Doesn’t know for a fact that Gunni saved pieces of fermented lamb in his shoe when Eivør wasn’t allowed to have any, but she writes it in her book, because her own brother used to hide cookies in his napkin when their mother told the biographer she didn’t need more dessert unless she wanted to get chubby. Archie would leave the cookies in his drawer for her to retrieve. Each time she opened the drawer and saw the grease-darkened napkin tucked among socks, a flame of happiness lit in her throat.
She wrote the first sentences of Mínervudottír: A Life ten years ago, when she was working at a café in Minneapolis and trying to help Archie get clean. When she wasn’t driving him to meetings or outpatient appointments, she was dropping leafy greens into smoothies he didn’t drink. She was checking his pupils for pinnedness, his drawers for needles, her own wallet for missing cash. Sometimes he would ask to read the manuscript. He liked the part where the polar explorer watches men drive whales to their deaths in a shallow cove.
As a hater of tradition, Archie would have applauded her solo pregnancy efforts. Would have tried to get his friends to supply sperm for free. (One dose of semen from Athena Cryobank costs eight hundred dollars.)
She has not told her father about the efforts.
She closes her computer and sets Mínervudottír’s journal on a pile of books about nineteenth-century Arctic expeditions. Rolls her head toward one shoulder, then the other. Is a stiff neck another sign of polycystic ovary syndrome? She has researched PCOS online, a little, as much as she can stand. The pregnancy statistics aren’t good.
But Gin Percival might not know what she’s talking about. She didn’t even graduate from high school, according to Penny, who was already teaching at Central Coast when Gin dropped out. The visit to her did not go badly, or particularly well. She liked Gin Percival fine. She came away with a bag of gruesome tea.
Speaking of: the biographer gets out the saucepan. While the tea heats, she braces for the flavor of a human mouth unbrushed for many moons and debates whether to change for dinner. It’s only Didier and Susan and the kids; but these sweatpants, truth be told, have not been washed in a while.
Her white mug is streaked tan inside. Are her teeth this stained? Probably almost. Years of frequent coffee. Long hiatuses from dentistry. Could poor mouth hygiene be a cause of PCOS? Inflammation leaking from the gums into the bloodstream, a slow poison, her hormones dizzy and ineffectual?
If she does have PCOS, maybe Gin Percival can give her another concoction—to lower her testosterone levels, repair her blood. Her cells will jump to work, plumping and fluffing and densing, her FSH numbers will drop into the single digits, Nurse Crabby will call with her bloodwork results and say, “Wow! Just, wow!” and even Fleischy will give a golden nod of amazement. They’ll shoot in the sperm of the rock climber or the personal trainer or the biology student or Kalbfleisch himself, and the biographer, at last, will conceive.
It’s got to be mostly hokum, of course. Tree bark and frog’s spit and spells. Mash up a few berries and seeds and call it a solution.
But what if it works? Thousands of years in the making, fine-tuned by women in the dark creases of history, helping each other.
And at this point, what else can she do?
You could stop trying so hard.
You could love your life as it is.
The Korsmos’ place, horror-movie handsome on its hill, would make the biographer jealous if she were a house wanter, which she is not, as houses make her think of being stuck neck-deep in a mortgage; but she admires its lead-glazed panes and the ocellated trim work vining its porch. It was built by Susan’s great-grandfather as a summer place. In winter they duct-tape the windows and stuff sweaters under the doors.
Didier smokes on the porch steps, yellow hair poking like hay from under his beanie. He is sunk-eyed and snaggletoothed yet manages somehow—the biographer can’t figure out how—to be fetching. Beau-laid. He raises one beautiful-ugly palm in greeting.
“ROOOOOO!” yells Bex, running at the biographer across the lawn.
“Pipe the fuck down,” says her father. He squashes the cigarette on his bootheel, tosses it into a large brown bush, and ambles over to lift the girl into the air. “Bexy, remember that ‘fuck’ goes in the special box. You hungry, Robitussin? Also, we invited Pete.”
“I’m elated. What’s the special box?”
“The box of words we never say to Mommy,” says Bex.
“Or even near Mommy.” Didier sets the girl down, and she scurries back toward the house. “I see you didn’t bring anything, which is awesome.”
“What?”
“My wife adheres to the twentieth-century belief that civilized people arrive with small gifts or contributions to an invited meal. And once again this proves her wrong because you’re civilized but, as usual, you brought zilch.”
The biographer foresees the wince, the disapproval filed away. Susan keeps track to the grave.
