You Think It, I'll Say It(22)

“You don’t want Libby to be involved with other men?”

“Of course not,” he says. “But even more than that, I don’t want another domestic agreement, another fucking chore chart. I don’t want to have a respectful dialogue about how we can both get our needs met.”

Mark has been complaining about his marriage for a couple years, during which time, as far as I know, he and Libby haven’t gone to counseling, he hasn’t cheated on her, and he’s expressed his dissatisfaction to her barely, if at all. What he wants, it seems, is simply to vent, which is to say that perhaps he has been in counseling, with an unaccredited therapist, who happens to be me.

“Don’t cheat on her,” I say.



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From me: Do you know the story behind “Symphonie fantastique”? Berlioz said it’s about a man going insane because of how in love he is with a woman. Which is so awesomely dark and dreary! The real/autobiographical version is that Berlioz fell in love with an actress and wrote the piece to attract her. She eventually heard it, she married him, and they were miserable together. So if it’s symphony as love letter, maybe that letter would have been better off left unanswered?



* * *



—

After waiting three days, I text Bonnie again: You free?

She usually responds right away, but this time, unprecedentedly, she doesn’t respond at all. It is possible, of course, that she’s traveling, or that she lost her phone, or that she’s simply preoccupied.

Just to be sure, I wait another day and text once more: Hope all is well.

Again, there is silence. And it’s not that I didn’t know this eventuality was possible, not that I don’t understand. It’s not even that I care much that she’s ghosted me; I just wouldn’t have guessed it to be her method of choice.



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My favorite Berlioz is “Harold in Italy”—the viola concerto he wrote for Paganini, but Paganini rejected it because the viola part was too easy and not flashy enough. Then after hearing it, Paganini changed his mind. In addition to telling a story, it has weird phrase lengths. (Maybe related to Berlioz being a big user of drugs?) My favorite part is the 2nd movement, “Marche des pèlerins” (March of the Pilgrims). The viola starts to play ponticello arpeggios over the walking bass and it’s a series of chord changes with this special trance-like sound. The first time I went to Paris, I heard it in my head as I wandered around.



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—

Mark is standing in the driveway when I arrive, his legs spread, his torso tilted right, his left arm extended over his head. “You’re not gonna fuckin’ believe it,” he says. “Libby’s preggers. Guess the old sperm have got some juice yet.”

No! I think. But this is a visceral reaction, and selfish; it’s not that I don’t want another child for Mark and Libby or, for that matter, a niece or another nephew. “Amazing,” I say aloud.

“Fourteen-year age gap between our oldest and youngest kids.” Mark holds his hand up for me to high-five and says, “No joke, this is gonna be the baby that launches a thousand vasectomies.”

“But you’re happy?” By which, of course, I mean, Is this the point where we both start pretending you haven’t spent the last few years confiding your adulterous fantasies?

“Children are so life-affirming!” Mark says. “That moment when you bring home a newborn from the hospital, all tiny and wrapped in a blanket. You think, Jesus, everyone in the world was once this young, floating on a tide of parental love and hope. That’s before they turn into teenage assholes.”

It’s hard not to wonder if it’s really babies Mark loves, or if it’s more that he’s sentimental for the last time there were babies in his house—for when he was younger and his marriage was fresher. I am not, however, enough of a jerk to ask.

I’ve been running in place, and when he joins me, we head east. He adds, “Besides, she’s the one who’ll have to get up for most of the night feedings.”



* * *



—

I knew already; she told me, via email, two months ago.

She wrote, So I’m pregnant. Not on purpose. Haven’t told Mark (yes, it’s his, in case it seems like I’m implying otherwise—not physically possible that it WOULDN’T be). Anyway, if I get through the first trimester (and it’s very plausible I won’t, given my age) you and I should stop emailing. FYI.

Wow, I replied. Congratulations?

A part of me always wanted a third, she wrote, but I didn’t expect it to happen at this late date. You think he’ll be excited or freaked out?

You’d know better than I would, I wrote back.

I wouldn’t be so sure, she replied.

This was the first email about something other than music I’d received from her in ten months. In the beginning, many emails were about other things, though music was their point of origin. I’d been at their house for a Sunday dinner, and Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto no. 5 had been playing from a kitchen speaker as Libby pulled lasagna from the oven, I dressed the salad, and Finn set the table. I said, “I’ve always loved this piece,” and Libby said, “Did you know it’s the first-ever keyboard concerto?” I shook my head, and she said, “Because there were no pianos back then, just harpsichords.” Then, seamlessly, she turned and said, “Finn, tell Dad and Noah to come in for dinner.”