... and Baby Makes Two (6 page)

“There's a difference?”

“Jane. Where were you tonight?”

As a rule, Jane could tell Ray anything. He had been by her side
through Sam, through Dean, and through a (mutual) case of food poisoning. She had helped him through a distressing number of bad boyfriends, so there was no reason not to tell Ray.

“Ray. I did something crazy today”

“Wow. Who did you sleep with?”

“No one. Although I might have to. Or not.”

She told him everything from the baby haunting to the red bathing suit, and she got sort of catty about the women and their outfits. She could do that with Ray.

Ray's breathing changed. It became very even, very serious. She couldn't read his face, but she was longing for his judgment. She started to babble.

“And I'm
still
seeing babies everywhere. And there's this one baby in my neighborhood. He always seems to have the sun right behind his head. I can hardly stand to look at him—he's so dazzling. I don't know how his mother does it. And out of nowhere, I met this guy and he asked me out. And let's be honest here: When's the last time that happened? So, what's going on here? Maybe … maybe everything just falls into place like that. Okay the guy's an actor, but still. Maybe you pay attention to everything else and then, all of a sudden, you meet a guy and you make babies and it all just happens.

Maybe that's what all these signs are trying to tell me. Oh, God, Ray, please say something.”

“Stop.”

Stop talking? Stop going down this motherhood path? Stop what?

“Stop looking for signs. That's so crazy-Irish of you. You're too smart to be superstitious.”

“I know. But am I crazy to want a baby? To even think about it? And is it crazy that I'm being haunted by babies like this?”

He took entirely too long to answer.

“Well,” he said with a sigh. “Don't you think it's about time?”

Time meaning her age? Her biological clock? “Time for what?”

“Relax. I mean, you always had a mothering thing going on. Jesus, drink your martini and get your shoulders out of your ears. Do you need my permission to have a baby?”

“No.” She didn't sound convinced. He knew what she wanted.

“Here's what I think: lucky baby. What a lucky baby to have you for a mom.”

Her shoulders relaxed. All this stuff was now on the table. She could have a whole conversation with Ray. Once again, he was all caught up and knew everything about her.

“But—please don't rush this Dick-Richard actor guy down the aisle and into the delivery room until I've had a chance to check him out.”

She promised. “What if I have to do this alone?”

“If anyone can, you can.” Was he keeping his real worries to himself for tonight? Did Jane look a little too vulnerable?

“My mother will freak.” Jane brought that one up.

“So? You're almost forty, Jane.” Ouch. “You don't need her permission.”

“I don't need her to freak, either.”

Ray ordered another round and said, “Once she sees that sweet little baby in your arms, she'll melt like ice cream and say, ‘my grand-
baby!' and you guys will be fine. Her freak-out—if it happens—will be temporary.”

The martinis arrived, and Ray raised his glass. “To Mama Jane.” And they drank.

“What's wrong?” Jane asked. She'd caught a small bite of sadness Ray was sure no one could see. “Come on, Ray. Let's do you now. What is it?”

“Josh. He said an Awful Thing. He's twenty-five years old, but he's a musician, so that gives him the right to act like he's fifteen. I think I don't like him anymore.”

He gulped his martini and said, “Josh says I'm too old to be a musician.”

Except for Sondheim musicals, Jane had never seen Ray show any special affection for music. Why was this the Awful Thing? Ray illustrated his pain with a battered copy of
The Village Voice.

“Look. See the musician ads? There's an age limit: twenty-eight. After that, you can't even try to join any of these bands. Twenty-eight. I'm a decade too old.”

“But you don't want to be a musician, do you? Why did he even bring it up?”

“To be mean. I have to break up with him. He's too mean.”

Jane hugged Ray, who signaled over her shoulder for another round of martinis.

“Don't play with mean boys. Okay?”

“Yes, Mama Jane. Oh, my God. You're going to be a mother. A
mother.”

“You're scaring me.”

