Curtis Sittenfeld - Eligible

He shook his head. “It isn’t that. It’s a sincere question.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t want children.” The ambivalence she usually feigned during such conversations seemed in this instance unnecessary; she was not, after all, trying to endear herself to him. She said, “If you want, I’ll give you possible ways to respond and you can choose the one you like best. A) Oh, Liz, you’ll change your mind — you just haven’t met the right person.” Before continuing, she raised her eyebrows and tilted her head with fake earnestness. “B) But who will look after you when you’re old?” Switching to a scolding tone, she said, “C) Yeah, I bet you don’t want children, you selfish East Coast narcissist.” Pretending to be concerned, she said, “D) Wow, your childhood must have sucked . Or—” For the last one, she reverted to patronizing: “E) You just have no idea how rich and wonderful parenthood can be. In fact, you haven’t really lived until you’ve wrestled a shrieking four-year-old to the ground at Target. Now, keep in mind, Fitzwilliam Darcy, that you can choose all of the above.”

“That’s quite a list,” he said. “Though I think of you as more of a midwestern narcissist than an East Coast one.”

“Believe it or not, I do understand why people have kids. For most of my life, I assumed I’d be a mother, and I’m sure it is rewarding, when they’re not having tantrums. But the older I’ve gotten, the less I’ve wanted it for myself. Watching Jane go through her insemination process was the clincher. I like my life now, there’s stuff I want to do in the future that isn’t compatible with having kids, and it’s not even a big, tortured decision. It’s a relief.”

“What do you want to do that’s not compatible with motherhood?”

Liz shrugged. “Travel. Write a book. Run a marathon. Be a super-doting aunt, without having to deal with things like potty training.”

“I don’t want children, either.”

“Really?” She was genuinely surprised.

He smiled slightly. “Which reason do you think applies to me?”

“You’d know better than I would.”

“When I went into neurosurgery, I was making a choice that either I’d be the kind of person who lets his partner do ninety-five percent of the parenting or I wouldn’t be a parent, period. Anyone who claims that surgeons pull their weight in their own families is lying. The hours make it impossible, and for me, that’s before you factor in research. And, yes, I’ve heard the argument that not having children is selfish, but that’s ridiculous. If you really want to do something unselfish, adopt a seven-year-old black boy from foster care. I assume you’ll make fun of me for saying this, but I believe the skill set I have means I can contribute the most to society as a scientist and doctor. Any man with a viable sperm count can become a dad, whereas only some people can perform a decompressive craniectomy.”

“Why would I make fun of you for that?” Liz grinned. “I already knew you were an egomaniac.” The truth, however, was that he did not seem egomaniacal to her; he seemed principled and thoughtful, and she felt a vague embarrassment that she worked for a magazine that recommended anti-aging creams to women in their twenties and he helped people who’d experienced brain trauma. But surely this wasn’t the moment to turn obsequious.

Aside from disrobing, they hadn’t engaged in any additional preliminary activities. Nevertheless, a few minutes earlier, she had wondered if he had an erection, and she was now sure that he did. She rocked her hips forward once. “I think it’s time to get this party started,” she said, and she leaned down and kissed him on the lips.

SHANE HAD WARNED Liz that the inspection of the Tudor could take up to six hours, and it was after much deliberation and with much dread that, for the date on which it would occur, Liz had proposed to her parents a day trip to Berea, Kentucky. A town of fourteen thousand just under two hours from Cincinnati, Berea was known for a thriving artistic community that created and sold paintings, sculptures, jewelry, pottery, and weavings. For many reasons, a visit there seemed likely to be a terrible idea — Liz worried that its wares would be too homespun for her mother’s taste and that her mother would impulsively purchase, say, an enormous and expensive birdbath — but for the length of the inspection, the goal was to transport Mrs. Bennet out of Cincinnati and render her incapable of returning to the Tudor of her own accord.

When Liz broached the topic of Berea with her father, Mr. Bennet said, “I can scarcely imagine a less tempting invitation.”

“Right,” Liz said. “But your enjoyment is actually irrelevant.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled. “Tell me when we leave.”

Mrs. Bennet was only slightly more cooperative. “Deb Larsen commissioned a lady in Berea to make a hooked rug that looks like their house in Michigan,” she said. “The likeness is amazing.” But then a scowl came over her face. “Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing, Lizzy.”

Before departing, Liz emphasized to Kitty and Mary the importance of staying away from the Tudor until she told them that the inspection had concluded. “If you guys are still thinking of getting an apartment together, today would be a good time to look around,” Liz said, and Kitty said, “Maybe, but I’m going to a rowing class Ham teaches at eleven.”

Liz’s contingent used Mrs. Bennet’s car: Liz drove, her father rode in front, and her mother sat in back. It was a relief to Liz to take on the role of chauffeur, both because her parents were awful drivers and because Liz had always felt profoundly uncomfortable spending two-on-one time with them. So divided had their attention been for so many years that on the rare occasions when it wasn’t, something felt wrong; there was too much opportunity for scrutiny and uninterrupted conversation. In the interest of avoiding both, Liz had checked out of the Hyde Park Branch Library an audiobook she hoped would occupy the narrow overlap of her parents’ mutual interests — a nineteen-hour, thirteen-CD biography of a robber baron, published four years earlier and honored with many literary accolades.

The Bennets were approximately six minutes into the first CD when Mrs. Bennet began remarking on topics ranging from the temperature of the car (it was positively icy in the backseat) to the ongoing indignities of selling the Tudor (and besides, what guarantee did any of them have that Shane was trustworthy? Yes, he may have gone to Seven Hills, but there was something about him she didn’t care for. She couldn’t put her finger on what, but something) to the dullness of the audiobook (for heaven’s sake, did the author really expect people to keep track of all those names and who was related to whom and how?) to speculation about whether Ham would propose to Lydia by Christmas (Mrs. Bennet would have preferred Lydia’s husband to have a steadier source of income, God only knew if CrossFit was one of those fitness fads that would come and go, but he did seem to have enough of a head on his shoulders that if this business went under, he could find employment elsewhere).

An hour and fifteen minutes in, Mr. Bennet murmured to Liz, “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. When we get to Lexington, you’ll drop me off at the Art Museum at the University of Kentucky. You’ll pick me up three hours later. What you and your mother choose to do in the interregnum is up to you.”

Thus Liz and Mrs. Bennet ended up forgoing Berea for a leisurely lunch at a restaurant called Doodles, where Mrs. Bennet expanded upon several of the subjects she’d introduced in the car while also sharing, in depth, the progress of the item solicitation for the Women’s League auction. Though Mrs. Bennet conveyed her disappointment at not reaching Berea, her chagrin seemed expressed more than felt.