Baby Proof (33 page)

The next morning, I find Jess in her room, doing last-minute packing for her trip to Alabama with Michael. Against my better judgment, I tell her about my nightmare.

She says, “Well. Fortunately, you will be reclaiming Ben prior to their wedding day .”

I give her a blank look, and she says, “Like on Monday?”

I shake my head and say, “There isn’t going to be any reclaiming And I’m not going to go through with seeing Ben on Monday.”

” What ?” she says.

“I’m canceling,” I say emphatically.

“Oh, no you’re not ,” she says even more emphatically.

“There’s no point,” I say with a listless shrug.

“There is too a point,” she says. “Look, Claudia. The fact that they got engaged doesn’t really change the analysis here.”

“Yeah, it does,” I say.

“No, it doesn’t!” she says. “If Ben can get a divorce from the love of his life, he can most certainly break off an engagement.”

“How do we know that she’s not the love of his life?”

“Because you are,” she says. “And you only get one of those.”

“Since when do you subscribe to that notion?” I say.

“Since I’ve finally experienced true love.”

“Well. I got news for you, Jess. Ben loves her,” I say. “He wouldn’t propose if he didn’t love her. He wants a baby, but not that badly.”

“Fine. Maybe he does love her in some narrow way. But he loves you more and you know it He doesn’t have full information. He needs full information. Once he knows that you want children, he’ll have to break up with her.”

“I don’t want children.”

“Yes you do.”

“No I don’t,” I say. “I would have been theoretically willing to have his.”

“Same difference.”

“Not really.”

She zips up her red Tod’s bag with authority and says, “Well. I say we let Ben be the judge of that. Shall we?”

Meanwhile, my own Thanksgiving plans are up in the air until the eleventh hour. Maura almost always hosts a dinner at her house, but for obvious reasons, this year is the exception. Daphne is the logical backup choice because my father, understandably, refuses to go to Dwight and Mom’s house, but when we tell my mother the plan, she gets on her soapbox about “you girls never coming over here.” And then shoots off on another tangent about how we’ve never really accepted Dwight. I am in no mood for her nonsense so I quickly squelch her spirit and say, “Listen here, Vera. We’re going to Daphne’s. You can’t even cook.”

“We can have food brought in,” she says.

“Mom. Drop it. The decision is made.”

“Says who?” she says in the voice of a small child.

“Says me,” I say. “So join us or don’t. Entirely up to you.”

I hang up and decide that the only true beauty of hitting rock bottom is that nothing can really faze or rile you. Not even your mother.

A few minutes later she calls me back with a conciliatory, “Claudia?”

“Yes?” I say.

“I’ve decided.”

“And?”

“I’ll come,” she says meekly.

“Good girl,” I say.

Thanksgiving morning is bleak and gray and drizzly, but also unseasonably warm, a depressing holiday combination. It takes every bit of will I have to get out of bed, shower, and dress. One of my mother’s life principles flashes in my head if you dress up and look pretty, you will feel better . And although I basically agree with this, I discard the advice and settle on an ancient J. Crew roll neck sweater and a pair of Levi’s with threadbare knees. I tell myself that at least it beats sweats and sneakers, which I resist only because I can just envision “wearing sweats and sneakers on Thanksgiving” listed in a Suicide Warning Signs pamphlet.

I can’t find a cab so I have to walk to Penn Station and barely make my noon train. I am stuck in a seat facing backward, which always gives me motion sickness. Then, about halfway to Huntington, I realize that I left my fancy twenty-eight-dollar pumpkin pie from Balthazar on the kitchen counter. I say shit aloud. An old woman across the aisle from me turns and gives me a disapproving stare. I mouth sorry , although I’m thinking, Mind your own business, lady . Then I spend the next twenty minutes worrying that I will turn into the kind of disgruntled person who dislikes old people. Or worse, I will become a bitter old person who hates the young.

When my father picks me up at the train station, I tell him that we need to swing by the grocery store to pick up a pie.

“Screw the pie,” my dad says, which I translate to mean, I heard about Ben’s engagement .

“No. Really, Dad,” I say. “I promised Daphne I’d bring a pumpkin pie.”

Translation: I’m a total loser. All I have left is my word .

My dad shrugs and a few moments later we pull into the Waldbaum’s parking lot. I run inside, grab two skimpy pumpkin pies, already reduced to half price, and head for the express “twelve items or less” lane.

