I'm So Happy for You (10 page)

There turned out not to be any need. The ovulation predictor test sticks on which she urinated on both weekend mornings failed
to turn deep mauve, suggesting that she was still several days away from her fertile peak.

Sure enough, the optimum russet shade appeared the morning after she returned to Brooklyn—alone, in a cold rain that later
turned to sleet. Laying her hands across her chest, elbows akimbo, Wendy began to breathe in and out in a rhythmic fashion.
She’d learned the technique at a Sudarshan Kriya “breathing workshop” at the Art of Living Foundation, which she’d attended
two winters before at the urging of Marcia, whose other mantra about Wendy was that she needed to live more in the moment
and stop racing toward the next thing. (True to her former therapist’s accusations of impatience, she’d only made it through
the first of the workshop’s six sessions.)

Several minutes later, feeling exactly the same only winded, Wendy got dressed and went to work.
There’s always next month,
she told herself on the subway ride. Besides, she had more to offer society than the next generation of human existence.
The work she did at
Barricade
was important, serious, substantive. That very week, for instance, they were closing a special issue on the current administration’s
“crimes against humanity.”

Of course, every issue of
Barricade
was, to some extent, about the current administration’s crimes against humanity. But this one was going to be special. The
editors had invited ten distinguished left-leaning intellectuals, entertainers, and pundits to contribute guest columns. The
roster included Mohammed M. Mohammed, a Bethesda-born horticulture grad student at Ohio State University who’d been held in
solitary confinement by US authorities for the crime of having the same name as a Yemeni money launderer with ties to Al Qaeda;
Dotty Dolittle, a transgender humorist and author of the graphic novel
Eat My Bush;
and, thanks to Wendy—and, by association, Daphne—Daphne’s father, Richard Martin Uberoff, a distinguished professor of Near
Eastern studies at the University of Michigan and (in Wendy’s private opinion) a charming if shameless egomaniac.

At various moments in the past, Wendy had taken to wondering if the enduring connection between her and Daphne could be explained
by the fact that they both hailed from academic families. Yet where Judy Murman seemed to have a special talent for alienating
the people around her, Professor Uberoff was a bona fide star. Since September 11, 2001, he’d made frequent appearances on
radio and television, where he delivered debatably potted histories of Islam that stressed its essentially peace-loving nature.
Even Lincoln had seemed impressed when, during a story meeting, Wendy had pulled out Daphne’s father’s name as a personal
contact.

What Lincoln didn’t realize was that although Wendy had ostensibly known Richard Uberoff for fifteen years, he still seemed
confused about who she was. “Lovely to talk to you, Wanda,” he’d bid her farewell on the phone after agreeing to pen a column.

Wendy found herself recalling how, several years into their friendship, Daphne had sent her a postcard from Costa Rica (where
she’d been vacationing with her family) in which she’d misspelled Wendy’s last name, turning the U into an E, and the A into
a U.

Daphne called later that morning to see if she and Wendy could postpone their dinner plans for that evening. She and Jonathan
had had a “late night” the night before, she explained, and she was feeling like she “just need[ed] to get in bed and vegetate.”

“Also, the weather’s sooooooo crappy,” moaned Daphne, “I don’t know if I can deal.”

“It’s fine—don’t worry about it,” said Wendy, as disappointed as she was dubious that a federal prosecutor would go out late
on a Sunday night before work. But no matter. Daphne was right: the weather was pretty bad.

“Meanwhile, are you going to Sara’s girls night on Thursday?” said Daphne. “ ’Cause if so, I’ll see you there.”

Wendy found herself wondering if Daphne was trying to get out of rescheduling their dinner plans. Or was Wendy just being
insecure? “Oh, right—yeah—I’ll definitely see you there,” she said.

With another free evening ahead of her, Wendy paid an overdue visit to the rent-controlled apartment on West 106th Street
and Broadway in which she’d grown up and in which her mother still lived—alone.

Judy Murman had never remarried—or, rather, married at all. For a while, in the eighties, there had been Jack, the recovering-alcoholic
candle maker from Brattleboro, Vermont. For unclear reasons, he’d eventually melted away along with his beeswax. Later, in
the early nineties, Wendy’s mother had “come out” as a lesbian. Though Wendy had yet to see her with a female companion or
lover.

