The Baby Agenda

CHAPTER FOUR

BY THE TIME HE REACHED the outskirts of Harare, Will was weary and grateful to be back. He’d spent the past two weeks in rural east Zimbabwe, negotiating with workers, suppliers, local officials, town leaders, hell, even the community n’anga, or healer, who seemed to be particularly influential in that district.

The job had turned out to be nothing like he’d envisioned. When he’d first arrived, it hadn’t taken him two weeks to discover that the architectural renderings drawn by a firm in Providence, Rhode Island, were useless; that nothing near as elaborate as the original plans was required; that, if these community hospitals and medical clinics were to be useful, they needed to spring from local needs and with local approval. He’d made the mistake, too, of believing he could conduct most business in English, the official language. Zimbabwe had been, after all, a British colony when it was Southern Rhodesia. But, while road signs and the like were in English, it was mostly spoken in the cities. In the countryside where he was working it was another matter. He was now learning Shona, the language of the majority tribe. He still needed a translator, but was gaining confidence in his ability to understand discussions before they were sanitized and translated for his benefit. He was already adept enough to conduct the ritual conversations that preceded any real business.

“How is your mother? Your father? Your son? Good, good,” he would say with grave nods. Then, in answer to the requisite polite questions for him, “I don’t often speak to them, but my brothers and sister are well.”

Nothing happened rapidly, and getting frustrated did no good.

He pulled his ancient Datsun pickup truck into a curb-side parking spot in the block adjacent to the foundation offices. As he got out, his mouth quirked as he imagined what Clay would say about the irony of Will, the strong, silent member of the Becker clan, having to spend his days and weeks and months in seemingly never ending conversation. Or—most delicious irony of all—being good at it. But these first months, Will had realized, would build the bridge of friendships strong enough to see a dozen medical clinics and two community hospitals built in the next two years. Or it wouldn’t happen.

Harare was Zimbabwe’s largest city. It had a surprisingly European look, to his eye, and a population of over a million people. Every time he reached the outskirts of the city after days’ or weeks’ absence, tension melted away. He was American enough to feel most at home here. There were Western-style grocery stores. He could dine out on Italian food, Greek, Chinese. Hold conversations with American businessmen and women.

He felt rueful amusement when he thought of the last cocktail party he’d attended. He wasn’t any better at that kind of socializing. Lurking in a dark corner, he’d wished for his mysterious redhead.

In the first week Will had rented a small house less than half a mile from the office. Even though he seemed to be away more than he was here, he needed a base. And he’d somehow acquired a full-time housekeeper-cook.

At home in the U.S., the closest thing to a servant he’d ever had was a woman who came in to the Becker home weekly to clean. He’d seen her once in a blue moon; mostly they communicated by notes. Please clean the refrigerator this week, he’d write. I’ll be coming on Tuesday instead of Thursday next week, if that’s okay, her sticky note would inform him. But having someone wait on him…well, that was different. He’d intended to take care of himself. But he’d barely moved in when women began knocking on his back door asking for work. He was met with blank astonishment when he said he didn’t need anyone, thank you. And it wasn’t totally true, he discovered; buying food in the unfamiliar markets where English often wasn’t spoken was a hassle, and he’d come to Africa with the intention of immersing himself in the culture, not living in a bubble like a tourist admiring the scenery. Yeah, sometimes he appreciated seeing familiar brands on grocery-store shelves, but he didn’t want to shop only in the Western-style supermarkets. God knows, he wasn’t much of a cook. He had no microwave here. And unemployment was sky-high. He could afford to give someone a job.

So now, when he was in town, he came home to sadza ready when he sat at the table. Sadza was the word commonly used for any meal, but also for the staple of the diet: a sort of stew served on cooked grain. Jendaya, his housekeeper, most often used chicken in the stew, although she was scandalized that he preferred it to goat, which his relative wealth would have permitted. He liked the stew without meat at all, and she obliged with scandalized shakes of the head. Only the poor didn’t put meat in their sadza, she made sure he knew. When he was in Harare, he usually ate lunch out, so Will was content with the traditional evening meal even though it varied little.

Jendaya had expected him back today, so he assumed dinner at home would be ready at the usual seven o’clock. That gave him time to stop at the office and check email. He hadn’t even seen an internet café the past two weeks—to find one, he’d have had to drive into Mutare, the city closest to the Mozambique border, and it hadn’t seemed worth the bother. One of the pleasures of getting home was anticipating email: responses to questions he’d asked of the foundation headquarters, and especially to hearing from Clay, Sophie and Jack. Will missed them more than he’d expected.

