Happy Family Part 2

Upon his return to the States, Sol took on more hours at work in order to negotiate more vacation time to get back to Milano to see Cici. From their first cherry-laced kiss, the connection was strongly physical. The language barrier intensified the need for touch, and Cici moaned, she sighed, she giggled. To her, it was all play; she wanted to explore, to discover, to wander in their s.e.xuality like a garden. She'd nip and lick his nipples, ask him to roll a cold bottle of wine up and down her back and over her calves to see if it felt good-cold or bad-cold.

Sol was overwhelmed at first. Thrown off by her contradictions-a girl who was scared to get into an old elevator because it creaked but would defy her parents and sneak into a near stranger's hotel room? A girl who wept if she thought her hair looked bad but who had not an ounce of self-consciousness about her naked body? A virgin who was rapacious, so open to anything pleasurable as long as they avoided the Vatican's dreaded "penetration" that it made him feel prudish by comparison. Cici would surrender completely to him, to his touch; "Tell me," she would say and he would look into her eyes and tell her to come, and she would, again and again. It made him feel like the most powerful man on earth.

If Sol was shy, Cici was encouraging. She told him she loved his feet and that his red pubic hair was like the Olympic flame over his big "generals." She laughed when anything struck her as funny, often something he said or did. When they were again in the thrall of geography instead of each other, Sol worried that the novelty would wear off and she'd wake up one morning and say, "What was I thinking?" When she didn't, when distance only intensified their yearning, Sol saw Fortunella and La Dolce Vita six times each and developed intense cravings for risotto. During their long separations they wrote near incoherent letters back and forth, and on occasion he could telephone Cici at her cousin Paulo's for a few expensive but tender minutes.

Sol didn't tell his colleagues at work about Cici but had every intention of marrying her as soon as possible. His time frame accelerated because it became harder and harder for him to leave Italy, and he spent more and more time when he was apart from her thinking about how he could lose her. Sol had made Cici tell him about her other boyfriends: the altar boy, the Moto Guzzi guy in high school who felt her up; an artist friend of cousin Paulo's who took her to see Piero Manzoni's work and showed her how to give a hand job. Sol couldn't bear the thought of another man going where he'd gone or, worse, where he'd yet to go. Sol wanted to wake up in the morning and smell her hair on his pillow. He was tired of waiting. He had to do something to placate her parents.

Both Sol and Cici were certain that her stepfather would never allow them to marry. And Cici couldn't bear the thought of causing her mother pain. Catholicism was a borrowed dress Cici had worn for so long, it conformed to her curves. It was what she knew, thrust upon her by Marco D'Ameri. He would lecture the girls on the value of developing the habit of wors.h.i.+p. By partic.i.p.ating in the external rituals, he said, they would foster internal belief, which was but a step away from the carrot of all carrots: faith. Regardless of the depth of her faith, one thing was certain: she had to be married in a Roman Catholic church.

Sol had converted without telling her, sure that Cici's family would accept him as a Catholic. If he'd stayed a Jew, Sol wonders now, would she still have married him? Would she have said, To h.e.l.l with my anti-Semitic fascist family, I'm taking the radiologist? Then he would have been able to call his parents. Or not. They might have reacted the same way because he'd married a s.h.i.+ksa. Regardless, his conversion was the ultimate expression of his love, the sign that Cici needed in order to leave her mother, her sisters, and her country for him.

It took eight months for Sol to become immersed in Catholicism, which required believers to embrace strange, mystical views such as resurrection, virgin birth, and accepting Jesus Christ as the Son of G.o.d. Sol was trained to think rationally, and these notions defied reason. Sol had long felt that, great writers and thinkers aside, believers were, in general, stupider than nonbelievers. It followed that Jewish intellectuals were superior to non-Jewish intellectuals. But Christian writers had a profound understanding of human behavior, much better than the nihilism that was popular when Sol was in college; Nietzsche and Marx were depressing. But there was something about the Roman Catholic Church that appealed to the last bastion of his nonpracticing Jewishness-his liberalism. It strove to rise above ethnic differences, attempted egalitarianism.

If Sol had told his parents he was converting, at best they'd have seen it as a complete betrayal of them. At worst, it would have sent his mother into the hospital with a nervous collapse-something that hadn't happened since after Sol was born, precipitated by the constant criticism of her live-in mother-in-law and her belief that her baby was ugly and needed to be taken out facedown in the baby carriage. She reminded anyone who'd listen that she was too young to be a mother and how having Solomon ("Red hair's not from my side of the family") had almost killed her. If he ever showed anger toward his mother she would lash out at him and then dissolve into tears, precipitating an apology and reinforcing his fear that his actions could cause her to break down again. From an early age, Sol was taught to proceed with caution in matters of bad news. He hadn't discussed his personal life with his mother since he was stood up for the prom; he was waiting for the right time. Of course there was never a right time, and the longer he waited, the easier it was to put off.

