Bundle of Joy? Page 2

  Armando, though a player, was always pretty honest with women about not looking for a relationship. Our former roommates had said they were okay with a casual affair, but Armando brought women home several times a week. I’d learned to sleep through these escapades, which often got pretty loud, but the roommates who’d slept with Armando couldn’t handle it, and I don’t blame them. I’ve seen Armando in action. He’s a flirt, but he makes you feel like you are the only person in the room. Sometimes I melted when he said my name in his sweet song of a way.

  We actually could have had two extra bedrooms, but after the married couple, I worked enough to pay more for the tiny windowless room I used as an office. In any other city, it would be considered a closet, but in New York people settled for whatever they could afford.

  “’Arry came to the restaurant last night wit his fren, you know?”

  After five years, Armando was finally getting used to same-sex relations. He often treated Christopher Street like a tourist attraction, taking his compatriots there when they got off the plane. “He say me, he wan live with ’im. He pay to de end of the mounth.”

  “Great. Now we have to get someone else.”

  “You put in ad,” Armando said, half request, half assumption that I would do what was necessary to find that perfect roommate—one that would stay out of my way, and not succumb to Armando.

  “I’ll do it. We still have to the end of the month.”

  Armando looked at me with his otherworldly dark eyes. I knew he was thinking about the two occasions I hadn’t placed the ad right away. Those had been lean times—both Armando and I had budgeted our months pretty tightly—although my budget always included squirreling a lot away into savings, a habit instilled in me by my frugal family.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, procuring the perfect smile from Armando. “I’ll do it today.”

  It would help me procrastinate, after all.

  2

  I got one of the little booths at Murray’s so I would have a clear view of Jamie when she entered. I wanted to see if she looked any different. I thought I might be able to tell if she was preggo.

  Jamie arrived looking done up as usual. Working at Flirty Cosmetics had totally changed her style. In high school and college, she rarely wore makeup and didn’t do anything to her light brown, pin-straight hair.

  But once she graduated from college and completed her internship at Flirty she had had a complete makeover. Now that she was VP of marketing there was never a stray hair on her brow line, her hair was highlighted and twisted into elaborate buns, and her outfits told the world she was an exec who meant business. She could recognize who did the highlights on celebrity heads and knew all about spa treatments. I wondered if she would be one of those super-moms with nannies and play dates and pictures of her offspring in beautiful frames on her desk.

  “The usual?” she said after kissing me hello.

  I already had my coffee, but she got in line to order our toasted whole-wheat bagels with low-fat chive cream cheese and a tomato on the side.

  She slid into the booth following her gigantic Kate Spade briefcase.

  “Did it take?” I said, scraping some of the massive amounts of cream cheese off the hot bagel. No matter what you asked for, they gave you enough cream cheese for at least three bagels.

  “What?” How could she drop a bomb like “trying” and then not follow me when I asked about it?

  “You know,” I said, searching for a glow. “Do you think the puck made the goal now that the goalie’s been pulled?”

  “Jeez, Voul, I don’t know yet.” She started to eat her bagel.

  I found the whole thing kind of disturbing, but I had spent all night thinking about it. I couldn’t help but compare myself to her. Okay, nothing in our life was really comparable, but I couldn’t help feeling even more behind if she was already at the “trying” stage. I wanted to know what was ahead for her. I wanted details. I wanted someone to come and tell me the future. I hated uncertainty. I was scared of surprise. My jaw began to clench with anxiety.

  I decided on another approach. What had once been Jamie’s favorite subject, her favorite metaphor, what her mind always went back to…sex.

  “Was the sex any different?” I saw I’d hit something. When she wasn’t having sex, she wanted to be talking about it. It was lucky for me, because some of my best pitches for women’s magazines came out of her knowledge and expertise.

  “Well, when we first started trying, you know, halfheartedly, it was really exciting. But now, there’s a certain lack of spontaneity. And…oh, forget it.”

  Already this baby thing was making her less forthcoming. I prodded. I’m good at that.

  “And what?”

  She took another bite of her bagel. I noticed her eyeing my coffee. It had to be hard to give that up. Why was coffee bad for “trying” women anyway? I offered my cup. She took it guiltily and gulped some down. I was heartened. She was breaking rules already. That was the push I needed. Leaning closer, I repeated my question. “And what?”

  “Well,” Jamie started, continuing to chew the bagel unbearably slowly. “You can’t really get creative on positions.”

  There was a time in Jamie’s life when she felt a true boyfriend was one who could sustain all positions from the Kama Sutra. When she met Raj, he made the cut and then some.

  “So, missionary?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was that satisfying?”

  “Well, not exactly. The thing is, orgasm supposedly helps your fertility. I read that somewhere. Did you write it?”

  “No, my only fertility article was the one debunking the myths.” I tried not to convey that I wished she’d read it more carefully and had waited a little longer. I wondered if I could pitch an article about strange methods of baby-making. “Pulling the Goalie” would be the perfect title.

  “Oh, right,” she said. Now she was ready to tell all. “So, I didn’t, you know, come. Usually if I wasn’t going to, Raj wouldn’t either.”

