SC-Epilogue, Part 3a

Jul 1993 – Nov 1994

✧ ✧ ✧

We officially closed our company doors on July 31, 1993, three years after we’d opened them. We didn’t have any unpaid creditors, and our office lease was up, so we didn’t even have to declare bankruptcy. Our attorney simply filed the forms to dissolve the company. It was depressingly simple.

We managed to salvage more money than we thought, but not enough to maintain our current lifestyles. Fortunately, we didn’t need to. We had other plans.

Wren had accepted the job with the big sporting goods company. It was a huge step and an opportunity to work for a national brand. Trip was proud of her, which was understandable (we all were), but he was proud of himself too.

“Hey,” he boasted, “I’m putting my own career on hold for my wife’s.”

I didn’t point out that it was our own fault that our careers were on hold, or that the next few years would actually advance them quite a bit. But in a way he was right. We had decided on the current plan because of Wren’s job offer. Christy had been all for it, of course. She was excited to live near her nana.

✧ ✧ ✧

We sold our houses and three of our cars in the summer of 1993. Trip was sorry to part with his fancy BMW, but we kept Wren’s smaller one. It was paid for and more practical. Besides, she’d be doing most of the driving after we moved. We sold or gave away a bunch of furniture, too, since we wouldn’t have room for everything. We stored some art and other things in the garage at my parents’ house, but not enough to inconvenience them. Then we packed the rest of our belongings into a single U-Haul truck and moved to Boston.

Wren started her job with the big company and loved everything about it. She came home after the first week and announced that she’d be working with a Who’s Who list of professional athletes. Even I recognized most of the names. And Trip nearly wet himself when she told him that sometimes her duties would include public appearances with said athletes.

“I might need you to tag along,” she said to Trip, almost casually, “if your schedule allows.”

I didn’t need the Psychic Friends Network to know that his schedule would definitely allow.

He and I started new jobs as well. Laszlo had made a few calls on our behalf, and his name still opened a lot of doors in Boston. We went to work for a midsize A&E firm that needed experienced architects for several short-term contracts.

We’d only be doing project management, not design, but a job was a job. Besides, we didn’t intend to stay forever. We simply needed something to pay the bills until we could put phase two of our plan into action.

✧ ✧ ✧

Christy spent most of her days being a full-time mom to our kids and a nanny to Wren and Trip’s. The two older ones went to preschool in the mornings, while Christy and the younger girls had adventures at home and around the neighborhood.

They spent afternoons in the apartment. Christy picked up Laurie and Davis, fed everyone snacks, and put them all down for a nap. Then she went to work.

She didn’t have a proper studio, but we’d created one in the corner of the living room. She couldn’t work in metals or stone like she wanted, but her sketchbooks were full of designs and ideas.

Then she found a local artist collective with a kiln, and she began sculpting porcelain figurines, everything from cute little animals to larger statuettes of dancers. The collective sold them in its gallery, and they practically flew out the door.

She even started taking commissions. One sweet little old lady paid her to sculpt a life-size statue of her favorite terrier, long since deceased. Another lady wanted a series of custom dolls for her grandchildren, not deceased.

She even did a nude statuette for a woman about our age who wanted a gift for her very rich and much older boyfriend. He liked it so much that he made a couple of cautious inquiries and then commissioned several erotic pieces.

“Oh my gosh, Paul,” Christy said one evening. “Yvonne posed for an hour today and didn’t stop masturbating the whole time. She came, like, a dozen times.”

I thought it was probably closer to half that, but my eyes still widened in alarm. Not because the woman had had so many orgasms, but because our daughters and two other children had been asleep in the next room.

“What about the kids?” I said as calmly as I could.

“I know, right!” Christy agreed. “I was scared one of them would wake up and come out.”

“Listen,” I said, “I don’t mind you taking a commission like this, but—”

“I can’t do the sketches at home. Not anymore.”

“Exactly,” I said in relief. “Maybe do them at her house next time? In the evening, I guess. I’ll watch the girls. Hold on… I don’t know if I want you going to some strange couple’s house by yourself.”

