Mary was striving to get down, so Lily put her on the floor, where she crawled to the bookcase and pulled herself up. Manny removed several small statuettes from the lamp table there, placing them high up on the bookshelf. The baby held on to the bookcase, wobbling but remaining on her feet. Lily took the chair on the other side of the air conditioner.
The room contained a settee, a long, low cherry table on which were stacked many magazines and books, an easy chair, a lowboy, and two soft chairs on opposite ends of a pair of tall windows that looked out on the street. In the window farthest from Lily’s chair, the little air conditioner was set, so that if you sat back, you couldn’t see the person sitting in the other corner. Along the wall beyond the entrance from the hall was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, and on the wall opposite that was a dry fireplace, sealed, Manny told her now—observing her interest in the room—long before Violet bought the house in 1938. This room opened out, through oak doors on a sliding track, into the dining room, where an outlandish life-sized statue of the Virgin stood in one corner, beyond a heavy oak table and chairs, a sideboard, and a curio cabinet full of more figures of the Virgin. Aunt Violet was a collector of statues of the Virgin Mary. She had them from every country and in every style and size. The life-sized one was a sad, aged-looking figure, the Virgin as she must have been at about the time of her son’s death, staring with blind eyes at the room, stone cheeks with believable stone tears. Lily thought there was something grotesque about it.
The dining room gave off onto the kitchen, through a small space that crossed the front hallway. The baby had let herself down and crawled through the dining room, into the kitchen and back down the hallway, with Manny and Lily following. When she reached the living room again, she pulled herself to a standing position using the first chair, and then sat down suddenly, and crawled toward the entrance of the dining room again.
Manny said, “Such a fall would put me in the hospital.” His accent was charmingly slight now.
“They don’t have as far to fall,” Lily said.
“No,” he said. Then: “Yes.”
Lily lifted the baby to her feet, and stood holding her that way, by the upper arms.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Coffee?”
“I’ll have some coffee, yes.”
He went into the kitchen and poured her a cup, and brought it out to her. She was contending with the baby’s curiosity about everything in the room, which was overpopulated with artifacts and figurines, glass bric-a-brac, and gimcrack plaster icons.
“Your aunt Violet is everything Dominic said she is and more,” Lily murmured over the coffee. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like her.”
“I can’t theenk of a soul,” Manny said. “I am so scared for her.”
“But she seems so strong and healthy.”
“Yes. True.”
They watched the baby.
“I wouldn’t have said she was more than sixty-five.”
“A doctor told her that,” said Manny. “That she didn’t look a day past sixty-five. Last year. She took eet as an insult.”
Before Lily had finished her coffee, Dominic and Aunt Violet came down. Manny patted the top of the baby’s blonde head and then left for work. Dominic cooked cereal for Aunt Violet, who seemed too sleepy and tired for talk. She smiled at Lily and appeared to tolerate the baby, offering Mary little pieces of her toast, as if she were a puppy. Mary crawled around in the kitchen and then in the dining room, shrieking her merriment, delighting in the sounds themselves, and repeating them, merely to hear the echoes in the high-ceilinged rooms.
The morning passed with the adults attending to her, and talking quietly. Dominic wanted to tell Lily about the city, and the Quarter; Violet corrected him once or twice, and then said something about the Persian Gulf, and the war that was threatened. She and Dominic got into a mild argument about whether or not the Iraqis would back down, and what it would mean if they didn’t. The air in the rooms grew heavier and heavier with the heat, and the little air conditioner labored away in the living room window. They all moved, without having to speak about it, to proximity with its feeble suspiration of cooler air. Once or twice, Lily caught Violet staring at her, as if trying to divine what she might be thinking about or withholding from the conversation. But the conversation never got personal or intimate. They might have been amiable strangers on a station platform. Dominic played with Mary for a time, and then she grew cranky, so Lily took her upstairs to the crib, and a nap. The room was tropical. She patted the baby’s bottom, and waited for her to drift to sleep. After this was accomplished, she thought of changing into something lighter than her jeans and blouse. She straightened up, and turned to find that Dominic was standing in the doorway.
“I was thinking maybe we ought to move the crib downstairs. Where it’s a little cooler, anyway.”
