The Shape of Desire (8 page)

Dante rarely apologizes, and usually only after I’ve been crying for three hours. “For what?” I ask cautiously.

“I know you want children. I know it—it hurts you to think you’ll never have any.”

I’ve relaxed back against the seat and now I just turn my head a little to look at him, not straightening up from my loose pose. “I’ll never have any with
you
,” I say in a mild voice.

He digests that for a moment. “You’d really get pregnant by another man? What happened to all those ‘Oh, Dante, I love you more than life itself’ things you’re always saying?”

“I could go to a sperm bank. I could adopt.” I shrug. “I have options.”

He takes his eyes off the road long enough to glance at me. “Do you really think so?” he asks quietly. “Do you really think you can bring up children—no matter how you acquire them—while I’m in your life?”

“I don’t know why not,” I say. He has no idea how much thought I’ve given to this subject over the past few years. “It’s not like you ever take animal shapes while you’re with me. So you’re an unusual guy. You show up for a few days every month or so, and Mommy’s really happy to see you, and we do fun stuff like go to the park every day. Then you leave, and Mommy cries for a day, but pretty soon life goes back to its ordinary routine. I promise you, there are kids in this world who see their parents entertain much stranger lovers. Well, entertain them on much stranger schedules. I don’t know that any of the lovers are actually odder than
you
.”

I am still speaking lightly. I don’t want to spook him; I don’t want him to freak out over the notion that I might bring another life into our small, private circle. But I
don’t
think it’s impossible. I
don’t
see why a child couldn’t adapt to Dante’s unconventional visits, just as I have. Kids adapt to lots weirder things than men appearing and disappearing frequently in their mothers’ lives.

He glances at me again; his face is furrowed and his voice, when he speaks, is uncertain. “I don’t think it would be as simple as you make it sound. I don’t think—Maria, I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

“I thought your objection was to passing on your corrupted genes,” I say, my tone a little flippant. “So I bypass
your
deficiencies and take on the unknown ones of a total stranger.”

“Well, but—I mean—it’s got to be awfully hard to be a single parent. I obviously wouldn’t be able to help you out much—”

“Who asked you to?”

Now he’s a little ruffled. “Well, you didn’t, but I assume—I mean, if you still want
me
in your life once you’ve got this baby, this child—”

I sit up and turn toward him as much as the seat belt will allow. He keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his hands in a death grip on the steering wheel. I see that this is a wholly new idea to him and he doesn’t like it. Is it that he resents the idea of sharing my affection with someone else or that he literally can’t imagine any part of my life that isn’t built around him?

“Dante, I love you,” I say, every word heavy with emphasis. “I will love you till I die. I have made ninety percent of the choices of my life to accommodate you, and I will continue to make those choices. But you have made it very clear that you have a life that does not include me and that I will never be invited to share—”

“Dammit, how can you share being an
animal
?”

“And I have started to look at how I can fill the parts of my life that are empty because you’re not in them. You’re right, I’ve been thinking how much I want a baby. You’re right, being a single mother seems really hard. I haven’t made any plans yet. I may never go forward with any of these ideas. But if I do—”

I pause. I had not expected to tear up at this point. Well, I had not expected to be having this conversation with Dante today, though I had rehearsed it many times in my head. But I had not expected to see a baby at Christina’s house, and to have all these emotions stirred up, all these questions, all these desires.

“If I do,” I repeat softly, reaching out to stroke his face, “I hope you will find a way to stay in my life. I hope you will be—not a father to my baby, but an eccentric friend, maybe. A mysterious but fascinating visitor. An intermittent delight.” I stretch the seat belt to the limit so I can lean over and kiss his cheek. “Which is how
I
see you. Every time. Without fail.”

He does not answer, but he does not pull away from my hand, which now rests on his shoulder. His face shows an expression that is somewhere between unhappy and resigned, but that’s better than I had expected. In my mind, when we’ve had this conversation, he’s sometimes stormed off in a rage and sometimes argued me into tears. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re in a car and there isn’t much room for theatrics that has kept him so calm.

