For some reason, I focus on our CDs, music we acquired together, stuff we listened to during every range of mood and occasion. “Getting ready to go out” music. “Throwing a party” music. “Doing chores around the house” music. “Having sex” music. “Setting the mood for sex” music. “After sex” music.
I know CDs aren’t the sort of big-ticket items Nina has in mind—as we’re only talking a few hundred bucks for our entire collection—but the thought of going out to replace the music we enjoyed together feels too painful to bear. Besides, I know how much our CDs mean to Ben, and part of me wants to spite him. I have no desire to punish him financially, but I want him to suffer emotionally. I want him to feel a ravenous void, and taking a crystal carafe isn’t going to get the job done.
So I pour another glass of wine as I jot down some of our favorite artists—James McMurtry, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Velvet Underground, Laura Cantrell, Van Morrison, Cowboy Junkies, Wilco, Tracy Chapman, and Dire Straits. Then, to reinforce my point, I take a black Sharpie and pen my initials on the CD covers. About halfway through the exercise, I catch myself using my married name—Davenport—and switch to my maiden initials, C.P. I tell myself that Parr—the name I’ve kept at work—sounds much better with Claudia. I’ve never been a fan of triple-syllable first names combined with triple-syllable last names. The wine starts to hit me around midnight, when I just give up, scribble through my list, and write “All CDs” at the top of the page.
The next day I call Nina and tell her I only want my personal property, all of our CDs, and my maiden name back. She groans into the phone, and says, “As your attorney, I feel it’s my duty to tell you that I think you’re making a mistake.”
“This isn’t about money…It’s about principle,” I say.
“That’s precisely why I want you to include more,” Nina says. “For the principle of things. He’s the one checking out of this marriage.” Then she sighs and tells me to give it a little more thought, and in the meantime, she’ll draft the Separation Agreement.
A few days later the papers arrive at my office. I read the pages carefully. They mostly consist of boilerplate language about such things as waivers of maintenance, tax returns, and debts and obligations of the parties. The only lines that really get me are in the beginning:
Whereas, as a result of certain disputes and irreconcilable differences between the parties, the parties have separated and are now living separate and apart, and they intend to live separate and apart from each other for the rest of their lives…. Whereas, there are no children in the marriage and none are expected.
I think, You can say that again. Then I call Ben and ask him to meet me for one last dinner so that we can review the agreement together. I think it’s what we both need for closure. Closure is one of those words I’ve always hated, overused by melodramatic women. But I don’t think it’s melodramatic to use the term when your marriage is dissolving. When you need to see your husband one more time to come to terms with the fact that he’s no longer going to be your husband. Although maybe, maybe, I’m just giving him one last chance to change his mind.
“Where should we meet?” I ask him.
I know that he will tell me that he doesn’t care where we meet, that it’s up to me.
Sure enough, he sighs into the phone. “You pick a spot, Claudia. It doesn’t matter to me,” he says. As if he has earned the right to be weary.
I want to be passive-aggressive back, insist that he choose our final meeting place, but I decide that taking control is a pretty foolproof way to keep from losing control. I tell him I will think about it and get back to him. My voice is cold and detached.
“Okay. Just let me know,” he says, and I must face the fact that if we were having a “try to sound as detached as possible” contest, he would have just beaten me by more than a hair.
For the next few hours, I look through virtually every entry in my Zagat, paging through the guide that once held the key to fun evenings out with Ben. There are one thousand nine hundred and thirty-one restaurant entries, and yet not a single venue seems to be an appropriate one to meet with your soon-to-be ex-husband to discuss the division of your assets. I peruse the categories—late dining, people-watching, power scenes, romantic places, special occasions, singles scenes. None seems right. In a city like New York, how could the good people at Zagat include categories like bathrooms to visit and overlook the ever-important places to break up?
While I’m reviewing restaurants, Michael Brighton, a publicity manager, stops by to say hello. Michael and I graduated from college the same year, thirteen years ago, and both started working here the same day. He is one of my closest friends at work, and his matter-of-fact manner and wry wit make it easy to discuss my divorce. I can count on him not to give me too much sympathy.
“What’s shakin’, Claudia?” he asks, as he picks up my Magic 8 Ball from my bookshelf and shakes it. It is a gadget I’ve been avoiding lately, for obvious reasons.
“Not too much,” I say.
He peers down at the ball and says, “Damn. My dry cleaner isn’t going to get that stain off my suede jacket.”
I laugh. “Why are your questions posed to the Eight Ball always so inane?”
“Because my life is inane. You know that,” he says, running his hand over his clean-shaven head. Michael has the smoothest brown skin I’ve ever seen. He almost looks airbrushed. Ben has always said that Michael looks like Charles Barkley—and I guess I can see the resemblance around the eyes and eyebrows—but Michael isn’t nearly as bulky as Barkley, and his features are sharper.
“Right,” I say sarcastically. Michael’s life is anything but inane. Just last week, he accidentally sent an e-mail to the entire company about his assistant being incompetent.
