Expecting

I can see Mel walking up the driveway. He stops to inspect the magnolia tree with its fragrant blossoms just beginning to open. Our house sets back almost a hundred feet from the street in an older neighborhood where sidewalks and large yards are the norm. We bought it because of those factors, agreeing to overlook the shortage of bathrooms, which older houses are famous for, as well as the ugly kitchen. The kitchen could be remodeled and when the time came that we needed another bathroom upstairs, we’d discuss it with a contractor. We had to have the children first to fill the bedrooms before we would need the extra bath. We’d cross that bridge when we came to it.

Mel has taken to walking alone in the evenings, sometimes before dinner, sometimes after, and sometimes both. He doesn’t ask me to join him and after going along twice uninvited, I decided to stay in the house with Portia, our parrot, whose non-stop chatter seemed preferable to Mel’s silence.

Our house was built in nineteen fifty-five, before either Mel or I was born. I occasionally imagine a family from that time romping through the den and up the stairs, boys in horizontally striped T-shirts with Butch Wax on their hair, girls in poodle skirts and ponytails, everybody with a nickname, and the mother wearing pearls and heels as she calls her family to the dinner table.

I don’t want to get caught up romanticizing this house’s past, so I remind myself that slingshots were big back then as well as a national paranoia of communism. But then, I don’t know that we’ve come that far. Kids probably still own slingshots. Not having children of my own, I can’t say for sure.

Originally, Mel and I wanted four children. We bought a large family home with them in mind. As the years have passed, we have reduced the number we wanted down to just one: One desperately wanted child. My biological clock is nearly through ticking, and the empty bedrooms of our home seem to taunt me. We have begun to avoid the subject of children, baby-talking only to Portia who baby-talks back to us.

I watch Mel stop halfway up the driveway. He is unaware of me as he turns back to look at the street, longingly, I imagine. I have loved my husband for fourteen years and still do, which causes an unexpected sob like a hiccough to emerge suddenly from somewhere down deep inside me, somewhere dark and deathly frightening like an empty womb.

I am losing him – not in a tangible, physical way, such as to another woman or to midlife crisis or anything I could read about in a book. There is something else choking the life out of him, the love out of him, the faintest hint of desire evaporating with the ticking of a clock.

I want us to be happy again. I want us to be thankful just to have each other, like we were when we first met, before all our unfulfilled dreams began to crush the gratitude out of us.

Mel is examining the leaves on the tallow tree that sprang up between the magnolia and the live oak that were here when we bought the house, planned and planted according to a preconceived image of what this yard should look like at some future date, such as today, without any thought given to the unexpected arrival of a tallow tree. Most folks would have plucked it out the yard when it was small, but Mel insisted we leave it alone, saying the tallow offered so much color in the fall, its one virtue. He couldn’t see getting rid of it, knowing its season of beauty.

That is one of Mel’s qualities; he’s adaptable. He is accepting of the unexpected. But he is not invincible, and even in the dusk of evening, I can make out his sagging shoulders collapsing under the weight of all our expectations. Or more accurately, my expectations. My expectations of Wally and Beaver, and Princess and Kitten and Bud, of nightlights and nursery rhymes, of pearls at dinner and PTA meetings and slingshots in back pockets and a baby with skin instead of feathers.

I step out onto the porch, letting the screen slam behind me, alerting Mel that I am out here with him. I am officially joining him in the yard to examine the magnolia blossoms, already fragrant, and completely overwhelming the tiny tallow beside it. “I was getting lonely in there,” I call out, hoping he can see my smile, hoping he will respond with some enthusiasm as I approach.

Mel looks up and in his face I sense weariness, probably brought on by the sight of me. I hesitate, but only for a moment. I am determined - as of this night - to stop the rift before it gets too wide. I want to start over and burn the script I’ve insisted we rehearse night after night.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say, watching his face as I proceed. “Maybe this old house is making us old, too. Maybe we should think about moving to one of those new condominiums being built on the westside. They’re much closer to work for both of us, and we could use the equity from this place for a new car. What do you think?”

Mel is in shock, momentarily, but being the adaptable kind of person that he is, he recovers quickly. “Are you serious? A condominium? That doesn’t sound like you. Who have you been talking to?”

“Portia,” I answer and we both laugh.

Mel folds his arms and raises one brow as he asks, “What kind of car did you have in mind?” He is not sure if I am serious, but he is willing to play along since the subject is something fresh and within the realm of options open to us.

“Nothing practical,” I assure him. “Something sporty, in red, two-door, and fast.”

“Fast. Really?” He seems amused by the suggestion.

“Very, very fast, as close to light-speed as possible.” I add as we walk toward the front porch where we stop, holding on a little longer to the idea, allowing it to gel before we step back inside the house that was once our dream home.

We can hear Portia through the screen door, calling out shrill phrases to lure us into conversation, expecting us to respond to her with our baby-talk as we normally would. I pull my husband to me, and ignoring Portia, I place my hand on his shoulder as though we are about to dance. We stand there close, touching, and silent.

Everything I feel, everything I want to express at this moment would be ruined by words. Inadequate and lacking at their best, they seem too crude of tools to carve out our fragile future away from this house and the hopes that have bound us here. I want Mel to know that the space between us is not empty; but I cannot tell him that. I only hope that he feels this unseen, yet bountiful power all around us, spilling out potential futures for us to seize. I say nothing, but I press my head against his chest and listen. I smile as I catch the sound of his heart beating, a strong, steady pace keeping rhythm with my own.