“Oh, no. Her boyfriend is married. He lives with his wife. Yvonne has her own place. She can pose there. We talked about it, and she apologized for getting carried away. She totally understood.”

“Good,” I said. “And good that she has her own place.”

“Yeah. And… um… maybe I won’t go alone.”

“Oh?”

“Well, we were talking last time—when I did her first statue, I mean, the nude—and she said he’s impotent. Her boyfriend, I mean. Something about his heart and medication. Or his blood pressure. I don’t remember.” She waved away the details.

“Anyway, he can’t get it up,” she continued. “So he likes to watch her masturbate. That’s why he wants these statues. They’re normal nudes from the top, but she’s playing with herself when you look underneath.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

“Yeah. And he likes to watch her do other things. Sex things.”

My eyebrows twitched with a question.

“She dropped a couple of hints when we were talking. Today, I mean.”

“Why would she do that?” I was fairly sure I knew the answer, and Christy confirmed it.

“Um… because she saw a couple of sketches of you? Nudes, I mean. Don’t get upset,” she added quickly. “But… I might’ve accidentally-on-purpose left my sketchbook open where she could see. I can’t help it! You’re totally sexy, and I like showing you off.”

“You know,” I chuckled, “usually guys show off their wives, not the other way around.”

“So sue me, Mr. Good for the Goose. Besides, I wanted her to see you, especially after all her hints. And… um… I might’ve said we have an open relationship.”

I sighed. “Even though we don’t?”

“I know. Sorry. Only, it’s easier than saying we’re swingers. Besides, Yvonne isn’t like that.”

“What about her boyfriend?”

“Ew, gross. He’s old! No. Just… no.”

“I’m surprised you still sleep with me,” I teased. “I’m getting pretty old.”

“Now you’re just being silly. You’re even handsomer than when I first met you. It isn’t fair, either. I get older and more wrinkled, and you get sexier.”

“You aren’t old or wrinkled.”

“I have lines around my eyes. And my mouth. I’m sure it’s from sucking your cock all the time. Anyway, stop changing the subject.”

I pursed my lips in a grin.

“We’re talking about Yvonne,” Christy continued, “and how her boyfriend likes to watch.”

“Hold on… Why’re you doing this? Is it because you want to sleep with her?”

“No! Only, maybe I do. But I know it isn’t going to happen. She doesn’t mind masturbating in front of me, but she’s an exhibitionist, not bi. My radar’s never gone off with her. She’s strictly into men.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “And her boyfriend likes to watch her have sex with other men?”

“Uh-huh. And I thought—”

“I know what you thought.”

“I wouldn’t mind. As long as I can watch too. And maybe join in? I think Yvonne would like that. Double-teaming you, I mean. She’s pretty wild. Sexually, I mean.”

“What about her boyfriend?” I asked. “You don’t mind him watching?”

“No, of course not. Besides, he can’t do anything. He can’t get it up. Remember? I told you—”

“He might want to do other things. Like go down on you.”

Christy wrinkled her nose and shivered in mock revulsion. “No, thank you.”

“You really want to do this?” I asked. “Fool around with Yvonne?”

“I… think so. I don’t want things to get boring. With us, I mean, you and me.”

“Not possible,” I chuckled. “You don’t do boring.”

“So you’ll do it? Have sex with Yvonne, I mean.”

I feigned resignation, “If you insist.”

She beamed. “I thought you’d see it my way.”

“Did I have any choice?”

“No, of course not. You never do. Not really.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Once Trip and I settled into our jobs, we started working on phase two of our plan. He wanted to get an MBA, and he’d convinced me to get an MArch. And, of course, he didn’t have his sights set on just any schools. Oh, no. He wanted a degree from Harvard, while he and Laszlo had convinced me to apply to MIT. (To be fair, it wasn’t a hard sell.)

