At the marriage broker’s office, Grandfather and I sat in a waiting room, and then another door opened and a tall, thin, pale-faced man came in. “Doctor?” he asked Grandfather.
“Yes,” Grandfather said, standing. “Thank you for seeing us.”
“Of course,” said the man, who had been staring at me since he entered. “And this is your granddaughter?”
“Yes,” said Grandfather, proudly, and he drew me to his side. “This is Charlie.”
“I see,” said the man. “Hello, Charlie.”
“Hello,” I whispered.
There had been a silence. “She’s a little shy,” said Grandfather, and he stroked my hair.
“I see,” said the man, again. Then he spoke to Grandfather. “Would you come in alone, Doctor, so we can speak?” He looked at me. “You can wait here, young lady.”
I sat there for about fifteen minutes, knocking my heels against the chair legs, which was a bad habit I had. There was nothing in the room to look at, nothing to see: just four plain chairs and a piece of plain gray carpet. But then I heard raised voices from behind the other door, the sound of arguing, and I went over and pressed my ear against the wood.
The first voice I heard was the man’s. “With respect, Doctor—with respect—I think you have to be realistic,” he was saying.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Grandfather, and I was surprised to hear that he sounded angry.
There had been a silence, and when the man spoke again, he was quieter, and I had to concentrate hard to hear him again.
“Doctor, forgive me,” the man was saying, “but your granddaughter is—”
“My granddaughter is what?” Grandfather snapped, and there was another silence.
“Special,” the man said.
“That’s right,” Grandfather said. “She is special, she is very special, and she will need a husband who understands how special she is.”
I had had enough then, and I had sat down again, and a few minutes later, Grandfather had walked briskly out and opened the office door for me and we had left. On the street, neither of us spoke. Finally, I asked, “Did you find someone for me?”
Grandfather had snorted. “That man’s an idiot,” he said. “No clue what he’s doing. We’re going to go to someone else, someone different. I’m sorry I wasted our time, little cat.”
After that, we had gone to two more brokers, and both times, Grandfather had swept from the room, ushered me out, and, once we were in the street, announced that the broker was a moron or a fool. Then he said I didn’t have to come with him on the appointments, as he wasn’t going to waste both of our time. Finally, he found a broker he liked, one who specialized in matching sterile people, and one day, he told me he had found someone for me to marry, someone who would always take care of me.
He had shown me a picture of the man who was to become my husband. On the back of the picture was his name, birth date, height, weight, racial makeup, and occupation. The card had been debossed with the special stamp that everyone who was sterile had applied to their papers, as well as a stamp denoting that at least one of his immediate family members was an enemy of the state. Usually, cards like this listed the applicant’s parents’ names and occupations, but here that information had been left blank. Yet, even though my husband’s parents had been declared enemies, he must have known someone or been related to someone with some influence or power, because, like me, he was not in a labor camp, or jail, or detention, but free.
I turned the picture card back around and looked at the man. He had a handsome, serious face, and his hair was cut close, neat and clean. His chin was slightly raised, which made him look bold. Often people who were sterile or related to traitors looked down, like they were ashamed, or apologetic, but he did not.
“What do you think?” Grandfather asked me.
“All right,” I answered, and Grandfather said he would arrange for me to meet him.
After our meeting, our marriage date was set for one year later. As I have mentioned, my husband had been in graduate school when he was blacklisted, but he was trying to appeal his case, which was another indication that someone was helping him, and he had asked to delay the marriage until after his trial, which Grandfather had agreed to.
One day, a few months after we had both signed our promissory contracts, Grandfather and I were walking down Fifth Avenue when Grandfather said, “There are many different kinds of marriages, little cat.”
I waited for him to say more, and when he finally did, he spoke much more slowly than he usually did, pausing after every few words.
“Some couples,” he began, “are very attracted to each other. They have a—a—physical chemistry, a hunger for each other. Do you know what I mean by that?”
“Sex,” I said. Grandfather himself had explained sex to me, years ago.
“That’s right,” he said. “Sex. But some couples don’t have that attraction. The man you are going to marry, little cat, is not interested in…with…Well. Let’s just say that he isn’t interested.
“But that doesn’t make your marriage any less valid. And that doesn’t mean your husband isn’t a good person, or that you aren’t. I want you to know, little cat, that sex is a part of a marriage, but only sometimes. And it’s not all that makes a marriage, not at all. Your husband will always treat you well, I promise you that. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
I thought maybe I did, but then I also thought that what I thought Grandfather was saying might not be what he meant after all.
“I think so,” I said, and he looked at me and then nodded.
Later, when he was kissing me good night, Grandfather said, “Your husband will always be kind to you, little cat. I have no fears,” and I had nodded, though I suppose Grandfather actually did have fears, because he eventually told me what to do if my husband ever treated me unkindly—though, as I have already said, he never has.
I was thinking of all this when I finally returned to our apartment after saying goodbye to David in the Square. My husband came home just as I was finishing cooking our dinner, and changed out of his cooling suit before setting the table and pouring us both some water.
I had been nervous to see my husband after our encounter, but it seemed it would be a meal like any other. I didn’t know where my husband went on Saturdays, except he usually wasn’t gone all day. He did the grocery shopping in the mornings, and on Sundays, we did our chores together: laundry, if it was our turn, and cleaning, and then we both went to the community garden to work our shifts, though not at the same time.
Dinner that night was leftover tofu, which I had made into a cold stew, and as we were eating, my husband said, not lifting his head, “I was glad to meet David today.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes, it was nice.”
“How did you meet him?”
“At one of the storyteller sessions. He sat next to me.”
“When?”
“About seven weeks ago.”
He nodded. “Where does he work?”
“The Farm,” I said. “He’s a plant tech.”