morning sun warming her face. She had no intention of moving. “Do you think Maggie will be upset?”

  “Maggie will understand,” Anna said. “Besides, she’s probably taping it. We can watch it later.”

  Back at the house, Jessie had awoken with a craving for waffles, so Beth had taken her and Lily into town, leaving a note for Maggie, who was passed out with Evvy. Beth turned the television on to the channel airing the show before leaving the house, hoping Maggie might wake to it.

  The twenty-minute wait for a table at the local diner meant they’d never make it back in time. At a few minutes to nine, Beth called Maggie’s cell to remind her to record the show. The call flipped to voice mail right away. Surely Maggie was still asleep, after waking every two hours over the course of the night with Evvy.

  For the rest of the morning, the blue light of the television flickered against the walls of the empty room, and at nine the discussion on motherhood, taped nine months before, filled the quiet house.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . . *

  About the Author

  * * *

  What Is a Man For?

  About the Book

  * * *

  The Story Behind The End of Men

  Read On

  * * *

  The Day I Was Stronger Than I Ever Thought Possible

  About the Author

  What Is a Man For?

  A version of this piece originally appeared in the New York Times’s Modern Love column on July 1, 2016. Used with permission.

  By the time I was thirty-three, I had already been married and divorced twice. There were no regrets. I loved each man I married and carry with me great affection for them still, even though the end of each union came with its own pain.

  My first marriage fell apart when my husband’s struggle with his sexual identity manifested itself in lies that eroded my trust and ultimately ended his life.

  It was the early days of the AIDS epidemic. When he discovered he was HIV positive, he lied to me about his secret life with anonymous men and blamed his infection on my previous boyfriend.

  He admitted the truth only after we received the good news that I had tested negative. I was tested every six months for the next two years and lived with the terror that I would seroconvert. We divorced, but he asked me to be the keeper of his tortured secret, and we remained close until the day he died, just before his thirty-third birthday.

  I married my second husband after only one date. I had been so wrong about my first, I wondered: What would happen if I married someone I didn’t know?

  I was testing the universe.

  He was handsome, strong, accomplished, and funny. But after a few years of dating backward (we married without knowing each other and spent the next three years becoming familiar and intimate), I realized I couldn’t live with him. He was possessive, and my need for freedom didn’t make for a secure marriage. He referred to me as “my wife” even when speaking to my own father.

  Besides the two marriages, I cohabitated with two other men and dated others. A serial monogamist, I found that at every turn I was constrained by issues of, well, maleness. There was a kind of inherent dominance that tipped the balance of power away from me, and I often felt I was playing a role.

  Money was often a factor in these early relationships, and eventually I came to believe in these unassailable truths:

  1.If the man made more money, then you were doing things his way.

  2.If he was broke, he resented your ability to support him.

  3.If there was economic parity, he made sure you knew who was really the boss.

  Once, when I was breaking up with a long-term boyfriend, my therapist asked me why I was anxious. “Is it because you are afraid you will be alone?” he asked.

  “No,” I told him. “It’s the opposite. I am afraid we’ll break up and there will be another right behind him.”

  My mother tried to figure it out as well. “Why have you had so many failed relationships?” she asked.

  “You see them as failed,” I told her. “I see them as successful, but finite.”

  It was the finite part that felt most right. At the time, she had been married to my father for sixty years, which some may call successful. While I love my parents dearly and respect their endurance, I didn’t want to repeat their dynamic.

  She had a lifelong fear that he would cheat on her. He monitored all of her spending. He had a social life outside of the house, but she didn’t do anything without him. Their marriage was based on an age-old patriarchy, and they didn’t see anything wrong with it. I did not wish to live my life similarly.

  Once my second husband moved out, I was resolute about never getting married again. I bought myself a coveted band of gold with sapphires from my favorite jeweler that I p
ut on my left ring finger and wear it to this day.

  I cherished living in my Greenwich Village apartment alone; lovers could come and go as I pleased. There were no schedules or egos to contend with. I was happy. Resolved only to having children, I needed a plan.

  I was already supporting myself. I figured I would manage as well with a child, so the idea of being provided for was moot. Besides, I preferred having my own money and, therefore, my own agency.

  The notion of protection was not only outdated and unnecessary, but it was an idea that had failed more than it had succeeded, both historically—men have never really been able to protect women from other men—and personally. As far as procreation, I needed a second gamete and I would be on my way to motherhood.

  I called a friend and asked, “What’s a man for, really? If not to provide, protect, or procreate, why do we need them? Face it, it’s the end of men.”

  She laughed and admitted it was a confusing time. After many long conversations with her, I decided to conceive with a willing gay friend and committed to being a single parent. The only questions he and I had to decide on were: To baste or not to baste? Or do it the old-fashioned way?

  Because life does not work according to plan, I then fell in love—most inconveniently—with a man who was married and had a family. We had grown close as confidants. As a friend, he told me about the problems in his marriage and difficulties in his career as a writer. I told him of my frustration with coupledom and my plans to parent alone.

  His marriage was initially a welcome barrier to the possibility of a romantic relationship. Once we became lovers, he told me he didn’t want me to have a child with my gay friend. Instead, he wanted me to have a child with him and share our lives together. An affair I had blithely entered into had just turned messy and emotionally wrought.