Baby Proof (21 page)

“How are you?” I manage to say as my eyes fall on Ben’s bare left ring finger.

“I’m fine. You?” he says.

I tell Ben I’m fine, too, as I watch Richard out of the corner of my eye. He turns, observes me with Ben, and then turns back toward the window, a flute of champagne in each hand. He sips from one. He must know that I’m talking to my ex-husband.

“It’s good to see you,” Ben says sincerely.

“You, too,” I say. It is.

“I’m glad you came,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

I glance at Richard again who is still staring out the window.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I say.

“Oh, well, I’m actually Raymond’s uh, godfather,” he says earnestly.

“Oh. I didn’t know,” I say. “What an honor.”

“Yeah,” Ben says. “It is pretty cool.”

I smile as I feel an insane rush of what feels pretty close to high school jealousy. Like the feeling I had when my best friend Pam was elected to the homecoming court. We were so connected at the hipwe even looked alike. People always asked if we were sisters, even twins. So why was she chosen over me? I feel the same way now as I wonder why Annie and Ray gave Ben the nodand not me? Is it because I don’t want children? Is it because they’re taking Ben’s side? Is it because I’ve been a bad friend? Or maybe they were just more hard up for a godfather than a godmother. After all, neither Ray nor Annie has a brother.

At this point, Richard moves away from the window to make small talk with a man I don’t recognize. I think, Good, I have another minute . Even though I’m not sure what to say next.

And then it comes out. My stellar question: “So you didn’t bring Tucker?”

I instantly regret my choice. First of all, he obviously didn’t bring her because she’s not here. Second, I look nosy and petty and jealous.

“No,” Ben says, a half-smile on his face. “I did not.”

It occurs to me that the only possible advantage to my question would be if it actually cleared up the status of Ben’s affairs, but his answer gives me nothing. So I am merely left with that foot-in-the-mouth feeling.

At this point, I see that Richard has finished up with his new friend. He looks over at me again, brows raised, as if to say, No pressure, but should I join you ? I nod. Any other response would be rude, even to go-with-the-flow Richard. Then, just as Richard is walking across the room to join us, Ben says, “I see that you came alone, too.”

One beat later Richard is next to me, handing me my champagne. It is an unmistakable gesture, but Ben looks confused, as if he’s trying to place Richard. Which he can’t do because they’ve never met.

I have no real choice but to say, “Ben, this is Richard Margo. Richard, Ben Davenport.”

“Hi, Ben. Nice to meet you,” Richard says.

I watch a cloud pass over Ben’s face as he processes the name. I know that he does not forget my “Top Five Office List.” He knows exactly who Richard is, and he’s not happy about it. Sure enough, Ben does not extend his hand. Instead he flinches, his expression becoming very blank. Several seconds pass before he offers a very chilly, “How do you do.” He cuts his eyes back at me. He knows that I know the significance of his how do you do .

It is what Ben’s mother, Lucinda, said to her ex-husband’s second wife, a woman who had everything to do with the breakup of her marriage. For years, Lucinda had agonized over what she would say to wife number two when she finally had the misfortune of meeting her. She refused to be rude. Yet she refused to tell a lie with a standard salutation like, it’s a pleasure to meet you . Ben remembers his mother being downright triumphant when she realized that a curt how do you do fit the bill. Ben told me the story right before I met her. Told me that I should worry if I got a how do you do . But otherwise, I could assume she liked me.

Of course Richard is oblivious to this tale as he says, “Not too bad. You?”

Ben answers Richard with what my niece Zoe could interpret as sarcasm. “Super,” he says, flashing a fake smile. Then he excuses himself and makes a beeline for his godson. As he scoops up the baby from Annie’s arms, he turns and glares at me. The significance of that is not lost on me, either.

A miserable hour of mingling later, the ceremony, led by a female, Birkenstock-wearing minister named Sky, begins. I am not surprised by the hippie feel to the service, given the fact that we are in a living room rather than a churchand given Annie and Ray’s religious background. They both grew up Catholic but each separately denounced the church in their early twenties for a variety of reasons, most of them political. They then went through their agnostic stage, which lasted for some time. Annie says they’re becoming more spiritual since having Raymond Jr. and have begun to attend a Unitarian church on Second Avenue.

