It fell to me to explain to my son that being deprived of Mama's breasts was a tremendous privilege of being a Big Boy. Needless to say, I struggled with this. Despite my reputation as a liar par excellence, I am not an especially good liar if I do not have any conviction in what I am saying. The conviction may be as simple as, I am lying because I believe what I want is more important than the truth...which in general is probably true. But in this case, I was troubled. Oh, I understood it had to be, but it would have been considerably easier if I could have given him something to look forward to. Here, Son, no more snuggly ba-bas—instead, have this nice porcelain cup with a kitty on it. Small consolation, that. 'Snuggly ba-bas', by the way, is a term coined by my genius son, and a better description I have never heard.
So I was lying awake fretting over it. There was NOTHING ELSE to do; Christine was closed to the public in every respect.
"Christine, do you suppose I could take the edge off it by telling him that he'll have another set of his own someday?"
One eye popped open; the eyebrow wrinkled. "What?" she snapped.
"Ba-bas. If I could tell him that he'll be able to play with them again someday—"
"Erik."
"Right. It's just that I sympathize. I miss my ba-bas, too."
"Forget it."
"Right. Good night, Angel."
Masson took to sucking his thumb. He turned shy and depressed, and clung to my leg. It was heartbreaking; I remembered when I lost Christine. There was nothing for it; no matter what she said or did, he felt abandoned.
"Masson, remember when your ear hurt the other day? The doctor says that when you pull on the ba-bas, or your thumb, it can make your ears hurt again," I handed him a chocolate coin. "And remember, someday you'll be a man, and you'll want to have a brandy like a proper gentleman. You'll have to be very accomplished drinking from your cup before you can hoist a brandy snifter like Papa and Uncle Reza."
He seemed to be impressed by the idea of his own brandy snifter. If only brandy came from snuggly ba-bas, it would be a perfect world.
"Masson, do you want to know a secret?"
He nodded absently, prying the chocolate open forlornly. Chocolate does not compare with snuggly ba-bas.
"Mama feels sad about this, too, but she is trying to be brave for you. It is hard for mamas when their babies grow up. She loves her Big Boy more than anything, you know."
He sucked on the chocolate for some time, mulling things over. "Papa, Mademoiselle Anci has a big tummy." He fished into my pocket for another coin.
Ah. We'd moved on. Why did Christine never get these questions? "Yes, she has a baby in her tummy."
"Why?"
"Because she and Darius want to have a baby to love, just as Mama and I have you."
"Why won't it come out and play?"
"It will, when it's ready. It's not big enough to come out yet."
"When?" He pulled Christine onto his lap. The cat buzzed and blinked dreamily.
"Mm, I'm not sure. Probably around Christmas."
"Then I can play with it?"
"Of course, when it's bigger. Brand new babies aren't very much fun; they just sleep and cry a lot."
"When will it be fun?"
"We'll just have to wait and see. Maybe Mama can tell us when babies get to be fun to play with."
"Papa, when do we marry again?" Masson had it that we were all three of us getting married.
"Saturday, four more days," I smiled.
"YAY! WE MARRY SATURDAY, WE MARRY SATURDAY!" He raced off, Christine hanging boneless over his shoulder.
"Erik, I can't go; I'm too sick." She sobbed. "I can't go to my own wedding!"
"Christine, it's early yet; I'm sure you're going to feel better. Don't upset yourself. You always shape up before tea, Darling." I stroked her back gently.
"I don't think so…I just know I'm going to be sick for days."
"YEEEOOW! Christine!" For someone so prostrate, she had a wicked kick.
"And it's your fault, you wretched beast!" she wailed helplessly.
"Of course it is, Darling. I remember forcing myself on you repeatedly." That earned me another vicious attack.
"MAMA! PAPA! GET UP!"
It was a perfect wedding. Christine felt much better, as I'd predicted, and she looked indescribably beautiful. Masson capered about, a picture of cherubic glee, as the Church made me and Christine husband and wife. It seemed almost anticlimactic, not to say comic, after all that had gone before to get us to the altar.
I sat at our Persian soiree feeling dazed, and guilty for not feeling as ecstatically happy as Christine obviously was. I had much more fun at Darius and Anci's party, actually.
I spent most of the day peeling Masson off the dancing girls. He and I had conferred on acceptable behavior with sparkly ladies beforehand, and I thought he'd understood; actually I'm positive he understood. Still, I was forced to administer a good walloping when I overheard him trying to persuade a sympathetic dancer to fish the ba-bas out of her costume so he could have a proper snuggle. As usual, the entire party had to pause and watch the evil man beat the angel child. Masson curled up on the bride's lap and called down perdition on me as I made my way back to the dear girl to grovel and apologize for my son's unchivalrous behavior.
My Persian is not sufficiently rusty to explain why the woman refused to believe that Masson meant every bit of what he'd said and done. I was beginning to feel he should be locked up for a sexual criminal and have done with it.
All in all, it was a depressing day, and I had no idea why. Worst of all, why wasn't I over-the-moon ecstatic? Christine was finally, irrevocably mine—before God and everyone else. Only a fool would feel numb on his wedding day, but me, of all people. I began to suspect I was losing my mind.
Christine wore a lovely new gown when she came to bed. I could tell she was proud that her figure betrayed no sign of her pregnancy yet, and she was pleased when I made a point of noticing. We shared a champagne toast, and she kissed me, guiding my hands over her body. She pressed close, warm and inviting, her signals unmistakable.
Ironic; as hard done by as I'd felt the last few weeks, and now with my bride willing—no, eager—well…let's just say my heart wasn't in it.
"Erik, you don't want to?" she accused. At least that's how I heard it.
"Of course I do!" I growled, mortified.
Encouraged again, she teased my lips with her tongue and reached for me.
I stopped her. "Christine, it's late. You need your rest."
"It's not that late," she insisted, unlacing her gown. "Touch," she urged.
I tried, but I just felt hollow inside. How could I tell her? It wasn't her, it was me, but she'd never believe that—not on her best day would she believe that, but in her current condition it would be disastrous. I wanted to run, and I wished I was dead for being such a marginal man.
Christine was oblivious to my distress. My pathetic, half-hearted caresses were driving her wild. "I want to feel my husband," she whispered. The love in her eyes was everything I'd dreamed of, and still I felt utterly numb. She wriggled beneath me, confused.
"Erik?"
"Perhaps in the morning, Darling," I suggested, putting her off.
"You know I'll be ill in the morning!" Her disappointment shamed me.
"Well, I'm tired! I'm not a young man anymore, Christine!" I was on my feet and getting dressed; she was completely bewildered.
"Erik, please don't run away tonight," she pleaded, lacing up her gown. "I won't bother you anymore." She turned her back to me and drew the covers up.
I threw myself down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, wishing I could understand what was happening to me. I listened to Christine crying as silently as possible, wanted to reach out to comfort her, but couldn't. Finally, I heard her breath come regularly with sleep, and I felt safe to cry myself. But I couldn't even do that.