I tell her that she can do whatever she wants, but I don’t want to hear the details of their conversation, which will likely revolve around how much both of them want babies. (In point of fact, Daphne actually started this conversation with the report that she got her period; I think I know Daphne’s menstrual cycle better than I know my own.) “Has his family contacted you?” she asks.
I tell her no. It occurs to me that this should hurt my feelings, but for some reason it doesn’t. I think Ben’s family respected me and liked me, but I never sensed real warmth between us. So their silence now is not a big surprise. And I think to truly get your feelings hurt, something has to come as a surprise. (Maybe this is why I’m immune to my own mother’s actions.) I’m sure Ben’s mother will send me a note at some point on her formal, monogrammed stationery. She’s probably just reviewing her Anne Landers clippings for what exactly one should say to one’s ex-daughter-in-law. Unless she’s too busy getting started on her quilt for Ben’s firstborn, that is.
The following Saturday afternoon I am traipsing across the Brooklyn Bridge with Michael in a throng of walkers, runners, and bikers, as he swears to me how therapeutic the view will be at the halfway point. We are here because yesterday at work I confessed that I was a little bit depressed. He stood across from my desk and said, “Of course you are. It would be weird if you weren’t depressed.”
Then he said he had an idea of something that might cheer me up, did I have plans for the next afternoon? I told him no, when you shift from married to divorced as abruptly as I have, it tends to do a number on your weekends. I told him that Jess and I had planned on making it out to the Hamptons, but she had a last-minute “business trip” (which is really a boondoggle to see Trey). Michael told me to be at his place in Alphabet City at ten. I sensed that it was a pity-invite but decided not to let pride get in the way of a good time. And Michael is always a good time.
So this morning, we met near his apartment, and now here we are on the Brooklyn Bridge pedestrian walkway. It is a hot June day, hotter than June usually gets in New York and it’s made even warmer by the sunlight reflecting off all the steel. Our pace is sluggish, and people pass us on both sides.
I keep thinking of how this is my first summer without Ben in a very long time. My first change of season without him. I haven’t spoken to him at all in almost two months. Our divorce is final, the papers came in the mail a few days earlier, arriving without ceremony or fanfare. I filed them along with my birth certificate and social security card in a green hanging file marked important documents. And that was that.
I am thinking of the word ex-husband now, how both sad and oddly sophisticated it sounds, while Michael is saying something about the bridge’s foundation being made of wood.
“You’d think the wood would rot and decay, wouldn’t you?” Michael says.
“Yeah,” I say. “But Venice is built on wood and it’s a hell of a lot older than this.”
“Good point,” he says. “Maybe the bacteria that rots wood needs air to live?”
“I dunno,” I say.
Ex-husband. Ex-husband. Ex-husband.
“So you’ve crossed this bridge before?” I ask Michael.
“Yeah. A few times including a few days after September eleventh. It really gives you a sense of perspective. You’ll see what I mean,” he says. “It’s the urban equivalent of going on a hike. Very peaceful.”
I look ahead at the stone Gothic towers and backdrop of cobalt-blue sky, crisscrossed by a lacework of suspension cables. It creates an awesome visual effect, but I still tell Michael that I’ve always put the Brooklyn Bridge on par with the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building.
“New York landmarks are typically better on a postcard. Or from above on an airplane,” I say, swerving to avoid full-body contact with an obese, wheezing man in a Derek Jeter jersey. “Away from the grime and crowds.”
Michael smiles knowingly. “You can be a bit of an elitist, you know.”
“I’m hardly an elitist,” I say.
“Well, with comments like that one, I’d say you’re certainly not down with the people,” he says. I can tell he’s mentally preparing his checklist of examples. Most people can’t think of examples in the clutch, but Michael can always conjure up a good set of facts to use against you.
“I’m down with the people,” I say.
Sure enough, he says, “Nuh-uh. You don’t like amusement parks. You don’t like fans who wave those big Styrofoam fingers at Knicks games. You wouldn’t be caught dead in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.”
“Neither would you,” I say. “Name someone we know who would?”
He holds his hand up and walks at a faster clip. “And,” he says, signaling his grand finale, “you hated Titanic . For God’s sake, I don’t know another chick who hated Titanic . It’s practically un-American to hate Titanic .”
“I didn’t hate it,” I say, thinking of the Oscars from years ago. “I just didn’t think it was best-picture material.”
“You’re not down with the people,” he says again.
I think for a second and then say, “I take the subway. You can’t get much more down with the people than that.”
“Mere convenience.”