“Nobody’s forbidding you to work. What do you think this is, the Middle Ages? If you want to work, work. I’ll stay home and mop the kitchen floor and have the babies you’re supposed to have.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“By what?”
“By the ‘babies’ crack.”
“Nothing. I simply thought that having babies was a woman’s function, and that a man was supposed to go out and—”
“I’m not about ready to have a baby, so let’s get off that, if you don’t mind. You can’t even keep the two of us fed, and you’re talking about a baby.”
“What am I, all of a sudden? A mental incompetent? I don’t want to take a job that doesn’t lead anywhere, is that so unreasonable?”
“Not at all. But is it unreasonable for me to suggest that perhaps I can help out? I thought this marriage was a partnership. If you really want to go to Paris, as you say, then why shouldn’t I—”
“I don’t know if I want to go to Paris.”
“Well, what is it you’d like to do, exactly? Would you please tell me?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“When will you know? When we’re both on home relief?”
“Look, Grace, I refuse to take some kind of jerky job. I am not a jerk, goddamnit!”
“All right, I grant you that. I have granted it to you a hundred times tonight. I will continue to grant it to you. All I’m suggesting is that—”
“Oh, go on!” he said angrily. “Go get a job. If you think you can get one, go ahead.”
“Thanks. That’s very goddamn encouraging.”
“What do you want me to do? You’ve just cut off my balls, would you like me to garnish them with a little parsley?”
“Cut off your what?”
“Balls. B-A-double-L—”
“Now that is the Middle Ages. That is positively the Middle Ages. The concept of a man in armor, and a woman as a... child-bearing sow who mops the kitchen floor and—”
“Boy, you’ve got a real thing about babies, haven’t you? What are you so afraid of?”
“I don’t want a baby,” Grace said. “I should think—”
“Oh, I know that. Oh, brother, do I know that. I mean, all the creams and jellies and tubes and insertions, and God forbid you’re ten minutes late, wow, the fingernails get bitten down to the elbow, and the hair gets pulled—”
“I do not want a baby now,” she said with dignity.
“Yes, I know.”
“I do not want one.”
“I heard you. Why not? How about answering that one?”
“Which reason do you want? I have about a hundred and ten.”
“Give me all of them.”
“All right,” Grace said, holding out her hand and beginning to tick off the points on her fingers. “Number one, we have exactly forty-eight dollars in our joint savings account, forty-eight dollars, and the rent is due next week. Number two, you seem incapable of finding any sort of employment—”
“Listen, Grace, if you imply once more that I’m a Mongolian idiot who can’t—”
“You said it, not me. Number three, I thought you wanted to go to Paris, and I don’t intend to go there with extra baggage in my belly. And number four, I don’t even know who the hell I am yet, and you want me to have a baby. What would I tell a baby? Your mother doesn’t know who she is?”
“Oh, come on, Grace, you know who you are. Go look at your charts; they’ll tell you. Look it up under Saturn in the tenth house of Taurus in conjunction with Venus in the third phase of the moon.”
“Haha.”
“I thought that was pretty funny.”
“Yes, you would. You Capricorns are all alike.”
“Well, your brother warned you, didn’t he?”
“Keep him out of this. At least he’s supporting his wife.”
“Yeah, well, if my father owned half the goddamn horses in the world, maybe I could go out and set up my own office, too.”
“My father has one horse. One.”
“And one precious daughter, one, who’s starving in a Third Avenue tenement.”
“Oh, the hell with this,” she said suddenly. “This is stupid as hell. There’s no sense even talking to you.”
“All right, then, don’t. But I’m not going to take the first crumby job that’s offered to me. I’ve got a right to know who I am and what I am. You just remember that.”
“I’m sorry if I confuse your identity image.”
“And don’t give me any of that college-girl crap-talk.”
“I wasn’t aware—”
“Well, now you’re aware.”
“Is it all right to talk in my own damn house without being interrupted?” she asked furiously.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be so goddamn sorry after the fact. That’s only Capricorn talking. The poor, lonely, misunderstood, hypersensitive, self-pitying little boy.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, too,” she said, and began crying. He stood beside her helplessly, leaning against the wall, while the tears streamed down her face. She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her robe and then turned her head away from him and wept softly. Snuffling back her tears, she said, “There’s a draft in here. Would you please close the windows?”
“It’s ninety-sev—” he started to say, and then closed his mouth and went to the window.
“Thank you,” she said. She sniffed. “Have you got a handkerchief?”
“Yes. Here.”
“Thank you.”
She blew her nose. She would not look at him.
“Honey?” he said.
“What?”
“I’m sorry if—”
“I’m all right now. Forget it.”
“But you—”
“I was just feeling bitchy, that’s all.”
“I’ll get a job, but... it has to be what I want. Don’t you see that?”
She sniffed again, and nodded. “What is it you want?” she asked gently.
“Ahhh, what do I want?” He leaned his head back against the wall and a curious smile touched his face. “I want happiness growing on trees in a garden, Grace, to pick like big golden apples, to bite into, to feel the juices running down over our chins. I want the sun to be shining all the time, and I want your hair to stay long and golden, and your eyes to stay bright with wonder, and your mouth to taste of clover. I want a long white beach with an ocean like a murmur in a conch shell, and I want to kiss your fingertips and your navel, and make love under the sun and laugh when it rains, if it ever rains, but it’ll never rain. And, oh, our babies’ll be fat and healthy with your blond hair and my blue eyes and God will smile down on us, Grace, oh Jesus, He will nod his big white shaggy head and smile on us, and shower us with happiness and joy. We’ll live forever, honey, we’ll roam the world like young Vikings, we’ll go to England and Spain...”
“Yes, Majorca...” she said.
“La Costa Brava...”
“France...”
“France, yes, and Italy...”
“Rome and Venice...”
“Florence and Milan...”
“Yes, Milan...”
“Everywhere, darling, wherever we want to go, because we’ll be so goddamn happy, and together, and in love, if only... if only...”
“What, darling?”
“If only you’ll stay with me,” he said.
She looked up at him in surprise. “Why, of course I’ll stay with you.”
“Always,” he said.
“Always,” she repeated.