The Book Club

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m running late as it is. I’ve got to be on time for the building inspection.”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

He gave a short laugh and muttered something under his breath about how she’d got that right. Annie could feel her temper rise.

“You know what I mean…”

“How about tonight? I don’t have the time right now, and frankly, I’m not in the mood. I’m sure your egg won’t dissolve in a few hours.”

“I can’t tonight. I’m booked with pro bono appointments, remember?”

He put his hands on his hips and thought. “Okay then, lunch. I’ll find a way to meet you here at, what, twelve-thirty?”

Annie frowned and shook her head. “I can’t. I’m in trial this morning. Damn, this is harder than arranging a business meeting.”

“That’s what our sex life is beginning to feel like.”

“Well, whose fault is that?” she retorted, flipping back the covers and rising in a huff. “Every time we make love lately it’s wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”

John’s face colored red against the white shaving cream. “That’s because that’s how I feel. I get called to service you on a minute’s notice. You lie there like a rock and afterwards you don’t say anything, just prop a bunch of pillows under your hips and watch the clock.”

“Thanks a lot. You know damn well that’s to increase the chances of fertilization.”

“Knowing it doesn’t change the fact that it cuts out any of the cuddling and talk we used to do after sex. I’m getting really sick of this routine, Annie. Sick and tired.”

“You’re the one who wanted a baby!”

“Not just me. Don’t throw that on me now.” He paused and she could see him visibly collect back his anger and calm himself. “And I do want one,” he said, his voice conciliatory. “But why can’t we make a baby like other couples? Why does it always have to be so manipulated and controlled?”

“Because frankly we haven’t been so lucky in the conception department, have we? It’s been eight months, so this isn’t exactly as easy as we thought it’d be. We need to increase our odds. I’ve done the research.”

“Research…” He shook his head, then faced her. “So it’s been eight months. So what? You do this with everything, Annie. When you want something you want it now. You forge ahead and leave no room for error. It’s do this, do that. Just look at the way you’re eating nothing but sausages and bananas!”

She stuck out her chin and her eyes flashed. “It raises the sodium and potassium levels in my body. You said you wanted a boy.”

“No, I said I didn’t care. You want the boy, Annie, and that’s what I’m talking about. Just having a baby isn’t good enough. You’re even trying to control the sex of the child!”

“You make it sound like I’m some sort of sex Nazi!”

“You are!”

“Well, I quit!” she shouted back, furious now. Reaching over, she grabbed the chart and tossed it in the air. The pages covered with little penciled squiggles fluttered in the air between them. “I quit, do you hear me? You can take this damn thermometer—” she picked it up and threw it at him “—and this whole damn project—” in a blind fury she grabbed the alarm clock “—and shove it!” She hurled the clock. John ducked and it crashed against the wall behind him, falling to the floor in a dozen pieces.

When John straightened, his shock and fury were evident in the tautness of his shoulders and the clenched fist around the razor.

Annie stood on the other side of the bed staring back, panting, arms at her side. A glob of shaving cream was hanging from his chin by a slim thread of soap. It thinned and fell soundlessly to his chest. He looked so shocked, so…funny standing there naked with a half-shaved face amid the rubble of an alarm clock, that she started to laugh. Now that her anger and frustration were spent, her mind cleared. It was always this way with her. When her anger flared she was blinded by a red smoke of fury. Once she exploded, however, the anger was gone and she let it go without a grudge.

Now, Annie was sorry for her explosion of temper, sorry that she’d goaded him, sorry that she’d thrown the clock. Sorry, too, that their love life was in shambles.

“You think this is funny?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied honestly. Then, with the smile disappearing, she said more soberly, “In a pitiful kind of way.”

“Well, I’m not laughing.” He turned to go back into the bathroom.

“What are we yelling at each other about?” she called after him. “I want to make love to you, John. Most husbands would be grateful to wake up to a horny wife.”

He paused and turned his head over his shoulder. It was sadness, not humor, she saw in his eyes. “Yeah, so would I.”

That stung. She felt the desire to fight flare up again, but she controlled it, instead flopping on the bed and pinching her lips tight. The rigidity of her shoulders and the tilt of her head as she stared at the wall spoke very clearly of her pique. Not just at the fact that he was being obstinate, but at the fact that she wasn’t yet pregnant. And more, at his seeming willingness to dump the whole responsibility for getting pregnant at her feet.