“Too bad. Right now, we need to do me. What am
I
going to be?”

Jane had no answer, and she still held a half-full or half-empty martini glass when the next round appeared before them.

“I'm just some guy. I write about what other people do. I date mean men. I have good real estate karma, and I can make a perfect omelet. But what am I going to be when I grow up?”

“Not a musician. We've established that.”

There were muscles just behind his face that Ray could not control when he was deeply sad. He could only change the subject.

“And not an actor. And you! Don't put your daughter on the stage, Ms. Howe. What did you think of those weird little Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee kids? Why exactly were they so icky?”

As they talked about the play, Jane's impending motherhood became just another piece of the landscape. And that was enormously comforting.

Sunday morning, Jane awoke and shouted, “Dip! Cheese!”

She was out the door in less than twelve minutes, sprinting to Mulberry Street for That Cheese and the ingredients for That Dip. No time to make it at home, she would prepare the dip at her parents' house and claim that she wanted to hang out with them in the kitchen and bond. And who were they to say that she didn't want that?

She knew the Port Authority bus schedule by heart. She did her best bob and weave through the crowd and collapsed into a smelly bus full of unhappy people. The Bus of Fools. The Bus of the Damned. En route to … New Jersey.

For two minutes, she feared that she had forgotten her mother's birthday gift, but she hadn't. There it was: a handmade wood carving of the Gaelic word
Failte,
which means “welcome.” The letters were surrounded by Celtic swirls and designs.

Howard and Betty Howe still lived in the house where they had raised their four children. The top floor was shut off, notorious for losing heat to the outside
world. Betty had recently redecorated the downstairs in pink and blue pastel stripes. It looked like an ice cream parlor.

When it was completed, she'd declared, “I can't wait to get started on our bedroom!” and Howard had shuddered but made no protest.

Jane kissed her mother hello and held up her offerings: dip, cheese, and a present. Mom pushed the gift aside without opening it.

“I don't need anything. I'm old. I'm done,” she said at every birthday. She fingered a ringlet of her daughter's hair, absently, as she had done since Jane had hair. She related the tale of Jane's birth—so traumatic that “I had to stay in the hospital for nine days. I missed my own birthday. And all the doctors thought I was faking it. Just hiding from those crazy boys at home. But men don't know. They'll never know what we go through. Oh, Janie, Janie, Janie. You didn't bring a date, did you? For some reason, I thought you were bringing someone.”

“And I did. Mom, this is my friend Harvey. Harvey, meet Betty Howe.”

“I love
Harvey.
And don't make fun of Jimmy Stewart. It's un-American. By the way, false alarm. Kitty's not pregnant. I think she's starting menopause. And not a moment too soon.”

Outside, brothers Neil and Kevin were laughing and drinking beer (already) as they fired up the grill. The backyard still had the same bald spots, rocks, and bumps, but a new generation of children now skidded over it all.

“Hey Janie!” Kevin waved and tended the hot coals of his grill.

“Hi, Aunt Janie! What did you bring me?” asked Kevin's seven-year-old son. He and his six-year-old sister, five-year-old brother, and four-year-old cousin swarmed Jane. The sixteen-month-old toddled happily to her aunt.

“Let me see. I brought you … a
million dollars!
No. No, that's not it. I brought you … bubble pans!”

The children grabbed at the frying pan–sized bubble wands. Soon the backyard resembled some lunatic Lawrence Welk set.

“Don't get bubbles on the burgers!” shouted Kevin. “I'm not eating soap burgers!”

This prompted the children to bring the bubbles much closer to the burgers. Kevin went red, and his voice took on a jazz singer growl.

“I said, no!”

“Oh, now! Eating soap doesn't hurt you, Kevin,” Mom volunteered. “It cleans your intestines.”

“Oh, God, Mother!” Kevin exclaimed as he chased after children.

