A New Lu

by Laura Castoro

  “Funny you should mention fertility. Not, by the way, that I was ever tempted to participate in your slice-and-dice-Lu marathon. But the truth is, I’m not even close to menopausal. I’m going to have a baby.”

  “You’re what?” Tai’s expression is one of perfect disbelief.

  “I’m preggers, Tai. Sprung, with child, in a family way, knocked up?”

  “You can’t expect us to believe that.”

  “Oh, but it’s true. If this is a problem for you, I’ll quit.”

  “What?”

  “Consider me gone—” I rise and turn sideways to give her the full thrust of my sixteen-week pregnant profile.

  “Shit!”

  I have to give Tai credit for her appropriate word choice.

  Then it hits me. She punctuated that word with a thump of her injured hand on the back of Marc’s chair. She didn’t injure her arm. It’s a cover for some beauty enhancement treatment she underwent in Switzerland.

  “You really should do the column yourself, Tai. Challenge women to become ‘Fit to be Tai-ed.’” I can’t help it, I do the finger quotes, guaranteed to tee off anyone with an IQ above sixty.

  Having a roomful of shocked gazes lock on one gives a person a moment of razor clarity. This must be what it feels like to be shot out of a cannon.

  I don’t make eye contact with any of them as I move. I just let their collective shock levitate me right out of the room.

  I’m halfway down the hall when it hits me. For the first, maybe only, time in her professional life, Tai has let someone else have the last word.

  20

  It’s ten-fifteen in the morning and I’ve already bought more maternity underwear than I’ll ever wear out. Damn Andrea, the fashion witch! She flipped my vanity switch and I’m OD-ing online.

  I had supposed the English would have a mature and practical take on what constitutes maternity wear. That was before I found JoJoMamanBebe.com, where I discovered that the pregnant tummy is called a “bump,” and Elle Macpherson fronts a line of expectant undies.

  Look at her, all lush and lanky, single-handedly unclipping the drop cup of a nursing bra! The pose is the female equivalent of 007’s trademark smirk. Who can resist such self-satisfied bravado? I bought three: black, lilac and oh-so-hot pink. The thongs I left alone.

  Reluctantly I refocus on the job at hand: help wanted ads in the New York Times. After ninety-five hours and twenty minutes of silence from the offices of Five-O, I assume I’m unemployed.

  Out of work. That has an interesting ring to it. But what exactly does it mean to me? I don’t feel desperate yet, though goodness knows I should. I must have been out of my mind to walk out on a job that was mine to lose. I loved working at Five-O B.T. (before Tai, that is).

  The doorbell only marginally nudges me into action. I take so long to unfold from the kitchen chair and shuffle to the door in a ratty caftan and booties with most of their rubber traction strips peeled off that I expect the would-be visitor to have found something else to do.

  No such luck. Cy stands on my porch, trying to peer the wrong way through my peephole. He knows I quit my job. No doubt, he’s checking because I haven’t drifted beyond my doorway since.

  I open the door. “I’m in a bad mood, Cy. You may want to think about that.”

  He shrugs. “I’m an old man. Abuse me and I’ll call the proper authorities.”

  “In that case, come in.”

  He’s not taken more than three steps inside my door before I say, “There’s another thing you should know. I’m pregnant.”

  For a moment his eyes go perfectly round behind his rimless glasses. “You aren’t happy about this?”

  “No. I am.” I ruffle my unwashed hair. “Really.”

  A big grin splits his face. You’d think I’d told him I was having his grandchild.

  He offers me a quick, hard hug. Afterward, we begin to dance. Well, not dance exactly, it’s more an impromptu waltz. We join hands and begin a slow twirl around my hallway, lilting and spinning until I’m laughing, and he’s grinning from ear to ear.

  Finally out of breath and feeling just light-headed enough to resist the temptation to continue, we stall out.

  “You’ve seen a doctor? You’re taking vitamins? You’re expecting no complications?” Each time I nod in the affirmative, Cy adds another question until he seems satisfied. “So, when is the grand event?”

