Baby Proof Part 6

"Mother," Maura calls from the powder room where she is doing her last-minute preening. "Please stop whatever it is you're doing in there!"

"Unreal. How is it that I'm being blamed for concern for a child?" she says to Daphne, her only potential ally in such situations. Daphne feels the same way about our mother as Maura and I do, but she can't help sucking up to her. She is vulnerable and sensitive and needs my mother's love in a way that both angers me and fills me with profound pity. Maura and I long ago walled ourselves off from caring about what my mother does or does not do. For some reason, Daphne can't do the same.

"Unreal," my mother says again, looking wounded.

" You're the one who is unreal, Vera," my dad says from across the room.

The unfolding scene is so predictable that I have another sharp pang of missing Ben. We often scripted the day ahead of time, placing wagers on who would say what and how long it would take for the words to be uttered.

My brothers-in-law, Scott and Tony, look up from their task of submerging beers in a large bucket of ice on the back porch and make their way into the living room where they exchange a "we're in the same boat, pal" glance. They have little in common, Tony is a plaid-shirt-wearing, sports-page-reading guy's guy and Scott is a cologne-wearing, Wall Street Journal-subscribing slickster, but they have bonded over the years in that in-law way that is common in many families. Always the perfect host, Scott pours an Amstel Light into a chilled gla.s.s and hands it to me with a c.o.c.ktail napkin.

"Here you go, Claudia," he says.

I thank him and take a long swallow.

"What's all the commotion about?" Tony asks. He and Daphne have been together since high school. Their long history coupled with his unwavering fidelity has earned him the right to chime in a right that Scott lacks even in his own house.

"Ben's not coming," my mother informs them. "What do you make of that? Am I the only one who thinks this is suspicious?" She looks around, hand pressed to her cleavage.

"Mother. I mean it. Not another word," I say. It is hardly a denial, but any normal person would take the cue and shut up. My mother proves she is anything but normal by glancing up at the ceiling, moving her lips in silent prayer, and rising slowly. "I need a cigarette," she announces. "Daphne, dear, won't you join me in the backyard?"

My sister gives my mother an obsequious nod. Only after she stands and follows my mother does she turn back and give me a slight eye roll. Daphne wants to please everyone. It is her best-and worst trait.

The doorbell rings a few seconds later. I glance at my watch and realize that the party is officially under way. I am safe for a few hours. I hear Maura squealing at the door, and the sound of her best friend, Jane, squealing back. Maura and Jane were roommates and sorority sisters at Cornell, and like Jess and I, the two have been inseparable ever since. In fact, Bronxville was their joint decision. After living in Manhattan for years, they researched the New York and Connecticut suburbs exhaustively until they came up with two houses in the same neighborhood. Maura is wealthier than Jane, but Jane is prettier, which makes the friendship fair and balanced. Evidence of this is the conversation I overhear now: "Your house looks amazing!" Jane says. "That floral arrangement is to die for!"

"Your highlights are to die for! Did Kazu do them?"

"Of course! Who else would I let touch my hair?"

As the rest of Maura's friends file in, I think what I always think when I'm in Bronxville. Everyone is exactly the same: smug, polished, and if not downright beautiful, they have, at the very least, maximized their genetic lot. And most of them have had at least two forays into the magical and seemingly addictive world of plastic surgery. Having a little work done , they whisper. My sister had her nose tweaked and her b.o.o.bs lifted after William was born. She is not outright beautiful, but with loads of money and sheer force of will, she comes much closer to the mark than Daphne or I do. Her whole crowd, in fact, is tweezed, tanned, and toned to perfection. Their clothing is magazine-layout perfect, and their style so similar that their collective garments and accessories could easily belong in the same closet or photo shoot. I need not consult a fashion magazine this month-because one look around the room, and I know the latest trends include billowy skirts, bejeweled ballet flats, and chunky turquoise necklaces.

Their husbands are all dashingly handsome, at least upon first glance. Some have receding hairlines, others have weak jaws or overbites, but such shortcomings are overshadowed by a patina that comes with having money. A lot of money. They are confident, smooth talkers with full-bodied laughs. They wear Gucci loafers with no socks, pressed khakis, calfskin belts. Their hair is gelled in place, their skin smells of spicy aftershave, and their custom linen shirts are rolled in neat cuffs just high enough to reveal their fancy yet still sporty watches.

