The Last of the Mohicans

I was sitting on the back porch of our house with an older writer friend, and I was deep in a vin triste.

A vin triste, imaginary baby, is a French name for this thing that happens when you've read "A Farewell to Arms" too many times. Suffice it to say, there was wine and I was emotional. I thought I was anxious about my job. A stranger walked by outside our protective hemlock hedge, and your dog barked at him.

"Shut up!" the stranger snapped at my dog.

"No, YOU SHUT UP!" I screamed at him. Nobody insults your dog for doing his job. Not while I'm drunk on the back porch. He went away, and your dog resumed his patrol of the fence, and I felt foolish.

"Is this because you haven't been able to get pregnant yet?" my friend asked gently.

I looked at her, blinked once, realized she was right, and blew my nose on my shirt.

She was very patient.

"You know what you need to do," she said after refilling my glass. Which, by the way, is only one path out of a vin triste. You can either sober up (recommended), drink past it (not recommended), or give in to the self-pity and weep (utterly not recommended). All options are equally bad. This is why Hemingway is dangerous to read.

I took a ragged breath, tossed back some more rose, and said "What."

"You have to watch The Last of the Mohicans," she said sagely.

"You mean the Daniel Day-Lewis film?" I asked.

"Yep," said my famous older novelist friend. "I've had two friends, both of them trying to get pregnant. They watched The Last of the Mohicans, and bam. Just like that."

"You're kidding," I said.

"Nope," she said. "It works."

I don't have any siblings, imaginary baby. When I outlive my parents, and when I outlive my husband, my family will come to an end. Unless my novelist friend's idea works.

I, Chinoochtuk. The last of the Mohicans.