A Wonderful Stroke of Luck

by Ann Beattie

  LouLou and Dale planned to arrive in time for dinner, but if they were late, he’d been told not to wait for them. It was touching that they assumed that in the absence of company, he’d still be preparing dinner. Hadn’t they heard of microwave burritos and takeout chicken? But yes, he’d probably be drinking wine, anyway. A linen napkin to wipe your fingers also helped. He’d cooked dinner recently for Steve and Ginny (linguine with artichoke sauce, and a side of broccoli rabe; no dessert, as per Gin’s instructions), who probably also thought he prepared solo meals. That is, if married couples had any fantasies about single men at all. Gin hadn’t disliked Arly as much as Steve had, or she’d tried to act as though she didn’t. “So beautiful!” was always what Gin exclaimed. Weren’t women not supposed to assess other women by their looks? But she’d never volunteered anything more substantive.

  Traffic was bad on Fridays, and a long stretch of highway was under construction. LouLou had been certain she couldn’t duck out of her job early. She’d also said that they were both tired, so they’d prefer not to go out: no to the antique show at the church; no interest, really, even in watching an old movie. As irony would have it, her girlfriend Dale was a writer, as LouLou had announced herself to be, at Bailey—LouLou the novelist, whose writing existed so that she could renounce writing. Dale’s memoir was about growing up as a zookeeper’s daughter (the Florida zoo was gone, though a photograph of its elephant house, taken from a postcard, appeared on the cover). When the iron gates closed and the assistants went home, Dale’s mother—a vet’s assistant who’d become the zookeeper when the director ran off with José, from the Reptile House—dressed in home-sewn animal costumes. She sat at the kitchen table and verbalized the animals’ thoughts into a Dictaphone, using a variety of voices. She believed she could read their minds.

  For years Dale did her homework supervised by a costumed water buffalo or Bengal tiger seated across from her, as her mother expressed the animal’s innermost feelings of shame, frustration, and anger, pounding her paws on the table, channeling the sad accounts of their former lives, all of them trapped in the zoo because of previous transgressions: the leopard who’d once been a stylish, politically incorrect Fifth Avenue rich man’s wife, attired in her trademark fashionable hats; a group of greedy landlords, returned as vipers. (Unclear who the bear had formerly been—the bear that finally killed her.)

  He put on old Dylan: “You’re a Big Girl Now.”

  How really unexpected that when LouLou got over her fascination with older men, she’d proceeded directly to women. How lucky, though, that she had been the one who’d gotten back in touch.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car bumping up his driveway. If it was Dale and LouLou, it was hours earlier than they’d said. He dropped the linen napkins (a gift from Elin that he’d come to like) and cutlery on the table and went to greet them, happy they’d arrived. Behind their car, a deer jumped across the path and disappeared into the woods.

  Dale was the first one out of the rented Toyota. Dale’s hair was cut very short, only the sideburns long enough to curl into tendrils. She had thick hair, chestnut brown, but no one had hair as lovely as LouLou’s.

  He walked around to the driver’s side and gave her a one-armed hug and asked if the construction on the Taconic had slowed them down. He didn’t quite hear her answer, distracted by the sight of LouLou, emerging from the other side with a box of blooming orchids. He ran around to help her. “They gave them to Mavis. She’s retiring. She traded them to me for my Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” LouLou said, thrusting the box at him. “What’s a Victorian manse without orchids?”

  “Thank you, but are you under the impression this is a Victorian?”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No—1925.”

  “Oh. Well, they’ll look good. Last year it was chic to group them together, but this year everybody’s lining them up with exact spacing.”

  “Her most profound thoughts come from Elle Decor,” Dale said.

  “I thought you said you couldn’t get off early,” he said to LouLou.

  “They ended up having the going-away party yesterday, so today I worked through lunch. I’m a Hertz Gold member.”

  “You get away as fast as a bank robber,” Dale said.

  “Thank you for such an unexpected gift,” he said.

