Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

“Today, as soon as I leave here. I mean it this time. I’ve made a pledge to God and that is my decision. I will be a good father.”

A pledge to God? I’ve never heard Robert talk like this before. I stare at him, unsure he isn’t being sardonic.

“A pledge to God, Robert? Don’t you just love me?”

“Of course I do. It’s just that I feel I’ve been given a gift, the gift of life, and I mean to do something constructive with it.”

For a moment I wonder whether his dermatologist has put him on antidepressants as he stands naked from the waist down in the middle of my bedroom, wearing a T-shirt advertising an ancient AC/DC tour, his flaccid penis dangling comically under his belly, his face aflame with a fervor that would make even a Scientologist nervous.

“Robert, you sure you’re all right?”

“I’ve never been clearer. Maddy, this is going to be a whole new start, for both of us. I’ll buy Georgina out, get us a small townhouse with an extra bedroom—only what if it’s twins?”

“It’s not twins, don’t worry.”

“You’ve had an ultrasound?”

I nod, feeling a little guilty about being so manipulative.

“And?”

“It’s a boy.”

“A boy.” He gazes at my womb again, enraptured. He loves the idea that it will be a little clone of himself, I think, slightly resentfully, but adore him for his excitement anyway. A flash of the future shoots through me: Robert pushing a stroller wearing board shorts and T-shirt, looking fatter and older, me walking next to him, pregnant with our second child, his hand in mine.

“What’s that?”

He walks over to the chair and picks up the hair shirt. For one terrible second I’m scared he’ll recognize his own hair, his own smell. But no, he’s examining it like it’s just another shirt. Funny how we’re so oblivious to our own debris, the pieces we leave behind, the emotional chaos that erupts when the door closes behind us.

“Just a top I had made.”

“It’s beautiful, a really good weight. What’s the fabric?”

“Oh, this new goat’s hair that’s become fashionable. I was thinking of giving it to you for your birthday.”

“That’s so sweet.”

He holds it up against him. Naturally the color of the hair shirt suits his eyes and skin tone perfectly. He stares at himself in the mirror as if he is seeing himself for the first time. A shiver runs through me; he’s displaying an intense narcissism I’ve never seen in him before. It’s almost as if the shirt has possessed him.

“Madeleine,” he murmurs in a low formal tone.

I stiffen. I hate it when he uses my full name, it usually means he’s going to announce something portentous—like he’s changed his mind and is going back to Georgina. But instead he takes my hands and kisses them.

“It’s been a ride, the last few weeks, but I really feel like I’ve come out on the other side. This—us, you, the baby, the cancer—has forced me to a new level of maturity. Of responsibility. At forty-seven I feel like I’m really becoming a man.”

Well, fuck, what do you say to that? Naturally I’m touched and naturally I’m suspicious. This is the man who wasn’t answering my calls three weeks ago. Besides this isn’t the streetwise, emotionally burned-out Robert I’ve known and loved for the past three years. The best I can hope for is that once he’s got over the shock of surviving cancer and becoming a father he’ll settle back into the cryptic pessimist I love sparring with intellectually as well as fucking.

“It’s like I’m reborn,” he announces, his eyes wandering back to his own reflection as he smooths down the hair shirt, almost as if he’s caressing himself.

“Can I take the shirt today? As a memento.”

“Sure, babe. Now, you are going to ring me the second you tell her? I’ve got the study ready for your things if you want to move out immediately.”

“Absolutely.”

He kisses me briefly on the lips, throws off his T-shirt, slips the hair shirt over his head, then pulls on his trousers. A second later his pager goes off and he’s out of there, leaving me glowing with post-coital victory.

Madeleine’s shirt is kind of silky with a slight edge to it. It feels great on the skin, like someone’s hugging me. The ideal weight for wool, whatever fucking old goat it was made from, perfect for a Sydney spring day. Walking away from her apartment I feel younger than I have in years. Like a great burden has been lifted off my shoulders and everything is possible. Daddy, Papa, Da, Father. The image of a miniature version of myself snuggling up to my bare chest plays pleasantly across the back of my eyes. My son. Aged two, aged four, aged nine, playing soccer as I stand on the sideline screaming support. First girlfriend, first rock concert, first car, wedding speeches, grandchildren, christening. Genetic infinity.