So I began studying for the GRE, while Trip did the same for the GMAT. We asked for letters of recommendation from friends and former colleagues, and we called for our undergraduate transcripts. In addition, I had to assemble a portfolio of my work and write an essay about my goals as an architect. I dug deep and went back to something I’d done almost a decade earlier.

I’d always been fascinated by traditional Japanese building techniques, especially their use of natural materials. I argued that we should be using wood as a structural element instead of just a decorative one, especially in larger buildings. It was a renewable resource that would play a key role as we moved toward more sustainable designs, ones that didn’t contribute to acid rain or the hole in the ozone layer.

I finished with a bold assertion, that architects should focus on social responsibility as we approached the new millennium. We needed to place an emphasis on people and the environment rather than profits and costs. We only had one Earth, and we had a duty to protect it for everyone, not just the privileged few who could afford to live in glass skyscrapers.

“Wow, this is good,” Trip said when he read it. “Do you really believe any of this stuff?”

“I believe every word of it.”

“Aren’t you a do-gooder, Mother Paul,” he chuckled. “And when did you become a tree-hugger?”

“Hey, what’s the matter with that?” Christy glared defiantly.

“Yeah,” Wren agreed, “there’s nothing wrong with hugging the occasional tree.”

“Oh, for sure,” Trip said. Then he grinned at me. “It’s a good thing I’m the practical one.”

I started to reply when five-year-old Davis thundered down the stairs and into the room.

“Mom, make Dookie-bird stop,” he complained. “She won’t let me play my game. She keeps standing in front of the TV.”

Wren gave Trip a withering look. This is your fault, her glare said. Then she returned her attention to her son. She forced a smile, but it held enough of a threat that I immediately felt sorry for the kid. I’d been on the receiving end of that look, and it wasn’t fun.

“Davis,” she said calmly, “if I hear you call your sister ‘Dookie-bird’ one more time, you’ll lose your Nintendo for an entire month. That’s four whole weeks. Thirty days. Do you understand?”

“But—!”

“I don’t care. She’s your sister. Her name is Missy.”

Davis glared sullenly.

“Now it’s your turn,” she said, polite and thoroughly ominous. “Say it. Missy.”

“But—!”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Missy,” he said, but his pout practically shouted that he didn’t have to like it.

“We’d better get ours and go,” I said. “It’s their bedtime soon.”

Christy’s eyes flashed. “Ooh, princess time.”

“What’s this?” Wren asked. Then she bent to Davis and said, “Go check on Emily and your sister.” She prompted him with the eyebrow.

“Missy.”

“Good. And please tell Laurie that her mommy and daddy said it’s time to go.”

He nodded and ran back up the stairs.

“What’s this?” Wren repeated as she stood. “Princess time?”

“You know,” Christy said. “I told you. Remember? The princesses and their tower…?”

“Oh, that’s right! What’s the adventure tonight?” she asked me.

“They moved to a new tower, and the oldest princess misses her friends. She has to make new ones.”

“Good luck with that,” Trip chuckled.

I shrugged. “The old ogre from the library came with them. And the beautiful queen of the water fairies. They’ll help.”

Wren rolled her eyes when she realized who I was talking about.

“You should write this down,” Trip said. “You could sell it as a book.”

“He’s right,” Wren said.

“Nah. It’s just something I tell my girls,” I said. “No one wants to read my silly stories.”

“Whatever,” Trip said, but he’d already moved on. “Leave a little early in the morning? I wanna take our applications by the schools and submit them in person.”

“Mmm. You wanna go to the gym with me after work?”

“Um… no?”

Wren did the eyebrow thing.

He laughed. “I can’t believe that works on me too.”

“Like father, like son,” she said, faux-sweet.

“You won’t beat me up?” he asked me suspiciously.

“Ha! No. They have regular weights and machines. You don’t have to get in the ring if you don’t want to.”

“That’s a relief. I don’t wanna mess up this pretty face.”

“Oh, boy, here we go,” Christy said. Then she flashed a grin at Wren. “C’mon, I’ll help you clean up. I’m sure the girls have everything out again.”