“I’ll have to think it over,” he says at last.

“You have plenty of time,” is my amiable reply. “I’m not planning on doing anything anytime soon.”

He nods and, surprising me, twists his head suddenly to kiss the back of my hand. I am unutterably pleased. I think Christina’s astonishing secret has proved to be a much bigger gift than I could have hoped for, if it has made it so easy to have this conversation with Dante. It makes me adore little Lizzie all the more—and I had already fallen in love with her the minute I took her in my arms.

I
anticipated that the long drive and the emotional upsets of the day would leave Dante moody and withdrawn, but instead, he is extraor-dinarily affectionate for the rest of the evening. After dinner, we lie entwined on the couch as we start to watch
How to Steal a Million
on cable, but he cannot keep his attention on the screen. His hand slips under my shirt; he plays with my breast when he should be smiling at Audrey Hepburn’s madcap plan. I am hardly one to complain. I turn in his arms to kiss him full on the mouth, pressing myself against him with all my strength.

We move to the bedroom and make love with all the desperation of a young wartime couple who realize their honeymoon might be the only night they ever spend together. I know this means Dante feels the animal instincts starting to overtake him; I also know this means he will
not be beside me tomorrow night. I cling to him as if he is my only source of light and heat and air; I kiss him as if only the pressure of my mouth against his can ward off my impending death.

He falls asleep a little after midnight, but I don’t. I sit up and watch his face, studying its shape, trying to catalog its dreaming emotions. I want to memorize it, in case I never see it again. In case he never comes back. In case this ends up being all I ever have of Dante.

M
ondays are always bad, but this one is worse than most. I managed to get only about three hours of sleep the night before, and I leave the house knowing Dante probably will not be there when I return. I yawn through the entire morning, despite drinking three cups of coffee before 11 a.m., and I keep my eyes averted from the mirror every time I go into the bathroom. I know I look like hell.

“Seriously, did someone tie you to the back of a car and drag you down a dirt road yesterday?” Ellen asks when she drops by my desk a little before noon.

I manage a wan smile. “I think I got food poisoning over the weekend. I was throwing up most of Sunday afternoon. Didn’t feel like the flu, so I don’t think I’m contagious, but—I know. I look like shit.”

“Marquez and I are going to lunch. You hungry?”

I shake my head. “Not even. I think I’ll heat up a can of soup and be miserable.”

“Well, drink some 7UP. You need those electrons.”

“Electrolytes.”

She smiles faintly. “I knew that. I was just checking to see if your food poisoning had damaged your brain.”

“I think I’ll be okay after I get a good night’s sleep.”

I’m sitting in the lunchroom spooning up a bowl of soup and paging listlessly through a three-year-old
People
magazine when Kathleen steps through the door, carrying a purple insulated lunch bag. “Oh!” she says when she sees me, so I assume she usually has the place to herself at this hour. There are four tables and only mine is occupied, so I figure it will be easy enough for her to ignore me.

But once she buys a can of soda and tears two sheets from the paper-towel dispenser, she approaches my table in a cautious, sideways manner. “Do you want to sit here by yourself or could you use some company?” she asks in a soft voice.

I muster the energy to smile and turn the magazine facedown. “I’d love some company,” I say. “Talking might help me stay awake.”

She smiles and sits across from me, arranging her food before her. Her meal is so healthy it almost irritates me—baked chicken breast, fresh cut-up vegetables, and an apple. Kathleen can’t be more than an inch or two over five feet and probably weighs less than a hundred pounds, so I can’t imagine she’s dieting. She’s petite because this is the way she
likes
to eat.

