On the Way to Easy Street

On the Way to Easy Street

Jolene and I have this deal. No matter what our week was like we go out on Saturday night. Nothing big. Just a restaurant, maybe a movie. We get some time with each other and away from the kids, and they get time away from us. 

I love our kids. But a four-and five-year-old can suck the life out of you faster than a vampire on speed. Steven, the older one, likes to make believe I'm a ladder and climb to my shoulders. And Lynn tries to do whatever her brother does. So I have these two kids climbing all over me.  

It's fun for about five minutes.

Of course I'm at work most of the day, so it's really on Jolene. She's amazing. I'm surprised the church hasn't declared her a living saint. It was her idea to stay home when Steven was born, and it seemed natural for her to keep staying home with Lynn.  

She says she doesn't regret it because the kids are so well-behaved, at least in public. Steven is already reading and Lynn sounds out everything she sees.  She's always asking, “What's that word? What's that say?” after making “t-t-t” or “b-b-b” sounds. 

Which also offers five minutes of fun before it grows old.

Jolene is looking forward to Lynn starting kindergarten. Steven started this year. Jo wants to go back to work full-time. She was a legal secretary before we married, and she's worked a little part-time since. But she says it's not the same. I tell her she can go back anytime, we'll find a way to work it out, but she wants to wait until Lynn starts school in the fall.

She's really a great mother and wife, but lately she hasn't been herself. I figure it's this flu bug that's been going around. Maybe going out tonight is what she needs to get out of her funk. 

"What do you want to do tonight?" I ask. "Your sister'll be here soon. You want to eat and see a movie?"

"I don't care. You decide."  

I check the movie schedule and there's something we both want to see starting at 7:30. "We could eat at six," I say, "and have plenty of time to get to the movie, especially if we go to that Chinese place near the theater. The one we have a coupon for." 

She says she doesn't want to eat there. 

 "What's wrong? You still have that virus?" I try reaching out to her, but she pulls away.

"No. I don't have a virus."  

When she's angry or hurting, she wrinkles her forehead. Now her forehead is so wrinkled she looks like she's wearing an old lady mask, the kind kids wear on Halloween. She doesn't say anything. She just looks at me like she's trying to remember who the hell I am and why I'm in the same room with her.

"If you're not feeling well, we could call Pam and stay home."

"No. I want to go out."

"So name another place. Isn't Red Lobster near the movie theater?"

She makes a face. "I don't want seafood."

"Italian?"

"No."

"Then you tell me what you want to do." I raise my voice a little. The kids had been playing in the other room, but they come to the kitchen to find out what we're fighting about.

"Why you talking loud, daddy?" Steven asks.

"Because your momma's being a pain," I say. I try putting my arms around her waist to show the kids I'm not really mad at their mother, but she has the same look she had before. Only now she doesn't want me on the same planet with her.

She tells the kids to go play while she fixes dinner. And she tells me to go to hell. Just like that. At least she waited for the kids to leave the room.

"Me? What'd I do? I just wanted to take you out. The hell with you."  

I start to walk away, but just as I do, she says, "I'm pregnant, damn it! You made me pregnant!"

# 

Not the most romantic way to learn news like that. I remember the first time, with Steven. We were in bed and she was resting her head on my chest. She asked if I want to have a baby, and I said, "Sure."  

She whispered, "How about seven months from now?"

"Sure. You want to start trying in seven months?" I can be real thick sometimes.

"No." She lifted her head and looked at me. I can still remember the way she was smiling, kind of nervous and shy, like she looked the first time she spent the night at my apartment.

It suddenly dawned on me. "Seven months is good," I said. "Real good." And we started kissing and laughing. We made love after that. I said it was to make sure it took.

When she told me she was pregnant with Lynn, we were eating breakfast on a Saturday morning. Steven was in his highchair making a mess. I poured coffee into a mug she had on the table and started drinking. After a while, she asked, "Do you like the new mugs?"

"Sure," I said, only half looking, because I need at least two cups of coffee before I'm human.

Then I saw that nervous smile on her face again. I looked at the mug and it had "Expectant Father" written on it and I looked at hers and it had "Expectant Mother" on it. I didn't say anything at first. I just put down my mug, grabbed her hand, and said, "I love you." 

"You better," she said, and we laughed like two children. Steven started laughing, too, and I thought how I must be the luckiest man in the world.

When Lynn was born, I said, "She's a beautiful girl. Now we have a matching set."

"Shop's closed," Jolene said. "No more deliveries."   

As soon as Steven started kindergarten, Jolene spoke with Bernie Nagle, her old boss, and he said he'd be happy to have her back full-time. To be honest, I started figuring how we could make double payments on the mortgage with the extra money or save for the kids' education. I make decent money, enough for us to live on, but not enough for us to move to Easy Street. I think about how we could take a good vacation. The kids are old enough to appreciate Disneyland and I know Jolene always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. With two salaries, we could do some of those things, instead of just talk about them.

So when Jolene said she was pregnant again, this time we didn't celebrate.

# 

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"Of course I'm sure."  

I put my arms around her. "We'll make it work."  

