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June 2001 Issue

Dinner for Three

By Marci Cohen

The other night, Jonathan and David came to dinner. I was serving swordfish dressed in mango chutney, fresh baked challah, and an unambitious Merlot, followed by a decadent cheesecake.

Jonathan wore his usual professorial attire: a threadbare tweed jacket, T-shirt, and faded blue jeans. He and I taught together at the local high school. Yesterday, a few of our colleagues had convinced him to join them for a baseball game at Fenway Park. Unfortunately, Jonathan forgot his sunscreen, the results of which added a nice pink sheen to his bald spot, just in time for tonight's occasion. His nervous energy did not help matters much.

David and I grew up together on the same street, and despite a short hiatus during college, we kept in close touch. David was exactly the opposite of Jonathan. His head, full of dark thick curls, certainly would have protected him from the sun's wrath. In addition, he never seemed uptight or anxious. Tonight's events, however, just might tip the scales for him. As always, David presented himself flawlessly: beige khakis, a clean pressed shirt, tucked in of course. His after-shave left a trail of sweetness behind him.

The atmosphere became a bit more tense after David knocked over the bottle of wine. When Jonathan went to pick it up, he kicked the porcelain umbrella stand. It shattered against the hearth.

"Bubbie's umbrella stand!" I didn't mean to say it outloud because I knew Jonathan would be beside himself already.

"I'm so sorry," he said, bending over to pick up the pieces.

"It's not a big deal. Really, it's not. Don't worry about it." I handed him the wisk broom and dustpan."I'll just run over to the shtetl and pick up another one tomorrow. But seriously, if we're successful in our endeavor tonight, Bubbie will consider it a fair trade."

Jonathan bent down to sweep up the shards.

"Here, let me help." David wandered towards us and took the dustpan full of glass fragments out of Jonathan's hands.

"Where's the trash?"

I pointed David in the right direction and sent Jonathan into the kitchen for the spinach salad. I put the finishing touches on the table: candles and a centerpiece of red roses. When they returned to the dining room, David poured the wine, and we finally sat down to dinner.

I held up my glass. "Here's to a special evening." There were gentle murmurs of assent. I dished portions of swordfish onto our plates. David passed me the bread and then cleared his throat.

"So Jonathan, I know why I'm here tonight, but I'm not exactly sure why you are."

"With all due respect, David, I was wondering the same about you."

I decided to break in before my guests' confusion became the focus of our evening. "David, Jonathan, um, you're both here for the same reason."

Jonathan cocked his head to the left, almost like a dog hearing a high pitched sound. "Well, I assume that you asked me because I'm gay, and children are not likely in my future. Not in this life anyway." He wiped his mouth with his napkin.

"Okay, I suppose it's not exactly the same for both of you."

"Apparently not," said David, almost inaudibly. Then, louder and clearer, "I thought you asked me to do this because I'm your best friend. You knew I wouldn't say no; I couldn't say no. But why us both?"

"Yeah, wouldn't one of us do?" asked Jonathan.

There was a pregnant pause. I could sense the feelings of inadequacy emanating from each of my guests. They looked at each other, then at me, waiting for my clarifying response. I coughed, and then took a long sip of wine.

"I guess I haven't completely thought this through. Or maybe I've thought about it too much. I don't know. What I do know is how weird men can get when they sire children. You both say you would let me raise her…

"Or him," David butt in.

"Yes, David, or him…You both say you would let me raise my child as I see fit; however, I can imagine how that might change when this idea, this hypothetical, becomes an actual person. My instincts just told me that it'd be better for all of us if we didn't definitively know who the father was. This time, the pregnant pause must have been carrying twins. "More wine anyone?"

"Please," they said in unison.

Marci Cohen lives in Somerville, MA and is a teacher of academic skills and writing at the Cambridge School of Weston. She also creates original designs for furniture, sportswear, stationery, and ceramic pottery.

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