It’s the New Year, and everything about Walt O’Conner irritates Reba. Not the least his reasonable nature. He drives a reasonable car (Prius). Has a reasonable job (print shop owner). He is, when it comes to her needs, infinitely reasonable. And patient. She hates that.
“Reba, a baby right now doesn’t make sense,” he tells her. “We’ve only been together a few months. We might end up hating each other.”
“I already hate you.”
Reba is an auntie again. Jonathon, her brother, has always been intent on one-upping her. He had to have the best grades. He had to beat her at chess. Now his wife, Cassandra, is knocking out babies one after the other. Is there no end to his competitiveness?
“Plus,” Walt says. “Have you thought about our ages?
That’s all Reba’s thought about. At forty, she realizes, on this bright winter day, she’s rounding the final lap. It’s the home stretch. She’s winded but by no means beaten, the crowd is cheering. Walt is a few steps away, running hard. He’s forty-three.
Reba refuses to get dressed. She sits in a bathrobe on the couch. Behind is a room-long bookshelf crammed with pots and plates and bowls and candleholders and cups, and many half-finished gems and castoffs from her studio, in blue and pink, her favorite colors. Stuffed between the bigger pots are books and décor magazines. And sketchpads and pencils. Being an artist is a full-time job. Being Reba is a full-time job.
Walt wants to go to Esmerelda’s, a Northeast bar with outdoor dining. Because of the pandemic no one is allowed inside. Esmerelda’s is old-school. They brought in loads of bricks and constructed unmortared firepits and fireplaces. The wood burns constantly, beating away the often sub-zero temperatures. While enjoying crab-gouda fetuccini and sipping mulled wine, diners wear expedition gear, huge down jackets and mukluks. This appeals to Walt’s reasonable nature.
First he has to get his girlfriend into her underwear.
“Can’t we discuss this later?” Walt asks.
Reba sighs dramatically. “I feel like we’re falling behind.”
“Behind who?”
“My brother. And Catherine Baker and John Schatz.” The latter were clients.
“You said Catherine Baker was corrupt. And Schatz is bankrupt. You said he owes Santa Claus money. Your exact words.”
“At least they have kids.”
“Adult kids. Look, we’ll feel better by a fire, with a bowl of cheese curds and a hot toddy.” He sits with her. “And then, who knows?” He gives her a long kiss, just under the left ear.
This appeals to Reba. “You’re right!”
“I’ll get your clothes.” Walt jumps up.
“Bring my flannel PJ’s,” Reba says. “That’s going on first, before anything.”
“Will do.”
Walt smiles as he heads for her closet. Wearing pajamas under your clothes? In Minnesota, on New Year’s Day, that’s just plain reasonable.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com