Sol was aware that he fit the stereotype of the self-hating Jew. He would never deny that he was Jewish, but he didn't offer up the information either. Why should he? He considered himself an American first and foremost. He liked cultural aspects of being a Jew, things like rugelach and Lenny Bruce. But he cringed at his family's brand of Judaism; his mother treated going to temple like a compet.i.tive sport, Grandma Minnie kept the Pa.s.sover carp in the bathtub, and the family's favorite game was Who's Jewish, as in "Did you know that Abraham Lincoln was one-quarter Jewish?" He loathed how his father made him glue down their Pontiac's hubcaps so they couldn't be stolen and guess how much his steak would have cost in a restaurant. The Judaism Sol learned in Hebrew school wasn't any better. His teacher, a bald man who wore a Moshe Dayan eye patch, steered all lessons to the Holocaust, and constantly discussed how the n.a.z.is had made lampshades and soap out of Jews.

In Bridgeport, Connecticut, Sol's father, Bernard Matzner, was considered a natty dresser; he wore rum getups, and people in the neighborhood called him Flash. He had an abiding faith in DMSO ointment-a remedy for joint ailments of horses-proclaiming it a wonder drug. Sol had to rub the stinky stuff on his chest for colds, slather it on cuts and bruises, even gargle with it for a sore throat. In sixth grade, Sol broke down the chemicals in DMSO and proved that it had no effect on humans. The project won the state science fair but did nothing to convince Bernard Matzner, even when his son brought home a blue ribbon and a check for twenty-five dollars. Sol's father believed the Chosen Son should lay off the science experiments and spend time in his women's-wear shop learning the physics of how to fold a sweater so it didn't crease.

At least Sol's mother believed in higher education. She knew her son was smart, and just because she'd settled for a man in the schmatta business it didn't mean her son had to follow in his footsteps. "You don't have my Buxbaum looks," she'd say, "but women will want you for your brains." She stood up to his father for him, but her support had its price. Sol had to listen to her complaints: Flash's breath stank from his false teeth; she had to put bed pillows between them because his constant erections bothered her; how did she, the star of the Derby community theater, end up like this? In making Sol her confidant, she cemented him as her ally against his father, a position that made Sol uncomfortable. She also tried to beat into him a sense of obligation not just to his parents but to the Holocaust, to the redemption of debt. If a Jew raised his children out of the faith in the middle of the forest, she heard it and declared it a posthumous victory for Hitler. "If every Jew goes off and raises gentile babies, pretty soon there'll be no Jews left," his mother would say.

For all Sol knows, one or both of his parents could be dead now. This is the thought that crosses his mind as he's standing in front of the closet in his bedroom looking for a clean s.h.i.+rt. He sniffs the armpit of a s.h.i.+rt he pulled from the laundry basket and puts it on. It's been over a year since he's spoken to his parents. He'd written, but the letters came back marked Return to sender in his mother's handwriting. His mother had been devastated that he'd married a s.h.i.+ksa-his converting meant he'd renounced his birthright. He told himself he didn't care, but in truth, he cared, although he loved Cici more.

On impulse, Sol picks up the phone.

"Halloo..."

Sol is oddly comforted by her familiar vibrato. "Mom..." There's no answer. "Mother, don't hang up. Mom?" He listens until he hears her faint breathing. "I just wanted to tell you..." Here his voice catches; he's a six-year-old boy with a bloodied knee. "The thing is...we...lost the baby. There were complications. Cici's going to be fine, but...Are you there? For G.o.d's sake, just say something so I know you're listening." There's an exhalation on the other line. "You knew Cici was pregnant-you sent back my letter with tape on it. You didn't seal it very well; the paper was folded differently. Mom?" He swallows. "The funeral is today at three o'clock. St. Clare's in Montclair, right off the New Jersey Turnpike, the Cedar Grove exit takes you straight there. Dad can figure it out on the map if...Mom...Mom?"

"I'm sorry." The voice comes out like strained soup. "You must have the wrong number."

"Would you like to go for a walk?" Sol asks. It's crisp outside, a perfect Sunday for apple picking or taking a drive to see the changing leaves. Cici sits in an armchair by their bedroom window-he has no idea if she's looking at something outside or lost in her thoughts. He's grown used to seeing her in this position, like nonsensical modern art. When he awoke at five this morning, she was already in the chair. Cici's been home for six weeks and her sorrow doesn't seem to have diminished. Sol thought that she would eventually reach for him to pull herself up and out of grief. Instead, she's gone deeper within the sh.e.l.l of her suffering and Sol's starting to fear she may never come out. One night he'd found her in the middle of the backyard standing like a lost statue, her arms torn and scratched. He hasn't been going out on the weekends, even to run errands, so he could be near Cici "just in case." He retreats into the steam of a hot shower and focuses on the day ahead. At least at work he can be productive.

