Chapter 31 Joe Tackles the Question
JOE TACKLES THE QUESTION
I went upstairs with her, of course. What else could I do? Joe was sitting up in bed reading Agatha Christie; sinning as much as me, then. I went to him, smoothed his hair, and asked, “How do you feel?”
“Better,” he said.
“You’re lying,” I said.
He smiled tiredly. “Probably.”
“Do you need more tea?”
“No.” He boosted himself up a bit on the pillows. “Hi, Soph.”
“Hi.” She plopped herself down at the foot of the bed. “I need to ask you a question. Marguerite won’t tell me. I didn’t think she was chicken, but …”
“Marguerite? Chicken? Nah.”
“You look very tired still,” I said. “If you’re not able to talk …”
“I can talk,” he said. “Have you forgotten how tough I am?”
I smiled and squeezed his hand. “Never.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. This wasn’t surprising. “Here’s the question. Marguerite explained that having your period is because of your body making a nest for the baby, then getting rid of the nest—so disgusting—if there’s no baby, but if it’s true, why isn’t she pregnant too? Don’t you want a kid?”
Joe stared at her. “This is the topic you’re burning to discuss with your brother?”
“If nobody else has the guts to tell me.”
Joe looked at me. “You didn’t tell her?”
“Imagine how much your mother will dislike me if I do,” I said. “I’m afraid that in this matter, I am indeed ‘chicken.’”
Joe said, “OK, then. Plunging in.” He blew his nose—on a sort of handkerchief made of paper; these had been a revelation to me—and said, “You use birth control, that’s how. Some people think it’s wrong—Catholics, mostly—”
“But Marguerite’s Catholic,” Sophie said.
“Yes,” I said, “but in this matter, I don’t believe the Church is correct. The priest will tell you that God wishes you to have as many babies as come your way, but having too many can be very difficult for one’s health.”
“And one’s wallet,” Joe said.
“OK,” Sophie said, “but how?”
“There are different ways,” Joe said. “One is a device that women wear, uh, inside, coated with a jelly that kills the sperm—that’s the man’s contribution—and keeps it from fertilizing the egg—the woman’s contribution. Only a fertilized egg develops into a baby.”
“And when it does,” I said, “and the process begins, that is when one needs the nest. It’s similar in chickens, except that the egg is outside the chicken’s body and has a shell.
If it isn’t fertilized by a rooster, there can be no chick.
If it is fertilized, the hen sits on the eggs in a nest and keeps them warm, so the chicks can grow inside.
” Joe hadn’t mentioned condoms, and this was fortunate.
I couldn’t see how he could possibly describe them to his sister.
Which was when Sophie said, “OK, but how does the sperm get to the egg?”
“Uh …” Joe said, and looked at me. “Help.”
What had Mrs. Stark been thinking of, not to tell Sophie these things?
This was surely a dangerous lack of knowledge.
I threw all caution to the wind and said, “The rooster covers the hen and ejects a fluid containing his sperm into her opening, of which a chicken has only one. Thus the sperm can fertilize the egg as it forms—before the shell develops around it, of course.” There; we’d kept it at chickens. I was rather proud of myself for that.
“What do you mean, ‘a chicken has only one?’” Sophie asked.
“One opening,” I said, “from which she deposits her eggs, and also her … her excretions.”
“That’s disgusting,” Sophie said.
“Maybe,” I said, and decided to add, “Human females have three openings, which you will know, of course. This is perhaps less disgusting.”
“A part for every purpose,” Joe said.
“So the blood doesn’t come from …” Sophie said.
Honestly. Even I hadn’t been this ignorant, but then, there had been the servants. And the perching. And the baboons. “No,” I said. “You may wish to feel down there with your hand during your next bleeding time. Three openings.”
“All very informative,” Sophie said, “except that you still haven’t explained how.”
Joe covered his face with his hand. No help there, so I took a breath and explained how. Sophie stared at me, stared at Joe, and said, “You’re kidding.”
“No,” I said. “It’s a very lovely thing, if one is in love. If one is married. It’s a very great closeness.”
“Well, I’m never doing it,” Sophie said.
“This is, of course, your choice,” I said.
She slid off the bed. “I am now going back to reading and wiping this conversation from my mind.”
“’Bye,” Joe said.
At the door, Sophie turned back. “Wait. So in Cheaper by the Dozen …”
“Oh, I’ve heard of this book,” I said. “I’d like to read it, for it sounds most amusing.”
“Well, anyway,” Sophie said. “Are you saying they did that twelve times?”
“It’s much worse than that, I’m afraid,” Joe said. “Married people do it quite a bit. It’s generally considered one of the main benefits.”
Sophie said, “That’s it. I’m never getting married. I may become a nun.”
“You’re Jewish,” Joe said.
