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Show Motherlunge a novel 32 between her shoulder and chin gave her the awkward bent head of an Orthodox Madonna while she folded laundry, watered the houseplants, did sit-ups. She listened to her husband with a Coptic inscrutability, disagreeing gently from time to time. Meanwhile, the fetus did this, that, and the other. It was the size of a pearl, a Pez. I inferred all this, of course, based on the library books I had checked out. Pavia wasn't reading them and hadn't gotten around to going to a doctor. Similarly, I hadn't gotten around to returning home to Supernal. I signed up with a temp agency, and had a series of non-taxing receptionist positions. I became aware of the possibility-indeed the necessity-of having nicer shoes, and I bought several pairs which I lined up under the bed in the small guest room Pavia had turned over to me. Most significantly, I went with Pavia to rock shows at the club around the comer from her townhouse, The Arrow. The consequence was a series of thrilling one-night stands with boys who worked in coffee shops, bookstores, and guitar shops. I was twenty-four, and the only boyfriend I had ever had was Adam, and I was shocked to find out that in the right town-a bigger city-even a girl with glasses and hairy forearms could participate. Also that, contrary to everything my high school health teacher had told me, promiscuity did not lead to disease, depression, and unplanned pregnancy. Rather, it resulted in feelings of ease, power, and possibility. I mean I felt hot, and grateful for it. Somewhere along in here, one night in early fall, I called up Dorothy and filled her in on the nature of the dilemma I'd been sent to address: Pavia was pregnant and getting a divorce. I told her that I was going to stay there, in the big city. To provide support. |