“You used to eat leaves!” she called after him, but he wasn't listening. Besides, she brought up that childhood tale whenever she wanted to overpower him as a parent. It had yet to work, but his mother believed in endurance.

“Right from that tree!” she added. Neil's wife, Linda, changed the subject. “The baby needs a nap,” she said as she scooped up her toddling girl.

Betty sighed. “And that's why she doesn't sleep at night. Too many naps.”

“There's my girl! There's my Calamity Jane!”

Howard Howe gave his daughter a gentle hug and kiss.

“Did you bring that cheese? I'm not supposed to have any, but this is a special occasion. The doctors will just have to zip their lips today.”

The lazy Susan on the kitchen table was a pharmaceutical stockpile. If a
37
-year-old was dizzied by it, how did the
37
-year-olds parents handle it? Heart, blood pressure, blood sugar—were human bodies supposed to last this long?

“Janie, I bought some candy for the kids. I think it's in the living room,” Betty said as she nudged Jane out of the kitchen.

That's where Janie found seven one-pound bags of mini candy bars. Underneath them was a stack of mail on one of the many decorative tables in the living room.

“Ma. You've got mail in here. It looks like birthday cards. Aren't you going to open them?”

“Bring in the candy”

Howard chimed in, “Never mind the candy. Where's that cheese?”

Betty had a pound of candy for each child, plus one “for a little snacking.” Betty was diabetic.

“Mom. This is too much candy—for them and for you. Come on. What did the doctor say?”

“Howard, look at this.” Betty ignored Jane and opened a refrigerator that was about to burst with too much food. A Land of Plenty image.

“I bought all this extra food—a whole deli platter—to go with the burgers and dogs. Why? Because, for some reason, I thought Janie was bringing a date. But Janie didn't bring a date. If only Janie had a date for the party. Someone to eat all this food. Right, Howard?”

“So my date was supposed to eat a whole deli platter? I've never dated a sumo wrestler, Mom.”

Jane's mom usually didn't even mention her date-free status. In fact, she usually seemed so complacent about Jane's impending spinsterhood that Jane could manage to work up feeling hurt by all that apathy. She knew perfectly well that Jane wasn't bringing a date.

“Guess I'll have to fix this. As usual” was Betty's exit line.

Why was Mom smiling when she left? And where did she go? Jane took a Lamaze breath and went back to making That Dip. She had started the horrible bus ride contemplating telling her parents about Choosing Single Motherhood. By the time the bus emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel, she knew she wouldn't do it. Not today. Not yet.

She went outside and played Tickle Tiger with her nieces and nephews. This complex game involved chasing them, roaring, and tickling whomever she managed to catch. It was a favorite.

The oldest grandchild, Dylan, was sitting by himself and sulking.

His chin was covered with a large gauze bandage. He dangled his skinny legs from a lawn chair and watched the grass grow.

“Okay, time out! The Tickle Tiger needs a time out!”

“Awwww!”

And Jane collapsed on the grass next to Dylan. She laid down and looked up at him. He switched his gaze to watch clouds roll by. He let out a deafening sigh.

“What happened, Dyl?”

“Nothing.”

It took several tries before he revealed that he had fallen off his bike and skidded along the curb chin first for a short stretch. He now had four stitches beneath all that gauze.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes! And Mom doesn't think so,
But it does! It does hurt!”

Jane's sister-in-law shrugged her shoulders from across the yard.

“You can probably have some aspirin, Dyl. That'll help a little. The stitches are really new, but they'll be out soon and they won't hurt anymore.”

“Aunt Janie! Don't you even get it? Hello! I'm switching to my new school Monday. Like,
this
Monday? And I'm gonna walk in with this big white bandage on my chin and look like the world's biggest loser!”

His mom shouted from across the yard, “Oh, you are not!”

“You don't know anything!”
Dylan was eleven years old, and it showed.

Jane couldn't bear to leave him like this. She had to fix it. Should mothers fix everything? Probably not, but Aunt Jane was going to fix this.