table and hug her, spilling more of the wine on my shirt. “Oh my God.” I’m suddenly as excited as a little kid who’s just heard the tune of an approaching ice-cream truck. We’ve been trying for only a few months. ’Bella took a lot longer, almost a year (much longer than Katie), so I wasn’t holding my breath this time. “I … wow. Awesome. ” The words stumble out of my mouth. “Number three. A boy. Do you think it’s a boy?” I lay my hand across her stomach. “It’s got to be a boy. I totally deserve a boy.”
“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself there, Dad,” she says, laughing.
“Wow. Number three.”
“Number three.” She gestures to the wine. “Have some.”
“Yeah. I think I need it. But … you want me to drink without you?”
“I want you to celebrate with me. For both of us. For the job and the new baby.”
“To our son, then.” She laughs, and I take a sip. Nice. Mellow and smoky, the wine meanders down my throat and unfurls warm tendrils through my chest. Sally lights the candle and turns out the kitchen light. We hold hands and gaze out the window.
Our tiny house sits on a small hill in Braintree, with the kitchen facing west. Far away, toward the Blue Hills Reservation, a lightning storm silently wreaks havoc, rending the night sky in violent bursts of white and blue light. It looks like it’s moving this way. An ominous breeze stirs the trees in our backyard.
But here, for now at least, sipping the wine with Sally, the kitchen lit only by the flickering light of the candle, it’s quiet.
“Do you remember when we first had this wine?” I ask.
She smiles. “What a great trip.”
“I think that’s when we made Katie.”
“That’s definitely when we made Katie.”
“What was the play we saw? In San Francisco?”
“ Cats. ”
“That’s right. Cats. ”
“How could you forget?”
“Probably because I can’t stand cats. And the play was lame.”
“Cynic. I thought it was great. That was the, um, third time I’d seen it.”
“Is that the one with…?” I snap my fingers. “You know. What’s that famous song? The cheesy one.”
“‘Memory.’”
“Right. I’m sure that’s exactly what T. S. Eliot’s vision was when he wrote those poems: an actor in a ridiculous cat costume belting out some cheesy ballad.”
“Stop.” She hits me jokingly on the arm. “Don’t pretend you didn’t have fun. And there was that one character you really liked. Um … Deuteronomy. Old Deuteronomy.”
“Was that the, like, older, leader cat?” I finish off my glass and pour another.
“Yes. You said that his songs were the only ones you thought really sounded like T. S. Eliot’s poetry.”
“Good memory.” I laugh. “I totally forgot about that. Deuteronomy…”
“So. Complete change of subject. I met a nice woman last week at book club. Her name’s Nancy McIntosh. Do you know her husband, Dan? He’s a resident at University.”
“Dan McIntosh? Yeah, I know Dan. He’s one of the general-surgery chiefs. He’s okay. A little hard-core—you know, in a general-surgeon kind of way. But generally an okay guy.”
“I like Nancy a lot, but she’s a little intense, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she invited us to a barbecue they’re having at their house next month, so of course I immediately offered to bring my special homemade potato salad. You know, the one everyone always raves about. Right?”
“Sure.”
“And she said—now, let me get this right—she said, ‘No, thank you. I think potlucks are gauche.’ So they’re having it catered.”
“Really? She actually used the word ‘gauche’? In casual conversation?”
“Yeah. It took me a few seconds to remember what the word meant, then a few more to realize that I’d just been insulted. So I guess we’re gauche.” We laugh together.
“So what does she do?”
“She’s a lawyer. With three kids, but still working full-time. Anyway, despite the gauche
“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself there, Dad,” she says, laughing.
“Wow. Number three.”
“Number three.” She gestures to the wine. “Have some.”
“Yeah. I think I need it. But … you want me to drink without you?”
“I want you to celebrate with me. For both of us. For the job and the new baby.”
“To our son, then.” She laughs, and I take a sip. Nice. Mellow and smoky, the wine meanders down my throat and unfurls warm tendrils through my chest. Sally lights the candle and turns out the kitchen light. We hold hands and gaze out the window.
Our tiny house sits on a small hill in Braintree, with the kitchen facing west. Far away, toward the Blue Hills Reservation, a lightning storm silently wreaks havoc, rending the night sky in violent bursts of white and blue light. It looks like it’s moving this way. An ominous breeze stirs the trees in our backyard.
But here, for now at least, sipping the wine with Sally, the kitchen lit only by the flickering light of the candle, it’s quiet.
“Do you remember when we first had this wine?” I ask.
She smiles. “What a great trip.”
“I think that’s when we made Katie.”
“That’s definitely when we made Katie.”
“What was the play we saw? In San Francisco?”
“ Cats. ”
“That’s right. Cats. ”
“How could you forget?”
“Probably because I can’t stand cats. And the play was lame.”
“Cynic. I thought it was great. That was the, um, third time I’d seen it.”
“Is that the one with…?” I snap my fingers. “You know. What’s that famous song? The cheesy one.”
“‘Memory.’”
“Right. I’m sure that’s exactly what T. S. Eliot’s vision was when he wrote those poems: an actor in a ridiculous cat costume belting out some cheesy ballad.”
“Stop.” She hits me jokingly on the arm. “Don’t pretend you didn’t have fun. And there was that one character you really liked. Um … Deuteronomy. Old Deuteronomy.”
“Was that the, like, older, leader cat?” I finish off my glass and pour another.
“Yes. You said that his songs were the only ones you thought really sounded like T. S. Eliot’s poetry.”
“Good memory.” I laugh. “I totally forgot about that. Deuteronomy…”
“So. Complete change of subject. I met a nice woman last week at book club. Her name’s Nancy McIntosh. Do you know her husband, Dan? He’s a resident at University.”
“Dan McIntosh? Yeah, I know Dan. He’s one of the general-surgery chiefs. He’s okay. A little hard-core—you know, in a general-surgeon kind of way. But generally an okay guy.”
“I like Nancy a lot, but she’s a little intense, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she invited us to a barbecue they’re having at their house next month, so of course I immediately offered to bring my special homemade potato salad. You know, the one everyone always raves about. Right?”
“Sure.”
“And she said—now, let me get this right—she said, ‘No, thank you. I think potlucks are gauche.’ So they’re having it catered.”
“Really? She actually used the word ‘gauche’? In casual conversation?”
“Yeah. It took me a few seconds to remember what the word meant, then a few more to realize that I’d just been insulted. So I guess we’re gauche.” We laugh together.
“So what does she do?”
“She’s a lawyer. With three kids, but still working full-time. Anyway, despite the gauche
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