“He seems nice.”
“He does.”
“He’s very cute.”
“He is.”
“He seems to like Katie.”
“Which is a good thing because she really likes him.”
“Think she’s made her mind up?”
“Since before she met him,” I said.
We were sitting on the floor in the living room, all three of us. Atlas had learned to sit up while I was at school in the morning and spent much of the evening, despite his cold, demonstrating for our squeals and applause. I was grading papers on my lap, clapping for Atlas, throwing the ball to Uncle Claude, and talking to Jill all at the same time.
“Think how good you’ll be at multitasking when you have a baby,” she said, and it stopped me because I had a moment, two, three, when I was confused by the word “when,” when my brain flashed an unarticulated, confused “But I already have a baby” across the sky. I shrugged it off.
“You’re getting worse at it,” I said, not to be mean, just because she’d presented an opening.
“I was never very good at doing too many things,” she said. “I like to put lots of energy into one thing—teach one class or take one class or write one paper or read one book.”
“Graduate school isn’t like that.”
“Right, so I’m . . . cutting back. What’s more important than being a good mother?”
I did not feel like just-a-friend with an undefined place in this family. I felt like a fifties father, like my parenting role was superfluous and unappreciated. Really, my job was to bring home the bacon. And shop for it and plan meals around it and cook it and clean up afterwards. Which hardly seemed fair.
“You’ve got lots of help parenting,” I pointed out.
“I don’t mean changing diapers and babysitting and putting him to bed or feeding him or whatever. I mean emotional energy, giving him my undivided attention, freeing myself up to notice his little progresses and setbacks, never saying, ‘I have something more important to do.’ ”
“Isn’t that a little . . . narrow? Wouldn’t it kill you if someone’s only thing in the world were you?”
“No, I think that would be lovely,” said Jill. And then, “Why do you think he got all quiet when Peter held him?”
“Peter seems to have some experience with babies. Katie looked like she was going to cry. Didn’t she say he has little sisters?”
“Yeah, but I mean we’re good with babies, especially this one, and he was fussy all afternoon.”
“He has a cold.”
“Not when Peter held him.”
“Change of scenery?”
“Change of sex.”
Change of tone. I heard her voice catch and braced myself for what was coming.
“I think it’s because he’s a guy,” she said.
“Atlas?”
“Peter. I think Atlas needs a man. Maybe a bunch of women isn’t good for him. It must feel different being held by a man. Maybe there’s some connection there we just can’t provide.”
“He has a cold, Jill. He has Jason. And that’s not the issue here, and you know it.”
Atlas, upright but precarious, looked nervously between us and smiled. He didn’t seem to be suffering. He also didn’t seem like he needed Jill’s attention so much she couldn’t pick up a book. He looked like he needed something nailed down to lean against. Otherwise, he seemed fine. I went to bed at midnight, and Katie wasn’t home yet, so things must have been going well.
Thursday was the lull in it. In class, we did half a poetry unit, introduced the next paper. I went straight home afterwards to take care of Atlas while Jill and Diane had some much-needed alone time—sometimes a girl just needs her mother. It had suddenly occurred to Katie that she should play hard to get at least a little bit, so she decided, after the youth picnic, not to see Peter for the rest of the day. They spent three hours on the phone.
Peter turned out not to be much into baseball one way or the other, but he was a guy and mildly enjoyed games of all kinds. Having gotten out of the way the possibility of his being a Yankee fan, Katie invited him over for dinner Friday night under the no-pressure conditions of a family picnic on the floor in the living room while watching a baseball game so as not to have no conversation but not to have too much either. I don’t know if she was worried we’d say embarrassing and incriminating things or thought we’d be boring or feared we’d grill the love right out of him with too many questions he didn’t want to provide—or she didn’t want to know—answers to.
“Casual and laid back. No more than two courses,” she warned me, “including dessert. And make it baseball food—hot dogs or popcorn or something. Maybe we should just order a pizza.” As if cooking a real meal would invite real conversation and spoil the whole thing.
“Sooner or later he’s going to find out that you’re smart, you read a lot, you vote for liberals, you’re a feminist, you can’t cook, and your roommates are fairly overprotective and obnoxious,” I pointed out.
“Fine, later,” she said.
Friday then finally. “One down, four to go,” I assured my students, already exhausted with only one week of summer session and one paper under their belts. Two days off. Two whole days without seeing each other, without seeing me, without having to think about poetry. I was jealous of their (probably fictitious) carefree weekends at mindless jobs followed by lovely summer parties since what loomed for me was a weekend of grading and a picnic on the floor I was getting increasingly nervous about. Anxiety, more than the flu, more than mono, more than a rash, is very contagious. At home, I found Atlas laughing hysterically in a bouncy seat at the edge of the kitchen floor which Katie was cleaning with a toothbrush.
“What happened to casual and laid back?” I asked her.
“Because I am casually, laid backly, effortlessly neat and clean,” she explained, pushing hair out of her eyes with rubber-gloved hands.
“Where did those gloves come from?”
“I am a perfect housekeeper, so I obviously have tons of these stored under the sink.”
“Where did they really come from?”
“I went to the grocery store and spent forty dollars on cleaning products.”
“Very laid back,” I said.
“Shut up,” she said.
Jill and I spent almost as much time as Katie did getting dressed. Jill put Atlas in his tuxedo onesie as a joke only we got. I decided I couldn’t just serve hot dogs and popcorn. It’s not like I’m neurotic or never use a microwave or think I’m above ordering a pizza. I love pizza. But when you invite someone to your house for dinner for the first time, it is polite to actually cook. I fought with Katie for an hour before I convinced her that, though this was her date, it was my kitchen and therefore my decision. We compromised on real food that could nonetheless be eaten in front of the TV. Salmon burgers and salad and raspberry cheesecake bars. And indeed, except Atlas, we all looked appropriately casual in (carefully chosen) jeans and T-shirts and bare feet. Peter showed up similarly clad and, pointedly (which sort of defeats the gesture), ten minutes late. We sat on the floor and ate on our laps, cuddled with Atlas and Uncle Claude, chatted idly about the commercials, the color commentary, the occasional good play. The Mariners and Orioles played a completely ordinary baseball game, just one of 162, too early in the summer for standings to matter yet between two teams who weren’t going anywhere anyway with a boring final score of 5–2. After the game, Jill and I walked the dog for a while. When we came in, Peter and Katie were in such deep conversation they didn’t even look up. We went upstairs without even saying good night.