“ Alice, I will never stop loving you,” I swore, promising a celebration, dinner and a good bottle of wine, later that night.

“Andy, you’re going to break the slats if you don’t cut it out!” Alice chastised, but not too seriously. It was probably the bottle and a half of pinot noir we’d had at dinner, but she thought my ridiculous imitation of Prince performing “Let’s Pretend We’re Married” was hilarious. I cranked up the volume and strutted on the bed. Ooh-we-sha-sha-coo-coo-yeah! I loved that fucking song, a seven-minute orgasm, especially that nasty little refrain about wanting to fuck the taste out of that sweet little girl’s mouth.

“Happy Valentine’s Day! Come on, come on, dance with me, baby,” I pleaded, pulling her up by her arms, the bed finally collapsing under the weight of a grown man and woman jumping on the mattress. We did it right then and there, with the Artist Formerly Known As serenading our coupling.

Several weeks later, I sat in my pants and socks, too stunned to finish undressing for bed, and she held my hand and told me our prayers had been answered. We were crossing a bridge and on the other side was a deeper intimacy, a family, the circle complete at last. Who could have predicted that all it would take after years of careful planning was one spastic little jig and broken bed slats to inspire one intrepid little sperm to take aim, blast off, and hit the target? Alice was sure the little tadpole swimming in a pool of her amniotic fluid was going to grow into a boy. After we backdated the calendar to determine the exact date of the miracle of conception, I insisted there was only one way to appropriately honor the Raspberry Beret Sorcerer who had succeeded where a legion of obstetricians, endocrinologists, and urologists had failed. Of course, there was the added benefit of a likely fatal myocardial infarction when Curtis was introduced to his new grandson Prince Rogers Nelson Nocera. My suggestion, needless to say, was summarily rejected and Alice started making a list of names, inspired by literary or musical icons, all of which I refused to consider. Yes, I remembered I was reading Absalom, Absalom! when we met but I just couldn’t warm up to the idea of Faulkner Nocera. Dylan had become a cliché. I am being serious, I insisted: John-paulgeorgeandringo Nocera had a nice ring. Why would I ever agree to call our son Pynchon when I couldn’t finish Gravity’s Rainbow? Besides, I argued, everyone knows the rules. A boy’s name should be one syllable with more consonants than vowels. Jack was the compromise, after London or Kerouac. Both great writers and great lookers.

“But what if Jack turns out ugly?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t you want the kid to be good-looking?”

“Looks aren’t important.”

“You thought I was good-looking when we met.”

“I still do.”

Oh, Alice, my sweet Alice. At best, I’m a six out of ten. The collision of Naples and Appalachia had yielded better results in my younger sister, proof that practice makes perfect.

“So looks are important?”

“Incidental. Sort of a fringe benefit.”

“So what attracted you to me besides my beauty?”

“You were smart. You were funny. You weren’t like other boys.”

I didn’t like where this was going. My wife chose me because I was “different.”

“You were the first man I ever met who listened when I talked instead of thinking of what he was going to say next.”

Thank God she hadn’t fallen for me because I was a sissy.

“If you could change one thing about me, what would it be?”

“Ask me tomorrow. Tonight I’m perfectly happy.”

“So you hope Jack will be a chip off the old block?”

“Your block,” she said emphatically. “If he turns out anything like my father, we’re going to have to trade him in.”

The AFP was positive, “abnormal.” Her serum protein levels were low. It’s a screening, not a test, they assured us. No reason to get anxious yet. The chance of Down syndrome was one in a thousand, but an ultrasound and amniocentesis were recommended just for our peace of mind. Modern medicine ensures you’ll never be blindsided by the left jab. There are no more awful surprises, no need to cry and curse your fate and finally to resign yourself to the hand that’s been dealt you. The tests confirmed the extra chromosome.

“It’s your decision,” I told her, thinking I was saying the right thing.

She was furious, angry at me. At herself. At the world.

“Don’t put it all on me! How dare you make me take all the responsibility for this!”

“I mean I want what you want. Jesus, that’s all I’m trying to say.”

If only we hadn’t shared the happy news with the world. After trying for so long, the three-month obligatory wait, the safety net, “just in case,” seemed like an eternity. Living with your conscience, justifying, rationalizing, would be difficult enough without having to endure the judgment, silent or otherwise, of the morally absolute.

“We could tell our parents we lost the baby,” I said.

“Why?” she countered. “If that’s the decision we make, we should have the integrity to live with the consequences.”

“I was just thinking about your father.”

“If we decide to have this baby, it will be because it’s the right thing to do. My father has nothing to do with it. I don’t know why you even care what he would think.”

Frustration, maybe even disgust, was creeping into her voice.

“Look, Alice, do you have the strength to raise this baby?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But I don’t think you do.”

I didn’t. She knew it. It was an act of kindness for her to suggest that it was even a subject for discussion and debate. We left the question hanging between us, unresolved, until the calendar dictated that she couldn’t wait any longer to make the appointment. We barely spoke as we drove to the clinic the morning of the “procedure.” I asked if she was warm enough; she told me to turn left at the next light. I sat beside her as she signed the consent forms. She allowed me to kiss her on the forehead and, as the staff escorted her behind closed doors, I slumped into a chair, feeling nothing but relief.

I sat in the waiting room, a plastic bag of her personal items on my lap, the clothes she’d worn to the clinic, her watch and handbag. I was restless as a toddler, unable to concentrate on the words of the book I was reading (The Southpaw, an annual Opening Day ritual since I was fourteen), needing Dr Pepper and cheese crackers from the vending machine to pacify me. I knew she’d have the necessary quarters and dimes in her change purse and as I shuffled through the contents of the bag I found a medal and chain, carefully wrapped in her panties. The metal was black with tarnish, the impression of the Blessed Virgin worn and barely distinguishable. It must have been a talisman from her childhood, probably draped around her neck at her First Communion and not removed until late in her rebellious adolescence.

I knew then that whatever was happening in another room of the clinic was a mistake. Not a sin. A mistake. She’d made the decision, made it alone really, not trusting me to have the fortitude and patience to persevere through the struggles ahead. I should have assured her that I was up for the challenge, that little Jack would make us even closer, that I wouldn’t, couldn’t, ever abandon her, leaving her alone to raise our child. But I didn’t. And if she had resorted to prayer, it hadn’t been to ask for forgiveness for what she was about to do. Once she’d made the decision, she would have been absolutely certain it was the right one. She would have been praying for hopeless causes, the baby and me.

I never saw that medal again. It was consigned to its secret hiding place until the next crisis or tragedy when she would retrieve it from safekeeping, seeking the comfort of feeling it resting on her chest. There was no religious awakening in our household, no sudden appearance of Mass cards or scripture tracts. Over time, life seemed to return to normal. But sex gradually became an afterthought, a ritual to mark a special occasion, a birthday or anniversary, or another stop on the carefully planned itineraries to Europe or Mexico, scheduled between breakfast and an afternoon shopping spree. I’d guiltily initiate foreplay when I suddenly realized it had been weeks, no, months, since we’d last made love.