Expecting: A Novel (13 page)

“But he’s going to be the father.”

“I know. And he knows too.”

“Maybe if he’d meet me.” Jack looks up at Laurie, his eyes are wide. He looks young again. Scared. “Unless I’d disappoint him.”

Laurie wants to reach over and wrap Jack in her arms, hold him close, like a mother holds a child. Even though he’s the
father
of her child. Oh, brother. She’s glad she doesn’t have to try to explain this to anybody.

“You wouldn’t disappoint him, Jack. Not at all. I think it’s time the three of us got together.” She folds up Alan’s questions and puts them back in her purse, looks over, and sees an ice cream truck. “Do you want dessert? Let me guess—are you Popsicle or ice cream?”

Jack grins. “Popsicle. Firecrackers are the best, the red, white, and blue ones, shaped like rockets?”

“Those are my favorite too. Come on, I’m buying.” She hops off the swing and Jack follows.

Nancy Futterman’s husband travels frequently for business. She used to go with him, but not as much once the children were born. Or Bob doesn’t like spending time with his family, Nancy jokes. Only she isn’t joking. Alan can read behind her typed words. And emoticons; Nancy is fond of her emoticons. “Bored with his family
:-)
.”

They IM each other at night, after Laurie falls asleep (earlier and earlier these days; once she’s out, she’s out for the night. Alan could bring in a bowling ball and pins and have a game in the bedroom and she’d sleep through nine frames). Nancy suffers from terrible insomnia, she tells Alan. She’s tried everything—pills, self-help tapes, white noise machines. Nothing works. So she’s embraced her sleeplessness. When she wakes up at two thirty a.m., she’ll do laundry or watch infomercials.

So it’s perfectly logical she’s around to chat with Alan; they type back and forth, Nancy’s emoticons splashing across the page.

“Why don’t you have kids yet?” she asks him.

“Complicated,” he types.

“Oooh, did I get TOO personal? Sorry.
:-(
”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.
:-(
”

***

He tells her about the miscarriages, but he leaves out the recent news—the pregnancy and switched sperm. She asks if they’re still trying. He doesn’t type anything for a few minutes, finally writes, “We’re taking some time to figure things out. And considering our options.”

Which is sort of true. Although he realizes the way he’s phrased it isn’t exactly right. And it sounds almost as if he and Laurie are separated, which they most definitely are not.

Nancy asks if they’ve thought about adoption and he says yes. A lot of people only want children who look like them, she types.

“Yeah.”

“I hope you figure it out,” she writes.

“Me too.”

He imagines Nancy sitting on her patio, computer on her lap. He thinks about the softness of her hands, the way they’d feel stroking his face.

***

He gets into bed with Laurie. She’s sound asleep; her mouth is slightly open and she’s snoring softly, quick short breaths, as if she’s running a sprint. He moves close and puts his hand on her belly. She rolls away from him, dead to the world.

He closes his eyes and thinks of Nancy Futterman walking through her big house in Dallas, sitting in front of the TV in the kitchen and watching an infomercial for the Ab Circle Pro.

He imagines seeing Nancy again. Her husband off on a business trip, Alan will come up with an out-of-town Palmer-Boone business meeting—he’ll find a spot halfway between Los Angeles and Dallas where they can meet. He gets an atlas from the den, tracks an imaginary route from his home to Nancy’s, and looks to see what will be in the middle.

Albuquerque, New Mexico. He’s never been there, doesn’t know much about it. All he can think of is Bugs Bunny saying, “Albuquerque,” in his funny Bugs Bunny voice. “I knew I should’ve taken that left turn at Albuquerque.” Only Bugs Bunny says “toin” and “Albuquoikey.”

But
I
don’t want to have an affair
, Alan thinks.
I
just
want
to
get
away
from
my
life
for
a
couple
days. That’s a big difference
.

He reads up on Albuquerque. It’s the largest city in New Mexico, the Sandia Mountains run along the eastern side of the city and the Rio Grande flows through north to south. “
Sandía
is Spanish for ‘watermelon’ and is popularly believed to be a reference to the brilliant coloration of the mountains at sunset: bright pink (melon meat) and green (melon rind).”

See? He’s not having an affair. He’s learning how to say watermelon in Spanish. “
Sandía
,” he says out loud.

He’ll tell this to Nancy when they see each other in Albuquerque—that’s assuming she’ll agree to meet him. Who sounds more unhappy in the IMs, Nancy or Alan? Right now he’d call it a tie. Although Nancy hasn’t been specific—except for the time she called Bob an “uncaring
ass
hole.”

