Doxology

by Nell Zink

Over the giggling, Aaron said, “My whole life is solidarity. It’s an economic thing. I work volunteering and for a union. I have four roommates.”

  “What’s your family like?” Ginger asked.

  “Oh, they don’t approve.”

  “What do they do?”

  “My dad’s an auto mechanic at the Sears in White Oak, and my mom’s a beautician. My brothers and sisters are still in school. They live in Takoma.”

  Everyone looked surprised, even Flora. That was only a few miles away.

  “Do you get along with them?” Ginger asked cautiously.

  “My siblings are awesome. The rest of them can’t deal with my politics. We have this annual Fourth of July Tournament of Jews, where we go to Peirce Mill and scream at each other about Israel and Palestine. I have seven aunts and uncles and, like, thirty cousins, and we’re pretty evenly divided.”

  Pam said, “Sounds like ideal conditions for touch football.”

  He said, “You’d know who won by the bodies that washed up in the Potomac the next morning.”

  FROM HER CORNER OF THE SOFA, FLORA WATCHED AARON ENDURE THEIR DERISION AND parry their nosiness, never missing a beat, insouciantly resigned to being himself. Born to be a dad. Already living a surrendered life, like a person with responsibilities. Bull, despite his age, had nothing in common with any dad she’d ever seen. When had he ever surrendered?

  The question of who was stealing whose baby recurred to her, reformulated. Men really could be pregnant—in a sense—if they expected to have children, as she always had. Bull hadn’t been a father until she made him one. There was no child inside him waiting to get out. He sought fellowship with like-minded adults. In their relationship, the parental role was hers to have and to keep.

  But what was it, anyway, the parental role? Was it just preemptive subjection to the unknown? Was it supposed to involve such solitude? Weren’t caregivers supposed to lean on breadwinners? It seemed to her that she was doing the opposite, taking every burden on herself, like Mary telling the angel she was the handmaid of the Lord, except that she was the handmaid of the world. She was Atlas.

  It occurred to her that if she hadn’t been so pregnant, she could have seduced Aaron and found certainty that way. Undeniably she liked him better than Bull. Her body had missed him. But her body was beyond her command. The baby had deformed it into strange new shapes, rendering sex unthinkable, and it might stay that way for months.

  With every second it continued, her pregnancy converted her former sexual power into greater knowledge. It was not a good feeling. She turned toward the sofa, crying silently. She had no idea what was the right thing to do.

  “I’VE NEVER ONCE BEEN TO THE NATIONAL CATHEDRAL,” AARON SAID, “EVEN THOUGH it’s right down the street.”

  “It’s nice,” Pam said. “Flora goes there to hang out with the Virgin Mary.”

  “She’s the bodhisattva Guan Yin,” he said. “Jesus spent most of his life in Kashmir, at least according to the Ahmadi Muslims. It’s one of those things the pope doesn’t want you to know about.”

  “Anglicans don’t do the pope,” Pam said. She was fond of Aaron already. He seemed to her a fearless rationalist—without a winning strategy, but unafraid to lose.

  Ginger said, “I thought she was the goddess Astarte.”

  “That’s the Shekhinah,” Aaron said.

  She asked whether he wanted some coffee. They all heard a whimper and glanced at Flora. She was pounding a tear-stained sofa cushion with her fist, as though she thought no one could see her.

  Pam whispered to him, “Can you take her upstairs?”

  “Sure, no problem,” he said.

  Ginger said, “Let us know if she seems dizzy. Flora, honey, why don’t you go ahead and show Aaron your room.”

  HE WALKED BEHIND HER UP THE STAIRS, HOLDING HIS HANDS UP TO CATCH HER IF SHE swayed. The staircase wasn’t quite wide enough for a pregnant woman and a grown man.

  She didn’t lead him to her own room but to her mother’s. Her spacious pink-and-white bower with the canopy bed seemed obscene to her, like a honeymoon suite. She lay down on Pam’s narrow mattress. Ian MacKaye gazed down on her from all directions, unblinking as a duck. Aaron pried off her shoes, and she curled into a ball.

  “What am I doing?” she begged him.

