March you fly out to the Bay to deliver a lecture, which does not go well; almost no one shows up beyond those who were forced to by their professors. Afterward you head alone to K-town and gorge on kalbi until you’re ready to burst. You drive around for a couple of hours, just to get a feel of the city. You have a couple of friends in town but you don’t call them because you know they’ll only want to talk to you about old times, about the ex. You have a sucia in town too and in the end you call her but when she hears your name she hangs up on your ass.
When you return to Boston the law student is waiting for you in the lobby of your building. You are surprised and excited and a little wary. What’s up?
It’s like bad television. You notice that she has lined up three suitcases in the foyer. And on closer inspection her ridiculously Persian-looking eyes are red from crying, her mascara freshly applied.
I’m pregnant, she says.
At first you don’t register it. You joke: And?
You asshole. She starts crying. It’s probably your stupid fucking kid.
There are surprises and there are surprises and then there is this.
You don’t know what to say or how to act, so you bring her upstairs. You lug up the suitcases despite your back, despite your foot, despite your flickering arms. She says nothing, just hugs her pillow to her Howard sweater. She is a Southern girl with supremely straight posture and when she sits down you feel as if she’s preparing to interview you. After serving her tea you ask: Are you keeping it?
Of course I’m keeping it.
What about Kimathi?
She doesn’t get it. Who?
Your Kenyan. You can’t bring yourself to say boyfriend.
He threw me out. He knows it’s not his. She picks at something on her sweater. I’m going to unpack, OK? You nod and watch her. She is an exceptionally beautiful girl. You think of that old saying Show me a beautiful girl and I’ll show you someone who is tired of fucking her. You doubt you would have ever tired of her, though.
But it could be his, right?
It’s yours, OK? she cries. I know you don’t want it to be yours but it’s yours.
You are surprised at how hollowed out you feel. You don’t know if you should show enthusiasm or support. You run your hand over the thinning stubble on your head.
I need to stay here, she tells you later, after the two of you fumble through an awkward fuck. I have nowhere to go. I can’t go back to my family.
When you tell Elvis the whole story you expect him to flip out, to order you to kick her out. You fear his reaction because you know you don’t have the heart to kick her out.
But Elvis doesn’t flip. He slaps you on the back, beams delightedly. That’s great, cuz.
What do you mean, That’s great?
You’re going to be a father. You’re going to have a son.
A son? What are you talking about? There’s not even proof that it’s mine.
Elvis is not listening. He’s smiling at some inner thought. He checks to make sure the wife is not anywhere in earshot. Remember the last time we went to the DR?
Of course you do. Three years ago. Everybody had a blast except for you. You were in the middle of the great downturn, which meant you spent most of your time alone, floating on your back in the ocean or getting drunk at the bar or walking the beach in the early morning before anybody was up.
What about it?
Well, I got a girl pregnant while we were down there.
Are you fucking kidding me?
He nods.
Pregnant?
He nods again.
Did she have it?
He rummages through his cell phone. Shows you a picture of a perfect little boy with the most Dominican little face you ever done saw.
That’s my son, Elvis says proudly. Elvis Xavier Junior.
Dude, are you fucking serious with this? If your wife finds—
He bridles. She ain’t going to find out.
You sit on it for a bit. You’re posted up behind his house, near Central Square. In summer these blocks are ill with activity but today you can actually hear a jay chivvying some other birds.
Babies are fucking expensive. Elvis punches you in the arm. So just get ready, buster, to be broke as a joke.
Back at the apartment the law student has taken over two of your closets and almost your entire sink and most crucially she has laid claim to the bed. She has put a pillow and a sheet on the couch. For you.
What, am I not allowed to share the bed with you?
I don’t think it’s good for me, she says. It would be too stressful. I don’t want to miscarry.
Hard to argue against that. Your back doesn’t take to the couch at all, so now you wake up in the morning in more pain than ever.
Only a bitch of color comes to Harvard to get pregnant. White women don’t do that. Asian women don’t do that. Only fucking black and Latina women. Why go to all the trouble to get into Harvard just to get knocked up? You could have stayed on the block and done that shit.