  “November.” And I realize this is the first time anyone has been absolutely pleased by my news.

  “Come, come, let’s sit and have a glass of milk.” He ushers me into my kitchen as though it’s his and pours me a tall one. He doesn’t comment on the empty ice cream carton in the sink, or the Dove bar wrappers on the counter. He does try to mash down the tuft of hair I haven’t combed since I returned from Five-O. I’m living hard these days.

  “Have you thought of names?” He’s standing over me, to make certain I take a healthy swig of milk. “Do you want to know the sex?”

  I shake my head firmly no to both questions, too amazed by how refreshing the milk is to speak. I should have been doing this before.

  “You’re going to need a nursery.” Cy perches on the edge of a nearby stool. “I haven’t designed one of those since…” The joy in his face dims, and I remember how dejected he was three years ago when his youngest son’s wife rejected out of hand his gift of designing a nursery for their first child.

  “I won’t have your father in charge of what should be my prerogative,” I’m told she said. Of course not! Who would want a world-class architect to gift them with a nursery? Some people’s children still need a spank now and then.

  “I’d love to take you up on the offer, Cy, but I can’t afford any renovations.”

  “Why? Did Jacob lose his job again?”

  “In a matter of speaking. He isn’t going to be the father of this child.”

  This time Cy’s eyes stay wide.

  “Let me rephrase. Jacob’s the sperm donor, but he’s made it clear that that’s the only contribution he plans to make to this enterprise.”

  “I see.” At seventy-two, a person recoups from surprise quickly. I guess there’s not much time to waste. “And this is all right with you? No job? No husband?”

  “It’s fine, Cy. I’ll be fine,” I say when the milk is gone. “I’m making arrangements to put the house up for sale next week.”

  He just looks at me. I know how he feels. But again, he doesn’t address the issue directly. “You should celebrate the news of this new life coming into the world. Have you done that?”

  “Not exactly.” A memory of William Templeton’s bare buttocks comes to mind before I can stop it. He will forever be in my fondest-memory category. If only the timing were different!

  Blessedly ignorant of my wayward thoughts, Cy bounds to his feet as nimbly as a man of forty. Tai chi is amazing. “Then we must celebrate. Tonight. I will call for you at seven.”

  I’m ready a few minutes early, thinking that Cy will expect me to do the driving. He gave it up years ago when he realized, he said, his life was worth a great deal more than the amount it cost to hire a driver. He had begun driving through red lights while contemplating complex structural ideas. Now that he goes into the office only a couple of times a week, he doesn’t even bother to keep a car.

  So I’m a little surprised when the doorbell rings as I’m picking up the phone to tell him I’m ready.

  For Cy’s benefit, I’m flossed, blow-dried and shaved. I’m also wearing the pale-blue-sleeveless-top-and-below-the-knee-skirt maternity set Andrea assured me makes me look fresh and feminine. I pat my “bump” and say, “Nice going, kiddo.”

  “Ah! You look fine,” Cy says warmly, when I’ve opened the door.

  When we first started “dating,” as he told his children, they were worried until they got what he calls “a good gander” at me.

  He hands me an armload of delicate blue irises and pink snapdragons wrapped in florist’s paper and says, “Blue for
if it’s a boy, pink for if it’s a girl.”

  After I’ve put the glorious bouquet in water and given them the place of honor on my dining room table, Cy leads me out the door to a waiting car. A limo.

  “What’s all this?”

  Cy looks as pleased as a child on Christmas. “We’re celebrating. I hope you’re hungry?”

  “Am I ever not?”

  He nods and offers his arm.

  “I’m really fine,” I protest.

  “Independent women,” he mutters in halfhearted disapproval as I take his arm.

  The restaurant he’s chosen is in Manhattan. I’m glad I decided to put on my wedding rings, just in case we draw stares. I couldn’t care less about my reputation. At this point, I’m not sure I have one. But Cy is another matter. His children see an old man when they look at him. I see a man who knows a lot about life and living, and how to handle both with grace and charm. I wouldn’t hurt him for the world.