“She’s asleep,” Lily said.
It was just the two of them in the room. Violet’s voice came to them from the kitchen below, talking to someone on the telephone.
“I have something to tell you,” Lily said.
Dominic smiled. “It’s fine. You don’t have to worry about—I mean I know—”
She broke in: “No, you don’t know.”
He waited.
“Dom, this is big. This is—it’s big.”
“Okay,” he said.
“I’m—I’m so sorry for—I should’ve told you from the beginning—when I knew—” She halted, looking into his eyes. Then: “Listen—I’m just going to tell you this, okay? Mary’s—Mary’s not Tyler’s child.”
He stared uncomprehendingly at her.
“Tyler couldn’t have fathered Mary. Tyler’s been sterile since he was seventeen.”
Dominic nodded slowly, looked at the floor and then back at her. “So that’s why the split up.”
“Yes.”
“That’s—I’m—he should’ve—”
It was clear to Lily that he still didn’t understand it all fully. She said, “Dom, I wasn’t with anyone else.”
He kept nodding, trying to put it together in his mind.
“Do you see what I’m telling you?”
Now he frowned. “Wait a minute—”
She reached to take his hand. It was as if she meant to steady him. “That’s right,” she told him. “There was the time you and—you and I—and there was Tyler. I was never with anyone else.”
“Mary’s—”
Lily squeezed his hand. “I should’ve told you as soon as I knew.”
“Jesus Christ,” he said, moving to the bed. “I—Christ.” He stared at the empty doorway, his face registering only disbelief.
“I didn’t even know at first,” she said. “Tyler didn’t tell me he was sterile—he—he didn’t tell me about it. He kept it to himself for the longest time.”
“I can’t—I mean, Christ,” Dominic said. “You’re—you’re saying this baby—that I’m—I’m the father of this baby?”
“Yes.”
“But—we didn’t even—we never—” He paused, shaking his head, stupefied.
“Tyler didn’t want us to tell anyone, ever, and it’s what finally broke it for us.”
He stood, took a deep breath, and faced her. “Man. I’m not up to this at all.”
She said nothing, watching him pace the room.
“Jesus Christ. I’m so far from being up to this.”
“Who ever feels up to it?”
He stopped. “Don’t say that shit to me. What’re you gonna do, break into song? That’s the glory of love? It didn’t even work for us, and we got a baby out of it? Jesus, it’s as if God said, ‘Well, okay, this is the instance when you finally come to figure what your nature is, and oh, by the way, along with this humiliating disaster with your female friend, and even though thousands of hetero people try for years to get pregnant, I’m gonna let you-all get that way on a couple of dribbles and some tears and a limp prick.” He caught himself and held out one hand. “Sorry.”
“But, Lily—I mean—damn.”
“Would you rather I hadn’t told you?”
He pondered this, still moving back and forth in his agitated state. “I can’t believe it, that’s all. What did you do, perform a fertility dance after I left that night?”
“It happened,” she said. “I didn’t do anything. Nobody’s at fault here for the fact of it happening, Dom.”
He paused, finally, bent over and put his hands on his knees, and breathed. “Goddamn. I’m—I can’t get my breath.”
“We’ll leave whenever you want us to,” she said. “I didn’t come here to trouble you. I thought you had the right to know.”
“I’m feeling a little sick to my stomach.”
“I didn’t think you’d react this way.”
“What’d you think I’d do? Oh, by the way, Lily, I forgot to mention, Aunt Violet is your real mother. How does that make you feel?”
She couldn’t answer this.
He began pacing again, back and forth in front of the doors leading out onto the balcony. “My God, my God.”
“Dom—”
“How long have you known this?” he asked.
“I was still pregnant with her when Tyler told me.”
He threw his hands up. “Jee-sus Christ. So, when we went there to visit—you both knew then?”
She nodded, sniffling.
“I thought there was some trouble between you and Tyler.”
“There was. I wanted to tell you and he didn’t. He’d told me about it and we were fighting it all out.”
“Oh, Goddamn.”
A moment later, from the bottom of the stairs, Aunt Violet’s voice came to them. “What’re you two talking about up there? I’m getting lonely.”
