Now it was Bill and McKay’s turn to look uncomfortable. They were, after all, men, Pru reflected. They had their limits. Anyway, what did they understand about the struggle between men and women? Lord, they’ve all slept with each other and remained good pals. That tells you right there about the huge canyon between gay and straight relations, she thought.
“Did I mention I saw Gay/Not Gay David?” she said. “Turns out he’s more gay than not. I ran into him in Fresh Fields with a guy, and he didn’t say he was his boyfriend, but you could tell.”
“Were they in the crème fraîche aisle?” said McKay.
“I was going to say ’endive,’” Bill said to McKay, and they beamed at each other.
“So, later, he calls me and asks if it had upset me, seeing them together. Wasn’t that decent of him? And it didn’t bother me, because he really looked happy. So I told him that, and you know what he said? ‘Well, you have a lot more sex being gay.’”
“Oh, hush, you,” McKay said, before Bill could open his mouth to speak. “I don’t care why, but I’m glad Rudy broke up with you. We thought we were going to have to instigate an intervention. You never would have left him, would you?”
“God,” Pru said, sloshing her Billtini on her hand as she put her glass on the table next to the couch. McKay threw a towel at her and she mopped it up. “Was he really that bad?”
“Dear, he was the bad dress of men—a bit too short and clinging to you in all the wrong places.”
“He wasn’t that bad. And you’re not a single woman,” she added. “You don’t know how hard it is.”
“You’re pickier about what you wear than you are about who you sleep with,” said McKay.
“Me? What about you? I can name names, McKay Ettlinger.” Ouch, she thought. He’s right.
Bill stood up. “I think I’ll go make another pitcher.”
She turned back to the TV. Sara Moulton was demonstrating how to debone a chicken. Was Pru the only one who hadn’t seen Rudy for what he really was? Why hadn’t anyone told her? Weak chi . . . a bad dress . . . She felt like she was standing in light, a really nasty, too-bright light, the kind in the dressing rooms at the lesser department stores, where you always find pins and a Kotex strip on the floor.
Rudy wasn’t her dream man, okay. If you’d asked her at the age of six who she’d grow up to marry, she wouldn’t have said a neurotic, culture-obsessed, insecure cartoon producer. But she’d thought him decent enough. Until the TV thing, of course. Obviously, she hadn’t been as clued in as everyone else. David had turned out to be gay . . . Peter had cheated on her . . . Phil had so many problems, she didn’t know where to start. None of these, in her mind, had been casual relationships. She’d been looking for Mr. Prudence Whistler for a long time, and she was beginning to have grave reservations about her judgment. It had served her so well in other areas—she’d blazed her way to this point in life. Why was he abandoning her now?
“Will you guys have a baby with me?” she said, as Bill came out of the kitchen. “I’ll raise it and everything. I just need the sperm. And let’s face it, you two have lots extra floating around here.”
“We’ve talked about that before,” Bill said, refilling her glass. “I’m all for it.”
McKay raised his hand. “And I’m agin’ it.”
Pru sat up. “Really? Did you talk about me as the birth mother?”
“Of course,” said McKay. “Of all the women we don’t want to sleep with, babe, you’re number one.”
“But you wouldn’t have to do all the caregiving yourself,” Bill said. “We’d want to be involved fathers.”
“You know,” said McKay. “We’d want to see it before you bring it up to bed at night. Briefly.”
“By ‘it’ he means ‘him or her,’ ” added Bill.
LATER, IN THE STRIPED COTTON PAJAMAS MC KAY HAD given her to sleep in, safe and cozy under the seersucker bedspread, she wondered, Why not? McKay and Bill would be great fathers, attentive and gentle and fun. She’d be the mother and housewife. She’d remember to bring McKay’s empty glasses of Diet Squirt back to the kitchen, and have dinner waiting for them every night. They’d show up at PTA meetings together and chaperone the prom as a threesome. They would grow old together, reading the kids’ letters out loud to one another, trading quips and playing board games.
The next day, after breakfast, Pru and McKay drove to the D.C. Humane Society. It was in a strip mall in one of the worst neighborhoods she’d ever seen. The entire block looked like it had been hit by a bomb. There were only two other storefronts occupied: what looked to be a Mylar balloon shop, and something called Deondre Dress. Inside the animal shelter, a handful of dogs kept up a constant racket. Others lay about despondently in the heat. It was about a thousand degrees inside, and smelled of thick, warm pet smells. She couldn’t stand the naked need of the puppies in what was called the Puppy Playground, and quickly left McKay to wander around.
She found herself in the Cat Condo. It was a sad, lackluster place. The few people who’d come to look at felines were all in the Kitten Kastle, oohing and ahhing over the tiny, mewling babies. Here, the elderly cats were left to nap, undisturbed. A few regarded her with distant, cool eyes. She was about to go back and find McKay when the sight of a cat in its cage stopped her. It was a huge tabby, absolutely massive. It had a notch in one ear, and it sat back on its haunches, sleeping, like a bum on the street. It looked