“That’s part of the fun, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Christy laughed. “Now we just have to teach them to put it all back!”

✧ ✧ ✧

Between the kids, work, and the occasional horny client, Christy was the happiest she’d been in years. So I probably shouldn’t have been surprised when she started hinting about a third baby. I was happy with two, but she wanted more, which made sense—we both wanted what we’d grown up with.

We didn’t exactly argue about it, but the issue never completely went away. My demure and submissive wife didn’t issue ultimatums, but she was too stubborn to concede defeat. She tried subtlety instead. After all, it had worked before, hadn’t it?

She began pointing out other couples with babies. At night she lamented that Laurie and Emily were growing up so fast. She mentioned several times how we might need a bigger house when we moved back to Atlanta.

I had fun teasing her and playing dumb for a while, but then she enlisted her parents’ help when they came to Boston for the holidays.

“Do you ever wish you had a son?” Anne asked on Christmas Eve.

Christy and I had come with the girls to spend the night in Nana C.’s enormous house. They were all safely out of earshot in the living room, counting presents under the Christmas tree. Harold, Anne, and I were relaxing in the dining room with drinks after dinner.

“Of course not,” I said. “I love having daughters.”

“What’s not to love?” Harold agreed. “But… you need someone to carry on your name.”

“Ah,” I said, “so you’re in on it too?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied glibly.

Anne dispensed with pretext altogether. “She’s our daughter. What did you expect?”

“Besides, you know we’d love more grandkids,” Harold said.

“Why?” I laughed. “You already have more than a dozen!”

“But we could use a few more. For the football,” he said with a completely straight face. “At Thanksgiving.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Think about it,” he said.

“We’d love a little Paul Junior,” Anne agreed.

Christy recruited my own parents next. They called to say Happy New Year and to talk to the girls.

“They’re growing up so quickly,” my mother said. “We love them both, but we’d love a grandson too, you know.”

“To carry on the family name,” my father added from the background. It had become a consistent theme.

“Have you thought about it?” Mom asked.

“Why?” I said flippantly. “Everyone else is doing it for me.”

“You can’t blame Christy. She grew up in a large family. Besides, like your dad said, she wants someone to carry on the family name.”

“Mmm.”

“Three kids aren’t any more work than two,” Mom added. “I’m the youngest of three. And the best, if I do say so myself.”

“And you do!” I laughed.

“She is!” my dad agreed from the background.

“You’re biased,” she told him. To me, “Just think about it, honey. And talk to Christy.”

“I already know what she’s going to say.”

“Then maybe you should listen?”

Our friend Renée came to visit at the end of January. She was freshly divorced from Olivier, and she needed to get away from France for a couple of weeks. She’d always been a hedonist at heart, and she simply wanted to enjoy herself with mindless diversions like shopping and sex. So I was a bit surprised when she mentioned children.

We’d gone to church together and eaten brunch at her hotel. At the moment we were strolling across Boston Common. It was a blustery and cold afternoon, and the pale sun did little to warm us.

The girls were bundled in matching pink parkas. They ran ahead. Laurie stopped and looked back, while Emily kept going with a two-year-old’s speed and determination. Christy called out, but she didn’t stop.

“That girl,” Christy muttered. “She’s going to be the death of me.” She called out again and ran after her.

“Your little girls are precious,” Renée said as we watched Christy chase down Emily, who’d finally stopped, although she refused to come back.

“Mmm,” I agreed.

“Why do you not have more children?” Renée asked. “A man like you needs a son.”

I glanced at her sideways and decided to turn the question around.

“Why don’t you have children?” I asked.

“And spoil my figure? Pah! Besides, I am divorced now, and not likely to marry again.”

“You could still have children.”

“Are you volunteering?” she teased. “To be ze father?” She laughed at my expression. “Non, mon cher. I know you are not.” She nodded at Christy and the girls. “But zey need a brother.”

“Why? You’re an only child.”

“But I always wanted one. A little brother. When I was growing up.”