Cici stares out the window but doesn't notice the tree branches bowing from the wind. She doesn't register that the leaves on the circle of oaks have turned the color of marmalade and are starting to crisp on the lawn. For a moment she thinks of bathing but the sight of the scars on her abdomen, raised like train tracks, are too great a reminder. She closes her eyes and drifts back into memories of being pregnant. There, Sol brings her lilacs and espresso and nothing bad happens. "The world is your oyster," Sol had said when he'd carried her over the threshold into his Gramercy Park apartment. She laughed because she ate oysters with one gulp. She'd asked him what would happen if you swallowed the world and there was no more left.

But now, it was too horrible to think about what was no longer possible. With the truth came hatchling thoughts, scary, desperate feelings that made her want to hurt herself. She ran into the woods behind their house one night, letting the trees sc.r.a.pe her until she bled. The pain felt good and she could prolong it for days by picking at the scabs as they formed. This was what the monks had done with their flagellating sticks, this was what was meant by atonement through pain. She needed to atone. For her desire, so desperate that she had insisted on s.e.x the whole time her baby was growing inside of her. Surely this is what the priests had always warned them about. G.o.d even showed her how to atone further by making fresh cuts on the inside of her thighs with Solomon's razor blade. She goes to the bathroom and crouches, blade poised in that exquisite moment of hesitation. The first drop of blood cleanses, the sting of pain follows, sharp and sweet like absinthe. It stops her from thinking of her punishment-never being able to have children-and the certainty that she will be abandoned by Solomon because of it. What man would want her like this? She pulls her nightgown down over her legs when she hears her husband coming and gets back in bed.

"I'm going into the hospital for a while," Sol says, stroking her cheek. Cici knows her hair, which hasn't been washed in weeks, must feel like dead hay. He thinks about putting on one of her favorite records-La Cenerentola or maybe something by Ma.s.senet-but he doubts she'd get up to turn it over and it would scratch and scratch until Cookie came in this afternoon. He stares at Cici's ankles, the curve of her bone so white and exposed, and he wonders where she got the slippers she's wearing. He hadn't noticed them before; they're dingy and flat, so unlike anything he's ever seen her wear.

Sol is hovering. Cici wishes he'd leave. She's relieved when he says, "Get some sleep, cherie," and gently closes the bedroom door.

It's not until Sol comes home late that night that he discovers the strange object that will propel him into an action that's so drastic, it changes the course of three lives. He undresses in the bathroom because he doesn't want the light to disturb Cici. When he fumbles his way to the bed, he notices something odd sticking out from underneath her pillow. It's round, like a bicycle horn. He can't see more without moving her head. She can be restless at night, but her breathing is regular and even-which makes him think she's taken a sleeping pill. He slowly pulls the object out from under her pillow. She sighs and rolls away from him.

Sol sits on the closed toilet, examining the object. He hasn't a clue what the h.e.l.l this thing is. It has a cone that's taped to a handle that splits into a black bulb on one end and a tube on the other end. Could it be used to administer a drug by squeezing the bulb? If it were for that, he'd know about it, because he filled all of Cici's prescriptions. It looks handmade. Where did Cici get it? He could ask her about it, but if she wanted him to know she wouldn't have hidden it in the first place. What the h.e.l.l? At least it doesn't look dangerous. He'll have to do some research at the hospital library. Sol goes back into the bedroom, puts the bicycle hornthing under Cici's pillow, and tries to sleep.

The next day is a Monday and the radiology department at St. Vincent's is swamped with patients. When Sol looks up, it's dark outside. Cookie will be long gone and he hates leaving Cici alone late into the evening. He's racing to pack up and get to the train station when an intern runs past him. "You coming? It's about to start." Everyone on his floor is gathered around the small TV in back of the nurses' station. "This government, as promised, has maintained the closest surveillance of the Soviet military buildup on the island of Cuba. Within the past week, unmistakable evidence has established the fact that a series of offensive missile sites is now in preparation on the imprisoned island." President Kennedy speaks slowly and deliberately. "The purpose of these bases can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the Western Hemisphere." Sol is as paralyzed by the dire news as his colleagues. For the next seventeen minutes, no one moves, no one speaks. Sol watches as President Kennedy tells Americans that they are in the Soviets' crosshairs.

