“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 entrees 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.”