The Blue Hour Read Free Page A

College, divorced, no kids, single, disappointed in love, wickedly funny, and hyper-cultural (“High art is God’s apology for men,” she noted at one point between the three plays, two concerts, and two art exhibits we saw when I was there)—was, as always, a great friend. She steadied my resolve when I broached the idea that perhaps I should check in on Paul, see how he was bearing up.
    â€œWhen he landed himself in debt nine months ago,” she asked, “what did you do?”
    â€œI dug into my retirement fund and found the ten grand to get him out of trouble.”
    â€œWhat did he promise you in return?”
    â€œYou know very well what he did. He admitted that he’s got a sad pathological compulsion when it comes to spending, spending, spending . . . and he promised to curtail that destructive impulse.”
    â€œAn impulse that is corroding your marriage. It’s all so sad.”
    Ruth was aware of the fact that, when I met Paul three years earlier, I was thirty-seven and entering that last lap of possible fertility. Within six months of declaring love for each other, and talking about the wondrous possibilities of a shared future together, I delicately raised the fact that I did not want to pass through life without becoming a mother; that I was entering the now-or-never phase. I knew that I was bringing a certain degree of pressure to our relationship, and said that I would perfectly understand if Paul felt this was all too much too fast. His response astounded me.
    â€œWhen you have met the love of your life, of course you want to have a child with her.”
    Yes, Paul was a great romantic. Such a romantic that he proposed marriage shortly thereafter, even though I told him that, having been in that institution once before, I wasn’t anxious about a return visit. But I was so swept up in the wonder of finding love at my age, and with such a talented and original man, and in Buffalo (!), that I said yes. He did say that, though he realized time was of the essence, we needed at least two years together before becoming parents. I agreed to his request, staying on the pill until eight months ago. At which point we seriously began to “try” (what a curious verb) for a baby. We went about the task very robustly—though sex was, from the outset, one of the aspects of our marriage that always worked. It wasn’t as if we were having to motivate ourselves into making love every night of the week.
    â€œYou know, if I don’t get pregnant naturally, there are other options,” I said six months later when nothing had yet happened.
    â€œYou’ll get pregnant,” Paul said.
    â€œYou sound very certain about that.”
    â€œIt’s going to happen.”
    That conversation took place ten days before the debt collector arrived on our doorstep. As I headed south in my car toward Brooklyn, my cell phone off, my piercing sadness about Paul was underscored by the realization that he was my last chance at having a baby. And that thought . . .
    Ruth splashed a little more wine into my glass. I took a long sip.
    â€œHe’s not your last chance,” she said.
    â€œI want a baby with Paul.”
    â€œThat’s a definitive statement.”
    Friendship is always a complex equation—especially a friendship where it had been agreed early on that we would never sugarcoat things; that we would speak what we felt to be the truth.
    â€œI don’t want to be a single mother,” I said. “If I can get him to just accept that he has certain obligations . . .”
    â€œPaul had problems with money before you. Even though you’ve tried to organize his personal finances, he refuses to play smart. At the age of fifty-eight, he is not going to have some sort of epiphany and transform himself. He is what he is. Which therefore begs the question: Can you live with his ongoing recklessness?”
    All the way home