Reba, pregnant, is in a bad mood. Television bores her. Magazines and newspapers are thrown to the floor. She makes caffeine-free herbal tea, but doesn’t drink it. What’s the use?
None of this bothered Walt, her fiancé. He sat in her apartment, hands behind his head. He has been losing his hair. Not because of Reba, or the approaching birth of their child. He has been losing his hair for twenty years. A slow process, leaving the top sparse, the sides flourishing. Out of boredom, he started Elvis-style sideburns, alarming Reba. Curly black hair also coats the back of his neck, his shoulders and arms. He has plenty of what he needs. Just not where he needs it.
Reba paced from kitchen to living room to kitchen. She grabbed a dusting cloth and began wiping down end tables. “Why don’t you sit down?” Walt asked.
“Why don’t you stand up?”
He suppressed a smile. Reba worked best when she was mad. She was also more beautiful. “I told you to ignore politics,” he said. “Where’s it going to get you? Or more importantly, little Abigail?”
“You mean little Ava?”
“Excuse me, little Ava.”
They disagreed on the name, but not the gender. The baby was certainly a girl, Reba explained. If it were a boy, he would give her morning sickness. A boy would keep her up at night, pushing and kicking. A boy would make her pee when she sneezed. Really? Walt asked. Absolutely, Reba said. That’s what boys do.
“And girls are more reasonable. Ava will be a good Progressive. I can tell.”
“I hardly think,” Walt said. “That the baby’s first order of business will be to attend a precinct caucus.”
He watched her pick up a tall ceramic lamp. One of her “failures”, she said. After turning it on the wheel, she deliberately pushed and distorted the clay. She went ahead and dripped layers of black and white glaze over the entire surface, like a Jackson Pollock painting. Then fired the thing. The lamp was simple yet accomplished, subdued and yet surprising, a perfect detail for her glass tables, her low-slung, modernist sofas.
“Furthermore,” Walt said. “Something tells me changing diapers will be more important than changing the U.S. Senate.”
“Oh, shut up.” She put the lamp down with a bang. “There’s nothing more important than politics. That’s our future. And do you know what that future is?”
“I do not.”
“Trump’s planning to run in 2024!”
“He is?” Now Walt was concerned. The name itself put him on edge. Not that he hated Trump. He actually voted for him (a fact he wisely kept hidden). It was just that Trump sucked all the air out of any room. Issues became meaningless. Get-togethers with friends involved contests of who could be the most insulting. Reba usually won.
“Don’t you follow the news?” she cried. “Trump’s been dropping hints like a bird drops poop. You know what he said at one of his little photo-ops, at a Manhattan firehouse?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“He said he couldn’t reveal whether he would run. But his supporters would be ‘very happy’ when he did. Very happy? Those idiots might be happy. But I’m not.”
“I guess I’m not happy, either.”
“You guess? That’s all?”
Walt had erred, however minutely. One’s guard could never be lowered. That’s another thing he disliked about Trump. “Let me rephrase. I’m just as upset as you.”
“You better be. It’s going to take all three of us to stop him.”
This rather pleased Walt. They were now a three. “Trump might run,” he said, hoping to pacify her. “But he won’t win. Even his supporters are tired of him. How many campaigns can they stand?”
Reba’s face suddenly darkened. “You’re right! Even if he loses, he can run again. And again and again!” She began to swoon.
Walt jumped up. putting his arms around her. “Take it easy, Honey.”
“I just don’t want to worry about little Ava. What if, heaven forbid, she becomes a Trump voter?”
An engineer by training, Walt did the math. Ava would be eligible to vote in 2041. By then Trump would be a hundred and ninety. Or something like that. “I don’t think we have to worry.”
Reba kissed his furry cheek. “Thank you, Walt. You always know what to say.”
Or what not to say. In these times, same thing.
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