It was an unusual evening, in that I was sipping cognac with Reza and Gaston, rather than seeing to Masson's bath. The door to the parlor flew open and Christine marched in, her face the most remarkable shade of reddish-purple. She stood with fists clenched in the middle of the room. My companions were dumb-founded; I was worried for her health. I moved to her side solicitously.
"Erik, will you please go upstairs and see to your son immediately? Thank you." She clipped.
"Darling, what is it?" I whispered. "What's happened? Are you ill?"
"No. He…will you please come into the hallway?" It was then that I realized that the astonishing color she was wearing was a blush.
Once we were alone in the hall, Christine became even more flustered.
"What is it, Christine?"
"I was drying him off, you know, just rubbing him with the towel as I always do!" she fretted.
"Of course," I soothed.
"And he said…oh, God…" she gasped. "He said, 'Mama, it feels good when you rub my peepee!' I want you to see to him, right now!" She buried her face in her hands.
Without even trying, I could think of half a dozen things to say which would most certainly get me a month in the corner chair.
However, what I did say was, "Darling, he's two years old. You're thinking of this in a totally different way to what he's thinking. He doesn't mean anything naughty."
Christine was still a lovely plum color, and she was becoming angry as well. "I want you to go upstairs and tell your son that he does not say disgusting things to his mother!"
"Christine, he is not a bad boy. He meant no harm, he doesn't know anything about such things. I'm not going to make him feel bad about it."
She slapped me then. "You pig!"
"How do you propose I bring this up? Angel, look, if we don't mention it, it will be forgotten. He's probably forgotten about it even now. If I go up there and bring it up again, I'll only call his attention to something we want him to forget."
Just then my naked boy appeared at the top of the stairs.
"Mama? I'm cold."
I saw to it. Masson was silent, thinking and we dried and dressed for bed.
"What is wrong with Mama?" he frowned.
"Here, you want to brush your hair?" I held him up to the mirror. "Sometimes ladies get a bit strange when they're having a baby. I think Mama is just having a strange day. She still loves us, but she's busy thinking about other things to get ready for the new baby."
"Is it coming soon?"
"Mm, not too soon. Closer to Eastertime."
Christine was having none of my rational argument about the bath time incident. I was lounging in my coffin and she was pacing. Well, pacing in a rolling sort of way.
"…tell him it's sinful, and that he mustn't…you know."
Truth be told, I was rather enjoying her inability to discuss what we were discussing. Her orders to me about what I was to tell our son were punctuated by hand-wringing, blushing, and 'you knows' aplenty.
"Ah, Darling, I'm afraid I must disagree with you on that one."
"Erik!" she was horrified that I'd chuckled slightly. There is nothing funny about this sexual stuff to Christine. Maybe I am a madman, but when I'm objective it seems a terrific comedy to me.
"It's different for boys, Angel; at least I suspect it is." I realized I didn't know for sure, so I figured I'd best make an inquiry. Seemed reasonable.
"Christine, when did you first discover that touching yourself felt good?"
Have you ever seen a conniption? I never had—thought I had, but I hadn't until then—and I must say it's astounding. She went through all the colors in the rainbow, stopped at that plum color; her eyes nearly popped clean out of her head, and her hands began to flutter as if she was a fat baby bird trying to take off. When she finally spoke, she reminded me of a performance of Macbeth I'd seen years ago; the three witches were bone-tingling scary. Their voices were like creaking hinges.
"I am not discussing these…unseemly matters with you! We are discussing our son growing up a pervert! You'll put a stop to it, do you hear?"
"Christine, remember the time you were talking about reproductive rights for women at the dinner table? You said we were all adults?"
"So?"
"So, it's just the two of us here; if you can't talk to me—"
"It's different! Stop changing the subject, Erik!" she insisted.
Oh. Right. "Right, well, I was saying, he's going to be touching himself as he works on this potty business. Boys don't get too far along in life before they figure it out that some things feel good."
"You have to tell him—"
"You don't want me to lie to him outright, do you, Christine? If anyone should be blind, insane, and have hairy palms it's me!"
"I'm not listening to this!" Christine clapped her hands over her ears. "I don't want to hear this!"
