The Seven Year Bitch by Jennifer Belle

the perfect nanny. Sitter.
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    That night I’d asked Shasthi to stay late so that Russell and I could go to a fund-raiser for a documentary film a friend of mine was editing about a homeless crazy woman who lived in Central Park.
    The movie was called Begging Naked and I’d actually seen the woman it was about in Central Park a few times. A woman who was her sometime benefactor was being interviewed in her dining room with her big silver coffee set behind her. The homeless woman peeled off her filthy clothes in the woman’s house. She was letting her take a shower.
    Sitting in the dark theater next to Russell, I suddenly regretted the ovulation kits. It wouldn’t work and it would give Shasthi false hope. It was all too much, watching this homeless woman and thinking of Shasthi peeing on those awful sticks, with no chance in hell of having a baby without Heiffowitz.
    â€œMaybe I’ll take her to Dr. Heiffowitz,” I whispered to Russell. “But what if she gets pregnant? Would she be given Medicare or Medicaid, and, if so, would it cover amniocentesis? Or what if she refused amnio out of fear or for religious purposes? She’s forty. What if she has a Down’s baby?”
    â€œYou’d probably want us to pay for it to go to a special school for eighteen years and then an adult special-needs living environment,” Russell whispered back.
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    That night I dreamt I was feeding Duncan on the stoop of the building where I used to live. I was feeding him my milk from a teacup, and when I turned away for a moment, a Siamese cat lifted her leg and pissed in it. I brought the cup to my nose to smell if the milk was still okay, but of course it was spoiled, putrid. I woke with a terrible, foreboding feeling.
    â€œDid you do the ovulation test?” I asked Shasthi, who was taking off her coat the next morning.
    â€œYes, I got two lines!”
    I beamed with excitement. “Did you have sex?” I asked, making my eyes very wide as if that would somehow help make this an acceptable question.
    â€œYes, we did do it,” she said.
    â€œGood!” I said. “That’s really good!”
    The phone had rung and Deirdre-Agnes’s angry voice had come through on the machine. “Look, Izzy, I’m pregnant and I need my crib.” I couldn’t help think of it as a good omen.

10
    T he next night Russell and I loaded the baby into the car and headed to our country house.
    Russell turned on Howard Stern, who said the word fuck about ten times in a row.
    â€œFuck!” Duncan said from the backseat.
    I wasn’t too upset, because fuck seemed to be Duncan’s word for fire truck , but I pushed his favorite CD into the CD player and we listened to a song called “Daddy Daddy” by Joe the Singing School Bus Driver.
    â€œOkay, he’s sleeping,” Russell said, putting Howard back on.
    â€œNo, he’s not,” I said, putting Joe the Singing School Bus Driver back in.
    â€œI can’t take this anymore,” Russell said.
    â€œWhy?” I said. “Joe the Singing School Bus Driver is great. Duncan loves it.” He put Howard back on again and we had a huge fight right in front of Duncan. My father had always sung kids’ songs in the car. It was what all good fathers did.
    I turned off the CD and we rode for a long time in silence.
    We’d bought the house right after we got married. We had been spending weekends at Marlon’s country house but he screamed at us the whole time we were there and then said, “Bless you for your company,” when we left. One morning Marlon was at his kitchen table enjoying his coffee and suddenly brown water dripped from the ceiling onto his head and right into his cup. Russell was shitting in the toilet upstairs and had no idea he had caused the flood. “Get out and take your New York City asshole with you,” Marlon yelled when Russell came out of the bathroom