He went to the doorway and called down, “We’ll be there in a little bit.” Then he closed the door and crossed to the bed again, where he sat down and put his hands to his head. “All the feeling’s going out of my hands. I can’t breathe.”
“Are you all right?” Lily said, realizing as she spoke that the question was absurd.
“Oh, I’m just keen,” he said. “I like dry mouth and clammy palms and terror racing through all the extremities of my body. It’s invigorating, like waiting out those last exciting seconds before a firing squad.”
“I said I wasn’t here to ask anything. It’s not like you had to do anything, you know? I’m the one that carried her and had her and I just said I don’t expect anything. And I don’t.”
“That’s not the point. I expect it of myself. Jesus.”
“Look,” Lily said, barely able to control her voice. “You can be mad that I didn’t tell you sooner—I was trying to hold my marriage together.” She sobbed, then took a deep breath and went on. “But you can get mad for that. You can, and I’ll understand it. You cannot be mad about the fact of the baby. There isn’t any, any, any room for that kind of anger. Not ever.”
He was shaking his head, still disbelieving. “A child. A child. My child.”
“Our child,” Lily corrected. “And watch your mouth about her.”
“Well, and we’re the perfect couple. Between the two of us we could raise a battalion of neurotics.”
“I’m not asking you to raise anyone—Dom. I thought you had the right to know. And that’s all I thought.”
He stood again. “Look, I know I’m supposed to be happy and say not to worry about anything, but I am worried about it all, and I’m not happy. I’m not unhappy, either, you know. I’m—well, I’m, let’s see, mortally afraid. There isn’t all that much room for happiness when you’re terrified as bad as this.”
“I’m not here to ask you about happiness, and I’m not here to take it away from you, either. For Christ’s sweet sake, have you been listening to me?”
He touched her shoulder, then let his hand drop to his side. “I’m sorry. Jesus—this is just so scary to me.”
“Don’t you think I’m scared, too?”
He thought a moment. It was as though he were seeking a way to unravel some secret wellspring of choices in the predicament. But when he spoke, it was only to exclaim again that he was frightened. There was a look of wild-eyed invention on his face. “What the fuck will we tell Mary when she’s of age? ‘That’s right, honey, your father’s gay, and you were engendered by a faltering, failed, debased, humbling attempt to screw for consolation and recreation? Your parents are a pair of consenting incompatibles?’”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Oh, you’re making everything so much better, Dom. What personal courage and character you’re showing. Maybe Tyler was right.”
“I’m in shock. I’m rattling around in little pieces in my chest.”
“Shoulder it,” Lily said thinly.
His smile was ironic, and desperate, and grieving, too. “You mean get in touch with my feminine side?”
“Oh, God. Tyler handled it better than you are.”
“I meant it as a joke.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“That registered. No more jokes. Okay? Give me a little slack here.”
She was quiet for a moment.
Presently he moved to the bed again, and sat down, his hands folded in his lap. “Really. You know, Lily. What will we tell her?”
She simply returned his gaze.
“Our daughter,” he said.
“You and I were friends,” Lily said. “Are friends.” After a pause, she added, “We are friends, right?”
He said, “You feel the need to ask?”
“A little, maybe.”
“We’re friends,” he said, with a perplexed, smiling frown.
“Then I guess that’s what we’ll tell Mary. We’re friends. It happened. Some married heterosexuals don’t have friendship. Some of them spend a lifetime looking for it.”
He said nothing.
“In the end, Tyler and I didn’t have that.”
“And he wanted to keep it from me for good.”
She nodded.
“I can understand it. I really can. I can understand why he would.”
“You wish I had kept it from you,” Lily said. “Don’t you.”
He shook his head, staring at the floor. The gesture was not in reaction to her; it rose out of whatever he was thinking.
She walked over and stood before him. “What do you think, Dominic? Do you think I came here to get you to do your duty by me and marry me? Do you think I wanted you to act as my child’s father? I wanted you to know something that everything in my whole being told me was your right to know. I lost my husband and my marriage because I couldn’t bring myself to keep that from you. But I never once thought anything else would come of you knowing it. I just believe it’s your right—and Mary’s right—to know a thing like that.”