While she organizes her food, I have the opportunity to study her. She might be my age, mid-thirties, though her small size gives her a childlike air that subtracts at least five years. Today I don’t see any new bruises marring her face—or her arms or any other exposed stretch of flesh—and she’s wearing only light makeup over her fair skin. Her hair
is a plain brown that she’s inexpertly washed with highlights; her clothes are pink and girly. I think this is someone who, pure and simple, loves pretty things and has far too few of them in her life.

She uses a knife and fork to cut off a dainty piece of chicken and, right before popping it in her mouth, asks, “Why are you so sleepy?”

I repeat my story about food poisoning and then embellish it. “I checked with my cousin—she’s the one I had brunch with—and
she
was sick yesterday afternoon, too, though not as bad as I was.”

Kathleen quickly swallows. “I had food poisoning once when I was out of town at a hotel,” she says. “I thought I would
die
. I had the front desk call a doctor for me, and he sent over some pills.”

“Wow, it didn’t even occur to me that there was something I could take to make me feel better.”

She laughs. “I can’t remember if the pills did any good.” She takes another small bite and then asks, “Did you get to do
anything
fun over the weekend?”

“Yeah, I felt great on Saturday and the weather was beautiful. A friend and I went hiking in Babler State Park.”

“Oh, I love Babler!” she exclaims. “Ritchie goes there to train, but I just walk.”

“Train? What for?”

“He wants to run the Chicago Marathon next year, so he goes running with some of his buddies.”

I rest my chin on my hand; my head feels so heavy I’m afraid it’ll pull me over onto the table if I don’t give it some support. “No disrespect to Ritchie, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to run twenty-six miles. For fun.”

She laughs. “No, I think it sounds dreadful. But Ritchie likes to do hard things, you know? He likes to prove to himself that he’s really tough.”

I fight to stifle a yawn. “I like to do easy things,” I say. “But it’s probably more admirable to do the hard ones.”

“His brother’s a Navy SEAL,” Kathleen says.

I nod. “And I guess he feels a little competitive.”

“Yeah. He wanted to join the Army when he was eighteen, but they wouldn’t take him because of some problem with his feet. It was such a disappointment to him.”

I find myself wondering if Ritchie was lying to Kathleen about the reason he’d been rejected from the military. Maybe the recruiters had analyzed his psychological profile and determined he was the type of man who would beat up his wife, and they’d decided to pass. “What’s he do now? I can’t remember.”

“Security work,” she says.

Great. He probably has a gun and some martial-arts training. Just the sort of advantages you’d want to give to a violent sociopath with self-esteem issues. “How long have you guys been married?”

“Seven years, but we dated for two years before we got married.” She smiles again, looking happy. “I met him at a baseball game. I was there with three of my girlfriends and none of them knew anything about sports.
They
didn’t care—they just wanted to drink beer and meet guys. But I was trying to figure out the game. Ritchie was in the seat next to me, and when he saw that I was really interested, he started explaining everything to me. You know, what’s a sacrifice fly, what’s a ground-rule double, when do you try to bunt. He was really sweet.” Now she laughs. “I was the only one of my friends who wasn’t trying to pick somebody up that night, and I was the only one who actually found a date.”

I’m not really sure what to say in response to that. This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with Kathleen, and already I feel it’s been extended beyond its natural life. “Well, good for you” is all I come up with, but she looks pleased.

“What about you?” she asks. “I’ve never heard if
you
are dating anyone.”

She could hardly have picked a topic I would be less interested in discussing, though on a normal day I’d have done a better job of dissembling. I have been lying about Dante for fifteen years; it’s become second nature to me now. I realized a long time ago, with a certain amazement, that no matter how important something is in your life, no matter how huge it is, how much space it takes up in your heart and in your thoughts, unless you mention it to other people, they have no idea it exists. They cannot simply look at you and realize,
Oh, Maria is in love with a shape-shifter.
They cannot even realize,
Oh, Maria’s in love with a strange, unpredictable, unreliable fellow, and he’s mysteriously disappeared again, and her heart is broken.
Unless you tell them, they simply don’t notice when something is wrong.