Elisa Albert - After Birth

Destroy yourself , says my mother. Live it up. That’s what makes for good stories.

She should know.

Nurturance, on the other hand…

The time it takes to grow something…

BORING.

Crisp and Jer hosted a party for last year’s visiting writer, a Dutch poet.

Come , Jer said. Mothers need to party, too. So I brought my tiny Walker bundle, and Paul helped me limp over there. What a gift: invited somewhere nice with my terrifying appendage.

The Dutch writer was sweet but standoffish. He spoke to me just once.

In Holland we have a saying , he said, gesturing at my bundle. The Tropical Years. When the Dutch colonized Indonesia, you see, military service there counted for double time. Because you must understand it was terribly hot. And the malaria and the disease, and so forth. So it was that one year of military service in the tropics counted for two. Tropical years, it was called. This is what it is to have small children, you understand?

We order pizza for her farewell dinner, open some red. I light candles, put on Dinosaur Jr.

Will declined my invitation. It occurs to me way too late: Will and Mina! She’ll come visit. Brooklyn isn’t far. Her sister will drive her bonkers, she’ll come stay with us, she’ll fall in love with Will, our little commune will be set.

Damn, girl , Mina says about my hair. Damn.

So sexuality’s a continuum , says Bryan when we’re eating.

Right. I’m game.

In the middle you have perfectly bisexual, on either end you have perfectly straight and perfectly gay.

Most of us are in the middle somewhere , Mina says.

Obviously. But my theory is that women have to be at the exact same place on the bisexuality continuum in order to be friends.

Say more.

If you veer toward gay but your friend veers toward straight, you’re always going to want a more intense level of relationship, and she won’t be that interested.

Yeah , Mina says, like they’re terrified you might just jump them and chow down on their pussy.

I can’t stop laughing. I’m good and tipsy. Paul goes up to bed. He can only take so much. It’s only nine o’clock, but Paul is Paul and I love him and I get him and it’s fine.

So wait. How gay am I?

Probably you’re at, like, about seventy percent, and you —he turns to me— are closer to fifty. Just off the top of my head.

You wait until I have butch hair to tell me this?

Naw, me and Ari are the exact same amount of queer , Mina says. The exact same. And we’re in love.

She’s blushing. Look at her.

You guys. They just found a giant squid , I say.

What?

I watched a show about it. They found a giant squid. First ever. I mean, they’ve existed in mythology, but no one had ever actually caught one until now.

That’s cool.

Well, yeah, this fishing boat way out in the deepest Atlantic catches this thing in these deep-sea nets by accident and they haul it up and they can’t believe it because no one has ever been able to confirm the existence of these things.

Wow.

But what do they do once they’ve hauled it up in the deep-sea net, first time anyone’s ever laid eyes on its kind?

They kill it.

Of course. Then they put it on ice and try to get it to a lab immediately so it can be cut up and studied and whatever.

Moral of the story?

Don’t get caught?

Don’t be interesting.

Let them mythologize you down there in the depths, let them wonder, but don’t show yourself, for God’s sake.

Maybe it wanted help.

There is no help.

What scares me late at night is that Walker’s a person; he hears what I say and looks up at me and wants to love me but doesn’t yet have any clue how fucked up I am. Here he is, we brought him here, he’s one of us now, the living. It’s pretty simple: an infant is to be held and bundled up and carried around. Fed, tended, protected. Helpless creature. You learn to humble yourself to him, pie-faced god. And you want to feel the enormity of that? Want it to hit you square? Imagine him hurt. Imagine him suffering. Imagine him taken. Imagine him dead. Imagine your arms empty. Imagine it, imagine it, imagine it.

These tiny people, they’re not about you. They are not for you. They do not belong to you. They are under your care, is all, and it’s your job to work at being a decent human being, love them well and a lot, don’t put your problems on them, don’t make your problems their problems, don’t use them to occupy empty parts of yourself.

So you’re finally growing up , my mother says, standing behind me at the sink while I get started on the dishes. I feel aged. My body says no. I think I might see her reflection if I look up at the darkened window, but it’s so fogged up that I can’t even see myself.

Yeah, I guess , I tell her, so she’ll leave me alone. I’m too tired to fight, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to spare the child my weaknesses and faults. Swear that if he winds up broken, it will not be by me.

Pain-in-the-ass bank snafu error message; I’m supposed to call them and straighten it out.

Mother’s maiden name?

I hesitate, as though saying it might summon her. As though saying it might rouse her from tenuous slumber.

Hello?

Um.

Hello?

Walker , Paul said. How about Walker?

Walker?

You know, like Walker Percy, Walker Evans.

I called it up on my device.

It means cloth washer. It’s Old English. In the medieval era, workers trod on wool to cleanse it of impurities.

There’s something kind of nice about that, don’t you think?

Yeah. I mean, maybe. But don’t you think it’s weird to reach into Old English for a name?

Why?

I’m Jewish. You’re whatever you are. What are you again?

Whatever.

No, seriously, remind me?

Way back Scottish. Some Italian.

Right, so you’re whatever, I’m a Jew. And he’ll be a Jew, technically.

Technically.

Yeah, well, technically’s pretty much all that counts with the Jews. A technicality-loving folk.

So you want something Hebrew-y? Old Testament style?

I didn’t say that.

Good. Because that would be weird, too.

I like Walker. I like what it’s about. And walking. Walking’s the best.

How about Biker? Bikes are pretty great.

Be serious.

Oh. Okay. Is there a rule about that?

No.

Okay. Let’s see… Janice-for-a-boy?

Are you serious?

No. Cal. Clement.

Carl.

Cory.

God, they’re all so bad. Why do all names sound so dumb?

You remember that Seinfeld bit about having to hurry up and have kids because by the time you’re forty you’ve met someone you dislike with every name in existence?

Yeah, so it’s down to, like, Calyx.

I never met a Calyx I didn’t love.

Corinthian.

Corrado.

Cantonese.

Catatonic.

Come Hither.

Caaaah-razy.

Two dreams.

One. A faint, steady wail coming from somewhere inside the wall at the back of my closet.