  LouLou wore jeans, with a brightly colored shirt and sweater. Dale wore black with black. The thin yellow stitching around her low boots was a radical statement. Even her tattoo—at least, the only one visible—was chiaroscuro.

  LouLou stood just inside the door, debating where to put the orchids. He remembered Elin, standing in the same place, holding the oversize box from the bakery that contained his birthday cheesecake. Delicious stuff, though it had become a joke, like merlot. The same bottle that sat on his counter. Dale saw the wine, raced forward as if she were seeing her favorite movie star, poured a few inches, held out a glass to LouLou, with a flourish. “Wine, hon?”

  “I did the wrong thing, bringing orchids,” LouLou said, ignoring the glass of wine poked in her direction. Dale shrugged and took a sip. “They’re for lofts in TriBeCa and trendy restaurants.”

  “She gets more insecure by the day,” Dale said.

  “They’re beautiful. Really. I’ll read up on how to care for them.”

  “Also, you’re supposed to bring a brand-new gift to your host. It’s tainted if it’s barter.”

  She was being a little exasperating. He took the box from her and put it under the window. When his friend Peter came to visit, his German shepherd, Princess, who’d been raised by monks and then spent months of her life learning from other German shepherds, had jumped up on the cushioned windowsill to bask in the sunlight. The dog didn’t check out the house the way dogs usually did; she just walked into the kitchen, jumped onto the built-in bench below the windowsill, then made a final jump before curling up to survey everything from the highest perch. Peter had told him that dogs raised by the monks had been used to sniff through rubble at the World Trade Center.

  Dale poured wine again for LouLou, who accepted this time. She sat in the chair where Dale had draped her coat, though she miscalculated and sat too close to the edge of the seat, splashing wine onto the jacket. LouLou quickly wiped it off. “‘All the perfumes of Arabia,’” she said, licking the wine off her fingers.

  “Allusions night,” Ben said fondly.

  “Perfumes?” Dale asked.

  To his dismay, LouLou had started to cry.

  “What?” he said, stricken.

  “Don’t look at me. I’m a mess,” LouLou said.

  “Oh, hon, take it easy,” Dale said, shooting her hand across the table, looking helpless.

  “What’s the matter?” Ben said.

  “Does he know . . . do you know what I’m going to say?” LouLou said, running the back of her hand over her cheek. Everything about her looked pinker. Pinker and sadder. Could she possibly be this upset because she didn’t think what she’d brought was a nice enough gift?

  “I don’t talk about you behind your back,” Dale said. “I don’t,” she repeated to Ben.

  “LouLou, Dale, tell me what’s wrong!” he said.

  So that was the question that LouLou addressed until she couldn’t say anything more. Just like that, as he stood hovering beside her in his kitchen, LouLou blurted out that they wanted him to be the sperm donor for their child. “I know you’re going to say no, I did this all wrong, now you think I’m crazy,” LouLou said, getting up and collapsing in Dale’s arms. In Dale’s arms, not his. He could hardly believe what he’d just heard. A child? She wanted him to father her—their—child? Why would she want a baby? What about her job—she’d just made plans to leave the job she had for a new one. On the last visit, she’d been so excited about that. The Obamas were in the White House, and all was right with the world. Could she really have
said—but yes, she had; she’d spoken quite clearly before she was unable to speak any longer. Maude in his arms was one thing, but a child of his own? He’d never considered it. He wouldn’t consider it now. He tried to speak as calmly as he could.

  “I never even considered it. Fatherhood. I’m in no position . . . Of course, nobody’s ever asked me anything like this. I mean, of course they haven’t. LouLou—as much as I care for you, both of you”—he quickly corrected himself—“I just can’t do that.”

  “There’d be absolutely no responsibility,” Dale said. “Isn’t that right, hon? Unless he wanted it?”

