Pressure Drop Page 2

  “It’s a deal,” Brenda said.

  “The clock is ticking,” M. added.

  Nina turned to her. “One. The manuscript is badly written. It doesn’t have to be art, but it has to be better than this. That’s your territory. Two. There’s not enough anecdotal material, especially in the first two chapters. They’re too theoretical, too boring. That’s where you need the personal stuff, up front. Three. You’ve got to have an introduction, written by somebody who’s well known and as mainstream as possible. Preferably a man.”

  “A man?” said M.

  “Four. Tell the author to lose that Tolstoy parody or whatever the hell it is at the beginning. It’s unnecessarily off-putting and it begs comparison with the big boys, comparison that reviewers won’t find in her favor.”

  Brenda glanced at M. Faint pink patches appeared on M.’s face.

  “Having said that,” Nina went on, “there may be a market for this book. Demographically. There are lots of women in the boat she describes and they read books. You’ve got to sell them on the ‘and loving it’ part. That aspect of the book has to be completely rethought. Then, supposing you can make these changes, it will come down to two things—the personality of the author, that’s the main one, and the package, important but secondary.”

  Brenda was writing rapidly in a notebook. M. was sitting very still, her jaw jutting out a little.

  “Is Dr.”—Nina glanced down at the manuscript—“Dr. Filer married, by any chance?”

  “Of course not,” M. said.

  “Good. Any children?”

  “No.”

  “What’s her Ph.D. in?”

  M. looked at Brenda. Brenda looked at M. M. said: “I’m not sure. Sociology, maybe. Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters,” Nina said. “If it’s in metallurgy you might as well bag it now.”

  Silence. M. looked at Brenda. Brenda said: “I understand you know people on the Donahue show.”

  “That’s right. But they don’t do me any favors, and I don’t try to sell them anything that’ll make Phil look like a jerk.”

  “Do you know him?” Brenda asked.

  “I’ve met him. I don’t know him.”

  M. stuck her jaw out a little farther. “But you called him Phil.”

  “Jesus. It would be a bit silly to call him Mister Donahue, wouldn’t it?”

  Jason came in, balancing three cups on a tray. “Coffee, tea, or me?” he said. Brenda looked at him blankly; M. with a stone face; Nina laughed.

  They drank coffee. It was excellent, with a slight taste of walnut. Jason wasn’t capable of making coffee like that; Nina knew he had sent out for it. Brenda and M. seemed to relax a little on the couch.

  “I’d like to meet the author,” Nina said.

  Brenda smiled; a nice smile, not as dazzling as Jason’s, but warm, and Nina sensed they could be friends. “We thought you might. She should be here any minute. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  The phone buzzed. Nina picked it up. “Hello,” she said.

  “Mummy?” said a little boy. He was crying.

  “Mummy?” said Nina.

  The little boy’s voice broke. “The man said my mummy was there.”

  “Just a minute.” Nina looked up. “There’s a child on the phone. Do either of you—” But Brenda was already up. She took the phone.

  “It’s Mummy,” she said. “What’s wrong, Fielding?” She listened. Nina heard more crying. M.’s foot tapped the carpet. “I’m sure she didn’t mean that,” Brenda said. “She’s really a nice person. Don’t cry, angel. I’ll see you soon.” Pause. “Not long. Right after work.” Pause. “No, that’s on Wednesdays. Today is Monday. I work the full day on Monday. Bye-bye.”

  She hung up. “Goddamned Gina,” she said to M. And to Nina, “We’re having nanny problems. You don’t know of a good one by any chance?”

  “No,” Nina said. “How many children have you got?”

  “Two, but the older one’s in school.”

  Nina turned to M. “What about you?”

  “What about me what?”

  “M. has a daughter,” Brenda said.

  “Who lives with her father,” M. said, in a tone devoid of editorial comment. And is her name N.? Nina wanted to ask. But she didn’t.

  “And you?” Brenda said.

  But before Nina could reply that she seemed to be the only one in the room who fit the target audience of the book they were pushing, Jason opened the door and said, “This way, please,” to someone in the hall. Then the author walked in.