  In my wildest dreams I could not imagine a man as perfect as Raj. He was as sensitive as Armando was good looking, but also quite sexy. It wasn’t so much his looks, which were fine, but his confidence.

  “I guess he kind of had to, though,” I said. “You sort of need that. For a baby.”

  She nodded and reached out for another sip of my coffee, looking guilty again but quickly getting over it.

  “So why didn’t you do it again or do something else?” My notebook was in my bag—would it be impolite to take notes?

  “Because, I felt like I needed to lie still for a while.”

  “Give those boys a chance to get where they needed to be.”

  “Uh-huh.” She laughed and looked around. “Also, I had a pillow under me to kind of angle myself, you know, up.”

  “This sounds far too clinical.”

  The laugh came again, the “you, my friend, are so ignorant of the sacrifice one makes for a perfect little human” laugh. “It was, but it’s worth it.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “So are you going to do this again tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. I hope you get more out of it.”

  “I think we’ll try more foreplay. I think we’re starting to get desperate. Last night we were a little eager.”

  It was possible that I was learning too much.

  “Right.” I had barely touched my bagel. I was about to rectify that when Jamie looked at her watch.

  “I’ve got a meeting with Accessories at ten. Is everything okay with you?”

  I could have told her about the roommate situation, but the story would have turned into a saga. Other than that everything was the same. Except for the articles I work on, nothing really changes for me. If she had had more time, Jamie might have hounded me about meeting a guy or trying Internet dating. But she didn’t, so we said goodbye and she reminded me that I was invited to her parents’ summer house in Block Island in a couple of months.

  When I
got home, there were fifty-six messages on our voice mail. Usually this would be exciting. Calls meant potential money. If editors were calling in response to some pitch I sent them, I was set. For someone like me who worried a lot about money, the future and nest eggs, the profession I had chosen was a constant and precarious struggle.

  But I’d placed the ads for the apartment and I knew most of the calls would be from interested people. Each of these people would have his or her own series of questions and concerns, each would mean time I would have to take away from writing and put into small talk. Then of course there would be the interviews, and Armando would be grumpy about having to get up earlier than usual. The task was daunting.

  I listened to all the messages in case one was from an editor. It was just past ten and I doubted the ads had been up for that long, but people were desperate. I sighed. Fifty-five of the messages were from interested potentials; one was from my mother.

  Dealing with my mother was possibly more disturbing than dealing with all of the potential roommates, editors and twinkles in Jamie’s eye combined. I tried to imagine who my mother was when she was younger. By my age she already had three daughters and a husband who was disappointed that she couldn’t produce a son. It was an amazing revelation for me in seventh grade when I realized that men determine the sex of the baby. I told my mother and she ignored me; I wouldn’t have dared tell my father.

  You wouldn’t know it from the annoyance that punctuated every Greek word of my mother’s message, but at one time she was happy. She had to have been.

  I remember my older sisters telling me that my parents had always planned to return to Cyprus. They had moved to New York right before Turkey occupied the northern area, their homeland. I was born the following year—another disappointing girl—but the first in my family to be an American citizen.

  We went back every other year to visit, but my mother was embarrassed that we had to stay with relatives who’d moved south. Year by year, she got more tense. Two years after Cristina died, my father moved back by himself and found an apartment near where my uncle had relocated in Cyprus. My parents talk as much as they ever did—which is not much— and still consider themselves married.

  To simplify things, I tell people I’m Greek. It’s the language we spoke, and screamed, at home. Most people don’t even know that the island nation of Cyprus exists, but because of Cyprus’s prime location in the Mediterranean Sea, close to Asia, Africa and Europe, it has been invaded by just about everyone at some point in its history. My features represent that: medium brown hair, fair skin that tans dark, eyes that are almost black. I’ve been mistaken for Puerto Rican, Italian, Arabic, and Raj, when I first met him, assumed I was half Indian.

  I decided to call my mother back first. Guilt always got the better of me. My mother was alone and she couldn’t help but be the way she was. She’d already lost one of her daughters, and the other one, my sister Helen, had abandoned her (well, she had been sort of kicked out). I was all she had.

  “Ti kanis, mama?” I asked when she answered the phone.

  “Oh, it is time to call your mother at last,” she said in Greek.

  I closed my eyes and didn’t say anything. My mother continued with a litany of health complaints. I imagined her with her graying hair up in a loose knot and her back stooped over after years spent hunched at her sewing machine, making gowns she could never afford.

  “Are you coming home this weekend or do you have plans with strangers?”

  For the most part I led the life of a nun, but my mother suspected I was disgracing her somehow. Once, Armando answered the phone without checking the caller ID and I had to make up elaborate lies about why there was a man in my house.

  I told my mother that I lived with two sisters who worked with Jamie. She didn’t know how wild Jamie was. She had always thought of Jamie as smart and respectable, so I figured the Jamie association would legitimate the imaginary roommates. But the lie didn’t matter, my mother wouldn’t have believed me even if it were true. Fortunately for all of us, she never came to my apartment. She rarely left Astoria, where the owners of the shops she frequented and the bankers who helped her save money spoke to her in Greek.

