The Men I Didn't Marry

by Janice Kaplan

  Still I think I’m having a very original response. I haven’t eaten a single pint of Ben & Jerry’s or watched even one Meg Ryan movie. Instead, I roll onto my back again and this time stretch out both arms into the spot of light. I’m discovering new talents. Now the shadow bunny is jumping over a fence.

  Emily snaps me out of it.

  “Mom, I just called your office and they said you’re still out,” she says when she calls the next morning. “What’s going on?”

  I take a deep breath. “Emily, I have something to tell you.” That phrase again. Is she old enough to know that it means bad news?

  Apparently she’s old enough to know a lot more than that because Emily quickly says, “You don’t have to tell me anything. I know Daddy left you. Adam told me. Daddy told him. And told him not to tell, but he told.”

  Hmm. So Emily not only knows the situation, I think she even got all the tenses right. But then it occurs to me to wonder why she doesn’t sound upset. I’d expect Emily at least to shed a tear about our wonderful little family breaking apart.

  But before I can ask her how she’s really feeling about all this, Emily charges on. “I’m still not clear on why you’re lying around moping. Dad’s just a guy. Your life’s not over.”

  “Emily, are you nuts? This is your father. What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying exactly what you said when Paco dumped me. Life goes on. A lot of fish in the sea.”

  Sure, but I’m not such great bait anymore. And that’s beside the point. Comparing Bill to Paco, that tattooed, earring-wearing, no-good creep who dumped Emily a week before the junior prom and never should have been allowed within fifty feet of my perfect, precious daughter anyway?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” says Emily, who seems to know everything—unlike most teenagers who only think they do. “Paco was a three-week boyfriend and you’ve been married forever. It sucks. I agree. But you’ve always been my role model, Mom. You make things happen. You can get on with your life without Bill.”

  “Bill?” I ask quizzically, wondering when her darling daddy became “Bill.”

  “I think it’ll be helpful if we both think of him as just another guy,” says Emily efficiently. “Perhaps it would be even better if we called him William. More detached.”

  I have a feeling Emily signed up for that post-modern feminism class after all. But I have to admit she makes a lot of sense. William. I roll the name around on my tongue. William. William and Ashlee. ASHLEEEEE. Emily’s right, this has to stop.

  I’m admiring my daughter’s insight and maturity when I suddenly hear muffled sobs.

  “Hang on a sec, Mom,” she says, her voice cracking.

  “Em, are you okay?” I ask.

  All I hear is the loud honking of Emily blowing her nose, and I know she’s in tears. So that’s it. She does realize the gravity of the situation and even though she’s trying to be tough, she’s hurting. I wish I could throw my arms around her and make her feel better. A hug would make me feel better, too.

  “Sorry, Mom,” Emily says shakily when she gets back on the phone. “I want to be an adult about you and daddy, but I hate what’s happening. And I don’t get it. You two never even fight.”

  “Honey, you’re right. Who knows why this happened? But don’t for one minute think you have to act like an adult. Even the grown-ups aren’t acting like adults.”

  “Then who’s coming up for Parents’ Day?” Emily asks in a small voice. She’s worried about what this will do to her life and I don’t blame her.

  “You’ll always have two parents who love you. We’ll both always be there for you,” I say, giving the by-the-book answer. Then drifting from the page, I add, “Even though your father’s acting like an asshole.”

  Emily laughs. “You’re not supposed to say that to me,” she says, recovering a little of her previous bravado. “But it’s okay. I know how miserable you must be feeling.”

  “It hasn’t been so bad. My appendectomy two years ago was more painful.” Though at least they gave me Vicodin for the surgery.

  “Good for you, Mom,” says Emily, a little too upbeat herself. In fact, she sounds suspiciously like the cheerleaders she scorned in high school. “And you know what you should do? What will really make you feel better?”

  “What?”

  “Take a hike.”

  “A hike?”

  “Get out of bed. Get your blood moving. You’re not a wimp. You are woman,” says Emily.

  Yes, I am woman. A woman all by herself. A woman whose husband has just left her. A woman who can’t find her goddamn Timberlands. I rummage through the closet a second time. Wait a minute. I’m a woman who doesn’t even have goddamn Timberlands. Maybe that’s why Bill left me. I burst into tears again.