When the speech is over, everyone stands frozen around the television, as if there will be further instructions. "This is America," the doctor standing next to Sol says, "n.o.body can bomb us!" Sol nods noncommittally, but suddenly his companion seems to forget his anger at the Soviets and snaps his finger in recognition. "Wait a minute-Sol Matzner? I'm Don Tremont, Mo Lub.i.t.c.h's partner. I remember when Mo was recommending potential OBs for your wife. You must be a father by now. Congratulations." Tremont offers Sol his hand. Sol stares at it, not knowing what to do. Words like ballistic missiles and nuclear warhead from Kennedy's statement reverberate in his mind before he realizes what Tremont just said.

"We lost the baby," Sol says before he can censor himself. Later, he will wonder what prompted him to confess so blatantly. In the moment he is rattled by news so unexpected, so large, that instead of shaking Tremont's hand and going home, Sol finds himself in Tremont's office spilling the whole, sad story. The baby, Cici's hysterectomy, his fear for her mental health, and, finally, the strange round object under her pillow.

"What do you think it is?" Sol asks.

Don Tremont considers, then says, "When your wife was in the hospital, did they give her the shot to suppress her breast milk?"

"She didn't want that."

"With no baby to stimulate production, her milk should have dried up within two weeks. But the only thing that comes to mind is that it might be an old-fas.h.i.+oned form of breast pump."

"A breast pump? For breast-feeding?"

"Well, of course you know physicians don't recommend that women breast-feed, but in some ethnic communities it's still done. And if, say, the mother has to be away from her baby, or if the woman is a wet nurse, there are devices that can be used to express the milk."

"But the baby died. Why would she be..." Sol's voice trails off.

Tremont gives Sol a pat on the shoulder. "I wish there was more I could offer. My sister lost a baby and I know she had a very hard time of it. Your best bet might be to consult someone in psychiatry."

Sol feels like he's been sucker-punched. He gets himself to the train station and on the train home, but he can't recall exactly how. He's alone in the compartment, staring off without really seeing anything. Tremont had to be right; it was a breast pump. The only person who could have given it to Cici was Cookie. That much made sense. But why was Cici using it? Expressing milk to give to her dead baby? Pretending that he's still alive and giving Cookie the milk to, what-take to some other baby? It was all too bizarre; he didn't need to consult a psychiatrist to know his wife was wading into some very dark, uncharted waters.

Unbidden, he thinks of his wife's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He hasn't touched them since Cici came home from the hospital, hasn't dared, it isn't right. He's wanted to. He's thought about it, desired her, ached for her to touch him. At first he was ashamed. He would get hard in the mornings and want to roll over and press himself into the seam of her a.s.s. He didn't want to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e, thinking eventually she'd respond to his tickling her foot or caressing her back. But she didn't, and weeks pa.s.sed. He focused on work; he m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed.

The back-and-forth of the train jostles him and Sol can't help thinking, What if this is it? What if nothing ever changes and this is his life? He has been so worried about Cici that he hasn't factored himself into the equation. He wants to have children-his own flesh and blood-but he's willing to accept that he never will. What he can't accept is the idea that he'll never make love to Cici again. He misses her raw, sensual mouth. Their intimacy became his touchstone. I'm home, he'd think when he entered her. Without that...well, there cannot be a without that. He had never felt truly alive until he met Cici. She gave herself so fully, so freely-it liberated him. During their courts.h.i.+p he'd told her that he was ruined; after experiencing the ecstasy of their connectedness, there could be no living without it, or her, ever again. He needs his s.e.xy young wife back.

When Sol gets home, he pours himself a tumbler full of vodka. He drinks it in one gulp, standing over the kitchen sink. The liquor makes him warm and woozy. Although it's not that late, he knows he'll find Cici asleep. He sheds his pants and lies down on top of the covers.

Staring at the ceiling, Sol remembers Cici draped across her cousin Paulo's couch, naked except for high heels. He's fully dressed, kneeling in front of her on the couch. Watching as she circles her nipples with the point of her lipstick, making them hard and red. She takes his hand and puts it over her mound and he feels her heat on his palm. Her legs are open and he can see the folds of her l.a.b.i.a through her forest of blond pubic hair. He leans down and inhales her scent, brus.h.i.+ng his nose across her hair. She's liquid, musky. He reaches underneath her, cupping her bottom in his hands, and she presses herself into his face. She is undulating slowly, moving the lipstick down her stomach. His tongue parts her, finds her, hard and quick. She moans and pulls him up, loosening his pants, saying Italian words that roll with her mouth as she takes him in, tracing her tongue up and around until he sees white spots behind his eyes. Then, when he's close, so close, she stops, pulling him up and pus.h.i.+ng him toward the mirror on the wall. Her damp hair clings to her face; her body is soft and round, with lipstick marks like tribal paint. She brushes her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his back, her slender arms reaching around to stroke him. She folds his hand over hers and they watch her hand and his hand together, moving up and down and up and down.