  He’s a wonderful storyteller with a sly sense of humor. By the time we pull up before a discreet numbered awning on a tree-lined side street in lower Manhattan, I’ve forgotten just how unhappy and miserable I am—or was, or should be.

  No surprise the maître d’ greets Cy by name. This is one of those quiet, tucked-away places for those in the know. The small dining room glows with pale yellow candlelight. Tables are set with silver, crystal and bone china, atop linen cloths so thick they look like pads. The clientele speak soft words and laugh in muted tones, the tinkle of glasses and flatware are dampened by a draped ceiling. This is a golden-eye view of what life can be like.

  No surprise then that our table is in an alcove where a bottle of Diamant Bleu champagne is chilling for us.

  “I shouldn’t,” I say reluctantly, though I do so love good champagne.

  “One small glass of the very best won’t hurt.” Cy signals the pouring. “A toast to new beginnings. To a new Lu.”

  “A new Lu.” It was meant to be a new column, but now it will be a pledge to myself.

  We contemplate ordering a disgusting amount of things. Cy believes that, if it sounds good, it should be sampled. We are in the midst of ordering half the menu when the maître d’ comes over and says, “Perhaps you would prefer a taste of the kitchen.”

  Cy and I smile and nod like those bobble dogs in the back windows of certain vehicles. Anyone who loves to eat well will tell you nirvana is a place where the chef prepares a little of everything from the menu, and serves it to you in mini portions that leave room for the most sinful of desserts.

  When we are done ordering Cy turns a suddenly serious look my way and takes my hand between both of his.

  “You are a proud, strong woman. This I know. So I won’t insult you by suggesting that you need a man in your life. But a child? A child’s needs must supersede even the independence of the mother.” He pats my hand. “Lu, at a time like this, you should have no worries. If you need the cash, then put your house up for sale and move in with me. I have rooms enough for five babies. There, it’s settled.”

  “Because you’ll buy my house for more than it’s worth.”

  He blinks as if surprised I thought of that. He forgets I know how he extracted a promise from Jacob years ago that we would give him first dibs if we ever decided to sell. “A man my age can’t be too careful about who might move in next door.”

  I squeeze his hand. “I can’t accept your offer to buy my house or move into yours. But thank you for it. It means more than you know.”

  “Are you afraid that people would think you are living off an old man who has nothing but his memories to keep him warm?”

  “There’s that. And what about when I begin to show?”

  This brings color to his face. “Imagine the joy of a man of my years being accused of siring a child with a pretty woman?”

  “What’s all this talk about old age? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Absolutely.” His eyes roll dramatically heavenward. “I’m dying. Of something, I can’t think what it is at the moment. So I need the comfort of a companion. A young woman who will bring laughter and joy into my failing life.”

  “And diapers and middle-of-the-night feedings and crying jags.”

  “I am almost deaf and half-blind. I won’t hear or see much.”

  “What about your children?”

  “To have this I will bear the anger of my children. Perhaps I shall disinherit them and give it all to you.”

  “The law won’t let you do that.”

  He looks up, eyes bright with mischief. “So then, marry me.”

  Of course a conversation this light was heading this way. All the same, the words spoken have an unexpected response. I burst into tears.

  “Hormonal,” I assure Cy. All the same, the great breaths I take to ebb the tears draw the attention of others.

  “You, go away!” Cy orders the waiter who bundles over to ask if he can do anything for us. Cy, in a mood, could have stood down the mutiny on the Bounty.

  He is also an expert with a dinner napkin. He dries my tears with one corner and then straightens my smeared lipstick with another. “It was foolish of me to bring it up here,” he says kindly. “I only wanted to make you smile.”

  “It’s nutty me, not you, Cy!” I whisper furiously. “You’d think I’d never been proposed to before, or been pregnant before, or even had a kind word spoken to me!”

  He takes all this remarkably well. “I’ve heard better excuses, and gotten better responses to my proposals.”