The early evening was cool enough to remind him of home as he walked the half a block to the two-story stucco-fronted office building. He’d become accustomed to the rich scent of the air: diesel fuel, wood smoke, ripe fruit and the heady scent of flowers in bloom. September was spring here, south of the equator, still dry, the reverse of seasons in the Pacific Northwest. The hard rains, he was told, fell during the summer in Zimbabwe, therefore at the same time as they would be falling in Washington State.

The front door to the foundation headquarters was still unlocked, although he was greeted with silence inside. He’d started up the stairs when a light went out in an office at the top and Perry Marshall rushed out. Another American, he’d arrived only a few weeks before, and would be acquiring the equipment, furniture and supplies for the clinics as they were built.

“Will!” He paused on the stairs. “Good trip?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Can we talk in the morning? We’re having a dinner party, and Rachel’s going to kill me if I’m late. You’d be welcome to join us,” he added.

Will smiled. “Thanks, but I suspect Jendaya will have dinner ready. And I’ve got to tell you, I’m beat.”

The other American’s bushy gray eyebrows rose. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Just wanted to check email.”

“Internet’s slow today,” Perry warned him, and kept going.

It was, but Will got on eventually and relaxed in his chair, glad the building seemed otherwise empty, as he watched a dozen messages load. Good, a couple from each of his siblings. He liked hearing from them so often. There was one from an unfamiliar address and he clicked on it first, figuring it would be a quick delete. But it wasn’t the junk he expected. It was short, only a paragraph, and ended with Moira. His pulse quickened.

His mysterious redhead. What the hell? His thoughts had turned to her with disturbing frequency, but if she hadn’t tried to get in touch in four months, why now?

Will, I’ve hesitated over contacting you at all, but I think you deserve to know that I’m pregnant. I don’t know what happened; I suppose the condom tore or something. You need to know that I don’t hold you responsible. I invited you to stay, I knew you weren’t offering anything but the one night. Heck, I was the one who provided the condom. But…I am pregnant. I intend to have the baby, and am well able to afford to raise him or her. I have friends and family. I’m not asking for help from you, or any involvement. I’ll be honest. I’m not even sure I would welcome either. Since you don’t know me, you may not even believe the baby is yours. That’s okay, too. I thought I should tell you, and now I’ve done that.

Moira

Stunned, he stared at the computer monitor, rereading the email a second time, a third time.

She was pregnant.

The first wave of anger took him aback, because it was a stupid thing that pissed him off. Did she really think he wouldn’t believe her when she said the baby was his? He’d have had to be an idiot not to recognize her essential innocence. His redhead didn’t sleep around.

“I haven’t done this in an awfully long time,” she’d said. He’d wondered then how long that actually was. A year? Five years? She’d been incredibly sexy but also… awkward. Unpracticed. No, if she was pregnant, it was his baby she was carrying. Not if. After four months, she might even be showing.

He shook his head in…not disbelief, not shock, but something related. He was going to be a father.

A sound escaped his throat. A father was the last thing in the world he’d wanted to become, at least for the next few years. He’d already raised a family. The idea of starting over appalled him. And yet…that was his baby she was carrying.

He shoved his fingers into his hair. As things stood, his son or daughter would grow up without him, and it sounded as though that was what she’d prefer.

He should be grateful. Glad she wasn’t demanding he be an every-other-weekend father, or that he send child-support checks. She was right; they didn’t know each other.

Numbly, Will sat back in his chair. It would be worse if he hadn’t liked her, if it really had been a typical one-night stand. A chance-met stranger encountered in a bar, say.

Wasn’t that what it was?

He found himself scowling. No. No, he’d been drawn to her from the minute he set eyes on her. He’d ached the next morning to call her. The temptation to see her in the few days left to him had been acute. Now…hell. Now he wished he had. At least then they would know each other better.

He felt another surge of anger. She wouldn’t welcome his involvement? Did that mean she hadn’t liked him nearly as much as he had her? That he really was nothing but an available sub for the jackass?

Had it occurred to her that, if she’d had sex with him, using that same condom, she might still be pregnant? Would she prefer that, even given the way the creep had treated her?

I have friends and family, she said. Will gritted his teeth. A mother. She had a mother. Had she forgotten that she’d told him it was just her and her mom? Okay, she probably did have friends, but friends had their own families. With the best will in the world, how much good was a friend going to be to her, caring for a baby by herself?

He swore aloud, his voice hoarse. He didn’t know what to tell her. How to respond. Damn. He looked again and saw that her email was dated almost two weeks ago, in fact the day after he’d left Harare. She had probably already concluded that he wasn’t going to reply at all.

Maybe she was relieved. That idea pissed him off yet again.

One more day wouldn’t matter. He had to think about this.