Sol gasps and comes into his fist.

Now he lies in bed next to Cici feeling an ocean apart. There is nothing to do except wait to be released into sleep.

The following morning, Sol sits in the kitchen listening anxiously to the newscast on the radio while he waits for Cookie. The world, which seemed relatively safe just twenty-four hours ago, is now unpredictable and rife with crisis. By the end of the day, the Organization of American States is likely to approve of the quarantine against Cuba. Cookie arrives two minutes early wearing a coat that's three sizes too big. "Morning, Mr. M. How's she doin' today?"

"Why don't you tell me," Sol says, holding up the breast pump. "This is yours, right? You gave it to her."

"Yes, sir."

"And...?" Sol waits. When it's clear Cookie's not going to say more, he says: "It's a pump, so she can milk-but you already know that! Are you making her believe she can have another baby? Don't tell me she's pretending...our baby-" He sputters to a stop before shouting, "I hired you to clean the house, not to put delusional ideas in her head! What on earth were you thinking? Are you crazy?"

"I may be a lot of things, Mr. M., but I ain't crazy."

"Well, then, explain it to me, because I don't understand."

"No, sir, I don't suppose you would," Cookie replies, looking down.

Sol realizes his anger won't get results. "Why don't you sit," he says, "please, sit."

"Thank you," Cookie says, but remains standing. Sol runs his fingers through his hair. Composes himself. "As you can imagine, I'm very concerned about my wife. And...I'm just trying to understand. I'm trying to understand what a woman who doesn't have a baby is doing with this."

"Ain't you a doctor?"

"I know what she's doing with it, for G.o.d's sakes, what I want to know is why?"

"All right," Cookie says, leaning on the kitchen chair as if to brace herself for another outburst. "Sometimes people, they want to feel something they don't got," she says quietly. "Maybe they had it once and they lost it. Like a man who lost his leg, had it cut off, he still feel that leg. It's like that with your wife."

"What does she want to feel?" Sol asks, sensing that, whatever the answer, he will have no cure.

"Like she's a mother."

Cookie's words hang in the air. Sol looks down at his hands, not knowing what to say. "Thank you, Cookie," Sol says after a minute. "But you can't be planning on doing this forever. It'll have to stop eventually."

"Yes, sir. But there be plenty of room between now and forever."

"Taper off, however it's best for her to do it, but do it now."

"Oh no. I can't do that."

"Excuse me?"

"I can't be taking that away from her. It'd be taking away the one thing that gives her hope, and if you do that, you're in for a heap more trouble than you already got. Don't mean to be rude, Mr. M., but given what y'all been through, that saying a lot." Sol puts on his coat and grabs his keys, picks up the pump and shoves it in his pocket. He's almost out the door when he turns around. He never thought he'd take advice from Cookie, but maybe she has a point. He walks back and lays the pump down on the table.

At St. Vincent's, the television set on Sol's floor is always on. All day, news reports detail the showdown between the superpowers; no matter how Kennedy framed it, a quarantine against Cuba was an act of war and Khrushchev's anger shows no sign of abating. The staff is transfixed by the reconnaissance photographs of Soviet missile sites in Cuba. Sol, not usually p.r.o.ne to fear, tries to rationalize it as just a high-stakes game of chicken. But this was for all the marbles and Castro was unstable enough that who knew who would blink first. The world certainly felt like it was on the brink of collapse; could a nuclear bomb already be aimed at New York? Sol thinks of his life with Cici, what it is now compared to what he imagined it would be. What could he possibly do to give their lives a glimmer of the promise and meaning he'd felt the day he married her?

Later that afternoon, Sol tentatively knocks on the door of Dr. Tremont's office. He finds Tremont is sitting behind his desk, a messy mahogany affair that's covered with framed photographs of his golden retrievers.

"I appreciated our discussion last night," Sol begins stiffly. "I won't take up much of your time, but I'd like to ask you about something that could help my wife." He blunders on, despite his embarra.s.sment. "The device we spoke about-it occurred to me that as illogical as it is, she's been using it to give her hope. She needs something real, something she can hold on to."

Sol looks at Tremont, silently asking him to understand the words he cannot bring himself to say out loud.

After a long moment, Tremont nods. "You're talking about adoption. Of course, if you're prepared to do this so soon after your loss, there are many good agencies."

"Given her circ.u.mstance," Sol says, "I believe soon is essential."