In any event, the minister spends a good amount of time talking about lofty concepts such as the inherent worth and dignity of every person; justice and compassion in human relations; the search for truth; and respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part. Along the way, she stops and asks the godparents if they will fully support and guide Raymond Jr. in the pursuit of these goals. My eyes are fixed on Ben as he nods solemnly and repeats, “I will,” in unison with Annie’s sister. Watching him, I can’t help but think of our exchange of vows in the Caribbean. How seriously Ben took them. And how seriously he’s now taking his role of godfather. Then, when I think I can finally turn and escape to the buffet, Annie announces that the godparents would each like to read a prepared message for Raymond Jr.

Annie’s sister speaks first, reciting a Langston Hughes poem called “Dream.” Then it is Ben’s turn. He clears his throat and gazes lovingly at the baby. I feel Richard’s hand on my back as I look down at my new shoes and listen to Ben say in a loud, clear voice, “Raymond, I am so happy and proud to be your godfather. My wish and prayer for you is that you will be a person of character and integrity That you will be strong yet gentle That you will be honest yet forgiving That you will be righteous but not self-righteous That you will always follow your heart and do good and beautiful things in the world. Amen.”

I feel a wave of devastating sadness as I consider what a wonderful father Ben will be. How lucky his son or daughter will be. How glad and grateful another woman will someday be that I felt the way I did about having children. Don’t look at him , I tell myself. But I do anyway. I can’t help it. And maybe it’s my imagination, but as I study Ben’s face, I am pretty sure he is just as sad as I am.

“I should never have brought Richard to that party,” I say to Jess after I’ve returned home and given her the full rundown.

“I’m sorry,” Jess says. “But if it helps, I still think you did the right thing.”

“How do you figure?” I say, unbuckling the ankle straps of my beautiful Manolos that I’m almost positive Ben failed to notice.

“Because,” she says, “you showed him you moved on.”

“But he hates me now.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“You didn’t see the look he gave me. He hates me.”

“So he hates you. So what?”

“I don’t want him to hate me.”

“Yeah, you do. You want him to care enough about you to hate you. If he had sat there at the party yucking it up with Richard, you’d be feeling worse right now.”

I grant her the point, but then say, “I feel like such a jerk for doing that to him.”

“Claudia, you brought your boyfriend to a party. Big fucking deal. You know Ben’s dating, too.”

I twist my opal ring around my finger and sigh. “I don’t like hurting his feelings. I feel as if I did it deliberately. I don’t think he would have done that to me.”

“Look. It’s not like you left him for Richard. He left you . He left you hoping that he’ll meet another woman so that he can get her pregnant and have a family. Keep that straight in your head.”

I nod. She’s right.

“So no more feeling guilty,” she says. “Okay?”

I nod again, thinking that that is way easier said than done. And I’m beginning to see that I might be feeling guilty for more than bringing a man to a party.

eighteen

Jess is three days late getting her period and is vacillating between panic and jubilation. I know all about Jess’s pregnancy “scares.” She’s probably had about a hundred since I’ve known her. In fact, one of the first conversations we ever had was in the bathroom on our freshman hall. She emerged from a stall, pumping her fist, announcing, “I got my period!” I laughed and told her congratulations, feeling in awe of a girl who would be so open with a virtual stranger.

Jess has mostly been on the pill since that incident at Princeton, but she consistently forgets to take it. She’ll look down at her packet of pills and exclaim, “Shit! What’s today? Wednesday?” and notice that the last white pill to be poked through foil is marked “Sunday.” At this point, she typically swallows three down at once. I always tell her the same thing: Take the thing at the same time every day. Put it by your toothbrush. Leave a note on your mirror .

But she doesn’t. Or won’t. Instead, she carries the pills around in her purse, forgetting to switch them with her choice of handbag. Then there are the times when she fails to fill the prescription altogether. Or the times when she is, in her words, “giving her body a break.”