“So anyway. Where are you with Amy Dickerson’s novel? Is Time going to review it or what?” I ask.
“I’m getting there,” he says, yawning. Michael is a total procrastinator, but can usually charm his way into getting any review for me. Everybody in the business loves him, and I’m always thrilled when he’s covering one of my books. “No worries.” He points to my Zagat. “What? Do you have a hot date already?”
“No,” I say. “I’m trying to pick a place to meet Ben tonight.”
“To discuss reconciliation?”
“No. To discuss the division of our assets.”
“Hmm,” he says. “How about Kittichai? I have a reservation I’d rather not use.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Long story.”
“I have time.”
“She’s too needy.”
“Ahh,” I say, flipping to the Ks. “So, Kittichai. That’s in the Thompson Hotel, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I have a table for two at eight. It’s yours if you want it.”
“I’ve actually never been,” I say. “And I don’t think this is the night to be trying something new.”
“So go to an old standby…Gramercy Tavern? Aquavit? Balthazar?”
I shake my head. “Can’t do those, either. Old standbys are imbued with too many memories. Good memories. Celebrations. It would be…conflicting,” I say. “I can’t very well be sitting there telling Ben that I want our Calphalon pots, all the while thinking about our first anniversary or the night we got a little crazy in the back of a cab…”
“You don’t even cook. You really want the pots?” he asks.
“No. I don’t really want anything.”
Michael nods and then squints up at the ceiling as if he has something in his contacts. “Just curious on that back-of-a-cab thing—I’m testing a theory—did that happen before or after you guys got hitched?”
“Before,” I say, pushing away the memory as I continue. “I think I have to aim for something in between trendy, new hotspot, and tried-and-true favorite. A place we’ve both been before, but a place with no particular connotation. A place with a decent vibe, but not too much gaiety,” I say. “And I’m thinking low
marks in service. I don’t want a lot of interruptions or too much food and wine description.”
Michael laughs.
I shoot him a look. “This isn’t funny.”
His smile fades and he says, “My bad. You’re right, this isn’t funny.”
“Okay. It’s a little bit funny,” I say, thinking that maybe those people who crack jokes in the face of hardship are onto something.
He shakes the 8 Ball again and says, “Uh-oh.”
“What?” I say.
“Never mind,” he says. “I don’t believe in this thing anyway.”
The night of our final “date,” I arrive at a random bistro in Hell’s Kitchen (a neighborhood with which Ben and I have the fewest ties) ten minutes late but still before Ben. This annoys me because I have to have a drink at the bar, which makes the evening feel too much like a date, rather than the business transaction it is. I wonder if perhaps we should have met for lunch instead.
Ben saunters in after I’ve ordered my wine and taken my first few sips. He is wearing loose-fitting jeans and a new white shirt that makes his chest and arms look especially cut. Ben has one of those not-too-big, not-too-small, hard bodies that always looks perfect in clothes. And unfortunately for me now, even better without.
“Nice shirt,” I say with a trace of sarcasm. I want him to know that I know that he’s been shopping during our turmoil.
He gives me a defensive look and then mumbles something about picking a few things up at the Gap. Picturing Ben trying on casual clothes that he will surely be wearing on dates with blushing, fertile girls in their early twenties makes me almost hate him. This is actually a good, healthy thing, though, because hating him takes the sad edge off the night. I settle up at the bar, and we walk over to the maître d’s podium.
“He’s here,” I say, pointing at Ben.
She smiles and leads us to a small table in the very center of the dining area. I immediately target the table as the worst one in the restaurant. We will be surrounded on all sides. I don’t anticipate a scene. Nor do I expect tears. Ben and I are very controlled and feel the same way about drawing attention to ourselves. But still. A corner table would work so much better for our purposes. I glance at Ben, hoping he’ll ask to switch. He almost always does. Even when we were at McDonald’s and I’d pick our table, he’d ask if I wouldn’t mind moving. It became almost a game. I’d anticipate where he wanted to sit, and he’d find something problematic with it. A draft from air-conditioning, sunlight too direct in his eyes, a nasty spot of ketchup on his chair. Of course, Ben picks this night to debut his new shirt and become complacent with our seating.
“So. How is everything?” Ben asks me after the waitress hands us our menus and a wine list.
“Fine,” I say.
“How’s work?”
I tell him work is great and then, at his prodding, give him a few-sentence update on recent books I’ve been working on and some I’m trying to acquire. I know Ben is proud of all that I’ve accomplished at work, and I can’t help sharing a few details with him. I wonder how long it will take to lose the urge to share my stories with him. “How’s work going for you?” I say.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Same old.”
“Your family?” I ask.
“They’re fine. Good.”
“Did you tell them yet?” I ask.
“Tell them what?”
“Gee, Ben, I don’t know. Tell them about your new shirt.”
“I didn’t know which specific part of this you were referring to,” he says.
“The whole thing? The general breaking up that’s happening here?” I say, pointing back and forth in the space between us.
“I told them we were having problems,” he says.
“Did you tell them the nature of our problems?” I ask.
He nods.
“So now they all think I’m a cold bitch?” I ask.