  “You can’t imagine,” LouLou said. “Being in some doctor’s office, being handed a piece of paper. A printed-out form with an option to write a little essay later, where you’re supposed to check off your fairy-tale sperm donor, like I’m supposed to say, ‘Oh, I want to make sure the father’s from a very liberal New England family, he should have curly hair and be really great at sports, Oh, and also a millionaire who plays the oboe, he has to have a good sense of humor—men always have to have a good fucking sense of humor, we all know that. And he has to be six feet tall. Seven!’”

  He felt tears well in his eyes. Was this really something she had to think about now, at her age, just starting her career? Had it been more Dale’s idea? Because his father had died, had that made him think that being a father would force him to acknowledge, or might it even hasten, his own mortality? He and his father hadn’t gotten along so well in the years before his father met Elin, though he’d never been under any illusions that if he were a father he’d do any better with his own son.

  Okay, Steve, he thought: This was my hot date. LouLou wants a kid, and basically—except for the oboe—the ideal father turns out to be you.

  Seventeen

  After they left, he took a nap and had a dream. He was walking in an unfamiliar place, though certain landmarks were the same, such as the tree with its lightning-cracked trunk. Tommy Turtle, a.k.a. Quasimodo, appeared. (The tortoise can retract its head; the sea turtle cannot.) Then the dream turned into a version of The Wizard of Oz. The sci-fi creature walking next to him was the Tin Man, except that he—he, Ben—was the same person, talking, though no one could hear him, including the little girl he felt responsible for . . . Maude? LouLou, as a child? She kept running; he couldn’t see her face. No, Judy Garland’s in that movie, he thought, as, confused, he awakened.

  Fatherhood? No thanks. Dale, whom he cared for so much, had been excruciatingly clear that everything would be done with the advice of a lawyer, that he’d have to assume no responsibility, unless of course he wished to. His participation would never be disclosed, if that was his desire. Who believed such a thing? (Oh, this breed never bites! as his father used to say sarcastically.) He sent an email to LouLou after the dream—only later did he realize that it was insensitive to forget to include Dale in the message—saying that while he hugely valued their friendship, he really had to be sure that she understood that this . . . what word had he found to replace “impossibility”?—that the idea of being a father, even without obligation or responsibilities, struck terror into his heart.

  Maybe Arly had had a point, though; maybe he did introspect too much. What the hell had Bailey been, except daily training in that? He sent another message to both LouLou and Dale, saying that while it was none of his business, he certainly cared for them deeply. Had they really thought out whether this was the moment to have a child? Only Dale replied. “She’s got endometriosis, so the earlier she gets pregnant, the better. Google it. While we didn’t go about it right, for which I apologize, pls give it a few mins more of serious thought.” He looked up endometriosis, which, like all such medical terms he researched, was clearly not a good thing to have. In this case, he wouldn’t have to worry about it—though there was still the problem of having to shave every day.

  Ben went into the kitchen and put water on to boil. Mama Cass was hung above the tea canisters, the frame still missing the glass. Recently, Maude had asked to be lifted so she could give Mama a present: a “horsie” to sit on her shoulder. Her aim had been off; the glittering unicorn decal looked more like a jaunty hat with a too-large feather.

  Damn it: LouLou had planted an idea. No different than an acorn rooting. A seedling sprouting beneath a tree. It was there, as if it could be touched. Worse, as if it demanded tactile contact. He told himself to forget the dream, to eat something, to try to distract himself. It wasn’t even a conscious attempt at repression, it was that survival strategy of taking one step after another, continuing forward. How babies learned to walk. Babies. The kitten he’d found wandering at the side of the road that he’d dropped at the shelter, he hoped, had been cute enough for someone to adopt, because it could settle softly in the palm of their hand, so cute. Good looks could save you. At least, they could if you stayed off the highway.

  Okay. It was Saturday evening, and LouLou and Dale were back in the city—he agreed that there seemed just too much tension in the air for them to stay longer, even if they all wanted things to be otherwise—and he was going to proceed with his life and help Steve put up a TV. Ordinary life seemed a blessing.

