All Adults Here(29)

“You are really going for it, huh,” Rachel said, and laughed.

“This is how we do it in the country,” Porter said.

“Oh, please. They’re so cute!” Rachel stuck her hand through the fence, and two of the Alpines came over to nuzzle her fingers.

“That’s Boo Boo and Cassius Clay,” Porter said.

“You name them?” Rachel looked surprised. Rachel’s parents were city folk, through and through. Porter was surprised that Rachel had decided not to be, that she’d come back to Clapham.

“Of course I name them; I see them all day long, I have to call them something.”

“Aren’t they all women? I mean, female? Because they’re for milk?” Rachel was getting licked.

“I don’t believe in gender norms,” Porter said. “That’s why her name is going to be Elvis.” She rubbed her belly.

“You’re joking.” Rachel stopped and looked at her.

“I am. But maybe she’s a he, who knows? I’m open-minded. Come on, let’s go in.” Porter opened the gate and led Rachel to the jungle gym, where two more goats were playing.

“Do you ever feel like you just swallowed a lava lamp?” Rachel asked. “You know, like, little balls of goo floating up and down?”

“Ha, yes,” Porter said. “Also like hearing a squirrel just inside a wall, like, just tapping and trying to find its way out.”

“Also like I’m going to give birth and it’s just going to be the most massive poop in the world, with no actual baby.” Rachel stopped and put her hands flat against her belly. “I’m sorry. You’re not poop.”

“I love you,” Porter said. “Why are we the only normal people in the world? I’m so sick of all the books and apps that are like, golly gee, it’s an avocado!” She scratched Cassius Clay on the ear. “Do you actually have a name yet?” This was one of the reasons Porter was sorry not to have a partner—there was no one to bounce names off, no one to quickly rule out Jezebel or Strawberry or Loretta. Friends and family all had opinions, but their opinions didn’t matter, not really. This is what partners were for. She did have names on her list, real ones, but they existed only on a small piece of paper in her bedroom: Athena Cassiopeia Ursa Agnes Eleanor Louisa. She added to it and crossed things out but had yet to actually assign a single name to the person in her body.

“My husband’s friend just had a baby and named him Felix, which I really like,” said Rachel. Rachel didn’t know what she was having, a choice that Porter respected in other people but could never have handled herself, like being a marathon runner or going camping in the winter.

“I like Felix,” Porter said, crossing it off her future boy list in her head. Almost every woman she knew had been keeping lists like that since they were twenty. She and Rachel had talked about baby names when they were fourteen! It had been baked into both of them, this desire. It wasn’t for everyone, but Porter and Rachel had both been the type to plan ahead. Sometimes Porter looked at the most popular girl names for New York State just to rule things out. She didn’t want her daughter to have a name that six other girls in her first-grade class would have, one of many. She wanted to choose a name that would work for a Supreme Court justice, or an engineer, or a stern but fair high school English teacher, the kind of person who would have a library named after her someday.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about?” Rachel asked, extending her hand to get snuffled by Boo Boo again, a true glutton for attention, as most of the goats were. “All the people I could have married. Not that anyone else asked me! But all the strangers I could have chosen to have a baby with. Like, Sliding Doors, but with my life, instead of Gwyneth Paltrow. Is that the most depressing thing you’ve ever heard?”

Porter shook her head. “Yes. I mean, no, it’s not the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard. It’s my entire life. It’s also a fun game to play for other people. The good news is that I think you have to stop when you have children, because you know that whoever you give birth to wouldn’t be there if you’d made different choices. And when Elvis is born, or Felix, or Tallulah, or whoever, you and I are going to look at them and say, fuck, I’m glad you’re here, and not someone else, and whatever choices you made led you to that person, your little person, and so the past becomes perfect. The future can always change, but not the past. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “At least I hope so.”

Rachel shuffled over and wrapped her arms around Porter’s middle, the gentlest tackle. “Thank you for saying that. Why did we ever stop being friends? It’s so nice to be your friend. Right? Am I crazy?”

“You’re not crazy,” Porter said, and hugged her friend back. The goats gathered around their legs, a happy herd, always looking for more treats, more fun. One stepped on her foot and then wagged its tail. “I don’t know why. I mean, it’s not hard to keep in touch. I guess it’s easier than it used to be. Texting.”

“Oh, let’s be text friends, yes,” Rachel said. “Let’s text each other all day long. I’ll text you when my students are driving me crazy because they won’t stop texting.” She laughed, still hovering around Porter’s bump.

“In my head, I’m already texting you,” Porter said. “There, I just sent another one.” There had been reasons, though not good ones. Were there ever good reasons, for not being a good friend? She remembered a slumber party with six or seven girls, all of them in sleeping bags on the floor of her bedroom like hot dogs on a grill, lying next to each other, eyes wide open in the dark, talking about love. Each girl, in turn, proclaimed the boy she like liked, and then all the other girls would shriek and laugh. Rachel went before Porter, and she’d said Jeremy’s name first. When Porter said his name a minute later, all the other girls ooooooohed, because, of course, only one could win. It was like voting in a primary election: You could support only one friend’s crush on a boy. You couldn’t back two candidates in the same race. Was that when their friendship had begun to wane, that night? They had both sworn it was nothing and had banded together, but a few months later, when Jeremy had saved a seat for Porter in the last row of the school bus, Make Out Row, as it was called, she had zipped onto the pleather cushion as fast as her legs could carry her. It was nothing, of course, just a high school romance, kid stuff. Friends understood. Porter could say that to Rachel now, that she’d been a jerk, and it would be okay. Everyone made mistakes, especially when they were full of hormones and lust, the molten core of every teenage girl. And after that, Jeremy had been her primary relationship, the most important thing, and everything else had suffered, though she hadn’t mourned it at the time. She could tell Rachel that too. She would, when the right moment presented itself.