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 glass 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?”
Shit , 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! cocktail 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. Hell, 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.”