“We’ll see,” I said vaguely.

“Mmm. But do not wait too long. Christy is not patient, not like me.” She looped her arm through mine, and we walked in silence for several moments. “You need a son,” she repeated firmly. “Vraiment. He will be strong and handsome, like his father.”

Perhaps my favorite hint came from Nana C. She asked me to stop by her house on the way home from work one day. She had Valentine’s cards and candy for the girls. She also had a couple of choice observations. One was a subtle hint. The other bordered on risqué.

“You know,” she said, “I always said that Christine was the daughter Anne deserved. She was such a headstrong child.”

“And now the tables are turned,” I agreed. “Emily’s the child Christy deserves?”

Nana C. considered her next words carefully. “I’d never say that Emily was sent by God as a punishment—she’s a blessing, to be sure—but I believe He has a sense of humor about these things.”

“No kidding. She drives Christy crazy.”

Nana C. gave me a long look. Her eyes were darker than Christy’s but just as piercing and intelligent.

“I think He’d send you a son to make you proud,” she said.

“I’m proud of my daughters.”

“Mmm, yes. But a man needs a son.” She smiled fondly. “He’d favor you. And it would make Christine happy.”

“I’m starting to get that message.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Are you starting to listen?”

“Maybe. But I’m stubborn too.”

“Yes, but you’re a man. You can’t possibly be as stubborn as a woman.”

“Ask my wife what she thinks of that.”

The old woman laughed before she turned serious again. “Christine takes after us, you know, her mother and me.”

“Oh?”

“We both enjoyed being pregnant. I rejoiced on my knees. Anne too. I’m sure Christine will do the same.”

I started to nod innocently until I pictured what she’d said—Christy on her knees, “rejoicing.” My eyes flew wide and my cheeks must have glowed.

Prim and proper, my ass, I thought archly.

Nana C. knew exactly what she was doing, and she laughed at my reaction. Then she gathered the candy and cards for the girls.

“Give them hugs and kisses for me,” she said. “And think about what I said.”

“Oh, I will,” I promised.

Christy didn’t say a thing when I came home. She had accomplices for that, and her message had come through loud and clear. She wanted another baby, and a son would do nicely. Chop-chop, Mr. Husband, time to get with the program.

✧ ✧ ✧

Trip and I received our acceptance letters to Harvard and MIT. Our boss had known all along that we planned to go back to school, but he was still disappointed when we told him the news. He wished us well, though, and made sure we had work until the last week of August.

Trip started class the next day, and I began about a week later. I suffered the usual first-day jitters, although I settled down and relaxed fairly quickly. Then I took some time to look around, and I realized that my fellow students looked like kids. I didn’t feel old, but the current crop of undergrads were all ten years younger, children of the seventies.

Fortunately, no one mistook me for a professor. Many of them had earned their tenure about the time I’d taken my first steps. Worse, some of them looked the part, like they hadn’t changed their wardrobes or hairstyles since the Carter administration. I didn’t look like a grunge college student, but at least my style had come from the current decade.

Class itself was a different experience from the campus at large. The Master of Architecture was absurdly selective, only twenty-five students in each class. It was a three-year program for students fresh from their Bachelor’s degree, but people with real-world experience (like yours truly) entered the second year curriculum. So about a third of my classmates were like me, men and women who were licensed architects that had decided to return to school.

I enjoyed the program and wasn’t surprised that several of my professors were friends with Laszlo. And because of my connection with him, I enjoyed a lot of automatic goodwill and respect. I called him on a semi-regular basis to give him updates. He and his wife had never had children of their own, and his favorite students filled the void. He kept tabs on about a dozen of us, including Diana Lamberton.

She and I talked as well, but not like we had when I’d worked for her. We were equals now, colleagues separated by years and miles but united by a common experience. She told me about her projects and life in Knoxville. She was married now and thinking about children. I told her about mine, along with my projects and life in Boston. She and I didn’t have the same relationship I had with Trip, but it was definitely on the same level.

✧ ✧ ✧