The Baby Agenda. Janice Johnson Kay
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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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