“OK…I’m confused.”
“She was asking about my birth plan, Arthur. What thefuck is a birth plan?! My plan is to push the baby out and not die. That was like the best-case scenario a hundred years ago; I didn’t know I needed more than that.”
“Did you say that to her?”
“No, because then she started asking me about gentle parenting versus authoritative, and burping techniques for stubborn gas, which just…ew. And was I going to breastfeed exclusively or not at all or a mix? And I had no idea what to say about anything.”
“Well, she’s overly inquisitive and involved; we know that about her.”
“Or maybe she could just tell that we needed help. That I needed help. She was being nice, I think. Wasn’t she?”
Arthur sighed. “She loves you, Wren. You’re like the daughter she never had.”
“Really?”
“Believe me, she never stops talking about it.” His mom had never explicitly verbalized her disappointment at never having a girl, but when Arthur was growing up, it was impossible not to notice. He was always uncomfortable with the forlorn sort of way she’d look at his short hair. Always trying to coax him into watching rom-coms with her or attending Shania Twain concerts. “And as her de facto daughter you’re going to have to master the art of not trying to interpret her motives and just tuning her out when she gets pushy.”
Wren balled up her sandwich wrapper, picked completely clean, and chucked it in the nearby trash can.
“Whatever, either way, she’s right! Our bedroom, for example. Like, that’s what we’re bringing our baby home to? Why haven’t I beennesting? I keep waiting for this magic maternal instinct to kick in and make me give a shit aboutburping and blowouts and nursery aesthetics and it just…I feel nothing.”
As much as Arthur wanted to reassure and soothe Wren, he could relate to what she was feeling. The surprise visit from his parents had rocked him, too, left him feeling horribly inadequate.
“So you know how me and my dad disappeared for a while?”
“Yeah, thanks for that, by the way.”
“Well, he found out that our bathroom sink was dripping, and I told him I’d call the leasing office. And he said, ‘Why wait for those bums?’ And he dragged me out to the hardware store and we bought this little rubber thing called a gasket—I thought he said we were going to get acasketat first; you should have been inside my head for that one—and we came back and he asked me where my toolbox was.”
“You don’t have a toolbox.”
“Exactly. So that was humiliating. But lucky me, he had his in the Airstream, because of course, and so he popped our faucet open and fixed the leak in like five minutes.”
“Wow.”
He’d imagined himself growing gracefully into the role of “man of the house”—whatever that really meant. Someone in the family had to have the know-how to occasionally wield a set of pliers, and if there was anyone more hopeless than Arthur, it was Wren. She was competent enough, it wasn’t that, but he knew she could have lived with the dripping faucet until the Earth simply ran out of water. Stuff like that just didn’t bother her. So that left it up to Arthur. During the brief visit, though, it was deflating to see just how far he really had to go. Not just when it came to fixing things: His dad hadalways made good money, provided, knew the right way to handle every situation. Arthur was just…Arthur.
“You know, it’s not too late to become a plumber,” Wren added. “You’ve got the butt crack for it.”
“Thanks.”
Wren reached across the table and grabbed his hand with hers. It was so warm. She’d been running hot lately, which had really emphasized the inadequacy of their air-conditioning unit this summer. But right now it felt nice against his own nervously clammy skin.
“You’re being too hard on yourself, like always. Maybe you’re not your dad. But I like you.” She had read his mind. Always could.
Arthur sighed. “I guess it’s not a fair comparison. When my dad was my age, he had already served in the navy, seen the whole world, and started his own contracting business. Plus you could buy a big house in the suburbs back then for, like, forty nickels. The money went farther. The world was so different.”
“I’m telling you, if women could vote, I would so go back.” Wren sighed.
“OK, my parents aren’tthatold.”
“You about ready to go?” She laughed.
He nodded, and go they did. They stood up, exited Sub Shop, made a sharp right, and moments later opened the door to the Mad Cow Creamery two doors down. Its frigid, vanilla-scented air was welcome relief from the hot, oniony atmosphere of the previous stop.
“I’ll grab the table and spoons,” Arthur said as Wren approached the counter.
“You want anything tonight?”