  But, no, I can make do. That’s what my life is about now—making do. I have running shoes, tennis sneakers, cross-trainers, boots, slippers, slip-ons, high-heeled pumps for the office, low-heeled pumps for court, and stilettos that I wore exactly twice. I should be able to get up a hill in one of these.

  I lace on my sturdiest pair of Nikes and throw some snacks and water bottles into a backpack, grateful to have a plan. But where am I going? Ah, yes—a metaphor for my life. I can go anywhere I want. I just don’t know where that is or how to get there.

  “You’re out of bed!” says a voice behind me.

  I yelp in surprise and spin around, my hand over my chest. Then I see my best friend, Bellini Baxter, standing in my bedroom doorway.

  “You almost gave me a heart attack,” I say.

  “That’s progress,” says Bellini. “Heart attack’s better than heartache.”

  “It is?”

  She plops down on my bed and nods definitively. “For heartache, you get only me in your bedroom. Heart attack, all those cute paramedics come in, strip you down, and massage your chest.” She reaches for the phone. “Want me to call them?”

  I shake my head and laugh. That’s Bellini. Always thinking. She’s the only friend I’ve told about Bill—because, unlike my sanctimonious married pals, she’s single and has a profound understanding of men. From her vast experience, she’s convinced that they’re untrustworthy, unreliable, devious, and deviant. But the only game in town.

  “I brought you something to make you feel better,” says Bellini, opening a shopping bag she’s dragged in from the Bendel’s store on Fifth Avenue, where she’s the head accessories buyer.

  I met Bellini when she first came to New York from Ohio, fresh from being a salesgirl at the Cincinnati Kmart, and landed a job as a temp in our law office. Back then, she was still Mary Jane Baxter, but determined to give up her small-town ways and seem more sophisticated, she changed her name. Going for a Sex and the City vibe, she thought about calling herself “Cosmopolitan,” after the show’s chic cocktail. But she worried that’s what mothers everywhere would be christening their babies, so she went for her own favorite drink, Bellini—the nouveau mix of pureed peach and sparkling wine. How the world changes. It used to be that parents named their children after the month they were conceived—April or May. Then it was where they were conceived—hello, Paris Hilton. Now it’s what they were drinking that fateful night in bed.

  In the office, answering phones and filing weren’t Bellini’s strengths, but she showed an early flair for accessories. She supplied our office with colorful paper clips, and we were the first law office in Manhattan to replace our black Swingline staplers with pastel rubber designs from the Museum of Modern Art. When she quit to take the coveted Bendel’s job, we remained good friends, and the office thankfully abandoned the Bellini-selected pale purple legal pads and reverted to standard yellow.

  “What have you got in there?” I ask.

  “A Judith Lieber minaudière to make you feel better,” she says proudly, pulling out a glittery jewel-encrusted pocketbook in the shape of a frog. “Anybody can comfort you with apple pie or Valium.”

  I take it from her, pleased. “This is really for me?�
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  “Well, it’s on loan,” she says. “Nine thousand dollars retail. But keep it as long as you want. It’s insured.”

  “Last time you lent me an evening purse I wore it to go to a formal dinner dance at the Plaza with Bill,” I say, tears springing to my eyes.

  She snatches back the gift. “Whoops, my mistake. Sorry, sweetie. I came over to cheer you up, not make you think about the creep.” She rifles through a second bag. “Here. Try these. Chanel sunglasses. I love the shape and Coco’s an inspiration to single women everywhere. Her lover dumped her—and she went on to create her zillion-dollar company.”

  I slip on the oversize tortoiseshell frames.

  “Perfect,” I say. “I don’t know if they’ll help me build an empire, but at least they’ll hide my puffy eyes.”

  Bellini comes over and puts her arms around me. “No more crying,” she says, taking a wisp of my hair and tucking it behind my ear. “You’re perfect. This isn’t your fault.”

  “Of course it’s my fault,” I say. “I’ve been replaying every second of our marriage again and again and again. Did I pay too much attention to Bill—or not enough? Did I plan too many evenings out, or too many at home? Did he hate my new perfume?”

  “None of the above,” says Bellini sympathetically. “You’re a great wife.”