He kept nodding, but she could see that he was off somewhere in himself.
“Grow up a little,” she said. “Can’t you?”
He stood again, and moved to the door. “I can always depend on you to lecture me whenever I stray from the path of righteousness. Or words to that effect.”
“Are you going to tell Manny and Violet about it?”
He thought a moment, but said nothing.
“Do you want me to tell them?”
“No. They wouldn’t believe you.” He smiled, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe—can’t put it together in my mind that that—that little pathetic performance—what happened between us that mortifying evening—could’ve gotten you pregnant. I can’t believe anything about this. This is the single weirdest conversation I’ve ever had in my life.”
She was silent.
“A little sex between friends. And the operative word is little.”
“Don’t demean it,” Lily said.
“Well, but it was so farcical.”
“Okay,” Lily said crisply.
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not.”
“Promise?”
“We’
re not in Psych 101, Dom.”
He started to leave, then turned. “I keep thinking there’s something else you expect me to say.”
“There’s nothing else I expect you to say.”
“Well,” he said. “And—you’re still my friend. But then, no—we’re not exactly friends, now, are we? Not exactly. We’re—oh, what’s that word. I used to hear it spoken a lot when I was younger and getting the shit kicked out of me. How’s it go? Begins with the letter p. Parents. Isn’t that it? I feel reasonably certain the word is parents.” He shook his head again, then opened the door and started down the hall, to the stairs. She followed. Violet was sitting in the window seat in the living room, eyes closed, nodding off in the small exhalation of the air conditioner. When Dominic entered the room, she looked up.
“Hey, Aunt Violet,” Dominic said to her. “Guess what?”
7
Dear Doris,
I’m sitting out on this veranda overlooking Burgundy Street. Pronounced, Aunt Violet says, BurGUNDY Street. Mary’s asleep in her crib. It’s sunny and hot—not so humid, for once. We’ve been here three weeks, and I’ve been looking for work, and for someone to watch the baby. A nice girl who comes over from the school nearby and tends to Violet’s needs has been helping out with Mary. Her name is Amy. And since Violet still goes out to the nursing homes around here to visit friends, I’ve paid Amy to come on those days as well. She doesn’t mind it, but she’s only eighteen, has just left high school, and I’d like to find someone a little more experienced.
I went on something like fourteen interviews for jobs, all of them nothing remotely like anything I want to do, and it didn’t matter because no one was interested. So Violet prevailed upon the people at St. Augustine to let me substitute teach there on the strength of my all-but-conferred degree, and I have the money you and Scott sent, in spite of my asking you not to. (Thank you.) I do still have some left, you know, from the settlement, if that’s what it can be called, with Tyler.
It’s not so strange, I suppose, that I’ve been dreaming about him. In the dreams we’re happy and I’m lighter, somehow. I don’t mean weighing less, either, quite. I mean I’m the same size, and all that. But it’s as if gravity is different for me. Yet when I move in the dream, I move slowly—not slow motion, but more creaky, as if I’m very old and lighter than a leaf. I think of Tyler in the days; I wonder where he is and what he’s doing, and I keep expecting that he’ll come back from this silliness and we’ll go ahead and try to make a family. But that’s daydreaming. No—it’s more like a kind of woolgathering. Because thinking about it calmly, I wouldn’t take him back if he asked me. I do feel the old longing for him sometimes, but then once, recently, feeling it, I had the realization that what I was missing was the husband I had before anger and sorrow arrived, and I don’t really blame him for it because he’s just scared, faced for the first time in his life with something for which nothing in his experience has prepared him, and for which he’s had no models or examples to look at and emulate. I don’t mean that to sound as twenties-wizened as, reading it over, it sounds. Tyler himself said something like it. It’s just that now I am, after all, a divorced woman with a child. And I live with two gay men and an elderly lady, and at least twice a week—and sometimes several days a week—I teach English and history classes at St. Augustine Catholic High School. The students there are always glad to see me, and they’re also, for the most part, hardworking and intelligent. I like being with them, and that’s something. The nuns are quite well read and have a serenity I envy—well, most of them do. There are a couple of newer ones who seem quite tense and uneasy with life.
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