Walt & Walt

My husband and his father are both named Walt. They smell the same—I discovered this a couple of months ago when I returned a ladder we’d borrowed and then ended up staying for a drink. My mother-in-law was out having a man change the oil in her Chrysler. Walt spooned up behind me, reaching for the sponge as I stood at the sink rinsing my glass. I caught his smell—light coffee, a hint of garlic and musk—the smell of Walt, and without thinking, I relaxed into him. I connected with the familiar build of his body. We held like that for a confusing second.

It happened there on the linoleum floor. It was so wrong that I came almost immediately, as did he. When I rolled off of him, I lay there with the horror of what I’d done, heavy as a paver on my chest. When I could finally sit up, I dressed quickly and forced myself to look at him, at his body, to see its sunspots and loose skin. Not my Walt, I scolded myself.

The baby is either Walt’s or Walt’s. When I think of it—my hands in his thinning hair, the sharp tips of his hip bones beneath my thighs—I can’t help but feel a little thankful I had the chance to love Walt’s old body while mine is still young. The baby will be half of a Walt either way, with blue eyes and pointy eyebrows and that trademark crease in the middle of its chin. Though if it’s a boy, I’m going to name him Aiden.