  “First, you need to tell me who built this temple of hardcore.”

  “My mom, when she was a kid. It was her first big art project.”

  “She’s a genius,” he said.

  Flora sniffled, and he offered her a tissue. He sat by her and petted her head. He sang the song “Happiness Runs.”

  She had never heard it before. It was as calming as a sedative, as though Donovan’s words could hack the brain stem. The baby retracted its foot from her bladder and nestled into her body gently, resting for the first time that day.

  She could feel that it was her physical equal. Soon it would awaken to a wrestling match that would go on for as long as the sun shone, but while it slept, she surrendered herself to helplessness. Around the edges of her closed eyes, everything was golden. The sun itself was hidden behind endless megatons of calm, quiet dust.

  She said, “If I die having this baby, I want you to be there.”

  “What is this about?” he protested. “You’re healthy as a horse! Everything’s going to be fine!”

  “I learned to be strong around Bull. He forces me to be strong. With you and everybody else here, I’m falling apart. Maybe being loved makes me a wreck, and I don’t want it.”

  “Did you ever hear the Hasidic story about the love like fire and the love like water?”

  “No.”

  “It’s about how there are two kinds of love, the hot love that burns you down and the cool love that bears you up.”

  “Then Bull is the love like water. Sink or swim. I need to be out there swimming, not lying around with you in my grandparents’ house.”

  Not evincing signs of hurt, he said, “Hey, it’s not supposed to be two different guys! This is Jewish tradition we’re talking about here! When you’re ritually permitted to touch your wife, you love her like fire. The other two weeks a month, when she’s not fertile, you support her, so she’s buoyed up, floating in love.” He paused from head petting and held up both hands, their edges touching, like a man cradling a preemie. “I admit, I only thought of it because I wish we could have sex. You’re so beautiful and great. I wasn’t trying to help you choose between me and Bull.”

  “I have to choose,” she said. “Somebody’s got to be the dad.”

  “And where is he now?”

  Hearing the speculative hope in his voice, she said truthfully, “At work.”

  “And where is he going to be when the baby’s born?”

  “He’s taking a year off.”

  Aaron retracted and folded his hands and said, “I really fucking hate this guy. I couldn’t afford to take a year off work. They might fire me for being here right now!”

  “You know something, Mr. Love Like Fire?” she said, propping herself up on her elbow. “You scare me. I’m having your baby, and I’m so scared, but you’re not scared. Why aren’t you scared of the time and the money it’s going to cost you? I’m afraid it’s because you’re from a brood-parasitic race of stoner sperm donors, and being cute and adorable is your reproductive strategy.”

  He shook his head and said, “Who needs a reproductive strategy in a culture with arranged marriages? It’s you guys, the western European romantics”—he pointed at her in mock accusation—“who are always going around saying, ‘Was it destiny, or all that unprotected sex I told Aaron was going to be “not a problem”? It was destiny!’”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I mean, not sorry-sorry. I know Michael is my doing, believe me. I’ve been through all of this in my head. I got what I wanted. It just doesn’t seem quite fair that you’re going to have him too, the same as me, and not pay the price.”

  “I’m trying to pay the price! But I can’t give
you anything but—what, I don’t know—time? And that’s where your boyfriend has a big head start, not to mention money.”

  She said, “Pay the price in love. Just love me. The love like water, okay? Because I’m a wreck.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do! Can’t you tell?”

  “Promise me your future. Give me all your time and money, more than Bull will ever have, because he’s so much older. Promise it to me now. A life equity loan, secured with your life.”

  Instead of remarking that she’d gone insane, he said, “My life would be worth a lot more, as collateral, if I were still in school and nobody knew yet that I’m a fuckup. I’m actually good at school. I had professors who said I had potential. You know, what we should do is we should both go back to school. We could be grad students with a baby. That could work.”

  “And who’s paying?” She could reasonably expect a tuition waiver and stipend from any Ph.D. program in geochemistry that accepted her, but she wasn’t so sure about him. “Remember, I own your future! You can’t mortgage it twice!”

  “I don’t need a fellowship to do a master’s in social work at Hunter. CUNY’s cheap.”

