No, he told himself, don’t look.

It took about three hours to install the new computers. The newsroom turned into its nighttime self while Lincoln worked. It got quieter and darker. The people wearing ties gave way to people wearing wrinkled T-shirts and shorts. One of the nighttime editors, a girl with a limp blond ponytail and nice blue eyes, brought in banana bread and offered him a piece.

He thanked her, then headed up to the empty IT office without looking back.

CHAPTER 28

From: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder

To: Beth Fremont

Sent: Mon, 10/18/1999 4:08 PM

Subject: This isn’t a day care, you know.

It’s a newsroom.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> What are you getting at—that I shouldn’t be taking a nap? Or that I shouldn’t be using a sippy cup? Because it’s all part of my method.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> What I’m getting at is, I shouldn’t have to listen to babbling and cooing when I’m trying to edit Dear Abby.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Why do you have to edit Dear Abby? Doesn’t all that stuff come in a package from the wire service?

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Someone has to write the headline. Someone has to give it a good once-over, make sure there aren’t words or entire paragraphs missing. Content doesn’t magically appear in the newspaper. Hence, the roomful of editors.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Editors, huh? By golly …you’re right. They’re everywhere. What is this place? Heaven?

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Ha.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> You’re supposed to say, “It’s Iowa.”

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Maybe next time.

Why do people with children bring them to work? This isn’t a place for children. There are no toys here. There are no changing stations. The drinking fountains are all set at adult heights.

This is a workplace. People come here to get away from their kids—to get away from all talk of kids. If we wanted to work with children, we would get jobs at primary schools and puppet shows. We would walk around with peppermint sticks in our pockets.

This is a newsroom. Do you see any peppermint sticks?

<<Beth to Jennifer>> You alliterate when you’re angry. It’s adorable.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> You are a barrel of laughs today, an entire barrel.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Speaking of adorable, I saw my cute guy again last week.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Are you sure? I didn’t hear the alarm. Also, when did he become your cute guy?

<<Beth to Jennifer>> No one else has claimed him. He definitely works in Advertising. I saw him sitting back there.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> What were you doing in Advertising? That’s on the other side of the building.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> I was trolling for cute guys. (Also, Advertising has the only pop machine in the building that sells root beer.) He was sitting at his cute desk, typing on his cute computer, looking super-super cute.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Advertising, huh? I’m pretty sure they make more than us over there.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> They might just look like they make more.

And he doesn’t necessarily look like he sells advertising. He’s not one of those guys with the suits and the Glengarry Glen Ross smiles. He doesn’t look like he wears product in his hair.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> I want to see him. Maybe we should take a root-beer break.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> How can someone who hates children enjoy root beer?

CHAPTER 29

BETH HAD BEEN there. At her desk. In the same room with him, at the same time. Thinking about somebody else. About somebody who worked in Advertising, no less. Lincoln hated the guys who worked in Advertising. Whenever WebFence caught a dirty joke, it inevitably originated from a guy in Advertising. Salespeople. Lincoln hated salespeople. Except Justin. And, honestly, if he didn’t know Justin, he’d probably hate him, too.

One time, he’d had to rebuild a hard drive up in Advertising; it’d taken a few hours, and the next day, when Lincoln went to put on his sweatshirt, it still smelled like Drakkar Noir. No wonder my mom thinks I’m gay.

Jealous, he thought, as he walked by Beth’s desk that night—coffee cups, Halloween candy, Discman— I’m jealous. And not even of the boyfriend. He felt so far from being in the same league as Chris, that he couldn’t be jealous of him. But some guy who works in Advertising, some guy who tries to upsell, who makes cold calls …

Lincoln picked up a miniature Mr. Goodbar and unwrapped it. Beth had been sitting right here while he was working on the copy desk. He might have been able to see her if he’d looked.

CHAPTER 30

From: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder

To: Beth Fremont

Sent: Tues, 10/26/1999 9:45 AM

Subject: I think I’m pregnant.

I’m serious this time.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Have you been exposed to radiation? Eating a lot of tuna? Shooting heroin?

<<Jennifer to Beth>> No, honestly, this isn’t a paranoid thing. I think I’m pregnant.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Because your period is three minutes late. Because you’ve had to pee twice in the last hour. Because you feel a presence in your womb.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Because I had unprotected sex while I was ovulating.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Is this a joke? Am I on Candid Camera? Who are you really, and what have you done with my friend?

The Jennifer Scribner-Snyder I know and love would never publicly admit to having had any sex at all, and certainly wouldn’t sully her fingertips by typing it out like that.

She also would never start a sentence with “because.” Where’s my prudish little friend? What have you done with her?

<<Jennifer to Beth>> I don’t have time to mince words.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Why not? How pregnant are you?

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Four days.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> That’s a little specific. (Almost grossly specific.) How could you possibly know already? And how do you know you were ovulating? Are you one of those women who can feel their eggs moving around?

<<Jennifer to Beth>> I know I was ovulating because I bought a fertility monitor.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Just assume that my response to your next 12 statements is, “Say what?”

<<Jennifer to Beth>> I thought that if I knew when I was ovulating, I could avoid intimate contact at those times (which, honestly, hasn’t been much of an issue lately).

So, four days ago, I knew I was ovulating. On that day, I hardly talked to Mitch. He left for school while I was still asleep. When I came home from work, he was upstairs, practicing the tuba. I could have gone up to tell him I was home, but I didn’t. I could have yelled up to see if he wanted a grilled cheese sandwich, but I didn’t.

