Free The Birthdays by Heidi Pitlor Page A

have kids through artificial means?”
    “We’re here to answer questions about your children, Daniel.”
    “I’m just curious as to whether you’ve got firsthand experience.”
    The room was still. Ron said, “If you must know, my wife and I conceived naturally.”
    Later, Brenda reprimanded him. “What was that about?”
    “I was just curious.”
    “It seemed a little aggressive. He’s only there to help.”
    “He was there because he had a job,” he said, and she mumbled, “You are a real ray of sunshine lately. Even Mum noticed a nasty tone in your voice on the phone the other day.”
    Hilary called later that night, and when Daniel told her about the workshop, she snorted. “So how
is
your inner house handling everything?”
    “I think I need a maid, maybe even an interior decorator.”
    “Workshops should be reserved for carpenters and woodworkers.
Ba-dum-bum
.”
    “I suppose they exist for a reason, though. I suppose it’s not abnormal for people who use donors or whatever to get the jitters?”
    “Of course it’s not, Dan. And for the record, having a baby isn’t only scary for those who artificially conceive.”
    “Maybe you need to find yourself a workshop.”
    “Ha ha.”
    “For slutty, single, pregnant women.”
    “You’re just hilarious. I can’t stop laughing,” she said flatly.
    There was quiet on the line, and Daniel asked her whether she was planning to come East for their father’s birthday, assuming she would say,
Absolutely not.
    —
    Joe drifted in and out of the lanes. He sped up without warning and then slowed, causing other cars to tailgate them or honk and zoom past, the drivers looking exasperatedly at them and then, almost imperceptibly, their faces softening as they realized it was an older man driving.
But he’s not that old,
Ellen wanted to call to them,
he’s just let himself go
. He’d lost agood amount of hair, and the hair he did have was paper white. Of course, he couldn’t control this, but his weight—his belly made him look at once like a baby and a one-hundred-year-old man.
    “Focus,” she said, “focus on those yellow lines and please try to stay within them.”
    Joe smiled and chirped, “Yessir.” Sometimes it seemed he loved nothing more than to irritate her.
    She closed her eyes and tried to think of something, anything else. Her family. It had expanded with spouses and would soon expand more. She was ready, even eager to be a grandmother and was not daunted by the idea, as some of her friends were. Perhaps because her own grandmothers had been so vital and so clearly enjoyed her and her siblings and cousins. The two women, inseparable, had both emigrated from Russia at a young age. They spoke half in botched English, half in Russian. Their husbands had died before Ellen was born and they’d virtually adopted each other as surrogate spouses. They even lived together in a small apartment in Roxbury, where they hosted poker games and dinner parties for their friends, and when she and her family visited, they were served lively meals of packaged meat, soft packaged bread and salty packaged soup accompanied by booming jazz and political debates. Ellen hoped that she would be such a woman, a fun-loving grandmother who hosted raucous events. And what sort of grandfather would Joe be? Perhaps he would quietly teach the kids about cars and turtles and wars.
    She opened her eyes in time to see him turn off the highway and onto a small road. She wasn’t sure this was the right turn, but no, Joe had a strong sense of direction and had to know where he was going. He could find his way anywhere,unlike her. She got lost whenever she ventured even slightly beyond familiar territory. She sighed, glad to leave the navigating to him. Babe clicked about in his cage.
    A couple of months ago, MacNeil asked her, “Did you choose Joe or did he choose you?” The two had been sitting in Vera’s garden drinking chardonnay. Ellen had made tortellini with snow peas