Judy came to the door that evening clutching Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
. “Hello, Wendell,” she said with a quick embrace. (Judy Murman was the only one who ever called Wendy by her given name.)

“Hi, Mom,” said Wendy, following her mother into the living room, where she took a seat in the wicker “egg swing” that dangled
from an exposed beam in the ceiling and began to turn from side to side.

Judy sat down opposite her on a faded blue sofa covered with cat hair. She adjusted her giant red glasses frames. “That’s
a handsome blouse you’re wearing,” she said, peering inquisitively at Wendy. Judy was wearing some kind of tunic sweater and
an “ethnic” necklace with beads the size and shape of dog turds.

“Thanks. I was worried I looked like a giant broccoli floret,” said Wendy.

“I wouldn’t say so,” said Judy.

“Meanwhile, Adam’s father was in a horrible car accident and he’s in a coma. So Adam’s staying up in Boston with him.”

“How terrible,” exclaimed Judy. “Please send the family my best wishes.”

“I will.”

“I hope you’re being supportive of Adam. This must be a difficult period for him.”

“Of course I’m being supportive!” said Wendy, defensive already. At the same time, she felt the urge to shock her mother with
her paucity of goodwill. “Not that Adam’s being very supportive of me these days,” she went on. “I’m paying all the bills
while he pretends to write a screenplay about space aliens with low sperm counts. From what I can tell, he spends half the
time I’m at work smoking pot in the park. Or at least he was before his father’s accident.” (Why did she act so brittle and
unforgiving in front of her mother?)

Judy grimaced disapprovingly. “Wendell—you made a commitment to support Adam’s creative work while you continued at the magazine.
I think it would set a very unfortunate precedent if you went back on your promise to him.”

“Who said anything about going back on my promise?” cried Wendy, growing more irritable by the second. “I’m not getting divorced!
I’m just saying it’s annoying.”

Judy didn’t answer.

“Also, speaking of low sperm count, I can’t get pregnant,” Wendy continued.

“It will happen when it happens,” Judy said evenly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Wendy, who never stopped being hurt that her mother didn’t display the usual desperation
for grandchildren that other people’s parents did. (
I only have two, you know
was among Phyllis’s common refrains at every Schwartz family holiday—to which Adam and Wendy, if they were feeling indulgent,
answered,
Two what? Grandchildren to spoil rotten
was the usual answer, typically delivered with an exaggerated wink and a vaguely sinister grin.)

“It means you waited a long time to have children,” said Judy. “Now you’re just going to have to be patient. And you’re not
going to get any closer to your goal by pressuring Adam, if that’s what you’ve been doing.”

“How do you know what I’ve been doing?” said Wendy, flinching at her mother’s intuition.

“I have no idea what you’ve been doing!”

“Well, then, I’d appreciate it if you stopped guessing.”

Judy grimaced again. It was clear she felt unfairly maligned. “Wendell—I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“Thanks. Anyway,” said Wendy, suddenly eager to change topics. “So, what’s new at school?”

Judy cleared her throat. “Well, I’m teaching a graduate seminar called The Matriarchal Impulse in Early-Nineteenth-Century
English Literature. And I have a few absolutely top-notch students this semester, especially a young man named Douglas Bondy,
who’s been working as my research assistant. He’s really an extraordinary person. His mother was a crack addict. He essentially
raised himself. All I can conclude is that his love of learning somehow goes deeper than—”

“There’s a guy in your women’s studies class?” Wendy interrupted. Her mother had a habit of talking up everyone but her own
daughter.

“I’ve had many men in my classes!” declared Judy.

“Oh.”

“And how are things at the magazine?”

“Fine. I just edited a special pullout section on Abu Ghraib.”

Judy lifted her glasses into her silver mop, flared her nostrils imperiously, and looked away. As if she didn’t want to be
held accountable for what she was about to say: “I blame that crazed hawk Condoleezza Rice. I suspect she pressured all of
them—Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, et al.—into this ridiculous war.”

“I guess it’s possible,” said Wendy, who had noted before that her mother was the rare feminist who, in every conflict, took
the man’s side—at the expense of whatever woman could feasibly be blamed.

When Wendy got home, she called Adam to tell him about her visit to her mother’s apartment. “She started attacking me the
moment I walked in the door!” Wendy began. “I told her about your dad, and she immediately suggested I wasn’t being supportive
enough.” She waited for Adam to argue otherwise.