Their conversation is self-congratulatory and ever-predictable. The women talk about their children's private schools and their upcoming vacations to the Caribbean and Europe. The men discuss their careers, golf games, and investments. There is occasional gossip about neighbors not in attendance, the women are biting; the men disguise it as banter.

What strikes me the most on this day is that Zoe and her friends seem to be on display as the ultimate accessories, coordinated with their siblings and, in one painful case, their same-gender parent. The girls wear oversized grosgrain bows in their hair and expensive, smocked dresses and have already learned how to flirt outrageously. Their brothers wear monogrammed john-johns and knee socks, and they have already learned to swagger and brag.

Following our lunch of tea sandwiches and elaborate pasta salads (and goat-cheese pizza for the kids), a professional ballerina from Ballet Academy East arrives to dance en pointe for Zoe and her fifteen closest friends, who scurry to change into their own leotards and tutus. They are treated to a group lesson in the pool house along one mirrored wall. The mothers line up like paparazzi and snap photos of their own. I switch to wine, keeping my gla.s.s filled while I sneak glances at my watch. The sooner the party ends, the sooner I can break my news and move on with the rest of my life.

When the ballet lesson concludes, it is time for cake, the highlight of any party. There are few things as satisfying as very expensive cake. We sing to Zoe, watch her blow out her candles in two tries, and wait for a piece of cake. A few women accept a slice from the caterer, but most decline and sneak dainty bites from their husbands. I find myself with the B for birthday and think B for Ben . I miss him in so many ways, but right now I miss him in the way you always miss someone when you're single among a room full of couples.

I pour another gla.s.s of wine and follow the crowd into the living room where Zoe begins to open presents despite Maura's prodding to wait until the guests have departed. Luckily Zoe is at the age where it is not possible to rip through the wrapping fast enough, so in no time at all she is surrounded by a pile of pink and lavender plastic and stuffed toys. American Girl dolls, bead-making kits, board games, Polly Pockets and Barbies galore. She saves my present for last. It is a monogrammed, wooden jewelry box with a twirling ballerina inside. I am pretty proud of the fact that I made the selection with no help from Maura, whom I usually consult at the last minute.

Zoe opens my card first, after being prompted by Maura to do so. We all listen to her read it aloud, sounding out the harder words. She gets to the bottom and reads, "Love, Aunt Claudia." Then she looks up at me and says, "Why isn't Uncle Ben's name on the card?"

s.h.i.t , I think.

"Yes, Claudia? Why?" my mother says.

I say something about it being an oversight.

Zoe gives me a puzzled look. Clearly she does not know the word oversight .

"I forgot to write his name," I say weakly.

"Are you getting a dee-vorce?" Zoe asks in an anxious tone that suggests her own parents' marriage is on the rocks. "Nanny V told Aunt Daphne that you're getting a dee-vorce."

My mother, aka Nanny V, finally has the opportunity she has been craving. She glances around the room, making maximum eye contact with her best "who me?" expression. Then she turns to me and trills in her eloquent soap opera voice, "Well? Is it true?"

All eyes are on me. Even Maura's friends who have never met me are staring at me waiting for my answer. It occurs to me to lie one final time, but I just don't have it in me. So I say to Zoe, "Sometimes things don't work out."

Maura looks as if she might faint, as much from the news as the black mark my announcement is making on her party. My dad practically runs toward me and gives me a big hug, whispering that everything will be okay. My mother starts bawling.

"I knew it. I knew it," she sobs as Dwight, who arrived only minutes before, fans her face with a pink ZOE IS SIX! c.o.c.ktail napkin.

I break away from my dad, and say, "I'm fine."

One of Maura's friends, a woman with jet-black hair and the largest diamond earrings I've ever seen off a red carpet, gives my mother a Kleenex. She then doles one out to Daphne, who is tearing up in a Pavlovian response to my mother's sobs.

A hush falls over the room and Zoe, who looks stricken but stoic, poses another careful question, "Is it because you don't want children, or because you don't love him?"

This question is similar to "Are you still beating your wife?" and I can't help marveling at a six-year-old's astute ability to slice through the issues, boil my divorce down to its naked essence.

Of course the answer is simple: I don't want children so therefore Ben doesn't want me. I almost say it, exactly like that, but instead I smile and give one of those awful adult explanations, the sort of response that puts me squarely in the evasive, bad-mother camp. Or at least the bad-aunt camp.