Alan has never said anything negative about Laurie in his IMing.
I’m lucky she puts up with me
, he writes.

He shouldn’t look for an Albuquerque hotel. But it’s an imaginary affair, isn’t it? He finds a Hard Rock Hotel and Casino conveniently located near the airport. Sees a Marriott, a Hilton, finally the Hotel Andaluz, the “only boutique hotel in Albuquerque’s City Center.”

“Perfect for a weekend getaway or an important meeting, the mystique and beauty of Hotel Andaluz in downtown Albuquerque is something you’ll not soon forget.”

He wonders about rooms, clicks “Accommodations.”

“Our sheets and pillowcases are made by the Italian company Frette. They are considered by many to be the world’s finest linens. Your pillow and comforter are made of northern Canadian white goose down, usually reserved for only the premiere suites of five-star hotels.”

For a moment, Alan forgets Nancy and his Albuquerque rendezvous and imagines sleeping in a Hotel Andaluz bed. Who needs Nancy Futterman? He’d be happy getting away from Sherman Oaks and “the sperm thing” to sleep in a bed with Frette linens, a dozen Canadian white goose down pillows and comforter. No one snoring beside him, kicking his legs the middle of the night. No guilty feelings of looking over at Laurie and wishing he could change everything—no, that sounds terrible. Of course he still loves her; she’s his wife, the soon to be mother of their child (in theory)—he will say this over and over until he convinces himself he believes it.

Nancy, do you have problems like this? Do you ever look at Bob in the middle of the night and imagine yourself at the Hotel Andaluz surrounded by Frette linens and possibly me?

***

Which room should he get at the Hotel Andaluz?

The Classic offers timelessness, sophistication, functionality, and elegance. The ambiance created by our designers would deter any suspicion that this room provides our most humble square footage.

The Classic is obviously the low-budget room. He doesn’t like the phrase “deter any suspicion.”
Admit
it, Hotel Andaluz, you’ve got a handful of tiny, shit hole rooms, the ones above the hot kitchen or next to the noisy elevators, you can call them “Classic,” but I’ve got your number.

No on the Classic. If he’s going to have an affair, he’s going to have it in style.

The Premier room “maximizes its space.” Code for not much bigger than the Classic.

The King offers a “sensual bed” and Alan wonders what makes a bed sensual. Does a maid come in to turn down the bed, scatter the sheets with rose petals? Or does she undress and climb in the bed to wait for you? (Extra fee required.)

Which room should Alan pick? Or is the Hotel Andaluz the wrong place? Would he be better off in a big anonymous hotel near the airport? But he’s found himself seduced by the magic and grandeur and Moroccan-Spanish elegance of the Hotel Andaluz. He can impress everyone with his knowledge of Spanish—yes and no and thank you and watermelon. (
Sí
and
mucho
gracias
and
sandía
.) Nancy lives in Dallas. She’s probably fluent in Spanish and uses it with her housekeeper—not that people don’t do that in L.A. When Alan and Laurie bought their house, there was a sheet of paper taped to the utility room door with words in Spanish for broom and mop, washing machine, dryer, dishwasher. Please don’t use furniture polish on the hardwood floors (
Por
favor, no use cera para muebles en el piso de madera
). No words for
thank
you
or
you
did
a
good
job, see you next week
.

***

He can’t have an affair. It’s ridiculous. If Laurie knew what he was thinking, she’d laugh. “You? Have an affair? When? After work? Before softball?”

True.

“Where?” she’d ask him. “Here in our house? Suppose the neighbors see you. You’d never get away with it, you’re not sneaky enough.”

“You can’t keep a secret,” she’d say. “At Christmas or my birthday, I always know what you’re getting me because you give it away. I wanted a Bob Dylan CD collection and you walked around the house humming ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ and ‘All Along the Watchtower.’”

“You’re too afraid of getting caught.”

True again.

“And the guilt would kill you. When you leave the wrong tip, you go back to the restaurant the next day to make sure the waiter gets the right amount.”

That only happened one time. Okay, twice. But years ago he was a waiter, and it sucked when people didn’t leave enough, that doesn’t make him an idiot, does it?

“And you love me too much to have an affair,” Laurie would say. “Our wedding vows, remember?”

