Married and Pregnant
By Chico Moreno



The sun beamed through the living room windows with an intense accompanying heat. For weeks, it seemed, the sun hadn’t even bothered to show up for work. In the adjacent kitchen, the subject of many a tired "small New York kitchen" jokes, Julianne stood impatiently as the coffee maker gurgled and steamed. She believed that the coffee maker conspiratorially took its time in a manner that reflected the larger indifference of humanity to the entire world. Diffuse light from the living room crept into the small space as she danced eagerly in a loose, sheer white nightgown. Her bare feet pattered on linoleum. It was less a dance than a confrontation with what she perceived to be a classic woman-versus-nature theme.

No sound came from the bedroom, and Julianne knew it would be almost an hour before Grant stirred scalded, condensed milk into his daily coffee premiere. She quickly poured a cup of coffee and scooted into the brightness of the living room. Gently slumping into the club chair separated from the fire escape by an uninsulated pane of glass, Julianne sparked a Marlboro to life with a match. She dug her feet into the chair and her eyes passed across the familiar cityscape from this fifth floor walk-up.

Within half an hour, Grant arose from his sleep and ambled into the bathroom, where he felt a subtle ease from the floor—hard and cool and slate. In the kitchen he lit the range with the flicker of a stick match and extinguished the match’s ember in a droplet of water clinging to the wall of the sink. On the open flame, Grant placed the customary sauce pan and poured the condensed milk from one of two triangular openings in the top of an already-open can.

"What the hell you doin’ up?" asked Julianne from the living room as she heard Grant’s scraping and clanging in the next room.

"Is that supposed to pass for ‘Good morning, honey’?"

She said nothing, but inwardly she thought that his sentimentality was unfortunate for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that she was so unsentimental. But it wasn’t that she wasn’t sentimental, really, but that she reserved sentimentality for that which had transpired, so to speak. All of these thoughts occurred to her as she left his question hanging in the stale air between them. That which could be no more, she thought, that was the stuff of sentimentality. That which had gone the way of the cowboy and the oil baron, retired to lore. She recognized that cowboys and oil barons still existed, but their past remained a more vibrant, indelible image than any living memory might produce.

In the kitchen, the scraping sound of a swirling spoon against the saucepan lulled Grant into his own little place where only semi-conscious thoughts flourished. The morning was a beautiful time of day, he half-thought. And in this early moment, he merely accepted this as true. There was none of the usual inspection or debate. Grant issued himself the objective to get up earlier and enjoy this time more.

He joined Julianne in the living room, sitting on the couch opposite the room from her. "Have you gotten the paper?"

"Your paper?"

"Yes, my paper."

"No, honey, I haven’t gotten your paper." Recognizing the harshness of her snippiness, Julianne rose from her seat, saying, "But I will."

"No," he said, moving to stand, "you don’t have to."

"I know I don’t have to," she countered sweetly, "I just want to."

"Well, thanks," he said and continued to stand. He leaned into her as she moved to pass and seeing his movement, she turned and wrapped her arms around him. They kissed a tentative, shy morning kiss. She turned her head and rested it against his chest for a moment before pulling away and heading to the front door. Opening it, she found the paper on the mat and kneeled to scoop it up. In doing so, one or two of the sections went fluttering into the hallway. For a half-second she thought of leaving them. As she gathered the errant newsprint, she thought, What a bastard! I can’t believe he passes the front door to stir his condensed milk into his coffee but daily fails to check for the paper before asking me if I’ve gotten it.

She regretted for a moment, as she returned to the living room, that she had ever been interested in the city council vote on the financing of women’s centers. Her unabiding interest in the fate of her work and life’s pursuit had given Grant the impression that they shared equal appreciation of the paper. It was small matter, really, she thought, and she dropped the disheveled newsprint on the coffee table. Grant’s coffee cup was half-empty and he got up, as she sat down, and headed toward the kitchen.

"Honey, you want more coffee?" Before she could answer, he added, "And thanks for the paper. I don’t know why I pass the front door every morning and never look." The quizzical look on his face as he turned away kept her from saying, "Neither do I."

He returned with more coffee and sat down next to her on the couch. She skimmed the City Section and he took the front page. In eight minutes or so, she left the room and, ostensibly, started for the shower. He heard the water and saw the steam waft into the short hallway between the bedroom and the living room. In another moment, he downed his coffee and deposited the cup in the sink as he moved toward the shower. The paper lay, mostly unread, on the coffee table.

In the bathroom, Julianne sat on the closed commode seat in her nightgown. Her elbows rested on her knees and her closed hands buried into her cheeks where cute dimples normally presided. "Are you feeling OK?" he asked. You’ve not been yourself for the last week, he thought.

"Oh, I’m fine, thanks," she said and as she spoke, he realized amidst the fog that she was crying a little. It struck him how impersonal her answer sounded. Fine, thanks.

"You don’t sound fine."

"Well, I am."

He began to pull off his T-shirt and as he had it over his head, where his eyes couldn't be seen, he asked almost mechanically, "Are y’sure?"

"I’m sure."

He kissed her on the top of her head, smelling her hair as he did so, but she didn’t look up. He took off his pajama bottoms and pulled back the shower curtain, stepping in from the side opposite the spray. His clothes lay in front of her in a small, unobtrusive pile. In a moment, she joined him.

In their bedroom, Grant stared blindly into the uniform laundry in the closet. He wondered what to make of Julianne’s sudden, small burst of emotion. Looking at the clock, he turned his attention to the task of getting to work on time. As he did, Julianne entered the room with another cup of black coffee and a towel wrapped around her head. She reclined on the edge of the bed and watched Grant as he busied himself in this daily ritual. He noticed her reclining and sipping her coffee and he stopped buttoning his shirt, fingers in mid-button. "Don’t you have to work today?"

"It’s Wednesday. I never work Wednesdays."

"Oh," he said. He knew this. "I just didn’t realize that it’s Wednesday."

As he kissed her lips and stood to go, he asked, again, "Are you sure you don’t want to talk about whatever it is?"

"Not now," she said. "Besides, what are you gonna do, skip work?"

It sounded odd to him, like it was school. He knew that he couldn’t miss work that day, or any other, really. "No, I suppose I can’t."

"Well, then, get outta here," she said, her lips struggling to form a smile. He sighed and looked into her reddish eyes before turning to go. "Let’s go out to dinner tonight, OK?"

"We’ll see."

"Jeez, such enthusiasm."

He let the door close heavily behind him as left. His feelings were more than just a bit hurt that she couldn’t share with him whatever the hell it was that bothered her. At work that day, he couldn’t let go the feeling that he needed to be there for her. In some odd way, he felt like maybe she wouldn’t be there when he returned. At lunch, he called home, but there was no answer. He didn’t leave a message but tried again at mid-afternoon. Again, no answer.