While Timothy participates in a sleepover, my wife and I dine alone at an Italian bistro. Wine for her. Driving duties for me. Pasta for both. Jarring gaps in our conversation. A usual dynamic. But she stares less at her plate tonight, ruminating more at empty space.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Hmmm?” No attention paid towards me.
“You’re worried about something.”
She redirects her gaze to the plate. “Less worry, more….” A sigh. “Okay. He contacted me.”
“Who? Timothy’s teacher?”
“More his sperm donor.”
What little tomato sauce left in my mouth sticks to my throat. “I thought you two were,” and I hold my hands out then pull them away from each other,” separated completely?”
“Well, he contacted me. Online.” A lifted chin. “I should’ve deleted the message.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I should’ve. Timothy, though. We don’t really,” and a wine sip, “well, we don’t really have rites of passage anymore. What makes a boy a man? I mean, I obviously wouldn’t know.” Swimminess in her words, but not enough to mask her panic.
“Help me here, because I didn’t follow that.”
“He needs to meet his genetic stock.” She nods, convincing herself. “That question has to dog Timothy, about who he is, and I hate it. Think how much he overcompensates. Perfect grades-“
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“-and all the sports, no, Eric, kids these days don’t overachieve like we did-“
“Why not?”
“-so, listen, not the conversation I wanted.” She rubs her forehead. “A tangent like this.”
“So. Timothy’s father.”
“Is you. Chad is,” and so I finally learn the lover’s name, “well, he’s just a satellite. He exists. It’s his DNA I want Timothy to know about. Not any relationship.”
What does a Chad look like?
My dutiful smile. An imagined taste of vino on my tongue, a desperate desire. But alas, designated driver. “I think it’d be great for Timothy to meet him.”
A fire snaps in her, straightening out her stupor. “Why do you always do this, Eric?”
I blink. “What?”
“Going back on agreements. We decide on a rule, and then you throw it away, like when you bowed out of the phone calls and the joint banking.”
“Those were your deals.” I struggle for leveled tone. Shrieking about hypocrisy wouldn’t play well in a restaurant. “I never agreed to them.”
“Why not? You’re so fucking disingenuous about everything. Like,” and exaggerated head nods with lifted nose and wide eyes like a Confucian wise man, “’Mmm, yes, I have no opinion on the matter, I’m not being passive aggressive at all.’”
“So.” I purse my lips as if she’d had no outburst. “We won’t let Timothy meet him.”
“No.” A snarl. “We will. But you could open up. Say what you really think.”
“Alright.” A smile placed on again. “My only demand, that we eat at a Korean place when he comes. A real one. That one we went to a few years back.”
She hesitates, then says, “That’s fine,” and keeps her mouth open for a moment to say more before descending back to silence.
“Okay.” I imbibe some water. “So what should we have for dessert?”