Pliny the Younger stomps behind while Bex gives the biographer yet another tour of her room. She is very proud of her room. The purple walls are thick with fairies, leopards, alphabets, and Pinocchio noses. When her brother dares to move a rabbit from the bed, Bex slaps his hand; he yowls; the biographer says, “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.”
“It was only a soft hit,” says the girl. “See, I have one shelf for the monster and one shelf for the fish. Here’s a squirrel mummy.”
The biographer peers. “Is that a real squirrel?”
“Yeah, but it died. Which is, like, when …” Bex sighs, twists her hands together, and looks up at the biographer. “What is death?”
“Oh, you know,” says the biographer.
Blond-brown, endearing, demanding, sometimes quite irritating—how eerily they resemble Susan and Didier. It’s much more than the coloring: they are shaped like their parents, Bex with Didier’s shadowy eye sockets, John with Susan’s elfin chin—small faces imprinted by two traceable lineages. They are the products of desire: sexual, yes, but more importantly (in the age of contraception, at least) they come from the desire to recur. Give me the chance to repeat myself. Give me a life lived again, and bigger. Give me a self to take care of, and better. Again, please, again! We’re wired, it’s said, to want repeating. To want seed and soil, egg and shell, or so it’s said. Give me a bucket and give me a bell. Give me a cow with her udders a‑swell. Give me the calf—long eyes, long tongue—who clamps the teat and sucks.
Downstairs she trips on a plastic truck and slams elbow first into a side table. The floor is choked with toys. She kicks a blue train against the wall.
“They live in squalor,” says Pete Xiao.
“I may have sprained my elbow.”
“That aside, how are you?” Pete came to Central Coast Regional two years ago, to teach math, and announced he’d only be here for one year because he wasn’t built for a hinterland. This year, too, is meant to be his last; and next year will undoubtedly be his last.
“Swell,” she says. Swollen. The Ovutran bloats.
They gather in the dining room, which Susan’s forebears rigged up in style: fat oak ceiling beams, hand-carved wall panels, built‑in credenza. The little black roast is sliced and served. Munchings and slurpings.
“This year’s parents,” says Pete, “are even more racist than last year’s. One guy goes, ‘I’m glad my child is finally studying math with someone of your persuasion.’”
“Calm your yard, Pete-moss,” says Didier.
“I have a yard?”
“It’s in your pants, nestled like a teeny mouse.”
“How very white of you to change the subject away from model-minority stereotypes.”
“Hey, Roosevelt, are you using only white sperm donors out of racism?”
“Didier, God,” says Susan.
“White is the state color of Oregon,” says Pete.
“The kid is already going to feel weird about his paternity situation,” says the biographer, “and I don’t want to add to the confusion.”
“Once you have that kid, you won’t be able to take a dump by yourself. And you’ll become even less cool than you are now. As they say, ‘Heroin never hurt my music collection, but parenthood sure has!’”
“No one says that,” says Susan, reaching for another roll.
“I once did a research paper,” says Didier, “on the history of words for penis, and ‘yard’ was a preferred term until a couple of centuries ago.”
“Was that considered a research topic at your wattle-and-daub college?” says Pete.
“Not wattle and daub,” says Susan, “so much as frosted glass block and drive-through window.”
“What’s wattle and daub?” says Bex.
Didier scratches his neck. “Even if it had been a community college, which it was not, so what? I mean, literally, meuf, why would it matter?”
Pete shouts, “Why does everyone say ‘literally’ so much these days?”
“‘,’” recites Didier, “‘I gave her an inch, but she took an Ell: But … it was damnable hard, When I gave her an inch, she’d want more than a Yard.’ Ell meant the minge, by the way.”
“Yet he can’t remember the name of the kids’ pediatrician,” says Susan.
Didier gives his wife a long look, rises from the table, heads for the kitchen.
He returns with a butter dish.
“We don’t need butter,” says Susan. “Why did you get out the butter?”
“Because,” he says, “I want to put some butter on my potatoes. They happen to be a little dry.”
“Daddy,” says Bex, “your face just looked like a butt.” Giggles. “Don’t be a buttinski, you buttinski!”
“Use your NPR voice, chouchou,” says Didier.
“I hate NPR!”
“What Daddy means is you need to speak more quietly, or you’re leaving the table.”
Bex whispers something to her brother, then counts to three. “AAAAAAHHHHHH!” they roar.
“That’s it,” snaps Susan. “You’re done. Leave the table.”
“But John’s not done! If you don’t feed us it’s, um, it’s child abuse.”
“Where did you hear that term?”
“Jesus,” says Didier, “she prolly got it from TV. Relax.”