  “Then why did Bill turn out to be such a rat?”

  “Not a rat, a vole. And, unfortunately, the wrong kind of vole,” Bellini says firmly. “I read about it in The New York Times. Prairie voles are dependable mates. But if researchers tinker with just one gene, they become promiscuous—like meadow voles.”

  “So I got the guy whose genes gave him blue eyes and an eye for Ashlee?”

  “Something like that. This is where we should be spending our research dollars. If scientists can genetically engineer voles and fruit flies, how hard could it be to change a man?”

  “Very,” I say dispiritedly.

  Bellini sighs. “You’re right. I guess all you can do now is go out and look for a prairie vole.” Then she gives me a once-over, taking in my Nikes and shorts and thrown-together hiking gear. “From the looks of it, that’s what you were planning before I even came in.”

  “A hike,” I tell her. “Emily thought it would be a good idea. Get my blood pumping and get me out of the house.”

  “Smart girl that Emily. I came over to drag you out of the house, too.” Then she pauses and grits her teeth. “You know I’d do anything for you. Anything. Do you want me to come with you on the hike?”

  I’m genuinely touched. Coming from Bellini, an offer to go into the great outdoors for anything but a clambake in the Hamptons is friendship beyond the call.

  “Your Manolos won’t make it up the mountain. But I love you for asking. And for coming over.” I give her a kiss on the cheek, and then it occurs to me. “By the way, how did you get inside the house?”

  Bellini grins. “You’d already told me not to come over and I knew you’d disconnected the bell. But I had to make sure you were okay, so I found your key inside the second black umbrella hanging from the metal coatrack on the left side of the mudroom.” She winks at me. “Easy enough. That’s where everybody hides one.”

  Encouraged by Bellini’s visit, I realize that I do know where I’m going after all. At least for this afternoon. I remember that Bill used to take the kids on day hikes, and the name of their favorite spot pops into my head. I type it into the GPS in my car. An hour later, I’m at the appealing little town of Cold Spring, which is packed with cute stores selling everything from silly knickknacks to serious antiques. I think about stopping to see if the jewelry’s any better than on QVC. But, no, Emily won’t count shopping as an aerobic activity. I drive on to the base of Taurus, just a couple of miles outside of town. I have a mountain to climb.

  I get out of the car, do a few quick stretches, and put on my new Chanel sunglasses. I’m so chic that I might actually attract a vole out here in the wilderness. Prairie or meadow? I’d be afraid to take a new one home before I did a DNA test.

  The sky is blue and through the cover of trees, the sun dapples the trail in front of me. It’s incredibly peaceful. Nobody’s around except me and two birds fluttering by, which are probably sparrows. Hawks? For all I know, they’re penguins. Next time I sign up for something, it’ll be the Audubon Society instead of the Duane Reade Rewards Program.

  The hill is a little steep, but I’m not even panting. I’m in better shape than I think. I take a deep breath of the pine-scented air, which smells better than the sixty-dollar Diptyque candles I usually place around the living room. I think I’m getting the hang of this hiking thing. It’s not so hard. In fact, those much-heralded exercise-induced endorphins must be coursing through my body, since I’m feeling almost heady. I take a swig from my water bottle, pick up my pace, and stride more determinedly. Hey, maybe I should be an Outward Bound leader. That could be the way I start my new husband-free life—as a strong, independent, mountain-climbing woman. Kilimanjaro, here I come. Everest is too clichéd.

  My ascent is steady and, in just a few minutes, I seem to be at the top. I should have brought a flag to plant. Smugly I take in the panoramic view of craggy rock cliffs and verdant mountains. This wide field must be where I get to sit and eat my lunch. But I’m confused. A seven-minute climb is what Bill and the kids bragged about? I start to take off my backpack to lie in the sun when a few feet away from me, I notice a wooden sign that says “Trailhead to Taurus”—and has an arrow pointing to a serious path on a steeper hill. So this little climb was only the prehike hike. How Zen. Just when you think you’ve arrived, you realize you’ve only made it to the starting point.

