He was overwhelmed. Flabbergasted. Words do not describe the feeling. Searching a dictionary, one comes up short. There is no word for such a waterfall of emotion.
His girlfriend had her own words. These aren’t in the dictionary, either.
“But Reba,” Walt said. “This is wonderful.”
“Wonderful? I have an exhibit at the National Pottery Expo. In four months!”
“So what?”
“What am I supposed to show? My belly?”
Reba paced her apartment. Never especially neat, drawings and pots lay everywhere. Socks and tee shirts littered the hardwood floors. One sneaker sat on the ottoman. “Where’s my cup?” she cried.
“Which one? You’ve got three going.”
“I can’t be pregnant. Not now. How did this happen?”
That was the easiest question to answer.
It shouldn’t have been such a surprise. Reba and Walt dated for over a year. Walt wanted to get married. Reba resisted. They were nearing forty. Both wanted children. What if I can’t get pregnant? she worried. I still want to marry you, he told her. It makes no difference. It makes a difference to me, she said.
They decided to let nature take its course. It took its course, all right. She stopped searching for her cup, and grabbed a new one. Pouring, her hands shook.
“You might want to back off on the coffee,” Walt said.
“You’re not helping!”
A little wine would calm her down. But that was not an option, at least for the next nine months. He wisely didn’t mention this.
Walt retrieved one of her Icelandic sweaters from a chair by the window. He folded it carefully. Sitting, he let the sun flood his face, warm his arms. The city lay before him, the red brick warehouses of Minneapolis, the half-finished glass apartment buildings with their cranes poised like ballet dancers. The skyline spoke of solidity, money, the dreams of youth. All so familiar, and yet so new.
“Reba, come here.”
“No.”
“Put that cup down. Sit on my lap.”
“I’ll crush you.”
“No, you won’t.” She walked over and sat in his lap. He kissed her. “Isn’t this nice?”
“It could be nicer.”
Not in his estimation. Problems with their careers, the lingering pandemic, the upheaval in the streets, the politics, the arguments, the economy, the weather, nothing was insolvable. In some curious way, it all made sense.
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