Susan closes her eyes. For a few seconds, nothing moves. Then her eyes open and her voice comes out placid: “Let’s go, sprites, time for bath. Say good night!”
Pete and Didier keep opening beers and ignoring the biographer. Their conversation topics include European soccer, artisanal whiskey, famous drug overdoses, and a multiplayer video game whose name sounds like “They Mask Us.” Then Didier, suddenly remembering her, says: “Instead of driving a million miles to Salem, why don’t you just go to the witch? I saw her the other day, waiting outside the school. At least I think it was her, although she looks less witchy than most of the girls at Central Coast.”
“She’s not a witch. She’s—” Tall, pale, heavy browed. Eyes wide and pond-green. Black cloth pinned around her neck. “Unusual.”
“Still,” says Didier, “worth a try?”
“Nah. She’d give me a bowl of tree bark. And I’m already in massive debt.” The biographer isn’t sure why she’s lying. She’s not ashamed of her visit to Gin Percival.
“All the more reason to avoid single motherhood,” says Didier.
Is she ashamed?
“So only couples in massive debt”—she raises her voice—“should have kids?”
“No, I just mean you have no idea how hard it’s going to be.”
“Actually I do,” she says.
“You very much don’t. Look, I’m the product of a single mother.”
“Exactly.”
“What?”
“You turned out fine,” says the biographer.
“You’re human evidence,” adds Pete.
“Wait’ll it’s four a.m.,” says Didier, “and the kid’s puking and shitting and screaming and you can’t decide if you should take him to the emergency room and there’s no one to help you decide.”
“Why would I need someone to help me decide?”
“Okay, what about when the kid has a guitar performance in assembly and you can’t be there because of work and everyone laughs at him for crying?”
The biographer does the tiny violin.
Didier pats his shirt pocket. “Hell are my smokes? Pete, do you—?”
“I got you, brah.” They head out together.
She thinks to start clearing the table—this would be a good thing to do, a courteous and helpful thing—but stays in her chair.
Susan, in the doorway: “They’re finally down.” Her narrow face, edged by blond waves, pulses with anger. At her kids for not settling faster? At her husband for doing nothing? She goes to hover behind a chair, surveying the mess of the table. Even angry she is shining, every piece of dining-room light caught and smeared across her cheeks.
The males clomp back in, smelling of smoke and cold, Didier laughing, “Which is what I told the ninth-graders!”
“Classic,” says Pete.
Susan reaches for plates. The biographer gets up and hefts the roast pan.
“Thanks,” says Susan, to the pan.
“I’ll wash.”
“No, it’s fine. Can you get the strawberries out of the fridge? And the cream.”
The biographer rinses, pats, and de‑tops.
“I bought those specially for you,” says Susan.
“In case I need some folic acid?”
“Are you—?”
“Another insemination next week.”
“Well, distract yourself if you can. Go to the movies.”
“The movies,” repeats the biographer. Susan has a knack for commiserating with suffering she hasn’t suffered. Which doesn’t feel like compassion or empathy, but why not? Here is a friend trying to connect over a trouble. But the effort itself is insulting, the biographer decides. The first time Susan got pregnant, it wasn’t planned. The second time (she told the biographer) they’d only just started trying again; she must be one of those Fertile Myrtles; she’d expected it to take longer, but lo and behold. If she told Susan about seeing the witch, Susan would act supportive and serious, then laugh about it behind the biographer’s back. With Didier. Oh, poor Ro—first she’s buying sperm online, now she’s tramping into the forest to consult a homeless woman. Oh, poor Ro—why does she keep trying? She has no idea how hard it’s going to be.
On her teacher’s salary she will die holding notices from credit-card agencies, whereas Susan and Didier, who also live on a teacher’s salary, are debt-free, as far as she knows, and pay no rent. Bex and John no doubt have trust funds set up by Susan’s parents, fattening and fattening.
“The comparing mind is a despairing mind,” says the meditation teacher.
Well, the biographer will figure out how to send her baby who does not exist yet to college. If the baby chooses to go to college, that is. She won’t push the baby. The biographer herself liked college, but who’s to say what the baby will like? Might decide to be a fisherperson and stay right here on the coast and eat dinner with the biographer every night, not out of obligation but out of wanting to. They will linger at the table and tell each other how the day went. The biographer won’t be teaching by that point, only writing, having published Mínervudottír: A Life to critical acclaim and now working on a comprehensive history of female Arctic explorers; and the baby, tired from hours on the fishing boat but still paying attention, will ask the biographer intelligent questions about menstruating at eighty degrees below zero.