On Turpentine Lane(51)

“How’s this: Stuart announced, on the verge of tears and with his hand over his heart, that he . . . how should I put this? . . . successfully fertilized the egg of a lesbian.”

“Whaat?”

“You heard me. He artificially inseminated—well, I assume it happened artificially—an ovulating friend of his mothers’.”

“Wait . . . please tell me he confided this to you in private?”

“No! He gathered everyone around, got up on an ottoman, and clinked a glass to get our attention.”

“And his guests said what?”

“Except for his proud mothers, everyone looked bewildered, as in why is he telling us this? Especially because the recipient is something like one day pregnant.”

“And that’s standard—the sperm donator finds out whether he hit a home run?”

“Probably not.”

“Is he going to be the kid’s father? I mean obviously biological, but involved with him? Throwing the ball around? Christmas and Thanksgiving and alternate weekends?”

“From what I could tell, no, no rights. Although, who knows what he’s dreaming of.”

Nick then asked—rather delicately, I thought—what Brooke’s reaction had been.

“I wasn’t watching Brooke.” Made brave or just undiplomatic by aperitivo and wine, I then presented that which I had resolved to keep to myself: a faithful reconstruction of Brooke’s sudden misplaced rage.

“Believe me, I know,” he said.

“Know what?”

“Her opinion.”

“Of what?”

“This. Us. The fact that we share an office and a house.”

We were at the restaurant’s smallest table, against a back wall, clearly earmarked for two people on a date, concerted effort needed for knees not to intermingle. I had no right to ask how often he and Brooke spoke, and about what, so I just dipped morsel after morsel of bread in the saucer of olive oil, commenting on nothing.

Nick, facing the entrance, said, “Oh, shit.” I turned to see Claudio greeting a man with a guitar and two female companions, all dressed like carolers on an antique Christmas card.

“Oh, crap,” Nick murmured. He shook his head strenuously in Claudio’s direction, but it was too late. I heard a note from the guitarist’s pitch pipe, leading to nods and then, “Come, they told me . . . pa-rum pum pum pum pa . . .”

“Not your doing, I trust,” said Nick. “As in your holiday guilt?”

“Carolers? Wouldn’t know where to start,” I said.

“They’re not bad,” Nick said. “But where’s our Bolognese?”

Weren’t we on the topic of Brooke’s bad behavior? When the singers stopped for a guitar tune-up and sips of water, I told Nick, “Now I’m going to say something that takes chutzpah. Ready?”

He leaned back in his chair. “I’m all ears.”

I said, “Maybe I’m way off base, but Brooke seemed . . . jealous.”

Did Nick answer on point? Did he confirm that Brooke’s possible jealousy was either a figment of my imagination or had a basis in fact? Neither. “Oh, she can be irrational all right” was his inadequate answer.

“Something’s wrong with her,” I persisted.

“And you don’t think I know that?”

“Yet . . . ?”

“Yet nothing.”

“Because you seem . . .” I wanted to say “vulnerable,” but downgraded that to “not quite detached.”

“I am not the slightest bit interested in getting back with Brooke—”

“Even if she said, ‘I don’t need a proposal. I don’t need a ring. I’d be happy just . . . living with you’?” I must’ve pronounced the last sentence in a voice that sounded scratchy, because Nick did something that he’d never done before. He came forward from his near recline, touched my wrist with his index finger, then ran it lightly down to my knuckles.

I looked up. Nick wasn’t smiling, but was staring most intently.

Was this a friendly gesture or something else? I must’ve looked confused, because he added, “That wasn’t the alcohol talking.”

I knew it was my move. I let one of my heretofore restrained knees rest against one of his outstretched legs. We didn’t speak, but just sat there like that.

The carolers, mistaking our silence for musical appreciation, moved closer. If they weren’t singing “O Holy Night,” they should’ve been.





32





December 23–24


SOMETIMES, BY MUTUAL agreement, two people have to table a consummation. Very much in the don’t-do-anything-rash column was our success as house-and officemates. It wasn’t merely inadvisable to take up with a coworker, but at Everton Country Day, sexual congress with almost anyone has been actionable since the 1990s when Anita Hill was our commencement speaker.

We proceeded thoughtfully, which is to say nothing happened on Christmas Eve eve. After sharing Bolognese, scaloppini, eggplant parmigiana, and tiramisu on the house, back on Turpentine Lane, at the top of the stairs, we kissed good night, almost chastely, before backing into our respective rooms, smiling. The next morning, I came to breakfast in a diaphanous nightgown I’d once purchased optimistically. It was lacy in the bosom and pale pink, a color they call blush. For modesty’s sake, I added a cardigan. Nick was at the stove, frying eggs over easy. Odd to see him clean shaven this early. And in nothing but Christmas-themed boxers, as if there had been an emergency call to the stove.