But all he said was, “Yeah, she’s a tough one, your mom.”

“And then, immediately after, she was on me about putting too much pressure on you to have a baby. She also told me I waited
too long to have children.”

“Hm,” said Adam.

“What?” said Wendy, further disappointed by her husband’s neutral response.

“I guess I’m wondering why you open up to her at all about personal things, since she always seems to respond in a way that
pisses you off.”

Even Wendy had to admit that Adam had a good point. Which was maybe why she cried, “What? I’m not supposed to tell her your
father is in a coma?!”

“You can tell her about my dad. But why tell her you’re trying to get pregnant?”

“Okay, I’m an idiot for trying to share my life with my own mother!”

“You’re not an idiot,” said Adam. “I just don’t like seeing you upset.”

“I miss you,” said Wendy, suddenly overcome by tenderness for her husband. Or was she simply feeling needy in a more generalized
sense? “When are you coming home?” she asked.

“Wendy, you know I can’t come home right now,” he answered. (Adam only called her Wendy when she’d said something wrong.)

“I know,” said Wendy, trying not to be hurt by the fact that he hadn’t told her he missed her, too. “You’re there for a good
reason. I’ve just been lonely. I’m sorry—I can’t lie about how I feel.”

“Don’t you think I’ve been lonely, too?” said Adam. “At least you have your friends around.”

“I guess.”

“What? Aren’t you seeing Daphne and stuff?”

“She’s been busy with Jerky Jonathan.”

“Well, it’s always like that at the beginning of a relationship. You and I didn’t get out of bed for, like, a week after we
met. Don’t you remember? My mother was leaving all those frantic messages at my apartment.” Adam chuckled at the memory.

“I remember,” Wendy said softly, even though, nearly eight years later, the story mainly existed for her in words, interspersed
with fuzzy images of him naked and kissing the back of her neck. Even so, she liked the idea of her husband reminiscing about
their early days together; it made their love affair seem real, ongoing. “We were crazy back then.”

“Listen,” said Adam. “I miss you, too.” Wendy’s heart fluttered, even if, as usual, his expression of affection for her had
been more reciprocal than spontaneous. “But my parents need me right now.”

How could she argue with that? “I understand,” she told him before she wished him a good night and hung up.

By Thursday evening, Wendy was so eager for the company of like-minded peers—and an excuse to consume excess quantities of
alcohol—that she arrived fifteen minutes early at the Mexican restaurant on Smith Street where Sara had directed her six closest
female friends to assemble. Not even the sight of Paige Ryan, second to arrive and dressed that evening in a black pants suit
and four-inch-high stilettos, put her off. Following their email run-in the previous month, Wendy had decided never again
to communicate in English with the woman. But with the second sip of her margarita, she’d softened her stance. So that her
old nemesis struck her as a harmless if pitiable eccentric. “Hello, Ms. Ryan,” Wendy began, as Paige assumed the seat opposite
her at a wooden table beneath a decrepit-looking piñata. “And how goes it in the world of ruthless capitalism?”

“If you’re referring to the private sector and its notorious largesse, then the answer is, swimmingly,” answered Paige.

“Glad to hear it.”

“And the arena of naive left-wing journalism? Is it treating you well?”

“Very well, thank you,” said Wendy.

Sara appeared next, followed by Maura, then Gretchen and Pamela. There were hugs and kisses all around. Wendy spent so much
more time emailing her friends than she did seeing them in person that the sight of them in all their fleshy (and not-so-fleshy—a.k.a.
Maura) splendor left her somehow startled.

Not surprisingly, Daphne was the last to show. (Wendy had long ago adjusted to Daphne’s Lateness Problem by mentally adding
a half hour to all of her stated arrival times.) She was wearing a pair of old brown corduroys, a mustard-colored V-neck sweater
dotted with moth holes, and a navy blue pea coat whose epaulets had become detached from its shoulders. On anyone else, the
outfit would have looked ratty. “I love my friends!” she was squealing as she approached the table, her arms outstretched,
her head tilted just so. She hugged Pamela first and went clockwise around the table from there. When she got to Wendy, she
announced, “Wen—I’m so sorry I haven’t answered your email yet from this afternoon!”