I think subconsciously, or maybe even consciously, Jess enjoys the drama. There is no other explanation for why such an intelligent woman would behave so haphazardly. She must thrive on our conversations about what she (we) will do if, this time, she really is pregnant. Will she have it? Will she get an abortion? Will she have it and put it up for adoption? The answer changes according to the guy, the time in her life, the wind.

Although I must say, this time seems different. This time Jess really wants the baby. Or maybe she just wants Trey. She continues to dance around a full-on confession, but all facts indicate that Jess tried to get pregnant. She apparently “forgot” to tell Trey that she hadn’t renewed her pill prescription. And she’s “pretty sure” that she had sex with him on day fifteen of her twenty-nine-day cycle.

I can tell that she believes that Trey will be with her if she’s pregnant with his baby. I, on the other hand, am absolutely certain that Trey is going nowhere. He will not leave his wife. Nor will he even tell his wife. In fact, knowing Jess’s luck (although it’s hard to use the word luck when someone is utterly self-destructive), it would turn out that Trey’s wife is pregnant also. I can just imagine the two babies being born in the same month. Maybe even on the same day. They will grow up on separate coasts with no knowledge of the other. Or at least Trey’s legitimate son will have no knowledge of his father’s illegitimate daughter. Jess likely will tell her daughter the truth about everything at a suitable age (an age we will debate for years). Then the two offspring will attend the same college and meet in their freshman composition class. He will fall in love with her, at which time she will be forced to tell him the truth about their father.

None of it would surprise me. Nothing ever surprises me when it comes to Jess.

On the third night of Jess’s missed period, we go get sushi at Koi, a restaurant on Second Avenue near her apartment, even though it is Friday night, and we both had planned to go to separate parties. I’m too tired, and Jess says she has no interest in partying when she can’t drink.

“C’mon, Jess. Do you really think you’re pregnant?” I say, as I break apart my chopsticks.

Jess rattles off her symptoms. She says she’s been exhausted and bloated. She says her boobs feel heavy and sore. She says she can just tell. She knows.

I look at her, thinking I’ve heard it all before. I say, “First, you know that those are also premenstrual symptoms. Second, you are a hypochondriac who wants to be pregnant. You’re going to feel things.”

“I’m not a hypochondriac,” Jess says indignantly.

“Yeah, you are,” I say. “How about the time we went camping and you just knew that you had Lyme disease? You actually joined an online support group for victims!”

“Yeah. I had all the symptoms,” she says. “That was so weird.”

“You thought you had all the symptoms.”

She dabs her napkin to her lips and says, “Well. I think we should get a test after dinner.”

I sigh and say, “How many dollars do you think you’ve spent on those tests?”

“I’m telling you. This time feels different.”

“Okay,” I say. “So tell me. What will you do if you’re pregnant and Trey still won’t leave his wife?”

“He will.”

“But what if he doesn’t?”

“I’d still have the baby,” she says as she dips a California roll in soy sauce. She has already announced that she is staying away from raw fish. Just in case. “I’d just be a single mother. Lots of people do it.”

“Would you keep working full-time?”

“Of course. I love my job.”

“So you’d get a nanny?”

“Or two,” she says.

I almost say, “What’s the point of having a kid then?” but something stops me. Something that tells me that the last thing I should be doing is judging another woman’s decision with respect to the subject of children.

On our walk home, Jess ducks into a bodega and buys a pregnancy test. She scans the back of the box and informs me that she will wait until the morning because results are more accurate then. I look at her skeptically, knowing that there is literally no way that she will resist testing tonight. In fact, I’m putting the over-under at about an hour upon our return.

I start to think that I might be wrong when I hear Jess on the phone, spewing investment-banking jargon. Something about discount rates and exit multiples. She might as well be speaking Portuguese as far as I’m concerned. Then I hear her say, “Look, Schroder. This isn’t rocket science. If you want rocket science go work for NASA. Now. Just get me the presentation by tomorrow morning and get it to me in a fucking font big enough for that geriatric board of directors to read!”

I smile and tell myself that there’s no way Jess is pregnant. Despite all her wishes for a baby, I just can’t fathom it. At least not right now.

But minutes later, she bursts into my room, plastic stick in hand. I sit on my bed and try to catch my breath.