*****
That night, I lie in bed next to my wife, and we say goodnight, leaving out the, “I love you,” because we save that only for when Timothy is around. On occasion, we’ll sleep together, our relations passionate enough, and we fight far less than before Timothy was born. I don’t punch walls over finances like I did when she was pregnant. “How much more shit are you going to fit in here?” I’d said about the baby room. “I only have a teacher’s salary.” She threw a plate on the floor later in protest, not caring that it was a wedding shower gift because our marriage was a sham then. I’d barked some more about expenses, ignoring the cracks in the plaster I’d made. In hindsight, so shameful. But I never laid a finger on her. Nor she on me, so I’d felt that we hadn’t gone too far. A passionate and driven couple, was all we were.
Our dishware loses no pieces these days. We eat together, see the occasional movie together, celebrate together when Timothy’s baseball team wins. He’s twelve now, but still very respectful. Seldom does he need grounding, and he gets perfect grades. My wife beams with pride over him. So do I.
I can make out her slim outline in the dark, her back towards me. When she turned pregnant, bags circled her eyes more, the cost of her programming job. I’d still considered her beautiful, but felt like I solely possessed that attraction, a taste only I could stomach. The power of identity, to have preferences different from others, a valley only I could find.
My eyes close. I wonder for the trillionth time what her lover looked like. Lithe, judging by Timothy’s frame. Eyes not as weak as mine, skin not as prone to acne. Perhaps a long-haired, big-toothed surfer, a tie-dyed tee fit snugly over his biceps. Or a tux-wearing Casanova, suitcase always at his side, Ivy League bred. Or a square-jawed tennis instructor from lessons I’d never know anything about. Or a male model milkman. Either way, not Asian, not like me, an antithesis, a wholesale rejection.
But my relatives batted no eyes as they passed newborn Timothy around. They were no fools, knew full well he didn’t belong to me. But our collective culture saved the moment. No embarrassing questions, no vitriol thrown her way. We would all pretend nothing sordid had occurred for family honor’s sake.
My wife never disclosed any details on her suitor. She made clear that she swore off seeing him ever again well before the birth. And then, face still white from the labor’s blood loss, she gave suggestions. Shared e-mail accounts, shared bank accounts, mandatory phone calls every three hours. As if she were a marriage counselor navigating through some other couple’s affair. Detached. Rehearsed.
“No,” I’d said with a calm I’d never mustered over a new layer of paint in our home nursery. “I trust you.” A ludicrous, surreal statement, one we both knew was a lie. But what else could I say? Or do? Throw her out, infant and all, humiliating our families? And what’s more, an even deeper fear within me – if that which completely belonged to me did not, what hope did I have with anyone else? Better a changeling than a childless end.
Her lover, ha, if we’d switched places, if he were tasked with raising a child not his own, could he? The diaper changes? The patting during colic? Could he stymie his anger like I had with his five-year old false son who’d just wet the bed? Doubtful. But ah, the punched wall. The fists slammed on tables. For this, I stood punished.
In two years, Timothy will attend the high school where I teach. Four years after that, he’ll leave for college. And though we’ve never discussed it, my wife and I know we’ll divorce then. I won’t remarry, just as I have claimed no retributory affairs of my own. She, ha, likely will have another child, another family. Which parent will Timothy choose to spend the most time with? The one, ha ha, with whom he shares no blood? Will he even house me when I grow ancient and infirm?
With these thoughts, I somehow fall asleep.