Walt met John Schatz outside the hospital room. Schatz carried a large bouquet of yellow roses. “These are for Reba,” Schatz said. Walt stopped him at the door.
“You can’t go in there,” he said. “The baby is feeding.”
“That’s quite all right,” replied the urbane Schatz. He wore an expensive black suit. Armani, Walt guessed. It was the same suit he wore the day before. At the wedding. Walt wondered if it was the only suit he owned. He guessed so.
Schatz attempted to peek around the door. “I’m liberal,” he said. “I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do.” Walt blocked the way. He wasn’t mad at the man. Schatz was simply being… Schatz. And he was well meaning. Excessively so. When Walt answered his cell and told him the baby had been born, Schatz congratulated him, grandly predicting, “You might have a future CEO there, me boy.”
“If you say so, John.”
Outside the hospital room Schatz handed the flowers over. “Well, if I can’t come in, give these to Reba. And God bless. He turned and, Bruno Magli loafers clicking, marched down the corridor. Walt was relieved. He had the uncomfortable feeling the man might leave a business card. For the baby.
Walt walked in. Catherine Baker sat with the infant, tightly swaddled, in her arms. She held her face close, and gently touched the black hair. “I believe,” she said. “This is the most beautiful child I have ever seen.”
“I won’t argue.” He turned to Reba, who sat in bed. “More flowers,” he said.
“Put them over there.” She wore one of her flimsy kimonos. “Who are these from?”
“John.”
“That’s nice of him.” She took the pillow from her lap and put it behind her head. She nestled back. “Thank God my milk came in. I thought I was going to explode.”
“I think my milk is coming in,” said Catherine, her nose an inch from the baby’s.
Walt sat on the edge of the bed. Reba took his hand. “Well, Walt. What do you think of our little boy?”
Little boy! He was still stunned, almost as much as the moment his son had been born, wrinkle-faced, squalling, hands in tiny fists. Ready for a fight. Walt was perhaps more surprised, and perplexed, now that he had time to really consider it. They were so certain the baby would be a girl.
But he had a boy, not a girl. Somehow the difference seemed immense. And infinitely more complex. Now he would have to teach him to play baseball. Instead of a violin he would play the tuba. A father must show his son how to throw a football, cast a spoon, defend his place in a lunch line, and generally stand up to the hyper-competitive stupidities of other men. Most of all, he didn’t want him to end up like John Schatz. The poor man..
“Walt?” Reba caught the look on her husband’s face. It was not a good look.
“I think…” he said. “There will be a lot to learn. For both of us.”
She took his hand. “You’ll be a good teacher, Walt McConner.”
He hoped so. Spying the remote, he clicked on the TV.
“What are you doing?”
“There’s a football game on Channel 42.” Never too early to start.
Reba took the remote and turned off the TV. She pulled him close. “I think we can skip football,” she said. “For the time being.”
Walt kissed her. He thought so, too.
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