Back when they got married, he understood it. “In sickness and health”—miscarriages and infertility fell into that bit, didn’t they? And he’s stuck by his wife; he’s tried to be supportive. He knows he could have done a better job, and he didn’t understand exactly what she was going through, but he felt the loss too. She thought he didn’t because he’s a man and doesn’t experience emotions like she does. And maybe he doesn’t
exactly
, but that doesn’t mean he’s a lunkhead. Laurie needs to give him a little credit, doesn’t she?

However, if the priest had mentioned anything about switched sperm, he would’ve stopped the wedding cold and said, “Nope. I can handle everything else. But if years from now, when Laurie gets pregnant and we think it’s my baby, only we find out it’s not, then
all
bets
are
off.
” Would anybody have a problem with that? Doubtful.

Except for those know-it-all people who are always saying things like, “Adversity makes you stronger.” What a load of crap. Sometimes it’s okay to be a quitter, throw your arms up in the air, and say, “You know what? Fuck adversity.” He can’t take it anymore. He tried. It didn’t work. He’s done.

Dammit. Alan is responsible. He tries to be a good husband. He works hard and, not that he’s expecting a medal or sainthood, but shouldn’t he be able to have a kid,
his
kid
, without an insane amount of drama? Is that too much to wish for?

Apparently yes. So if someone asks him if he’s to blame for this affair—that admittedly hasn’t happened yet and most likely won’t—he’s not a weasel or a wimp or an asshole. But he is confused and lost, and he needs something to make himself feel better. For some guys that would be a new car. A Rolex. A trip to outer space to visit the International Space Station. But for Alan, at this particular shitty part of his shitty life, the only thing that will make him feel better is to be lying in a bed on Frette sheets in the Hotel Andaluz King room with Nancy Futterman.

***

He would never have an affair. For a million reasons. Like how would he explain to Laurie he’s going out of town for a business meeting in Albuquerque? “Albuquerque?” she’ll ask. “That’s weird, you’ve never had business there before.” “Palmer-Boone is opening up a new branch,” he’ll tell her, turning beet red and revealing the secret before he’s even had a chance to get in his car and drive to the airport.

Laurie is so distracted these days, she won’t know if there’s a new Albuquerque branch or not. She’s busy working on Hidden Valley and taking pregnancy yoga classes and researching lead-free baby toys and organic crib linens. He’ll come back from his weekend with Nancy and tell stories of boring meetings and dull conferences. “They stuck me in this hideous room; it was a joke. And they called it the Classic.” They’ll laugh about that together and he’ll describe the rooftop bar and the excellent Manhattan made with some special kind of cherry—not bright red like the usual ones, but smaller and darker, so delicious you want to eat them by the handful.

And when Laurie kisses him, she’ll know. It’s not about finding a pair of Nancy’s panties in his suitcase or Nancy’s lipstick on his collar; it’s about the kiss—the faint taste of Nancy that hasn’t gone away and won’t go away no matter how many times he’s brushed his teeth. All the showers in the world can’t erase the scent of Nancy in his skin.

She won’t ask it as a question; it will be a statement. Short, sweet, to the point. “You slept with someone else.”

And what can he say? He could try to massage the lie. “Me? I was in meetings the whole weekend.” That sounds lame. As lame as, “Who would I have an affair with?”

He could get angry, pull out his cell. “How
dare
you accuse me of having an affair. Here, call my boss. Ask him if I had an affair this weekend. Or if we were doing business at the five-star-rated Hotel Andaluz in downtown Albuquerque. I have deadlines too, you know.”

Or do the sad big puppy-eye thing. “You know me better than that. Betray our love and trust? Do you think I could ever do something like that? To
us
?”

No, she’d smell the bullshit on that one instantly.

Honesty? “You’re right. I said I went to Albuquerque on business and that was a lie. I went there to meet an old college girlfriend and we had sex. We stayed in the lovely Hotel Andaluz King room—so many pillows you wouldn’t believe it.”

She will slap him, burst into tears, walk away from him in silence. He’ll stay in the hallway, wondering what she’s doing. Crying? Packing a suitcase? Will she leave the house, suitcase in hand, get in her car and drive away? He could go talk to her. Apologize again. What can he do to make her feel better? Encourage her to have an affair? “Hey, our two affairs will cancel each other’s out. Who knew this would end up being a good thing?”

Worst idea yet.

She will appear with a gun he didn’t know she had and shoot him. The bullet will hit him square in the chest and he’ll be dead before his body hits the floor. He won’t hear her whisper above his dead body, “Justifiable homicide.”