She backs away and whispers, like she's afraid of anyone hearing her. "What if I don't want it to work?" Her nose is red and her hands are shaking. "What if I don't want another child?"

I just stare. I know I don't really want another baby either, starting all over with diapers and all, but hearing it out loud scares me. It's weird, but the first thing I imagine is my mother's face. I see her squinting her eyes, the look she has when she disapproves. "A baby is a gift from God," I hear her saying.

I realize I'm staring at Jolene. Worse, I'm squinting. 

She turns from me and starts making dinner for the kids, adding tuna and peas to leftover macaroni and cheese. It sounds terrible, but it's the kids' favorite. As it warms, I try talking to her, but all I can say is, "It'll be all right, honey. You'll see."

She pulls away and tells the kids to wash for dinner. 

I pour two glasses of milk and get plates and silverware and put them on the kids' place mats. Then I sit down at the table. We usually join them when they eat, even if we're not eating. 

"You want me to make you something?" Jolene asks.

"No," I say. "I hope we're still going out."

She looks at me with the saddest expression I've ever seen in my life. "I didn't know if you still wanted to go out with me."

I swear it was everything I could do to keep from blubbering right there in front of the kids.

#

We decide to go to a new restaurant that opened nearby. It looks expensive, but we don't care. The waiter takes our drink order. I get a beer and Jolene orders vodka with club soda and a twist of lemon, but then she calls the waiter back and asks for cranberry juice instead. I don't say anything.

We stare at each other for a long time. Finally, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a pamphlet. I see Woman's Clinic printed in bold lettering. Underneath it, I read, "You Have a Choice." I see the word, "abortion," but nothing I read registers. My heart feels like it's decided to stop backing up the other organs and take a solo.

"When did you get this?" I ask.

"Yesterday. I went there to make sure I was pregnant." She points to the pamphlet. "I talked with a counselor."

"And this was her idea?" I don't like the tone in my voice, but I can't help it.

"No, it wasn't her idea."  Jolene presses her lips together so tight she almost can't squeeze out the words. "I asked for the information. She told me it's a simple, safe procedure."

I take her hand. The back of my throat is burning. "Could you go through with it?"

"I don't know," she says. 

Then she starts crying. I feel my eyes filling up, too. The waiter comes with our drinks and I turn away, like I'm looking at the menu. Jolene doesn't care. She lets the tears flow. I wish I could.

I don't even remember what we ordered. All I know is we talk and talk, and we both finally admit we don't want another baby.

"Aren't we being selfish?" I ask. 

"What's wrong with being selfish?" Jolene looks at me and I see wrinkles under her eyes I never saw before. "Don't we deserve to be a little selfish? We're good parents. We're good people. We just need time for ourselves."

I nod my head slowly. I admit how I'd been thinking about her salary and what we could do with extra cash. "It's not like I want the money to buy a Jaguar or something. I just want things to be easier for us."

"I know," she says. And she starts crying again.

#

That night, we talk about God and sin and hell. Neither of us is what you'd call religious. My family is Catholic, but they hardly ever go to church. My mother used religion mostly to scare us as kids. She'd say that God was always watching, so we better do the right thing. I guess it worked because I tell Jolene that I feel God is listening in on us right now. "And I don't think He's happy."  

As soon as I say that, I hate that I said it. The last thing I want to do is use God to make Jolene feel guilty.     

I apologize. She says she understands. "But if there's a God, why would He do this to us? Why would He give us a child we don't want while Pam's been trying to get pregnant for eight years now? It's all so random." 

I know nothing I could say would make any sense, so I just hold Jolene and let her cry. 

#

A day later, we're sitting in a small, stuffy room filled with files and boxes of rubber gloves, talking to a counselor about our "options." Jolene is sitting there holding a tissue, hardly saying anything. I know I'm talking too much. I do that when I get nervous. 

Jolene grabs my hand, but her eyes don't meet mine. I see her bottom lip twitch when she tries to speak. At first, it's like she lost her voice. She moves her lips, but makes no sound.

"God forgive me," I hear her whisper. "I don't want another baby."

The counselor talks about adoption as an alternative, but Jolene shakes her head. I know she isn't listening because her eyes have the same look she gives me when I talk baseball. We spoke last night about having the baby and letting Pam adopt it, but Jolene said it would never work. She'd always know it was her child and she'd want to raise it her way. And if she gave the baby up for adoption without offering it to Pam, it would destroy their relationship. Finally, the counselor looks to Jolene and says, "There's no need to decide today. Why don't we make another appointment in two days? If abortion is your choice, we can make arrangements then."

I feel like I'm going to throw up. The counselor comes around her desk and hugs Jolene. I'm just sitting in my chair afraid to move.

I finally stand up and go to Jolene. I tell her I love her. I kiss her and squeeze her tight. The counselor smiles and holds out her arms to hug me. "I was talking to my wife," I say, and we all laugh. 

It's good hearing Jolene laugh, even though her eyes are red and puffy, and I'm shaking. We walk out of the office with our arms around each other. I can't say for sure if I'm holding her up or if she's keeping me from falling, but together we make our way out of the clinic, shading our eyes from the sun.