"It just wasn't meant to be, Zoe," I tell my niece.

Zoe gives me a look that makes it clear that she has no idea what this means. h.e.l.l, I don't even know what it means. But before she can formulate her next question, I smile, stand, and stride to the dining room where I help myself to another piece of cake. This time I get a D for divorce all piled high with pink and green icing.

eight.

The follow-up phone calls come fast and furious, and it is clear, by the pattern and intervals between messages, that the callers are in cahoots: Maura, Daphne, Dad, Maura, Daphne, Dad. My mother's messages are more random, just as she always is.

I take my time before I phone anyone back, which is a good decision because I can tell they've moved beyond their hysteria when we finally talk. I can also tell that they've come up with a unified party line we just want what's best for you, and although we dearly love Ben, we are on your side . I credit Maura's fancy Upper East Side therapist, Cheryl Fishstein, for this reaction. Being rational and calm is never the first instinct in my family.

The only comment that throws me for a loop is Daphne's request to contact Ben.

"And say what?" I say.

"And say that I'm sorry you guys couldn't work things out That I'll miss him Maybe ask him how he's doing But I'll only call if it's okay with you."

I tell her that she can do whatever she wants, but I don't want to hear the details of their conversation, which will likely revolve around how much both of them want babies. (In point of fact, Daphne actually started this conversation with the report that she got her period; I think I know Daphne's menstrual cycle better than I know my own.) "Has his family contacted you?" she asks.

I tell her no. It occurs to me that this should hurt my feelings, but for some reason it doesn't. I think Ben's family respected me and liked me, but I never sensed real warmth between us. So their silence now is not a big surprise. And I think to truly get your feelings hurt, something has to come as a surprise. (Maybe this is why I'm immune to my own mother's actions.) I'm sure Ben's mother will send me a note at some point on her formal, monogrammed stationery. She's probably just reviewing her Anne Landers clippings for what exactly one should say to one's ex-daughter-in-law. Unless she's too busy getting started on her quilt for Ben's firstborn, that is.

The following Sat.u.r.day afternoon I am traipsing across the Brooklyn Bridge with Michael in a throng of walkers, runners, and bikers, as he swears to me how therapeutic the view will be at the halfway point. We are here because yesterday at work I confessed that I was a little bit depressed. He stood across from my desk and said, "Of course you are. It would be weird if you weren't depressed."

Then he said he had an idea of something that might cheer me up, did I have plans for the next afternoon? I told him no, when you shift from married to divorced as abruptly as I have, it tends to do a number on your weekends. I told him that Jess and I had planned on making it out to the Hamptons, but she had a last-minute "business trip" (which is really a boondoggle to see Trey). Michael told me to be at his place in Alphabet City at ten. I sensed that it was a pity-invite but decided not to let pride get in the way of a good time. And Michael is always a good time.

So this morning, we met near his apartment, and now here we are on the Brooklyn Bridge pedestrian walkway. It is a hot June day, hotter than June usually gets in New York and it's made even warmer by the sunlight reflecting off all the steel. Our pace is sluggish, and people pa.s.s us on both sides.

I keep thinking of how this is my first summer without Ben in a very long time. My first change of season without him. I haven't spoken to him at all in almost two months. Our divorce is final, the papers came in the mail a few days earlier, arriving without ceremony or fanfare. I filed them along with my birth certificate and social security card in a green hanging file marked important doc.u.ments. And that was that.

I am thinking of the word ex-husband now, how both sad and oddly sophisticated it sounds, while Michael is saying something about the bridge's foundation being made of wood.

"You'd think the wood would rot and decay, wouldn't you?" Michael says.

"Yeah," I say. "But Venice is built on wood and it's a h.e.l.l of a lot older than this."

"Good point," he says. "Maybe the bacteria that rots wood needs air to live?"

"I dunno," I say.

Ex-husband. Ex-husband. Ex-husband.

"So you've crossed this bridge before?" I ask Michael.

"Yeah. A few times including a few days after September eleventh. It really gives you a sense of perspective. You'll see what I mean," he says. "It's the urban equivalent of going on a hike. Very peaceful."

I look ahead at the stone Gothic towers and backdrop of cobalt-blue sky, crisscrossed by a lacework of suspension cables. It creates an awesome visual effect, but I still tell Michael that I've always put the Brooklyn Bridge on par with the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building.