"No waiting. No questions. No checks." Walter Pembroke, Esquire's accent, is vaguely Canadian. He sits at his desk across from Sol. "If you're not interested, there are three other couples I represent who are." Sol looks at a picture of a baby. Indiscernible s.e.x, unfocused, bluish eyes. He'd get better odds in Atlantic City. "I'm interested," he says.

Don Tremont tried to talk Sol into taking his time and working with an adoption agency. He warned that it was dicey to proceed without Cici's involvement, that given how unstable she was, she could potentially reject a new child. But Sol's desperation prevailed and Tremont confided that he knew a lawyer who could "cut through the red tape" and who was very discreet.

So what if the logic of a rushed adoption is dubious; so what if Mr. Pembroke's "Esquire" was most likely bought through a mail-order course? Sol has to do whatever is necessary to make his wife whole and happy. As shocked as he is to find himself in this position, as distasteful as it is to have to negotiate with Pembroke, Sol has to come up with four thousand dollars to buy his wife a baby.

Jersey National Bank closes at five, and Sol floors his Olds to get there in time. He financed his house with that bank and has a relations.h.i.+p with the branch manager. He reviewed Mr. Carlton's mother's X-rays and had gotten her in with a top orthopedist, so he hopes that will help. Radiology was a prime choice of specialization for Sol; still, he'd had to moonlight weekends at Mount Sinai's ER to pay for Carlotta's canary-yellow two-carat diamond ring, even though he got it wholesale, and the down payment on the house has used up almost all of the money he'd made on his real estate investments. c.r.a.ppy garages, vacant meatpacking warehouses in the far West Village he bought for almost nothing then sold to local hospitals to use as storage for their old medical records. Sol figures if he has to, he'll run another line of credit with his percentage in the Bailey, Halpern, and Matzner practice for collateral. Which, it turns out, is what Mr. Carlton suggests in response to Sol's fib that he needs the money to pay for Cici's continuing home care.

The very next morning, Pembroke calls to confirm a time and place for Sol to pick up the baby and hand over the money. Even though he chose Pembroke based on the man's reputation for "efficiency," Sol a.s.sumed the process would take a few weeks. Panicking, he thinks about all that needs to get done in the next few hours. Does he need to buy anything? Or are all of Cici's careful preparations still there in the neatly organized baby's room? He hasn't been inside that room for weeks. He still thinks of it as his son's room, and now another child-a girl, Pembroke told him-will grow up in it. She will have the life intended for their boy and never know the difference. Will Cici ever be able to forget their son? Will he? But he can't allow doubt to creep in now; it's far too late for that.

Sol needs to get out of the house. He feels uncomfortable being around Cici and not disclosing his plan. Even though it's hours before his meeting with Pembroke, he puts his four thousand dollars in the glove box and backs his Olds down the driveway. But the drive proves to be all the more unsettling; bomb talk dominates every radio station, and the news seems to be getting worse. With a click and a twist, he settles on something ba.n.a.l. "Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl, Earl, Earl."

Bird s.h.i.+t hits smack in the middle of the winds.h.i.+eld. "G.o.dd.a.m.ned birds," he says and flicks on his wipers, making a streaky mess. "The whole world is going to s.h.i.+t." He can barely see and thinks, Great, all I need is an accident. The closest place to pull over is d.i.c.k Shelton's Cadillac dealers.h.i.+p. The lot is festooned with American flags and there's a curvy brunette standing out front in a short, checkered jumper who offers to wash his window for free, and, by the way, would he like to take a look at the new Eldorado convertibles while he waits? Sol doesn't think of himself as a Caddy man-they are too ostentatious-but what the h.e.l.l, why not check out a convertible? This could be their last day of-what? Freedom? Safety?-before going up in a mushroom cloud, so why not spend it enjoying a little luxury. The least he can do is try to make things right for Cici while there are still things to make right. Sol pictures Cici smiling in a way he hasn't seen for months sitting in the pa.s.senger seat of a new Eldorado, hair streaming out of control like in La Dolce Vita. If his love alone can't make her happy, then a baby in a red 1963 Cadillac Eldorado has to do the trick. Anyway, he still has two hours before he has to be at the HoJo's parking lot off the highway, plenty of time to take a look.

Billy Beal arrives at the HoJo's parking lot early. He thinks about the past few days, how so much happened so quickly. It was only last Tuesday when they were all watching game seven of the World Series on the black-and-white Zenith. Moms with the baby sleeping on her shoulder; Pops pacing, yelling at Ralph Terry to strike the batter out. It was another World Series t.i.tle for the Yanks, and the Beals were all on their feet, n.o.body louder than Moms, who caterwauled like an overgrown cheerleader. Pops tackled his sons and they banged into the coffee table, knocking empty bottles of beer into a couple of discarded BB guns on the floor.