“Nobody thinks anything bad about you, Claudia.”
I look down at my menu, raise my eyebrows, and mutter that I doubt this very much.
He ignores my comment and says, “Did you tell your folks?”
“No,” I say. “Not yet.”
He doesn’t look surprised. He knows I avoid my mother and that I don’t want to upset my father. “What about your sisters?”
“Not yet. Just Jess,” I say. “And Michael.”
“Annie?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No…Why? Have you talked to Ray?”
“A little bit,” Ben says.
I want to ask him what he’s said, but decide against it. I pretty much know anyway. I also know what a new father is going to be saying back to him. It confirms what I have always said—people seek out selective advice. They ask it from people who will echo their own instincts. Tell them what they plan on doing anyway.
Our waitress comes by and takes our order. We have not discussed our orders in advance, yet we both opt for the salmon. We never used to duplicate, preferring to order two entrées and share. Clearly our sharing days are over.
“So,” I say.
“So,” Ben says. “What next?”
I can tell he is talking about logistics, not our relationship. We are over, and we both know it. I hand him Nina’s draft papers and say, “It’s all pretty standard when it comes to uncontested divorces in New York.”
He takes the papers and glances down at them. He flips through them, page by page, until he gets to the part that discusses the division of assets.
“I just want the CDs,” I summarize for him.
He looks up at me, surprised. “That’s all you want? The CDs?”
“Yeah. I just want our music,” I say, vowing that it will be my very last our. “Is that okay?”
“Sure, Claudia. The music is yours.”
“Even all the James McMurtrys?” I say, hoping that he’ll balk—or at least look upset. Ben has his favorite bands, and I have mine, but as a couple, James McMurtry is our number one. Maybe it’s because we discovered and fell in love with his music together. I see Ben’s chest rise slightly as he inhales. He exhales and looks at me. I hope he’s thinking of last summer when we flew to Austin to see James perform at the Continental Club. I hope he’s thinking of how we drank too many beers, our arms around each other, as we soaked up James’s wrenching lyrics.
“Sure. Even James,” he says sadly, as I make a mental note to leave just one CD behind, as if it were only an oversight. I pulled a similar stunt when I broke up with my college boyfriend, Paul. There were a lot of reasons for our demise, but among them was that we weren’t geographically compatible. I wanted to live in New York—and he wanted to live anywhere but. I held out hope that he’d change his mind and strategized ways to increase those odds. So when I gathered up all of his stuff that had accrued in my apartment over the prior year, I stuck one random Uno card in the crate because Paul and I played Uno together all the time, and had kept a running score into the triple digits. The card was a red “reverse” which I thought was somehow symbolic. I hoped that he’d find it and have a moment of intense regret for letting me go, a desire to “reverse” his life, leave Denver and move with me to New York. Maybe he would even tape that card to his mirror, look at it every morning when he shaved, thinking of me and what could have been.
I try to imagine what Ben’s expression will be when he comes across one of our McMurtry CDs. I picture him sliding the disc in the stereo, listening to one of our songs, and cursing himself for picking a baby over me.
“Claudia?” Ben says, interrupting my thoughts. “What are you thinking?” His voice is soft.
“You know,” I say, shaking my head. I feel another enormous stab of sadness. I have to work hard to fight back tears.
“Yeah. I know,” Ben says. “This sucks.”
I nod and look away, over to a couple sitting near us, seemingly on a first date. They were seated just after we were and I noticed that he pulled her chair out for her. They are young and eager, all smiles and perfect
table manners. They are off to a good start, happy and hopeful.
I nod toward their table and say, “Check out those two. First date?”
Ben turns slightly in his chair, studies them for a second, and says, “Yeah. Second tops. I bet they haven’t even kissed yet.”
“Maybe tonight,” I say.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“I wish I could skip ahead and see their ending,” I say sarcastically.
Ben gives me a look and says, “You always were a cynic.”
I say, “Go figure.”
“Maybe they’ll live happily ever after,” Ben says.
“Yeah. With two point two children.”
“Or at least one,” Ben says.
I let him have the last word—and the check when it mercifully comes.
Seven
There is more than a sliver of me that wonders if I’m making a mistake as I let Ben slip away from me for good. I tell myself that second-guessing just comes with the territory. Whenever you make a big decision in life, at least any decision where you have a viable alternative, there is an inevitable uneasy aftermath. Anxiety is merely a sign that you’re taking something seriously.
In this sense, divorcing Ben conjures up a similar set of emotions that I had when I married Ben. I knew I was doing the right thing then, too, but couldn’t escape the occasional worry that kept me up in the middle of the night even after I took a few swigs of NyQuil. In the days before our wedding, I knew that my love for Ben was the most real thing I had ever known, but I still fretted that I was setting myself up for disappointment. I remember looking at Ben while he slept one night and fearing that I would someday let him down. Or that he would let me down. That things, somehow, wouldn’t turn out well for us, and that I would look back and say, “How could I have been so stupid? How could I have not seen this coming?” Which of course is exactly what is happening.