"I'm just saying he's going to do it eventually, and I'm not going to put the fear of God in him over it."
"Yes you will!" she stamped.
"Darling, if you feel so strongly about it, you tell him; but not yet. He's only just two. That was just an innocent remark he made, and you've taken it all out of proportion."
"If you call me a hysterical woman, I'll kill you!"
"Convenient, I'm already in my box. Care to join me?"
"Absolutely not! You're a sick man!" she huffed.
"Christine, where did you learn about this stuff? Did your father—"
"Certainly not!" she exploded, outraged. In a moment, she settled. "Madame Giry told me…some things…and one hears talk," she admitted, fidgeting.
"So no one you loved and trusted told you anything about how marvelous it could be. You had these feelings—"
"I did not!" she cried.
"Alright; I had these feelings, and I didn't know what to do about them, and all I knew was that people hid and whispered, and it had to be bad and shameful. So if I had these feelings, I had to be bad and shameful, too; it's only natural to make that assumption."
I left my coffin and knelt in front of Christine; kissed her tummy.
"Angel, I can't believe there's anything bad and shameful between us. I won't believe it," I insisted gently. "Shame is a vile cancer; I can't do that to him. We'll find a way to teach him that satisfies us both, Darling, I promise."
Christine sighed, skeptically. She was not ready to concede yet. "I'm going to bed".
I know I'm a bad man, but I couldn't resist.
"Christine?"
"What?" she grumbled, half out the door.
"It feels good when you rub my peepee."
"AAAAAGGGGHHH!"
I was telling Reza that pregnant women seem to have no sense of humor.
"Do you recall, was she this weird with Masson?"
"They do get a bit anxious as it nears the end, I've heard it said."
I told him about the night I'd awakened and Christine was not beside me. Immediately I looked for Masson; he was fine, asleep. I was about to fly from the room when I spied her, sitting on the bedroom floor in the dark, sorting out little piles of baby linens just as calmly as you please, at two in the morning. I asked her gently if anything was wrong.
"I just realized I don't have enough socks," she said "I'm going to have to knit a few more warm socks, and another bonnet or two. It's still chilly in April, you know."
Right. I assured her there was time aplenty to see to that in the morning, and she came easily back to bed with me.
"Extraordinary," he remarked.
"Mm. And now she's convinced Masson is going to be a pervert; he's two years old, for god's sake, and she wants me to caution him against self abuse."
"What!" Reza was floored.
"I told her, I'm not telling him anything now, and when I do, you can be sure I'll leave out the bit about going blind and insane and all that rot."
"Oh my god, Erik, I just realized—it explains you perfectly."
"Shut up. It's amazing, really. This is the same girl that nearly killed me over the soup, bringing up reproductive rights for women—remember?"
"Oh, yes," he chuckled, "'We're all adults here, we all know where babies come from.'".
"Yes, that same girl; it's remarkable. She has no objections to doing it; she just doesn't want to talk about it. What an intoxicating little hypocrite," I marveled.
"What brought this on with the boy, exactly?"
I told Reza about the bathroom drying incident. We had a good laugh over it. It felt better to know that I was not the only one who found the whole thing amusing. Sometimes I don't know how much my reactions have in common with those of normal people; Reza helps me with that.
"Erik, I think I'll publish a scientific paper about you. I wonder if Gaston can help me contact that Doctor Freud."
"Daroga, what the hell are you talking about?"
"Just that I've seen the most remarkable change in your demeanor since you've…found a regular outlet for your energies. You're a lamb so long as you're not deprived of Christine's charms," he mused.
"Leave it, will you?" I grumbled. "If you want to do something worthwhile, find your energies an outlet. Now that I've turned half sane, you're the only madman we have left."
"Thank you, no; I prefer women in small, medicinal doses. Besides, I could never love anyone but you, Erik."
"Well, this is a tragic story for the ages. All the time you had your chance, and you never declared yourself. Alas, I belong to another now. Perhaps I'll write an opera about it."
We amuse ourselves no end, Reza and I. Poor Darius dropped our tea and scuttled out. After all this time, he still has no idea what to make of us.
"Erik, this is a marvelous idea!" Reza grinned.
"Right, but it's my opera, so I'm going to be the pretty one."