“I’ll convert,” she said. And left.
Joe and I had been meant to go home on the train after sunset.
This didn’t happen, because of his illness.
We also didn’t hear from Mr. and Mrs. Stark, due to the telephone issue and Yom Kippur.
When the sun had set, I heated the soup again and toasted two bagels (pretending we’d all waited, obviously), and Sophie and I ate at the kitchen table most companionably but not at all religiously, since we were each reading a novel at the time.
(I’d been right and wrong about the murderer, I soon discovered, but it had been a most entertaining and clever mystery.)
I was upstairs with Joe again afterward, reading Cheaper by the Dozen—a very diverting book—while he dozed, when I heard the sound of the door. A moment later, Sophie was clattering down the stairs, saying, “Well?” And I put my head over the banisters to listen.
“A beautiful baby boy,” Mrs. Stark said. “Such a little man. A lovely baby.”
“Other than his head being pointed like a cone,” Mr. Stark said. “Oddest-looking thing I’ve ever seen. The doctor says it’ll smooth out again. That’s a relief. Otherwise, he’d have had to wear a hat every day of his life.”
“The doctor told you,” Mrs. Stark said with a snap in her voice, “that that’s because of the journey through the birth canal. Of course his poor head was squeezed.”
“I don’t want to imagine my grandson’s journey through the birth canal, thank you,” Mr. Stark said.
I was downstairs now, saying, “But this is wonderful news. How very exciting. What is his name?”
“Samuel Isaac,” Mrs. Stark said. “A beautiful name. The ‘Isaac’ is after David’s grandfather, but David assured me that the next baby will be named for Barbara’s side.” She was unpinning her hat as she spoke, and looking very tired.
“May I prepare dinner for you?” I asked. “You must both be exhausted, and very hungry. Waiting, I think, is one of the most tiring things.”
“Yes, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Stark said. “In the kitchen? I feel like I can’t walk another step.”
“Then you must not,” I said. “And perhaps a special glass with dinner? In Germany, this would be Sekt, which is like Champagne, you know, but this is not the most soothing of beverages. Brandy, though?”
“Brandy and soda,” Mr. Stark said, reviving a bit. “I’ll fix them. For you too, Lena?”
“Yes,” she said, “this once. Oh!” She’d been headed for the kitchen, but now, she turned back. “How is Joe? And I forgot about the necklace. That was tonight, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, joining her in the kitchen and pulling an apron from the hook, “though I don’t expect that Mr. Stark will hear anything until tomorrow.
Joe is feeling a little better, I believe, although too ill to go home on the train tonight.
” The butterflies in my stomach fluttered their wings at the thought of the necklace.
I’d tried not to think about it, but that had been about as successful as such efforts generally were.
“Jacob will drive you home tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Stark said. “Unless you’d rather stay here, where I could help look after Joe.”
“Oh, Jacob will, will he?” Mr. Stark said. He was removing ice from the metal tray with the usual rattle. He was still ill-tempered, possibly because his jaw was blue with stubble, making him look quite disreputable. “Nice of you to dispose of my time like that.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Stark said, “I’ll drive them home, although I’d planned to be at the hospital with Barbara for part of the day.”
Mr. Stark, busy with the brandy bottle and soda siphon, said, “Don’t be ridiculous. You know you don’t trust yourself on that long drive.”
“I know you don’t trust me, anyway,” Mrs. Stark said.
I was stirring soup and toasting bagels while attempting to appear like part of the furniture.
I did feel I should say, though, “We must leave tomorrow, for Joe will be anxious to get back to his books, even if he’s too unwell for class.
Also, I wouldn’t wish to have germs in your house, not with a new baby in the family. ”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, dear,” Mrs. Stark said, sitting down at the table with a sigh and accepting a tumbler from her husband. “I do think you’re right.”
The telephone shrilled at that moment, and we all stared at each other. “Barbara,” Mrs. Stark said on a breath, and paled. “The baby.”
Mr. Stark didn’t answer, presumably because he was picking up the telephone in the front hallway. I strained to hear the tone of his voice, for one could always tell bad news that way.
Fifteen seconds. Thirty. Then Mr. Stark was back in the kitchen.
“Well?” Mrs. Stark asked.
“Well,” Mr. Stark said, and picked up his brandy-and-soda. “I think it’s time for a toast. We have a grandson, and Marguerite’s necklace has sold at auction.”
I couldn’t breathe. I almost couldn’t stand. How I wished Joe were here!
“And?” Mrs. Stark demanded.
“And,” Mr. Stark said, “the winning bid was for forty-two thousand pounds.”
“Forty-two thousand …” I said, barely able to breathe.
“But how much is that?” Mrs. Stark asked.
“Approximately a hundred sixty thousand dollars,” Mr. Stark said. He raised his glass. “L’chaim.”