Tribeca 63

BEN AVOIDED EYE CONTACT AND FOLLOWED HIS WIFE INTO THE DELIVERY ROOM. SHE WAS LYING ON A GURNEY, SURROUNDED BY NURSES, ANESTHESIOLOGISTS, AND SCOTT RUDIN, WHO WAS TRYING TO OPTION THE FETUS’S BOOK FOR A FILM.

He slammed the door, giving himself over to the tantrum. “No!” he screamed. “No, no, no, no, no!” Ben spent the third trimester writing incessantly, barely stopping to sleep and eat. But no matter how frantically he worked, the fetus kept gaining on him.

glasses. The doctor laid him on his mother’s chest. He seemed calm at first, but within moments he began to scream. Sue tried to calm the newborn with a kiss, but the infant kept howling, a wail that built steadily in pitch, like a fast- approaching siren. “Is this normal?” Ben asked.

In the thirty-sixth week of Sue’s pregnancy, The New Yorker published an excerpt from the fetus’s unfinished book. Ben couldn’t bring himself to read the entire thing, but he forced himself to skim the first three columns. It was unbelievably intimidating. The fetus had boldly chosen to portray General Custer as gay. Not just a little gay—fully gay. He’d also included a black character, and written his dialogue in dialect, but somehow managed to pull the thing off tastefully. Ben flipped to the Contributor’s Notes and was horrified to see that “Unnamed Fetus” was listed as a “Staff Writer.” He cursed out loud and chucked the magazine into the garbage. As the weeks wore on, Ben found himself spending more and more time in his office, and less and less time with Sue. He still massaged her belly every evening, but he rushed through the ritual like a squeegee man at a red light, calling it quits after a couple of perfunctory swipes. At night, while she snored in her Snoogle, he pounded out page after page, racing toward his novel’s denouement. He was nearing the final scene when he heard a soft knock on his door. “Sweetie?” Sue said. “Can you please come out of there?” “I’m busy,” he said harshly. “Can it wait?” She let out a sharp breath. “No.” “Look who decided to show up,” Joan said, glaring at Ben with undisguised contempt. Ben avoided eye contact and followed his wife into the delivery room. She was lying on a gurney, surrounded by nurses, anesthesiologists, and Scott Rudin, who was trying to option the fetus’s book for a film. Ben gave his wife’s shoulder an obligatory squeeze. “You’re doing great,” he said. “Great job.” “Where have you been?” she asked. Ben forced a laugh. “What?” he leaned down and smiled at her. “What do you mean?” She gripped his hand. Her eyes were soft and glossy from the drugs, and her forehead was beaded with sweat. “I’ve missed you,” she said, her voice breaking. “Where did you go?” Ben felt his throat go dry. He started to apologize, but before he could get out the words, Sue’s body was racked by a violent contraction. He winced as his wife grunted through it, breathing bravely through the spasm of white-hot pain. “Here it comes!” said Dr. Kowalski. “It’s a big one!” The nurses guided the manuscript out of Sue’s vagina, making sure the title page was facing up. The book was called Last Stand and somehow featured an advance blurb from George Saunders. The baby himself popped out a second later, looking smart but understated in a slim tweed blazer and a pair of Warby Parker

“What’s happening?” “I do not know,” said Dr. Kowalski. His face was pale, and his eyes betrayed a small degree of fear. “It is louder cry than normal. I am not sure what it is.” Ben watched as the baby flailed desperately, grasping at the air with his tiny bluish fingers. He had never seen anyone look so helpless. When the infant turned toward him, his eyes wide with fear, Ben felt an odd sensation in his chest. In a flash, he knew just what to do. Ben followed his son’s gaze across the room, to where the nurse had set aside the manuscript. “Does anyone have a pen?” he asked. Joan shook her fist at him. “What do you need a pen for?!” “Just give me a pen,” he said firmly. Joan raised her eyebrows, taken aback by Ben’s confidence. She dug into her purse and handed him a purple Bic. “He wants to make a revision,” Ben explained to the hospital staff. “That’s why he’s screaming so loud. He’s worried the manuscript will go out to critics before he’s made the edit.” He carefully placed the pen in his son’s hand. The baby gestured frantically at his novel, tears streaming from his frightened eyes. “I know,” Ben said soothingly. “I know. It’s hard.” He carefully flipped through the pages, making sure the baby had a chance to scan each one. They were six chapters in when the baby started bawling. “Is it this page?” Ben asked gently. “Is it something on this page?” The baby sniffled. “Okay,” Ben said. “Shhh. Okay.” He lowered his son to the manuscript and watched as the infant dragged his pen across the page, trimming the final sentence of a dense, descriptive passage. “Good cut,” Ben said, impressed. The baby let out a long, contented sigh, then fell asleep in his father’s arms. Ben studied his son’s tiny features. His fuzzy, bulbous cheeks, his softly swelling chest. It was hard to believe this was something he’d helped to create. He turned to his wife and noticed there were tears in her eyes. “I love you, baby,” she said. “I love you too,” he said. “Now come on. Let’s get this little guy into his nursery.” --- Simon Rich has written for “Saturday Night Live,” Pixar and “The Simpsons.” He is the creator and showrunner of “Man Seeking Woman” (FXX) and “Miracle Workers” (TBS), which he based on his books. His other collections include Spoiled Brats and Ant Farm. He is a frequent contributor to The New Yorker. *

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