All that was left unsaid between them she understood clearly. It was her job to conceive, because she was a woman. And it was her failure if she didn’t conceive. Annie didn’t like failure.

“Just forget it,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. She was half serious, half testing. “Just forget the whole damn thing.”

There was a tense silence during which Annie sat seething, extremely aware, without seeing him, that John was still standing in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at her. She waited for what seemed an eternity, knowing that he was warring within himself whether or not Annie would really dump the baby project. She was taking a calculated risk: John excelled at long silences. If he went into one of his grand sulks, it could go on for days. But she didn’t have days. Her body—her egg—needed him and his sperm—today.

“Annie,” he said at last, his voice conciliatory. “This has got to stop.”

She knew instantly that he didn’t want to give up the effort to have a baby, no matter what he said, and felt a profound relief.

“We’re fighting more than ever,” he continued, walking near. “And it’s because we’re getting all freaked out about this baby thing. I hate charting our lovemaking. It’s so clinical, so perfunctory, so routine. It’s everything I’m against.”

“You think I like it?”

“No, I don’t.” He put his hand on her shoulder—a first step. She leaned into his body. “I miss making love to you, Annie. The way we used to. Spontaneously.”

“I do, too,” she said softly.

“These matings…” He almost spat out the word. “I don’t like what they’re doing to us and I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s just not worth it.”

She turned to face him, uneasy that he’d even consider stopping the effort, realizing the depth of his despair to even suggest it. She wanted a baby. Badly. More than anything else. She just had to have one.

“Sure it is, John,” she replied persuasively. He needed encouragement now. Gentle cajoling. “I know you want a baby. I know I can give you one. Hey,” she said, venturing a smile. “You know my motto. Nothing worthwhile comes easily. I’d say a baby was worthwhile, wouldn’t you? So we just have to work a little harder for it. Right? And you know what?” she asked, her voice teasing, “I can’t think of a job I’d rather have than this one. Come on, John,” she said, tugging off his towel. With a half smile, she reached up to playfully wipe the remaining shaving cream off his face. Then, dropping the towel and her gaze, she leaned forward to kiss his body seductively.

“Let’s try again,” she whispered, turned on by his erection.

She opened her arms, and when he slipped into them, she smiled exultantly. The timing was ripe for this, she thought as she returned his kisses and maneuvered him into her body. “Oh yes, John, I love you,” she whispered by his ear. She did love him.

And she was sure she would make him a wonderful baby this morning.

The following week, Midge peered out her window and frowned at the thick layer of snow covering the streets. Her mother was due for a visit soon and even a Chicago native like Edith could have trouble after several years in balmy weather. Midge had not worried about her mother since she’d moved to Florida ten years earlier. Her brother in Atlanta visited Edith in Vero Beach frequently and often brought his wife and children with him. It was a happy arrangement, one that freed Midge from feeling any guilt over the few times she’d traveled south herself. Years of therapy had taught her to relish the breathing space.

She stepped away from the window to finish the dread job of cleaning up her loft. Midge put cleaning house right up there with cooking and ironing on her hate-to-do list. Domestic chores bored her and what was the point? She lived alone and food didn’t particularly interest her. Most mornings she’d pour cereal into her empty coffee cup to avoid dirtying another dish, and dinner was a frozen low-fat entree cooked in the box. The scent of the turkey breast currently roasting in the oven beside two baked potatoes was foreign in this loft.

Midge scooped up a pile of discarded towels from the bathroom floor, looked at them a minute, then threw them in the bathtub and drew the plastic shower curtain. Next she shot sprigs of Windex on the sink and mirror, then gave them a quick once-over. A little sparkle and shine worked wonders, she thought as she scanned her bathroom. It was a functional room with visible plumbing, a basket full of newspapers and magazines beside the toilet, and her toiletries scattered on a dusty wrought-iron table.

Her mother would hate it. There were none of the feminine touches Edith deemed essential. No wide, well-lit mirrors, or matching towels, not even a scale—and God knew her mother never started a day without a pee and a weight check.