  “Social work?” She frowned. “You think social service agencies are going to be hiring?”

  “You’re an irrepressible font of nay-saying pessimism,” he said. “It’s weird, coming from somebody who’s about to have a baby.”

  “Don’t make fun of me for being scared.”

  “Stop thinking you have to be strong to have a baby. It’s okay. Let the baby win. I’m here.”

  He nudged her gently until she lay down again on her side. He lay beside her. There was no sound but shallow breathing, beating hearts, and a few distant sirens. Downstairs, Ginger lowered the blinds and sat down to nap in an easy chair. Edgar sorted through hardware he’d found. Pam read the Post.

  XXX.

  Bull lay beside Ikumi in his bed in Georgetown. His eyes were open in a dream. The late-afternoon sky turned blinding white. Then it was violet, indigo, blue, and green. The room was sliding down the spectrum of visible light like a live-in prism. He reached for his phone. The electromagnetic pulse had wiped it clean. The room turned yellow, orange, and red. The blast wave rattled the loose sash of the open window. He closed it. The wind picked up, gusted like a hurricane, and subsided.

  A siren outside the window woke the two of them from their nap. She said, “Wow. I bet I slept for an hour.”

  Bull said, “You missed it.”

  “What?”

  “The end of the world.”

  “Shut up and make me a double espresso.”

  He went downstairs to warm up the machine, feeling oddly happy. He had surrendered his son, but the rainbow was unfurling in his heart. The glorious banner God planted on the lost hilltop that is Earth. He would live and die trying to turn this thing around.

  He yelled up to Ikumi, “You’ve got ten minutes! I have to get back to the office!”

  “That’s okay!” she yelled back. “So do I!”

  THE CAMRY RACED UP THE EXPRESS HOV LANE OF THE JERSEY TURNPIKE AND RUMBLED through an ineptly patched overpass. When it paused for the Holland Tunnel entrance, right around nine o’clock, Aaron whispered, “Wider than the whole wide world,” and Flora sat upright. She had been sleeping with her head on his lap while Ginger and Pam, up front, listened to an audiobook of Karl Ove Knausgård’s My Struggle, volume five.

  “Are we going to Chrystie Street?” she asked, surprised to be at the southernmost river crossing.

  “We were thinking if you stayed there together, you could get to know each other a little before Michael shows up,” Ginger said.

  “That’s a good idea,” Flora said. “That’s exactly what I wanted.” She put her hands out to her mother and grandmother, and they squeezed.

  When they pulled up in front of Video Hit, Daniel came out to meet them. “This is where I lived until I was nine,” she said to Aaron.

  “I tried to make it comfortable for you guys,” Daniel said. “There’s fresh linens and milk and cereal, and the AC is cranked. I’m going to catch a ride uptown with these ladies.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Aaron said, putting out his hand to Daniel.

  “Same here,” Daniel said.

  “Thanks for putting us up.”

  “You’re welcome, for as long as you want to stay. Years, if you want. It’s a little odd, meeting the father of Flora’s child twice, but I enjoy it more every time. I can’t wait to meet the next one.”

  “I personally wouldn’t mind if the others keep their distance.”

  “You okay with that, Flora?”

  “I just texted Bull that we made it here in one piece,” she said, putting her phone back in her bag.

  “Apparently we’re a harmonious extended family,” Aaron said.

  “Good,” Daniel said. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s open conflict. You’ll find we’re civilized people. We hash out our conflicts according to formalized rules, over a course of decades, or never. It’s like Thorstein Veblen said. The old masculine virtues are dead.”

  “Then I guess carrying in the luggage by myself would be excessively virile.”

  Pam said, “The luggage has wheels. Your task is to carry the bride over the threshold!”

  She intended it as a slightly cruel joke, because Aaron was barely taller than Flora, who was currently much larger.

  He regarded Flora with skepticism. But he leaned forward and bent his knees. She slung her arm around his neck. He picked her up and headed for the door of the shop. When he paused, wondering if he was going in the right direction, Daniel said, “Don’t take unnecessary risks here. You’re going to trip over the dog.” He put her back down, and she waddled to Margie for a hug. With Aaron behind her for safety, she hauled herself up the stairs by the banister, like a mountain climber.

