We Are Not Ourselves. Matthew Thomas

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       11

      Shortly after getting his PhD, Ed came home with the news that he’d been sought out by an executive at Merck, who’d read an article of his in a journal. Eileen was in the kitchen cutting vegetables for stew.

      “He said I could have my own lab, with state-of-the-art equipment, everything top of the line. I’d have a team of assistants.”

      “Did he say how much you’d be paid?” She pushed the peppers into the stewpot and rinsed the knife in the sink. She could smell something fried and sickly sweet coming up from the Orlandos’ apartment below.

      “He didn’t have to. More than I’m making now. Let’s just say that.”

      “How much more?” She began to cut the beef into cubes. It was a thick cut with veins of fat. Ed would not have approved of how much she had spent on it.

      “We’d be very comfortable.”

      He didn’t appear terribly enthused to be able to make such a statement.

      “Honey!” she said, hearing herself squeal as she put the knife down. “This is amazing!” She threw her arms around him.

      “We’d have to move to New Jersey.”

      “We could live anywhere we wanted,” she said, letting him go to take a few steps and get the motor started on her thoughts. She was already envisioning a house in Bronxville. “If not New Jersey, then Westchester County, for instance.”

      “That’s too far to commute.”

      “Then we’ll move to New Jersey.”

      “Not me,” he said.

      “How do you want to do this, then? What would make you comfortable?”

      “Staying where I am,” he said.

      She looked at him. He was seriously considering not taking the job. If she had to say, he had already made up his mind. She picked up the knife and cut the last slab.

      “You love research. Think of the lab you’d have. I’d have to drag you home.”

      “It’s not research. It’s making drugs.” Ed paced toward the living room and back.

      “Drugs that help people,” she said, pushing the meat into the pot.

      “Drugs that make a lot of money,” he said.

      This opportunity looked like their destiny. There had to be a way to get him to listen to reason. She added salt and pepper and two cups of water and turned the burner on. “You research drugs already. What’s the difference?”

      Ed stood in the arched doorway between the kitchen and living room. He stretched his hands up and flexed his muscles against the doorway. “Researching drugs and making them are not the same,” he said. “On my own I can be a watchdog. For them I’d be a lapdog. Or an attack dog.”

      “What about when we have kids?” She put the caps back on the oil and the spices. “Don’t you want to be able to provide for them?”

      “Of course I do. I guess it depends what you mean by providing.” He gave her a meaningful look, let down his hands, and peered through the glass lid of the stewpot. He switched the radio on and played with the antenna to relieve the static. The kitchen filled with the violins and flutes of a classical orchestra.

      “I could make you do it,” she said. “But I won’t.”

      “You could not.”

      “I could. Women do it all the time. I could find a way. But I won’t.”

      He straightened up. “You’re not like that.”

      “Lucky for you, that’s true,” she said, though what she was thinking was that she was more like that than Ed understood. If her husband wasn’t going to fight to secure their future, someone had to. “I just want you to know that I know what I’m not doing here. What I’m not making you do.”

      “Don’t forget I’m on the fast track to tenure,” he said, and she could tell it was a done deal in his mind.

      Ed was an assistant professor at Bronx Community College, where he’d started teaching while in graduate school at NYU. One day soon he would be an associate professor, and then, probably soon after that, a full professor.

      “There’s nothing fast about the track you’re on,” she said bitterly, looking at him in the window’s reflection in order not to have to look right into his face. “I don’t care how quickly you get there.”

      Five years into their marriage, when Eileen was thirty-one, they decided to stop using birth control and try to conceive a child. At Einstein Hospital, where she worked, she had established a reputation as a head nurse and was confident she’d be able to return to the field after a short absence. She would have to go back to work eventually, something she wouldn’t have had to do if Ed had said yes to Merck.

      Seven months passed with no results and she started to worry. She wasn’t too old yet by any means, but she also knew the time for rational calculations had arrived. They’d been going about it haphazardly, having sex when they felt like it and leaving it to chance. She decided to make getting pregnant a conscious project, turning her attention to managing it as she’d managed so many others. She drew up ovulation charts and held Ed to a schedule. They both went in for tests. Ed’s sperm count was normal, his motility strong. Nothing was wrong with her ovaries. Every month, she cried when her period came. Every month, Ed reassured her.

      Then, СКАЧАТЬ