Later, when Moms came around for her good-night hug, she sat on the corner of Billy Beal's bed and shook her head. "I tried," she said. "Look at me, son, it's important that you hear this right." Billy Beal stared at the ceiling. "We can't keep the baby any longer, no ifs, ands, or buts about it." The week before, he'd heard Pops hollering bad at Moms and he'd discovered Pops sleeping on the couch the next morning. So Moms's news didn't exactly come as a surprise. Billy had also heard what Moms had to say about orphanages and state services; the baby deserved better. Billy Beal had touched the girl's pendant, six times front, six times back, and asked the universe for an answer. He asked and asked until he remembered the man who'd come to the clinic.

"Walter Pembroke, Esquire," was how he'd introduced himself. He'd come to the clinic right after the Fourth of July and spent a while talking to Syl behind the check-in window. Afterward, he'd walked up to Billy Beal and explained that he was a lawyer who represented good families who were looking to adopt babies. Billy Beal had never seen a man whose briefcase matched his shoes. He had no idea why this person was bothering to talk to him. "You look like a sharp fellow," Esquire said. "I help people in difficult situations; you understand what I'm saying, son? You call me if you know someone who needs my help. A lady who, for whatever reason, can't take care of her baby herself. I help. And if you help, there's something in it for you too." Just before the lawyer reached the exit, he trotted back to Billy. "Did I mention they should be white? White babies only." Billy took the man's card.

After Moms said good night and left his room, Billy leaned over the baby's crib. "Don't worry," he said, "everything's going to work out fine, you'll see." Walter Pembroke, Esquire, was the answer.

But Moms had caught wind of what was going on with Esquire-Billy was lousy at keeping a secret-and insisted on speaking to the lawyer-man to see if he and his potential clients pa.s.sed her sniff test. Then and only then would she get in touch with the agency she fostered for and put them in touch with him. Moms further insisted that she personally deliver the baby to the new parents. Pops got in the game and said, "Make it farking sooner than later," and before Billy Beal knew it, Moms had her coat on and the baby packed and was saying if he didn't step on it she was leaving without him. Moms had a hinky feeling about meeting in a parking lot and wasn't about to let the baby go to some kook. So Billy Beal's standing outside of the station wagon in the HoJo's lot, chewing a wad of Bazooka, waiting for Moms to come back with some clam rolls and soda. Billy Beal peers into the backseat and wiggles his fingers at the baby. He checks the parking lot for Esquire but the place is dead.

Sol's palms sweat as he turns the leatherette steering wheel to make an illegal U-turn. Pembroke said to meet at the HoJo's near his office but Sol must have taken the wrong exit off the Garden State, because he doesn't see the familiar orange-and-turquoise sign. It must be the next exit up. Does he see a cherry top in his rearview mirror, a few cars behind him? Did a cop see him make the turn? What if the police pull him over? How will he explain riding around with four thousand dollars in cash, enough for a down payment on a house around here? He's a doctor, a good citizen; he doesn't even have any points on his license. What if he's busted for involvement in some left-of-the-law adoption scam? Sol relaxes when the car pulls into the next lane-the red placard on its roof advertises the E-Z Driving School. Sol looks at his watch. He hopes Pembroke isn't late; he might lose his nerve if anything deviates from the plan.

Sol pulls into the HoJo's lot at exactly the appointed time and parks at the end that's farthest away from the restaurant, as instructed. He turns off the engine and looks around: n.o.body in the lot except a teenager in a leather jacket who gets out of a rusted station wagon parked a few spots away from him. Sol will have to wait. He rubs the back of his thumb against his cuticles, feels antsy, has the impulse to flee. This is for Cici, he reminds himself as he switches on the new radio, twizzling the b.u.t.tons-but it's just more about the missile crisis, so he quickly switches it off. That is the last thing he wants to think about right now. In the rearview, the boy is staring at the Caddy. He's about fifty feet away; close enough so Sol could read the expression on his face if it weren't totally blank.

The boy juts his chin out in a way that reminds Sol of the Irish kids he grew up with, the types his father labeled "goyish hoodlum delinquents." Sol checks his watch. Where is Pembroke? The kid has lasers for eyes and it's making Sol uncomfortable. What's he thinking, that he's going to rob a man in a new Caddy? Sol would lock the car doors but that would only make him feel more claustrophobic.

A heavyset woman emerges from the restaurant carrying some bags of food. The boy says something to her and now they're both looking over at Sol, who is about to sweat through his s.h.i.+rt when a Dodge Dart pulls in and parks next to the station wagon. Pembroke gets out, flaps his hands in front of the kid and the woman, then trots over to Sol. "Dr. Matzner. Terribly sorry I'm late. You weren't supposed to meet like this." Sol gets out of the Caddy and sees that the woman has put her bags in her car and is starting to walk toward them.