  The author had a pleasant face, if a little too much of it. And there was much too much of the rest of the author—Nina’s companion in the target audience, and candidate for television, where no one had yet invented a gizmo that stopped the camera from adding the obligatory ten pounds.

  Why the hell did she have to be fat? Nina thought as they were introduced. Dr. Filer squeezed herself on the couch between her publishers. For one moment, Nina was afraid that some sort of Three Stooges–style slapstick was about to erupt. Instead Dr. Filer surprised her by saying: “I’m so glad you’re able to see us. I’m here to learn.” The surprise wasn’t just in what she said, but in her voice, a soft Southern contralto that sent a clear message to Nina: radio.

  “Fine,” Nina said. “Sell me on the ‘and loving it’ part.”

  Dr. Filer smiled. She needed dental work. That could be bought. “It’s simple,” she said. “It’s time women discovered what men have known for a long time—there’s life beyond the home. Work, friends, self-fulfillment, even the life of the mind. If lots of women are going to end up alone in life, as seems certain to be the case, they might as well learn not to feel devastated about it. Women have taken some big steps in the last twenty years and the men haven’t kept up. There aren’t enough quality men out there, and that’s not going to change very quickly.”

  It wasn’t a bad answer, but it wasn’t great, either. On paper. But the voice was lovely, musical, soothing. The woman was handsome. They had time: time to fix the book, time to send her to a spa, time to get her teeth fixed.

  “Okay,” Nina said. “We’ve made a start. I’ll send you a summarizing memo tomorrow and we can go on from there.”

  “Great,” said Brenda.

  “Wonderful,” said Dr. Filer.

  M. said nothing. She was looking at the marmalade smear on the first page of Nina’s manuscript.

  “By the way, Dr. Filer,” Nina said, “I think we can do without that Tolstoy parody.”

  “I agree completely,” Dr. Filer said sweetly. She smiled at M. “It wasn’t in the original draft.” The pink patches appeared again on M.’s cheeks.

  They left. Nina called the Donahue show and spoke to Gordie. She and Gordie had worked together long ago in radio on “All Things Considered.” Nina described the book and the author. Gordie promised to get back.

  Nina worked. She had two more meetings, took phone calls, made phone calls, wrote the memo. Amalia never showed up. Rosie called to say she had a fever of a hundred and two and probably wouldn’t be in tomorrow. Outside, night fell. Nina looked out the window, noticed for the first time that snow was still falling, fat flakes lit pink by the city’s glow. Jason came into the room.

  “Happy birthday,” he said. He put a bottle of champagne on the table.

  “Roederer Cristal,” Nina said. “What did that cost?”

  “You can’t ask. It’s a present. Enjoy.”

  “All right. Crack her open.”

  “I didn’t mean now.”

  “Why not?”

  “You want to drink it here? With me?”

  “Who else?”

  Nina brought wineglasses from the tiny third-floor kitchen. Jason poured. “Many more,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  They drank champagne. Pink flakes fell. “Sorry about the impersonal quality of the gift,” Jason said. “It’s hard to know what to get you.”

  �
��Don’t be silly. It’s great.”

  They gazed out the window. Snow muffled the sounds of the city. Nina put her feet on the desk and drained the last of the champagne. Good champagne: it had the power to stop time, or at least her caring about its passage. She closed her eyes and felt warmth spread through her body. For a moment, she was in touch with all the Ninas in her life: little Nina, schoolgirl Nina, graduate student Nina, career girl Nina, businesswoman Nina, and saw the essential Nina, as simple and clear as a line drawing. Or thought she saw. The drink quickly lost its power. Nina opened her eyes and found that Jason was watching her.

  “What would you really like for your birthday?” he asked.

  “A baby,” Nina said. The answer popped out on its own: uninvited, unexpected, unnerving.

  “A baby?”

  Nina laughed, a strange, embarrassed laugh that didn’t sound like hers at all.

  “Do you mean that?”