"New York landmarks are typically better on a postcard. Or from above on an airplane," I say, swerving to avoid full-body contact with an obese, wheezing man in a Derek Jeter jersey. "Away from the grime and crowds."

Michael smiles knowingly. "You can be a bit of an elitist, you know."

"I'm hardly an elitist," I say.

"Well, with comments like that one, I'd say you're certainly not down with the people," he says. I can tell he's mentally preparing his checklist of examples. Most people can't think of examples in the clutch, but Michael can always conjure up a good set of facts to use against you.

"I'm down with the people," I say.

Sure enough, he says, "Nuh-uh. You don't like amus.e.m.e.nt parks. You don't like fans who wave those big Styrofoam fingers at Knicks games. You wouldn't be caught dead in Times Square on New Year's Eve."

"Neither would you," I say. "Name someone we know who would?"

He holds his hand up and walks at a faster clip. "And," he says, signaling his grand finale, "you hated t.i.tanic . For G.o.d's sake, I don't know another chick who hated t.i.tanic . It's practically un-American to hate t.i.tanic ."

"I didn't hate it," I say, thinking of the Oscars from years ago. "I just didn't think it was best-picture material."

"You're not down with the people," he says again.

I think for a second and then say, "I take the subway. You can't get much more down with the people than that."

"Mere convenience."

"No. I actually like the subway."

"Bulls.h.i.t. I've watched the way you gingerly hold on to the pole," he says, imitating my grip. "And make sure your legs don't touch the person next to you. And you use that antibacterial gel afterward."

I shake my head. "So I have a mild case of OCD What's your point, anyway?"

"My point is your standards are too high."

"In movies? Public transportation?"

"In general."

I have the distinct feeling we are about to cover my personal life. Michael's been telling me for weeks that I need to get back on my horse. Check out Match.com. Pick up a random, pretty stranger at a bar. I told him that I wasn't interested in random guys, pretty or otherwise.

"I know Ben was the man and all" Michael says. The way he says it makes me think that he doesn't think Ben was the man at all. "But"

I interrupt him and say, "I knew this was about my love life. Jeez, Michael, I've only been divorced for a few days."

He looks over his shoulder as if we're being followed and says, "I know. But you've been separated for longer And in my experience, after a bad breakup and I think a divorce qualifies-it helps to just go ahead and get the first hookup over with. Take the plunge."

"Are you volunteering?"

He looks at me and grins. "Are you taking volunteers?"

"No, I say. I'm not."

"I didn't think so But if you change your mind, I'd be up for it."

"Are you trying to tell me something, Michael? Have you been secretly in love with me all these many years?" I joke back, giving him a sideways once-over. He is wearing a canary-yellow T-shirt, Adidas flip-flops, and khaki cargo shorts that show off his long, sinewy calves. There's something about the confident way he walks, slightly bow-legged, that hints at high marks in bed.

He smirks. "Nah. Don't worry. I'm not trying to get all Harry Met Sally on you or anything I just think you should know that I'm always willing to help out a friend."

"Help me out?" I say. "Aren't you in a bit of a drought yourself?"

"Six weeks does not a drought make," he says. Then he clears his throat and says, "Look. I'm just saying that I think you're very attractive. A solid eight. So if you need a volunteer or anything, I'm here for you."

"Gee," I say. "Who needs the view from the Brooklyn Bridge with that kind of pep talk?"

Michael smiles as he leads me over to the side of the bridge. "This is a good spot," he says.

I follow him and look across the sparkling water toward Manhattan. The skyline is stunning, even without the World Trade Center. Around us, people are snapping photos and pointing out landmarks. I look down the bridge toward Brooklyn and see a teenaged girl flash a peace sign and then blow a kiss at a boy approaching her. I imagine their earlier conversation: Meet me on the Brooklyn Bridge, baby . I close my eyes, listen to a helicopter overhead, and feel a breeze against my face.

After a long moment, I reach into my pocket for my wedding ring, which I brought with me at the last minute. I give it one last look, running my hand along the inside engraving FOREVER, BEN. Then I roll my shoulder back and forth to loosen my muscles before chucking it overhand into the East River. I am proud of my nongirly, hard throw, a benefit of having no brothers and a father who adores baseball; he poured all his effort into me. I try to keep my eye on it to see the precise spot it drops, but lose sight of it about halfway down, the platinum band getting lost in the background of the pewter-colored river.