"We haven't met," Sol says coldly. Pembroke takes Sol's arm but Sol shakes it off. "You didn't say there were going to be other people here. Who the h.e.l.l are they?"

"It's the foster family. They've been looking after the baby, and, uh, insisted they be here..." The woman is now only a few feet away and she abruptly thrusts out her hand.

"Margaret Beal, this is my son Billy, and you are...?"

"The adoptive father, Mrs. Beal, I can take it from here," Pembroke says. Margaret Beal's eyes don't leave Sol's. She bulldozes ahead.

"I told Mr. Pembroke here that my son and I needed to meet the people who were going to take the baby." In response to Sol's quizzical look, she adds, "We didn't want to name her, it's usually better that way. Do you and your wife have a name picked out? Is your wife here with you? I expected to meet her too."

"I didn't realize this was an interview," Sol says.

"We're very fond of the baby, especially my son Billy here. He's the reason we took her in the first place. We wanted to meet you, face-to-face. You see where she's been; we see where she's going. Your wife?"

"Is at home," Sol says.

"Excuse us," Pembroke says, pulling Mrs. Beal away. They talk quietly on the far side of the station wagon while the son stands across from them looking into the window of the backseat. Pembroke told Sol the adoption would be anonymous and now there's Mrs. Beal to contend with. She's pushy, but well-meaning; the baby could have done far worse. Now Pembroke's raising his voice, spouting legalese. If Sol doesn't want this all to go south, he's got to get involved.

While the son wolfs down two clam rolls, Sol goes into doctor mode with Mrs. Beal. He diagnoses and then allays her fears with natural authority; soon she's asking him for advice about her sister Mab's gout and Pembroke's ready to close the deal. Mrs. Beal talks quietly about nipple flows and burp cloths while the boy gets a white wicker ba.s.sinet out of the car. Sol can see the baby's face peeking out of her blankets; she's filled out since her picture was taken and she has apple cheeks. Pembroke is pulling off the blanket to show Sol that the baby's got all her fingers and toes and confirms that Sol has reviewed all the medical records. He notes that she was vaccinated. It's like he's buying a horse.

Suddenly Pembroke is handing Sol the basket. It is heavier than Sol expected and more c.u.mbersome. He doesn't know how to hold it. Just as he begins to readjust, Pembroke motions that it is time for the cash.

Sol doesn't want to hand Pembroke the envelope in full view of Mrs. Beal. It feels too mercenary, tawdry. He motions for Pembroke to open the pa.s.senger door. Once they're both in the car, they discreetly exchange the envelope for the signed adoption papers. "You took care of everything with the state?" Sol presses. "My wife and I have the baby free and clear?"

"Of course," Pembroke says. "All the paperwork from the foster program is there, signed and in order." Sol prays Pembroke doesn't have the bad taste to open the envelope and count the bills. Pembroke runs his hand over the dashboard. "Nice," he says. "Congratulations to you and Mrs. Matzner." Sol wonders if he's referring to the baby or the Cadillac. Pembroke doesn't really seem like a baby person.

When Pembroke's gone, Sol takes a deep breath. The air is redolent of new car and something else he'd smelled when he'd picked up the baby in her basket. Not soap or powder, he'd recognize those; this was organic and sweet. For the first time since he started this venture, he feels a moment of peace.

He placed the baby in her basket in the backseat but then decides to move her up front where he can keep an eye on her. He gingerly moves the ba.s.sinet to the pa.s.senger seat, taking pains not to wake her. Her skin's so white it's practically transparent and he can see her eyes moving beneath her closed lids. Her hair is black, and there's a lot of it, he thinks, not really knowing how much hair an almost three-month-old should have. She's also bigger than he expected. Just as he's settling himself back into the driver's seat, there's a sharp rap on the window-Mrs. Beal is standing on the other side of the gla.s.s. Her face has lost its composure; traces of sadness pull at the corners of her mouth. Sol searches for the b.u.t.ton to lower the window.

"Sorry to bother you, but my son wanted to make sure I told you one more thing. Billy wants to let you know she likes baseball. The Yankees, of course. During the season, let her listen to a game, she'll light right up like she's rooting for them. Billy there is the star pitcher for the Trenton Tigers, look out because soon you'll see him in the majors." Sol nods politely and she waves and returns to her car. Sol fixes his own seat belt and now it's just him, his new sleeping baby, his new car, and a world still on the brink of collapse. "All right, then," he says to no one in particular.