  Nina didn’t have a chance to answer. The door opened and Jon came in. “Hi guys,” he said. He gave Nina a shy smile and Jason a kiss on the cheek. They left a few moments later.

  Nina went down to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of Scotch, and returned to her desk. She turned the pages of Dr. Filer’s manuscript. The time has come for new modalities.

  The phone buzzed. Gordie. “Thumbs up,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “They love it.”

  “They?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Phil?”

  “Everybody includes Phil.” He lowered his voice. “And vice versa,” he added.

  “My client will be ecstatic.”

  “And pay you appropriately, I trust. When’s pub date?”

  “When’s your next opening?”

  Gordie laughed. “I’ll get back to you.”

  Nina sat at her desk. She finished the Scotch, poured another, a small one. The snow stopped falling. The phone stopped buzzing. The working day was over, even for the diehards. Little Fielding had his mummy by now. Nina rose, went downstairs, put on her coat and boots, locked up, began walking home. She saw the night’s TV schedule in her mind, laid out in handy boxes.

  The streets were white and deserted, as though the slate had been wiped clean. Christmas plenty filled the stores, but everything was closed. Halfway home Nina paused outside an antique shop. A gleaming white rocking horse stood under a spotlight in the display window. It had a proud head with flared nostrils, a flowing jet-black mane and long jet-black tail, a fine red leather saddle and bridle. The horse even had a name, hand-tooled on the red stirrups: ACHILLES. Nina stared at it for a long time.

  She heard a sound and turned. A man in rags approached, weaving through the snow. His watery eyes moved to her, to the rocking horse, back to her. Nina recognized him.

  “Merry fucking Christmas,” he said, and stumbled on.

  3

  “Top-notch cervix,” said Dr. Berry when Nina had her legs together and her clothes back on. “Absolutely first-rate. No reason at all why it can’t be done.” Dr. Berry put on gold-rimmed reading glasses and ran his eyes down her chart. He was a wiry man with a ruddy face and pure white hair, very straight and very soft. A sign on his wall read: “Over 12,000 Delivered.” He might have been a troubleshooter in Santa’s workshop. “General health excellent, blood pressure excellent, no history of pelvic infection of any kind.” He looked up. “Ever had pain during intercourse?”

  Not physical, Nina thought. “No,” she said.

  Dr. Berry’s eyes returned to the chart. “Abortions?” he asked.

  “None.”

  Dr. Berry looked up and smiled. “Even if you said you had, I wouldn’t believe it. Not with a cervix like that.”

  Nina was beginning to think it might be her best feature. “Don’t you want to do any tests or anything?”

  “Not necessarily, not at this stage, anyway. I’m not saying you’re as fertile as you would have been at twenty-five. That would be nonsense. But who knows how fertile you would have been at twenty-five? You might have been a real queen bee. So if you’re somewhat less fertile now, it really won’t matter that much. It’s like an aging pitcher who’s lost a little off his fastball but can still get the job done. See what I mean?”

  “Sure. I just have to go with the off-speed stuff. Move it in and out, up and down.”

  Dr. Berry put his glasses back on, blinked through them at her. “I could run some tests,” he said in a cooler tone, “a uterotubogram, an endometrial biopsy. But they’re not particularly pleasant and we have no reason to think that anything’s broke yet. I suggest we get the ball in play first. How does that sound?”

  “Good,” Nina said. “But I haven’t made up my mind about this. I’m just doing the research.”

  Dr. Berry peered at her over the rim of his glasses. Then he scanned the chart. “I see your birthday was last Monday.”

  “That’s right.”

  He gazed at the chart for a long time before saying, “Forgive me, but did that set you thinking?”

  “That, and other things. Even if I am a queen bee, time is running out, isn’t it?”

  Dr. Berry nodded.

  “And aside from the whole fertility question, isn’t there increasing risk to the baby?”