Fewer , I say to myself, thinking of how amused Ben was when I corrected grammar on public signage. Twelve items or fewer, dammit . I truly hope that Tucker is a math-science girl in the strictest sense of things and screws up her pronouns on a daily basis. She is Harvard-educated, so I know her mistakes aren’t overt, as in, Me and Daddy are going to the store , but with some luck, she might be prone to making other sorts of mistakes, the kind intelligent people make while believing that they are being intelligent. Like failing to use the objective case for all parts of the compound object following a preposition, as in: Do you want to come with Daddy and I ?

The beauty of this is that Ben will be forced to think of me every single time. Then, one day, he might break down and share with Tucker the trick I taught him so long ago: Try each part of the object in a separate sentence. “Do you want to come with Daddy?” “Do you want to come with me?” Hence: “Do you want to come with Daddy and me ?” Maybe her eyes will narrow and a cloud will pass over her face. “Did your ex-wife teach you that one?” she’ll say with disdain born from jealousy and failure to measure up. Because she might be able to put people back together again, but she will never be able to diagram a sentence as I can.

Then, as I’m paying for my two sorry pies and some Cool Whip, I see Charlie, my high school boyfriend, get in line behind me. I usually like running into Charlie, and other high school friends, but my divorce has changed that. It’s just not the sort of update you feel like inserting in small talk, but at the same time, it’s rather impossible to avoid mentioning. Besides, I’ve about reached my quota for chance meetings this week and don’t have it in me to be friendly. I keep my head low and slip the checkout girl a twenty.

Just as I think I’m going to escape, Charlie says, “Claudia? Is that you?”

It occurs to me to pretend that I didn’t hear him and just keep walking, but I like Charlie and don’t want to come across as an urban snob, something he once accused me of being, so I turn, smile, and give him my best impersonation of a happy, well-adjusted adult. “Hey, Charlie!” I say. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“You, too, Claudia!” he says, pushing forward his last-minute items: a gallon of whole milk, three cans of cranberry sauce, and a box of tampons. “How ya doin’?”

“Fine!” I say brightly as I look down and see Charlie’s son shaking a pack of orange Tic Tacs. He looks exactly like Charlie’s kindergarten photo, which was framed in his foyer the whole time we were dating. The little boy looks up at his father and says, “Can we get these, Dad?”

I anticipate a, No. Put it back , which is the standard parental grocery-store retort, but Charlie says, “Sure. Why not?” and tosses the Tic Tacs on the belt.

I smile, remembering what I liked most about my first boyfriend, his knee-jerk response was always, “Why not?” He was uncomplicated and upbeat and easy. At one point, I might have thought these traits made him a simpleton, but now I think they just translate to happiness. After all, he is the one with a family. He is the one buying hygiene products for his spouse. And I’m the one who is divorced, with my father waiting for me in the car outside.

“So what’s doin’?” Charlie says with a big smile.

“Not much,” I say and try to deflect with a question about his son. “Is this your oldest?”

“No!” Charlie says. “This is my youngest, Jake Jake, this is Claudia.”

Jake and I shake hands, and I pray that we’re winding up, but then Charlie asks, “How’s Ben?”

“Actually, we got a divorce,” I say.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I say. “He’s getting remarried.”

Then I laugh at my own joke. Charlie does, too, but it is the awkward sort of pity-laugh, not a ha-ha laugh. We exchange a few more pleasantries, both of us promising to tell our families hello. All the while, I can tell he’s thinking, I knew it. I knew she was in for a sad life when she told me after our prom that she didn’t want kids .

Daphne has everything under control when my father and I arrive at her house. But by under control, I don’t mean Maura’s version of polished perfection. On the contrary, Daphne’s house is in a state of noisy disarray. The kitchen is a mess, and Tony’s football game is competing with Daphne’s favorite Enrique Iglesias CD and their frantic Yorkies. Still, everything smells good and feels comfortable. Daphne is standing at the stove, all four burners ablaze. She is wearing her GOT CARBS? apron and looks relaxed. My father joins Tony in the family room, and I put my pies and Cool Whip in the refrigerator and say, “Hope you have dessert backup.”

“Of course I do,” Daphne says, smiling proudly and pointing to a freshly rolled-out pie crust on the counter.

“So,” I say, settling onto a bar stool. “Have you heard from Maura? Is he coming?”