When he came up to bed, I was already there, watching a Frasier rerun. I watched him get ready for bed, and he didn’t say a word to me. It wasn’t like he was mad; it was more like I was a piece of debris in the middle of the road that he was driving around.

I thought to myself, “My marriage is the most important thing in my life. I would rather have a happy marriage than anything—a good job, a nice house, opposable thumbs, the right to vote, anything. If not wanting a baby is destroying my marriage, I’ll have a baby. I’ll have 10 babies. I’ll do whatever I have to do.”

<<Beth to Jennifer>> What did Mitch think?

<<Jennifer to Beth>> I don’t know. I didn’t tell him about the ovulating part. He was surprised by the unprotected part. I don’t know.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Okay, so you might be pregnant. But you might not.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> You mean, I might be infertile.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> No, I mean, you might have at least another month to think about whether you really want to get pregnant. Most couples have to try more than once. You might not have sealed your fate four days ago.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> I hope I did. I just want to get this over with.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Write that down, so you’ll remember to put it in the baby book.

How long before you know for sure?

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Not long. They have those super-sensitive pregnancy tests that can tell whether you’re even thinking about getting pregnant.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> So, are we rooting for a positive or a negative result, here?

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Just root for me.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> I always do.

CHAPTER 31

“I HAVEN’T HEARD you complain about work for a while,” Eve said. “Are you liking it better?”

She’d brought her boys over for Sunday brunch after church. Lincoln’s mother had made potato casserole with eggs, turkey, tomatoes, mushrooms, dandelion greens, and three kinds of cheese.

“Work is fine,” Lincoln said, taking a bite.

“You’re not bored?” Eve asked.

“I guess I’m getting used to it,” he said, covering his mouth.

“Are you still looking for something with better hours?”

He shrugged. “These hours will be great if I decide to go back to school.”

Eve frowned. She was especially edgy this afternoon. When she’d walked into the house, their mother had asked the boys if they’d had a good conversation with their higher power.

“Jesus,” Eve had said. “We call him Jesus.”

“That’s one of the names he answers to,” her mother had said.

“So,” Eve said to Lincoln now, stabbing a mushroom, “you must have enough money saved to get a place closer to campus.”

“It’s not a bad drive from here,” he said evenly.

Their mother started giving everyone a second helping of casserole. He could see she was torn. On the one hand, she still didn’t like him going back to school, on the other, she hated when Eve bullied him.

“Why are they doing that?” his mother said, frowning at her grandsons. The boys were sorting the casserole into piles on their plates.

“Doing what?” Eve asked.

“Why aren’t they eating their food?”

“They don’t like it when things touch,” Eve said.

“What things?” his mother asked.

“Their food. They don’t like it when different foods touch or mix together.”

“How do you serve dinner, in ice cube trays?”

“We only eat two things, Grandma,” said Eve’s older son, six-year-old Jake Jr.

“What two things?” she asked.

“Like hot dogs and macaroni,” Jake said. “Or hamburgers and corn.”

“I don’t like ketchup on my hamburger,” said Ben, the four-year-old.

“I like ketchup on the side,” Jake said.

“Fine,” Lincoln’s mom said, taking their plates and scraping them onto her own. “Are you boys still hungry? I’ve got fruit, I’ve got bananas, do you like bananas?”

“So you’re staying here?” Eve turned on Lincoln with new ferocity. “You’re just going to keep living here?”

“For now,” he said.

“Lincoln is always welcome here,” their mother said.

“I’m sure he is,” Eve said. “He’s welcome to rot here for the rest of his life.”

Lincoln set down his fork.

“Grandma,” Ben said, “this banana is dirty.”

“That’s not dirt,” she said.

“It’s brown,” he said.

“It’s banana-colored.”

“Bananas are yellow,” Jake said.

“Lincoln is not rotting,” their grandmother said.

“He isn’t living,” Eve said.

“Don’t tell me how to raise my son.”

“He’s twenty-eight years old,” Eve said. “Your job is done. He’s risen.”

“Like Jesus,” Jake said.

“Not like Jesus,” Eve said.

Lincoln stood up from the table. “Would anyone else like juice? Ben? Jake?” His nephews ignored him.

“You’re never done raising your children,” his mother said. “You’ll see. You’re not done until you’re dead.”

“Jesus died when he was thirty-three,” Jake said.

“Stop talking about Jesus,” Eve said.

“Jesus!” Ben said.

“I’m still Lincoln’s mother. I’m still your mother. Whether you like it or not, I’m not done raising either of you.”

“You never started raising me,” Eve said.

“Eve …” Lincoln winced.

“You’re excused, boys,” Eve said.

“I’m still hungry,” Ben said.

“Can we go to Wendy’s?” Jake asked.

“Tell me more about how to be a good mother,” Eve’s mother said.

“I’ll tell you this,” Eve said. “My boys are going to have lives of their own. They’re going to go on dates and get married and move out. I’m not going to make them feel like they aren’t allowed to say good-bye to me.”

“I never made you feel that way.”

“You came to kindergarten with me for the first month.”

“You asked me to.”

“I was five,” Eve said. “You should have told me no.”

“You were scared.”

“I was five.”

“I didn’t send Lincoln until he was seven, and I’m so glad. He was so much more prepared.”