  “That’s true. But we’d do an amnio, other tests …” His voice trailed off. Nina thought she could follow his thinking: Down’s syndrome, to abort or not to abort, months of misery, scars that lasted forever. It was a road she could easily imagine, and that he had probably been down many times. “But all that is secondary. Getting pregnant comes first. You’re right to do research, right to take as much time as you need to make up your mind. But—and I’m not saying it’s now or never—but …”

  “Soon or never?”

  He smiled. “That’s it.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Nina said.

  “What’s that?”

  “We’d need a father.”

  “I see.”

  “I was thinking of artificial insemination. That’s why I came to you—I saw you quoted about it in the Times.”

  “They got everything wrong,” Dr. Berry said.

  “The picture wasn’t bad.”

  “My wife hated it.” Dr. Berry folded his hands on the desk and leaned toward her. “Do you have anyone in mind as a donor?”

  There was Jason. He probably had one of the most dominant pulchritude genes ever known. But he was her partner. They already shared a business. Could they share a baby too? And did she even want a father in the picture? Besides, Jason was gay. What if there was a genetic component to gayness? Would she be just as happy with a gay child? That train of thought appalled her. It was as though it had steamed in from another mind. She had her first intimation of the magnitude of change a baby might bring.

  “If you have to think that hard, the answer is probably no,” Dr. Berry said.

  “It’s no.”

  “Then we’d have to get hold of some sperm.” He tapped a pencil on the desk, wrote “sperm” on a notepad and drew a box around it. He added a flowerpot on top of the box and put a cactus in the pot.

  “Do you make those arrangements?”

  “What arrangements?”

  “For the sperm?”

  Dr. Berry shook his head. “But I can put you in touch with several places that do. The one I’d recommend is the Human Fertility Institute.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve had success with them in the past. They’re well run, scientific and their fees are competitive.”

  “I have to pay for the sperm?”

  “Certainly. Especially for theirs.”

  “Why is that?”

  “All their donors—anonymous, of course—are men of accomplishment. Nobel Prize winners, successful artists, that kind of thing. It was a stipulation by the benefactor who set up the institute in the first place. Some of my patients have found that aspect off-putting, others not.”

  Nina found it off-putting. But why shouldn’t
the baby be as bright as possible? There it was again: another thought that didn’t seem to originate in her own mind. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll have to think.”

  “Take your time,” he said.

  “Within reason.”

  Dr. Berry smiled. “That’s the ticket. Within reason.” He stopped smiling. “But do think about it. It’s a big decision—how far you’re prepared to go.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “To have a baby, I mean.”

  Toughness counted, Nina saw, even in Santa’s workshop. “How far is too far?” she asked.

  Dr. Berry sighed. “I don’t know.” The expression on his face changed: the M.D. mask softened a little, like wax gently heated. “But are we simply manufacturers of sperm and egg, products like any other for trade on the open market?” He waited for an answer. Nina didn’t have one. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t usually sermonize.”

  “Do you have children, Dr. Berry?”

  “Four. Are you saying it’s easy for me to say?”

  “Not as baldly as that.”

  He laughed.

  When Nina left Dr. Berry’s office the sun was shining. She called Jason from a phone booth. “Do you need me this afternoon?”

  “I need you all the time.”

  “But can you handle the rest of the day?”

  “Sure. If the NBC guy stops bugging me. Also, those weirdos want an answer.”

  “What weirdos?”

  “The ones pushing Pumping Imaginary Iron: The Zen Guide to Bodybuilding.”

  “Tell them yes if they can demo it, no if they can’t.”

  “Demo?”

  “If a skinny little guy in a dhoti can walk into a studio and lift a safe over his head, it’s a go. Otherwise not.”

  “Check.”

  Nina started walking. She walked south for fifty blocks. Sometimes the sun shone between buildings and warmed her face; most of the time she walked in shadow. She looked at nothing except the question, which she examined from every angle. At five o’clock she was on Wooster Street, standing outside Gallery Bertie. Through the window, she could see Suze standing on a stepladder. Nina went inside.

  “Hey,” said Suze, adjusting a blue spotlight. “What are you doing on the loose at this hour?”