  My mother disapproved completely of an unmarried woman not living in her parents’ house, no matter how old she was. She had thrown a fit every time I brought up moving out, but when I’d finally had my fill of living in Astoria and sharing a home with her constant criticism, that’s what I did. I was twenty-six. I cried for two weeks in my new place. Jamie came over every day. I’m sure Armando was convinced he was living with a psycho. Logically, I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I felt just awful for leaving my mother alone. She didn’t speak to me for three months. Eventually she must have realized that without me, she was alone except for my father’s sister in New Jersey, because she began talking to me again. Of course, she always made sure I understood I’d disappointed her. I placated her by going home almost every weekend.

  “Nay, mama, I’ll be home.”

  “Bravo. I’m glad you’re not too busy writing about disgusting things.”

  I had made the mistake of showing my mother one of my earliest book reviews in a women’s magazine. Unfortunately the word sex was on the cover twice, along with a photo of an embracing couple. My mother never even got to my review. She dismissed my job as yet another disgrace.

  Jamie’s mom, Maura, once asked me if I thought maybe my mom was going through menopause. If so, it was the longest menopause ever. Maura also delicately broached the subject of my mother being mentally unstable.

  “Well, she has a right to be,” I’d snapped. “Her daughter is dead.”

  It was one thing to complain about your family, but it was another to let other people disrespect them. I couldn’t help being protective of my family, fuck-ups and all. My mother would be furious if I questioned her sanity; I knew that counseling was not an option for her.

  Sometimes I burst into tears when I got off the phone with my mother. Feeling a little sorry for myself made me feel a lot better. But, after this call, I worked for four straight hours on a piece for Breathe.

  The phone rang repeatedly as I tweaked the article, but I ignored it. When Armando woke up, I decided he should return some phone calls for a change.

  “I no know what I mus ask,” Armando pleaded.

  But I had decided to be immune to his charms this morning (well, afternoon). I just didn’t want to deal with anyone after talking to my mom.

  “Look, Armando. Find out if they smoke, if they have any crazy habits, what kind of hours they keep, et cetera. Pick five who sound nice, tell them to come for an interview tomorrow. Let’s just get this settled.” Even though I was comfortable having him make the initial inquiries, there was no way he was going to do the interviews on his own. I knew he would be swayed by a pretty woman, they would sleep together, and we would be back in the same boat.

  “What about my Englis?”

  “You’re English is fine.” My parents pulled this too, when they were feeling lazy about things. An accent wasn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card. He had to pull his weight.

  I paid no mind when, minutes later, I heard his sighs as he paced his room yelling questions into the phone at perspective roommates.

  I decided to sneak out for an early dinner before he finished. This way, by the time I got back, he would be out at his job. One thing I really enjoyed about being freelance was the freedom. I had no real contact with the outside world for hours and occasionally days at a time, and I could have a sweet or savory crepe any time of the day without incurring disapproving looks from bosses or co-workers. If I failed to produce an article by the deadline, an editor would probably never use me again. But the only person I had to answer to at the end of the day was me. I really cherished this about my job. Sometimes I heard people complaining about their bosses and co-workers and I knew that I had made the right career choice. I didn’t owe anyone anything. I could rely on the person I always ha
d— me. I was just starting to feel like my life was normal and my hang-ups were manageable. Even my money concerns and the constant hustle for articles paled against the happiness I felt being a writer.

  I went to the Le Gamin on 9th Avenue and 21st. It’s a tiny French restaurant packed with about fifteen tables where the servers aren’t in a rush and nor is anyone else. There were a couple of other people in the café. When I worked at the nonprofit, my first and only “real” job, I always wondered who all the people were that I saw out on the street during the day. I was envious of their time. Now, I felt camaraderie with them. We were free.

  I scanned the menu and then ordered a chicken ratatouille crepe and a large iced coffee. It was around four, and this was the time I usually started to fade. The first sip of coffee hit me quick and I pitied Jamie her self-imposed kick.

  I went over to the magazine rack to grab something to read while I waited. Sometimes I told myself that everything I did was billable, like I was a lawyer. Sure, I was shirking calling other editors, but flipping through magazines meant I was boning up on formats and what types of stories were selling. I was being…productive.

  I was studying my possible employers when my crepe came. I loved how they served it with a salad. For just under ten bucks I had a relatively balanced dinner.

  Some people are scared to be out alone, I actually relish it. My mother thought decent women didn’t go places by themselves. She thought only prostitutes did things like that. I guess I used to wish I had someone with me, but now I’ve sort of accepted the way things are. I like the fact that I make my own rules and have my own pace.

  The idea of going through the whole roommate search again was daunting. Maybe it was time to search for a new place instead of a new person. But I liked my location, my rent and most importantly I liked procrastinating. I doubted I’d ever motivate enough to move out.

  I felt the breeze of the door open, and a group of six mothers came in pushing strollers. They chattered loudly, oblivious to the quiet they were invading. A couple of the kids were crying. The mothers bumped into chairs, including mine, and muttered insincere apologies before settling the posse into the two long tables right behind where I was sitting.