Baby proof

'Not now,' I say. 'And not ever.'

Ben shoots me a frosty look. Then he shakes his head, rolls away from me, and says into his pillow, 'Fine, Claudia. I think I'm all clear now.'

The following morning we get ready for work in silence. Ben departs first, without kissing me good-bye. Then he refuses to return any of my messages during the day. I'm so distraught that I cancel an important lunch with a high-profile agent, and then I'm short with one of my sweetest, most diligent authors on the phone for being late delivering a manuscript.

'You do realize that if you don't get this to us soon, there will be absolutely no way we'll be able to get bound galleys out to reviewers, right?' I say, hating the strident tone in my voice.

One of the things I pride myself on at work is that I never take things out on people-not my assistant, nor authors. I hate people who let their personal life bleed into their profession, and I think to myself that if even the mere conversation about children impacts my job, I can't imagine the carryover if I actually had one.

That night, I reread a manuscript and realize I don't adore it as much as I did when I first bought it. It is a quirky love story-and I can't help but wonder if my change of heart has to do with what's happening in my marriage. I panic to think that this is the case. I desperately don't want to change. I don't want my life to change. I fall asleep on the couch, worrying and waiting for Ben to come home. At some point, I hear him stumble into our apartment and can feel him standing over the couch. I open my eyes and look at him. His hair is mussed, and he smells of bourbon and cigarettes, but he still looks hot. I have a sudden, crazy urge to just pull him down on top of me and make out with him. Cigarette breath and all.

'Hi,' he says, somehow managing to slur a two-letter word.

'Where have you been?' I say softly. Out.

'What time is it?'

'Two-somethin'.'

Then he makes some crack. Something about wanting to reap the benefits of a childless life. I notice that he used the word childless and not our old term-childfree. I am suddenly angry again.

'Real mature, Ben,' I say as I get up and walk toward the bathroom. 'Get wasted when the chips are down. Solid move for someone who thinks he'd make a swell dad.'

It is a harsh, unfair thing to say. Ben is anything but irresponsible. But I don't take anything back. I just let the words hang in the air between us.

Ben's eyes narrow. Then he clears his throat and says, 'Fuck you, Claudia.'

'No, fuck you, Ben,' I say, moving past him and slamming the bathroom door behind me. My hands shake as I unscrew the toothpaste cap.

As I brush my teeth, I replay our exchange. It is a first. We never say things like that to each other. Although we've had heated arguments, we never resort to name-calling or swearing. We've always felt superior to couples who engage in that sort of battle. So our fuck yous become an instant symbol of our impasse-and of our impending split. It may sound melodramatic to hinge a breakup on a couple of harsh words, but I can't help feeling that this is our point of no return.

I spit out a mouthful of toothpaste, wondering what I should do next. It must be something significant, something more significant than sleeping on the couch. I have to mention the word divorce or leave our home altogether. I round the corner to our bedroom, fumbling in the closet for my largest suitcase. I can feel Ben watching me as I haphazardly shove clothing into it. T-shirts, underwear, jeans, and a couple of work outfits. As I frantically pack, I feel as if I am watching myself in the role of angry wife.

At some point, I change my mind. I don't want to leave my apartment in the middle of the night. But I have too much pride to reverse direction. It feels utterly foolish to pack up a bag and then stay. It's like hanging up on someone in a self-righteous huff and then being the one to instantly call back. You just can't do that. So I calmly walk to the door, suitcase in hand, hoping Ben will try to stop me. I bend down, holding my breath as I put on my sneakers, double-knotting my laces, stalling to give him a few more seconds, time to formulate an apology. I want him to kneel before me, take everything back, tell me how much he loves me. Just as I am.

Instead, he says, cold as ice, 'Good-bye, Claudia.' I look into his eyes and know that the end has come. So I have no real choice but to stand up, open the door, and leave.

four

The sole benefit of leaving your husband in the small hours of the morning is that it only takes a nanosecond to get a cab. In fact, I have my choice of two, both converging upon me at the corner of Seventy-third and Columbus. The cabbies undoubtedly spot my suitcase and think that they're getting a good airport fare, so as I climb into one, I say, 'Hi, there. Sorry. I'm only going to lower Fifth.' Then I blurt out, 'I just had a big fight with my husband. I think we're getting a divorce.'

It has always amused Ben how much I chat with cab drivers. He says it is a very touristy thing to do, and that it is unlike me to be so candid with strangers. He's right on both counts, but for some reason, I can't help myself in a taxi.

My driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. I can only see his eyes, which is unfortunate, because I have always thought a person's mouth reveals more of what he's thinking. The driver either doesn't have a firm grasp of English or he is colossally deficient in the empathy department, because he says nothing except, 'Where on Fifth?'

'Twelfth. East side,' I say, as my eyes drift down to read his name on the seatback. It is Mohammed Muhammed. I have to fight back tears as I think of how Ben once told me, on about our fourth date, that getting a cabbie named Mohammed or Muhammed, whether as a first or last name, is akin to a coin toss, a fifty-fifty proposition. Obviously it was a gross exaggeration, but ever since that night, we always check the medallion, and smile when we get a hit. It seems to happen at least once a week, but this is my first-ever double. I suddenly have the strongest urge to turn around and go home. Touch Ben's face, kiss his cheekbones and eyelids, and tell him that surely this man's medallion is a sign that we must fix things, somehow move forward together.

Instead, I rifle through my purse for my phone so that I can let Jess know that I'm on my way over. I remember that I left it in its charger in the kitchen. I whisper shit, realizing that she might not hear her doorman buzzing her. This could be a problem because Jess is a very sound sleeper. I fleetingly consider heading straight for a midtown hotel, but I'm afraid I'll completely fall apart if I'm alone. So I stay on course.

Fortunately, Jess hears her buzzer, and within minutes of being dropped off, I am curled up on her couch, rehashing my fight with Ben while she makes us cinnamon toast and a big pot of coffee-the extent of her expertise (and mine) in the kitchen. She brings us each a cup, mine black, hers loaded with sugar, and says that it is time for a serious talk.

Then she hesitates before adding, 'And the topic of this conversation is 'Why Claudia doesn't want kids'?' She shoots me a sheepish look.

'Aw, c'mon. Not you, too,' I say.

She nods like a stern schoolteacher and says, 'I just want to review your reasons.'

'You already know my reasons.'

'Well, I want to hear them again. Pretend I'm your therapist.' She sits up straight, crosses her legs, and holds her mug with pinky and thumb out, Kelly Ripa-style. 'And this is our first session.'

'So now I need to see a therapist just because I don't want kids?' I feel myself slipping into my defensive mode, an all too familiar emotion lately.

Jess shakes her head. 'No. Not because you don't want kids. But because your marriage is in trouble. Now. Let's go. Your reasons, ma'am?'

'Why do I need to have reasons'? When someone decides to have a baby, people