  She felt happy to be home, in the place of her babyhood. Daniel followed them up, carrying her suitcase and Margie’s gifts of bottled water and cookies. After setting it all down, he excused himself to drive home with Ginger and Pam.

  FLORA TOLD AARON HOW TO PADLOCK THE DOOR FOR THE NIGHT. SHE GAVE HIM A TOUR by pointing, since the loft was one room: the water closet, the shower stall, the portable stove-sink combo, the barstools and deck chairs, the steamer trunk paved with magazines, her father’s spare keyboards, her mother’s guitars, their amps, racks of effects, the four-track, Daniel’s books from college, a grainy poster of Joe looking fetching in black leather under a streetlamp with a wreath of tea roses on his head, the records, the liquor cabinet, the stereo. Aaron manned the kitchenette to make tea.

  When they had eaten cookies and drunk tea, they lay down on the bed to look at each other, and he said, “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “What?” She was frightened. “What exactly can’t you do?”

  “Take so much generosity from your family.”

  “What generosity? They’re millionaires letting us borrow an illegal pit with, like, no furniture. This is not some huge debt to pay down.”

  “I can’t afford to lose my new job. It’s a great job. I need to get home.”

  “But I’m having your baby any minute!”

  “I’m going to get up now and get a bus home, so I can go to work tomorrow. I’ll come back on the weekend.”

  “Aaron,” she said. “Forget work. Stay. We’re in New York. We can stay here.”

  “No,” he said. “I absolutely need to be employed to afford a kid, and I’m not the only one. I believe in organized labor. You should too. Nobody’s going to care about the environment if they’re barely surviving.”

  “Nobody ever cares about the environment, Aaron.” There was no irony in her. “People are selfish. They want us altruistic people to be there for them when they need us, at our own expense. We should stick together and help each other when we need help.”

  He got to his feet, shook himself, and said, “I need to leave before my feelings get the upper hand.
It’s a long ride. I need to be back at work tomorrow.”

  She sat up straight and reached for him. “Why are you doing this?” she said. “If you walk away now, what do I do?”

  “I’m not walking away. I’m going home so I don’t lose my job. I’ll be back on Friday. I can’t afford to blow off work for a year, like some people.”

  “Hey, I know your job is great, but it’s only a job! It’s only money. This is a baby. A human being.”

  “It’s my job, and—like you never, ever stop saying—it’s your baby. Our responsibilities aren’t the same here.”

  “You’re confused, Aaron. Waffling about who’s the dad is not the same as saying Michael’s all mine.”

  “Is it not the same?” He put on his shoes. “I mean, really.”

  “Don’t go! What are you doing? I thought you would be there for me!”

  “I’ll totally be there for you,” he said. “On Friday.”

  “If you leave now,” she said, trying to sound strong and failing, “don’t come back!”

  He reached out to pet her head. She swatted him away and burrowed facedown into the mattress.

  He said, “I love you. I’ll be back very soon. I’ll call you tomorrow morning. I’ll be here late Friday night. I have to work, for all of us. I’ll be back. I love you.”

  She didn’t answer. At the bottom of the stairs he opened the padlock, hung the key on the nail, and let himself out.

  A LITTLE AFTER ELEVEN, DANIEL SAUNTERED INTO THE STORE AND TRIED THE DOOR TO the apartment. It was open. He came upstairs, clomping loudly so he wouldn’t interrupt anything private. Not seeing Aaron, he naturally assumed he was in the bathroom and called out, “Hey, you guys! I’m back because I screwed up!” He saw Flora’s face. “Are you upset? You look upset.”

  She sat up to receive him, stiff and sniffling, and said, “Aaron’s gone.”

  “What?!”

  “He left to catch a bus. He said he has to work tomorrow.”

  “You are fucking kidding me. Why didn’t you call us? Couldn’t he call in sick? You’d think the miasma would qualify as a public health emergency!”

  “People don’t call in sick. They have personal days. Maybe he doesn’t have any yet.”