  He’d gone to Steve’s before realizing he’d forgotten to take tools Steve might not have—the guy certainly wasn’t Mr. Fixit; his usual go-to product was Gorilla Glue. Somehow, they’d wrestle the thing up on the wall.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about LouLou. Her hysteria had only made him feel sorrier for her. He was confused, though; Dale had told him at breakfast that at first they weren’t going to try until the following year, especially if LouLou definitely decided to take the new job. If this was what life was like now, what were things going to be like when he was fifty, Steve’s age?

  “What kind of a father do you think I’d be?” he asked Steve, pushing open the back door, entering without knocking, though Steve was incapable of being taught an implicit lesson silently. Steve had been trying to uncrate the TV alone, with no success. He, too, had been drinking a glass of wine.

  “You? Okay, I guess. Why? Did you get somebody pregnant?”

  Yeah, Claire Morris, he was tempted to say. He looked around. The ugly plaid chairs faced each other in the cavernous kitchen like mirror images.

  “In answer to your question, Gin and Maude are at a reeeeally grown-up, nighttime birthday party, where all the kids get to feel super-special. Some friend of Ginny’s whose husband walked out, who sleeps until noon now and throws a party for herself at dinnertime on Saturday night, when she knows nobody can get a babysitter, then guilt-trips anybody who doesn’t show up. She actually asked Gin to sit in on her therapy group and offer her perspective about why people could so rarely come through for their friends.”

  “Oh. That is a fucking huge shipping container, Steve.”

  “Maybe I should put it aside so she won’t have to buy me a casket.”

  They came up with a plan to grip the box with their feet while pulling up the molded Styrofoam. It turned out to be next to impossible to get a good grip because everything was so smooth, though they tried with hernia-inducing intensity. Styrofoam cracked from the corners as the iceberg rose enough to give them a better grip. Pieces fell on the rug like clumps of snow. “Easy,” Ben said, sweating, his legs widely spread. Somebody had to say “Easy.” It was guy talk. Talk that cut across class, that expressed not real caution so much as buddy bonding.

  His father had made him bond by standing on the roof in the snow, looking for the source of a leak. No, his father hadn’t been trying to kill him, he’d just been an idiot. He’d also been an idiot when he’d said a wasps’ nest was dormant and insisted they go on scraping the top of the chimney. His father had gotten the worst of it, ending up in the ER like an inflatable Santa Claus pumped up to occupy half the lawn. In any generation, who had fathers who weren’t like that? Jasper said that The Man had once thrown a horseshoe through their picture window, breaking the
front door of his mother’s china cabinet. It was funny if you saw that stuff in the cartoons, but not at all funny if you had a father whose best thoughts had to do with how the front lawn, before it became a potato field, could be used as a “family amusement center.” They were better than any sitcom character, all of them. Absolutely: Why should The Man spend his weekends mowing grass? That was a typical question, representative of those fathers. Anybody at Bailey could have topped it with his or her own story. No wonder LaVerdere had seemed so unusual, so focused, yet bemused. He’d never sent one of them to the roof in a snowstorm. When he fell up there, Ben’s shin had been skinned like an opened can of sardines. His sister had thought he’d bleed to death.

  “So here we have a TV on which we’ll soon see Big Bird early, way too early in the morning. Which a very special little girl can watch while Daddy and Mommy do unimaginable things in the bedroom.”

  Ben snorted.

  “Seriously,” Steve said. “Did you knock somebody up?”

  “Why would you think that—just because I asked your opinion?”

  “I’m the only Jew here. You don’t get to answer questions with questions.”

  “You’re stereotyping, condescending, being too blunt in the guise of being funny, and generally acting in a way that would get you in big trouble with Gin. What’s your answer?”

  “What the fuck, Ben. Did you just get out of some consciousness-raising session?”

  “Can I tell you something confidentially?”