On A Wintery Afternoon

I was sitting on a bench in a churchyard open to the public, killing time before a hairdresser appointment, when a woman carrying a big bundle came in through the gate and rang the bell of the rectory. The hood of her black coat partly hid her face, but she appeared to be in her early twenties, with longish dark hair. A bit of the hem of her coat had come loose and hung down in back. No one was answering the bell. She kept ringing and checking her big bundle as if there were something precious, like…a baby…that she couldn’t raise herself, inside; and so she was hoping that whoever opened the rectory door would take the child and find it a loving home. 

No one answered.

Turning away, shoulders sagging, she sat on a bench across the courtyard from me.

As I sipped my take-out coffee, suddenly I had an idea:

Although my son, I’ll call him Mike, hadn’t had many children in his life growing up, now, in his mid-forties, gay and single, he really enjoyed his friends’ children. I’d always hoped he’d have a child of his own (this wasn’t just my wanting a grandchild: my daughter has two daughters); and this seemed like a weird and wild opportunity. I knew Mike had his own life—he worked for a nonprofit; had friends; was dating again after ending a long relationship; loved to cook and played several instruments— but like the parents who finance their child’s fertility treatments, I was eager to do what I could. Ignoring any legal complications(!), I knew that even if there was a baby in that bundle she kept fussing with, most mothers didn’t want to give their child away; and even if this young woman did, why would she give it to a gay, single, middle-aged man? Also, Mike had never actually told me that he wished he had a child. Still, I just wanted him, with his loving heart, to have this opportunity—to turn down, of course, if he that was what he wanted. And so, pleased that I was early for my hairdresser appointment, I sat there, sipping my coffee and hoping that, before someone returned to the rectory, I’d hear a baby’s cry.

As soon as I do, I’ll get up and “casually” walking by the young woman’s bench, I’ll make a granny-like fuss over the child. As mom and I begin chatting, she’ll eventually tell me her sad story (including info about the hopefully not-in-the-picture dad).

Presenting my “unusual” proposal, I’ll do such a good job of convincing her of how loving, smart, funny, moral, sweet and good at his job Mike is (he’s also tall, dark-haired and handsome) that she’ll wish he weren’t gay so she could also have him for herself! Most important, she’ll be convinced he’ll be a great dad.

Then I’ll call Mike, who often works from home and doesn’t live far from the churchyard. 

It’ll take him a few beats to even understand what I’m proposing.

“Are you insane,” he’ll splutter. “Get a life!”

(Actually, I have one, but of course nothing compares to one’s yearning for their child to be happy. Like the time my husband and I visited Mike in college and took him out to dinner. As he casually mentioned some vague plan, he suddenly stopped talking and looked at us bemusedly as we leaned towards him eagerly, hanging onto his every word.)

After his initial shock, Mike, who’s never been what I used to call a Yes person, won’t need convincing and will come quickly to take home his baby. And if all goes smoothly, I won’t even be late for my hairdresser. 

The young woman keeps looking into and adjusting her bundle. I can see that she’s pretty, but as she keeps turning towards the rectory, she seems anxious and unhappy.

Sipping my now-cold coffee, I reminisce about little Mike. The day when he was maybe four and saw a dwarf walking down the street, and he burst into tears; and even after I explained what a dwarf was, he kept saying, “But I’m not a dwarf!” In elementary school he happened to be in the hallway and some administrator walking by asked him, “Do you know where you should be?” and he said, “Home.” When he was eight or nine, one day he realized he could play the piano by ear. One rainy day when he couldn’t go outdoors, he just sat around looking unhappily out the window.

“Why don’t you read something?” I suggested. “You have so many interesting books….”

“I want to do things, not read about people doing things.”

And on and on.

(No need to mention how difficult he was in high school.)

The young woman keeps fussing with her bundle, but the baby must still be sleeping.

Now she’s on the phone. I can’t quite hear what she’s saying. One word sounds like “stuffing.”

Every time someone comes into the courtyard, I worry they’re going to go into the rectory; but nothing happens.

I think about a friend’s gay nephew who (admittedly with a partner) was a dad to a little girl. Before she was even born, my friend showed me a photo of a pink room and a closet full of tiny pink dresses….

In a way it’s good that Mike doesn’t currently have a partner, whose feelings could further complicate the situation. 

Best case scenario:

Mike says Yes quickly, gets a cab right away (while he’s en route and we’re still on the phone, we spend a few minutes happily anticipating what an enthusiastic aunt his sister will be); then he’s with us and, charming as he often can be, quickly dispels any lingering doubts the young woman may have. 

Meanwhile I’ll call my husband. At first he’ll think I’m kidding; then he’ll also ask if I’m insane; but after worrying about illegalities— he’ll sound teary with hope and joy.

Suddenly it was time for me to go to my hairdresser. Slowly, I finished my coffee and got up. I doubt the young woman, on the phone again, noticed that instead of throwing my coffee container in the nearer garbage can, I used the one closer to her. But even before another young woman, and a young man, both with several smaller bundles, came into the churchyard, I realized that the church must be hosting some kind of event, and that the dark haired young woman in the black coat must be one of the caterers, her bundle filled with food that was rapidly getting cold.

My hairdresser is a gay man, several years older than Mike, with a partner; no children, but a dog he’s very fond of. I’ve been going to him for years, and we talk in that way you do with your hairdresser, looking at each other in the mirror. At some point I mentioned that my son is gay, too; and after that, he always asks how Mike is doing. 

Once when he needed a haircut, I suggested that Mike try my hairdresser. 

He said he was perfectly happy with his own.