  I retie my sneakers, adjust the straps on my backpack and set out full of energy and determination. I quickly realize that I’m supposed to follow yellow markers on the trees. For the first few minutes of my trek, the path is well-worn, and even though the blazes on the trees are farther apart than I’d like, I’m not worried. But as I get deeper into the woods, the trail becomes more overgrown, and the dense canopy of autumn leaves obscures whatever yellow signposts might be ahead. I stop for a minute and look around, trying to get my bearings. Aha. There’s a yellow swatch now. Heading off again, I plunge through some prickly thick vegetation and just barely manage to make my way through a mass of brambles. Am I the only person who’s ever gotten this far? I struggle on for fifty yards and when I finally look up again, the yellow marker has disappeared and I’m standing under an oak tree whose leaves have just started to change. To yellow, goddamn it.

  I’m not going to panic. I just have to get back on the trail. But the more I try, the farther away from it I seem to wander. Still, this isn’t exactly the Lewis and Clark expedition. I dig into the pocket of my jeans and pull out my cell phone to call 911. I don’t know how to pinpoint where I am, but surely the rescue squad will be able to find me. I flip open my high-tech, Internet-connecting, game-playing, video-streaming, picture-snapping phone, and confront a very low-tech message: NO SERVICE. Helpfully, however, the camera still seems to be working. At least I can photograph my last hour alive on earth.

  No, I have to be realistic. I have water with me, plus two granola bars and a cheese sandwich. And given the number of Oreos I’ve eaten lately, I could live off my body fat for the next four months. Cheered that my chubby thighs could be lifesavers, I keep walking, and twenty minutes later I’m at another tree whose leaves are changing to yellow— though, for all I know, it’s the same tree and I’ve just walked in a circle. If I ever get out of here, I’m moving to Manhattan. At least the whole place is on a grid. Nobody ever got lost walking from 62nd Street to 66th.

  I’m getting tired and bend down to get myself a walking stick. I reach for a long branch lying on a pile of leaves and plant it firmly in front of me. Just the right height. This will help. But as I keep walking, my hand starts to feely itchy, and I look down to see that I have measles. I look closer. Shit! Even measles would be better than what’s real
ly on my arm—bright red creepy-crawly ants. They’re feasting on my flesh and moving at warp speed up my elbow.

  I jerk back, giving a loud yelp and throwing the stick over my shoulder. Suddenly, I’m under attack from a new, bigger, more aggressive enemy. The stick has apparently hit a hornet’s nest and the hive’s inhabitants are on the warpath. As they attack my face, I scream at the top of my lungs, but the angry hornets don’t care. I stamp my feet and spin around, trying to swat them away, but they get madder and sting more vehemently.

  “Help! Help!” I scream. I charge away, running blindly through the woods until my foot catches on a rock and I go sprawling, facedown, into a trickling stream. I lie there for a moment, trying to catch my breath. This is the part in the movie where Sam Shepard is supposed to swagger along and rescue me. I lift my head, but Sam must have missed his cue. At least the hornets are gone and the cool silty water feels soothing against my burning stings. Really good. I pat some of the muddy muck against the swollen bites on my face and then, just for good measure, I slather some on my neck and arms. If only I had a jar I’d take the stuff home and save the thirty-seven bucks I usually spend on that celebrated Mud Mask from the Dead Sea. It’s probably the same basic formula, anyway. All I’d have to do is add some kosher salt.

  I feel around for my foot, which apparently is still attached to my body. But my ankle is swelling. I don’t think I broke it, but it’s certainly sprained. Between my face and my foot, I’m practically a one-woman medical experiment. Maybe the Mayo Clinic is researching it right now: “Hornet Bites or Clumsy Fall—Which Causes More Extreme Swelling?” But I need to look on the bright side. With all my other body parts blown out of proportion, at least my waist will look thin.

  I’m glad Emily can’t see me right now. But I do hope she gets to see me again. I have to get myself out of here. I run my fingers through the stream, and then it occurs to me: I may not be Nature Girl, but a stream always runs downhill—and downhill should lead me toward the base of the mountain and my blessed car. Half-walking, half-crawling, I start to follow the stream. I’m achy, I’m miserable, but I don’t have a lot of choice. Maybe singing camp songs will help. I warble “Frère Jacques” in both French and English, but have a little trouble making the rounds sound right all by myself. I kick into “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” and for the first time ever, I actually make it all the way down to two.