Ben calls me twice that night.
The first is when I am still at the pet store, gazing at those goldfish and wondering who the hell thinks that fish make good pets. Then he calls again just after I’ve returned to Jess’s apartment, showered, and dumped two manuscripts and a sharpened red pencil onto the kitchen table. Both times, I feel too sad and queasy to answer. I never fancied myself irreplaceable. I mean, our divorce is proof that I am totally replaceable. But I really didn’t think Ben would be out there so soon, meeting women already, as if he is up against some male biological clock. And whether Tucker is just a friend or his actual girlfriend or someone he’s sleeping with or someone he aspires to sleep with or his second wife or the mother of his future children isn’t the point. Tucker actually is entirely beside the point.
The point is, Ben is moving on and I am not. Instead, I’m trekking up to his apartment with some half-baked inquiry about a purported fear. A total, transparent, pathetic excuse. The kind of thing I would rip Jess apart for. All of this not only confirms that I’m taking the divorce harder than he is, but now I also know that Ben knows that I am taking the divorce harder than he is. And this part probably sucks the most.
I try to concentrate on my work, but my mind keeps returning to Tucker. I remember Ben’s introduction and say her name aloud: “Tucker Jansen.” Then, against my better judgment, I slowly get up from the table and make my way to Jess’s computer, set up in a corner of her bedroom. My heart is pounding as I log on to Google and prepare to do a search of my ex-husband’s new friend. I put Tucker Jansen in quotes, just as Jess taught me to do. Jess is a masterful cyberspace stalker. She has found numerous ex-boyfriends online. Wedding gift registries on theknot.com are her bread and butter. She pores over the selections, recruiting me to help rip on her ex’s fianc?‘s taste. (“Have you ever seen such a hideous china pattern?”) She has also found houses on domania.com (“Jack’s doing well, he just bought a five-bedroom chateau in Greenwich.”) and baby registries on Amazon.com (“Brad’s wife is due on April fifth. They don’t know the gender because they only registered for yellow things.”).
But my favorite of her hits was when she found one ex on an obscure cooking Web site. She read details about his upcoming dinner party for twelve, which happened to be planned on her birthday, shortly after their breakup. It just added insult to injury to read his chipper online chat about how to make venison taste less gamey with a milk marinade. Of course she couldn’t resist posting an anonymous response: “Who the hell serves venison at a dinner party? And if you want it to be less gamey, skip the milk marinade and just go with steak.”
I hesitate for a moment, worried about what I will find on Tucker. Then I close my eyes and hit return. I am beyond relieved when I open my eyes and discover that Ben’s new friend does not exist on the Internet. Clearly she is too young to have accomplished much of anything. To reinforce the point, I do a search of myself. I feel an enormous sense of satisfaction when my name retrieves four hundred and thirty hits, including articles in Publishers Weekly , mentions on author Web sites, and quotes from various conferences and speaking engagements. I scan some of the articles and start to feel the tiniest bit better. Tucker needs a baby to give her life some meaning. I do not.
I log off and return to the kitchen table, determined to get some work done. I tell myself not to listen to Ben’s messages. It was bad enough that I Googled his (girl)friend. But after twenty minutes of rereading the same paragraph, I cave and dial my voice mail. In his first message Ben is all business. He simply says, “Claudia. It’s Ben. Please call me when you get this.”
In his second message, he says virtually the same thing, word for word, but then he pauses for several seconds and says, “It was great to see you It really was.”
His really is so sincere and has something of a desperate edge, an edge you could only detect if you know someone well. I listen to the message again and can’t stop myself from dialing his cell even though I know he could be reunited with Tucker by now. I figure I’ve already blown my pride for the day. Besides, he asked me to call him. Blowing him off might appear more pathetic. Like I’m too wounded or angry to talk.
Ben answers on the fourth ring, and before I can say hello, he says my name, sweetly and softly: Claudia . I shiver, but quickly tell myself not to get sentimental. There is no point.
“Hi, Ben,” I say, careful to keep my voice even. “Look. I’m really sorry to drop in on you like that. I didn’t mean to interrupt”
“You didn’t interrupt anything,” he says quickly.
I laugh, as if to say, I sure did interrupt something .
“Tucker’s just a friend,” he says.