Daphne knows I’m referring to Scott. She sets about peeling a Granny Smith apple and tells me that as of this morning, Maura hadn’t decided whether to let him come or stay home alone. She was pleased to know that Scott’s parents and sister’s family had already booked a trip to Disney World for the holiday, so if she chose to exclude him, he’d have no backup plan.

A moment later we hear my mother and Dwight at the front door.

“Hell- ooo ?” my mother trills as she sails into the kitchen, heavily perfumed, wearing a flowing St. John ensemble with navy pumps. Her outfit conjures the phrase “dressy casual,” which is her favorite dress-code designation for her own parties. Despite her allergies to dogs, she gathers up Daphne’s Yorkies and allows them to lick her mouth. “He-wo, Gary! He-wo, Anna!” she croons as I think that baby talk to dogs is only slightly more annoying than baby talk to babies.

Dwight is also dressy casual. He is sporting tasseled loafers, Ray Bans, and a jacket with shiny, gold buttons. He takes off his glasses and presents three bottles of merlot to Daphne. Then he rubs his hands together vigorously enough to start a fire. “Soo, ladies, what’s shakin’?” he says, surveying the simmering pots. “Smells good in here, Daph!”

Then, as I watch him strut around the kitchen, I think of how Ben used to imitate his walk and say, “Ever notice the way Dwight’s pelvis enters a room about five minutes before he does?” I always liked when he made fun of Dwight, yet the thought that Ben might share such observations about my family (even my mother’s husband) with his bride-to-be has the strangest effect of creating loyalty where none existed before. Dwight isn’t a bad guy, I think, as I kiss him hello for what very well could be the first time ever. I wait for my mother to put down the dogs, wash her hands, and use her inhaler. Then I give her a hug.

“So good of you to dress up,” she whispers in my ear.

I smile and say, “Yes. But you’ll be happy to know that should there be an accident and I am disrobed by a paramedic, I am wearing my best underwear.”

She smiles as if to say, I taught you well .

The doorbell rings, and we all glance at each other nervously, a question hanging in the air: Will Scott show up with his family ?

Even my mother is subdued.

“You get the door,” Daphne says as she nervously reties her apron.

I head to the door. When I open it, I am genuinely surprised to see Scott. I really thought Maura was leaning toward banishment. Hillary Clinton’s quote about Bill pops into my head: “He’s a hard dog to keep on the porch.” Clearly the same can be said of Scott. Although here he is, back on the porch with Maura.

“Hi, guys,” I say, bending down to hug the kids first. Zoe points to her stitches, or more accurately, the spot where they once were. “They disappeared,” she says. “Just like Dr. Steve said they would!”

I laugh and hug her again.

When I stand, I look right into Scott’s eyes. For once, they don’t look smug or beady. Instead, he is more chagrined and contrite than he was on Saturday night. And Maura looks even peppier. I think to myself, Carefree, confident, popular girl is on a date with ever-grateful, second-tier wannabe . It is role reversal for them, and I am filled with a sense of nostalgia, remembering that was how my sister used to be, in the days before Scott. I wonder what happened first. Did Scott’s behavior change Maura into a victim and put her in a constant state of anxiety? Or did her priorities somehow get skewed, so that she could allow someone like Scott in her life?

I give him a chilly hello and then kiss my sister. More tense hellos are exchanged in the kitchen. Then we all move into the family room to watch the football game that only Tony really cares about. I keep my mind off Ben by observing Scott and Maura. He is pandering to her every need, refilling her wine glass, rubbing her shoulders, handling the kids when they act up and I find myself thinking of one of Annie’s theories on relationships that she calls the “benevolent dictator” theory. She says that in an ideal relationship, the balance of power is equal. But if someone has to have more power, that someone needs to be the woman. Her reasoning is that when most men wield the power, they abuse it and succumb to their innately self-serving, self-indulgent instincts. Women who have power, on the other hand, tend to rule in the interest of the family unit rather than their own self-interest. Which is why matriarchal societies are peaceful, harmonious ones. And why societies ruled by males are ultimately destroyed in war.

Of course when Annie first shared this theory with me in college, I tried to debunk it with tales of my own parents. I told her my mother held all the power and was all about self-interest—while my father was the well-intentioned good guy. Yet, upon looking around, I had to begrudgingly admit that Annie was onto something and that my family seemed to be the exception to the rule. My friends with divorced parents almost all had passive martyrs for mothers; and the ones with parents in strong marriages all seemed to have forceful mothers and doting husbands.