  “Oh, Cy.”

  “I’ve heard that one, too. You forgot to sigh on Cy.”

  I can’t remain an emotional cripple before a man who’s still waiting for an answer to his proposal. I smile and touch his arm. “If I were going to marry anyone at this point, it would be you.”

  He shrugs but takes my hand again. “That’s a no. But a nice no.”

  He is silent for a while, a solemn, dignified man in a blue suit and silver tie and shiny lenses that reflect back a good portion of what he views. Then he sits up, becoming as stiffly erect as a drill sergeant. “I will speak with Jacob about his responsibilities. He will listen to me.”

  “No, thank you. I know this is an absolutely asinine thing to say, considering my circumstances, but I think I—” I look down at my middle. “We deserve better.”

  He nods thoughtfully. “I’ve always thought so.”

  Does Cy not like Jacob any better than Andrea? I don’t think I want to know why.

  “So, about this moving in.”

  I’ve swallowed so many tears I don’t have the heart to dish out two nos in a row, so I let him talk for a moment while I try to remember if I was this touched when Jacob proposed. Why can’t I remember?

  “Better yet. I will buy your house and you can live there rent free.” He leans in. “I make a hell of a landlord, let me tell you.”

  “You’re putting me against the wall.”

  “That’s my point. You can come and live on my second floor while I do the renovations. A mother-to-be mustn’t be around paint fumes and wood stains and such. Better yet, you should have a bedroom on the main floor. I drew up plans for such a thing years ago. If Ethel had lived a little longer, she was going to need her own room downstairs. God rest her soul, the woman could snore. She worried about keeping me awake. We planned to convert our sleeping porch on the rear. Your house has the same arrangement. We’ll take in the pantry you no longer need and backstairs closet and make a fine bathroom with lots of closet space. Of course, you still need a nursery. What about the kitchen nook? It’s on the south, lots of sun and no drafts.”

  “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

  “You love me so much you’re going to share my house while I work for you.” The tinge of sadness in his gaze says he knows he’s just talking to make us both feel better.

  Thankfully, the first of the appetizers arrive: scallops with black truffle sauce. This is only the beginning of a steady procession
of some the best things I have ever put in my mouth!

  To steer clear of Cy’s view of my future I begin to talk about any and everything. Pretty soon it’s clear my focus is motherhood, and I blabber about shopping for babies online and the weekly baby yoga classes I may look into.

  After an hour and a half has passed, the headwaiter, seeing a lull both in the conversation and service, toddles over and says with a small smile, “May I recommend one of our desserts?”

  “Something chocolate,” we answer in unison. On that much, we can agree.

  21

  “There are three men in my house. I didn’t invite any of them.”

  “Sounds interesting.” Andrea rarely takes social calls at work, but I need to be humored. “Who are these daring males?”

  “There’s a contractor, who’s searching for studs and talking about load-bearing walls. The plumber is looking for ways to tee off my main line to plumb a full downstairs bath. Cy is moving back and forth between them, with his sketch pad, drawing up plans.”

  “How is darling Cy?”

  “About two minutes from being tossed out on his ear.”

  “That was your first mistake, letting him in.”

  “No. That was my second mistake. The first was to tell him I had an appointment with a real estate agent today.”

  “So how did it go?”

  “It didn’t. Cy waylaid her on the way to my door and then hung around. He was so rude that she finally asked me, ‘Are you certain your father is ready to sell the family home?’ I won’t repeat what he said to her. I’d never heard it put that way before. Of course, I’ll have to find another real estate agent.”

  Andrea laughs at my expense. “You’re too nice. Muy estupido, and too nice. Now I got to go be an attorney. Big client’s got a hard-on because the judge sent his case to arbitration. I should start a side business. Escort service for uptight clients who need to get laid before they come busting down my door!”

  And with that felonious thought, Andrea hangs up.

  I hear doors slam, followed by male laughter. Fine. Cy thinks he’s going to renovate. Meanwhile, I’m learning how to clean up my act.