At last he made himself read the emails from his brothers and Sophie. None had any real news. Clay had met a woman shortly after Will left and sounded as if he might be serious about her. Jack had had a minor accident in a company pickup, and Clay was ragging him. Sophie was renting a room in a house with other grad students in L.A., where she’d be attending UCLA, classes to start next week. She’d met with her faculty advisor, and told a few amusing stories about her roommates, two guys and two girls.

Will responded to their emails with a general one telling them about this latest trip. He tried to draw word pictures, so they could see the general meeting held under a baobab tree, with him in a metal folding chair facing the sixteen men who’d sat comfortably on the dusty ground despite Western business attire that made him suspect they’d dressed up for his benefit. He described the tea plantations, with leaves as big as elephant ears, and the kraals of round mud huts with thatch roofs, women wearing Western garb cooking on open fires outside. He made fun of his more ludicrous language mistakes.

He didn’t say, “Hey, the real news is that I’m going to be a father.” Although he’d have to tell them eventually, wouldn’t he? After years of lecturing them on safe sex.

Yes, but he’d used the damn condom. He’d come close to forgetting it; closer than he’d ever come in his life. But he’d remembered in time, so he couldn’t blame himself now for carelessness. He hadn’t seen any obvious tear when he disposed of it, although now he wasn’t sure he’d even really looked. He’d been wishing he had another condom, wishing he wasn’t leaving his redhead to awaken alone in the hotel room.

Will sent the email, figuring he’d write shorter, more personal ones to each of them individually tomorrow. Then he read Moira’s one more time, as incredulous and confused as he was the first time. Finally he closed the internet and turned off the computer.

What was he going to say to her?

IT WAS FIFTEEN DAYS AFTER she’d made herself write that hideous email and send it before she saw a reply in her in-box from Will Becker. The first week, Moira had compulsively checked her personal account at least twice a day while she was at work, something she rarely did, then a couple more times at home. When there was nothing from him, she’d…not given up, relaxed. A better choice of words. Since then, she’d gone back to reading personal email in the evening at home. Tonight, she’d sat at the computer while leftover casserole was heating in the microwave. At the sight of his address, her heart took an unpleasant bump and her hand was actually shaking when she reached for the mouse.

She distantly heard the microwave beep and ignored it.

Moira,

I’m sorrier than I can say that you’ve had to deal with this on your own. I should have told you that night why the one night was all I could offer. I suspect that, despite my denial, you still worried I might be married, engaged, whatever. It wasn’t anything like that. I had just accepted a job from a nonprofit committed to build schools and medical clinics in sub-Saharan Africa. I’ve been in Zimbabwe for nearly four months now, and have made a two-year commitment. I often have no access to email for weeks at a time. I just read yours last night.

It would never have crossed my mind to think you’d tell me the baby was mine if it wasn’t. Maybe you believe I don’t know you, but I thought I did. Well enough to be sure you’re honest, and that your invitation to me was out of the ordinary for you. I hope you know me well enough to guess what I’m going to say now.

No child of mine is going to grow up not knowing his father. I can’t do much to help you right now, although I am more than willing to offer financial support if you find you can’t continue to work all the way through your pregnancy. I ask that you stay in touch and let me know how you’re doing. I’ll be back in the states every few months, and we can talk the first time I am. Come up with a plan. But fair warning: I will be involved.

He gave her the website address of the foundation he worked for in case she was interested, and repeated that he wanted to hear from her. He closed by asking what she did for a living. Tell me about yourself, he said. Please.

Moira cried for the first time in months, and she didn’t even know why. She didn’t need him. She kept remembering the intense note in his voice when he told her about his worst nightmare. “Being trapped. Spending my life doing what I have to do.” There was more, but she’d known what he meant.

This was what he’d been trying to say. Getting stuck with an obligation he hadn’t willingly, wholeheartedly made. Having to accept responsibility for helping raise a child he couldn’t possibly want.

Her email, she thought wretchedly, was his worst nightmare.

TWO DAYS LATER, MOIRA REPLIED.

Will,

Now I think I’m sorry I told you. I remember that you said your worst nightmare was to get stuck, to spend your life fulfilling obligations. I don’t want to be your nightmare. And please, please don’t feel you have to be involved if you’ll resent it. That would have to be awful for a kid, don’t you think? I barely remember my father—did I tell you that?—but even though I often wished that he was around when I was growing up, I know it might have hurt worse if he’d been there because he felt he had to be. I really will be fine, you know. We won’t starve without you.

If you want to look me up when you get home, that’s fine, though. I live in West Fork, and work here, too. I’m an architect, in partnership with a friend. Van Dusen & Cullen. I’m Cullen. I guess you can tell that from my email address, huh? It’s not a real physical job, which is good right now. And I’m hoping I can bring the baby to work some of the time. I know Gray, my partner, won’t mind.

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