The Men I Didn't Marry

by Janice Kaplan

  Am I reading something into this? Sounds to me like he’s saying that the goal of enlightenment is better orgasms. If the Sunday school pastor when I was growing up gave sermons like this, I might have spent more time in church.

  A man in the middle of the room must think he’s at a presidential news conference because he raises a finger and says, “Follow-up question, Rav?”

  I nervously look at my watch. These people may be trying to get in touch with their inner peace, but I’ve been trying for weeks now to get in touch with Barry. The vow of silence must extend to the telephone. We’ve used up six minutes on just this one question. Only four more minutes and we’re back to charades.

  The follow-up query seems to take forever, and Rav Jon Yoma Maharishi’s answer even longer. Now the tension in the room is palpable. With time running out, all the om-ing can’t stop the anxiety from rising as people try to get in their questions.

  “Is there a quick way to the bliss of Self-Discovery?” someone asks.

  “Can you outline the top three tools for hopping on a spiritual path?” asks a man. He’s clearly a corporate executive expecting to find the answer to life in a PowerPoint presentation.

  Before Barry can answer, another exec-type shoots out, “Do you have a program for people who only have weekends to transcend their Ego?”

  Fifteen seconds to go. Concerned about my own ego, I boldly stand and blurt out the only question that’s on my mind.

  “Do you remember me, Barry?”

  Three dozen people turn around and stare. A few of them murmur the name “Barry” quizzically, over and over. I don’t blame them. They’ve probably paid a lot of money to hear the Wisdom of the Rav Jon Yoma Maharishi. The Wisdom of Barry doesn’t sound nearly as valuable.

  Barry looks in my direction, but I don’t see even a flicker of recognition in his eyes. I should be insulted, but instead I’m pissed. Come on, buddy. Eric said I haven’t changed a bit.

  The chanting begins again and the Maharishi faces the group, bows, and takes his cue to glide solemnly out of the room. I start to rush after him, but when I get outside, he seems to have disappeared into thin air. Did the change from Barry to Rav come with a magic Harry Potter cape?

  I start to head back to my car to leave, but then I stop. I came all this way to talk to Barry, and while talking doesn’t seem to be a popular sport around here, I’m not going to give up. And as long as I’m here, I might as well try to get some enlightenment.

  I’d like to go rest in my room but realize I don’t have one. I wander again toward the main area and see that everybody has come outside. I find my friend with the jerking head and make exaggerated motions to him suggesting that I need to register. When he doesn’t get that, I lean my head to the side and close my eyes, hoping he’ll understand that I could use a place to sleep. But he takes it the wrong way. He puts his arm around me, strokes my shoulder, and points toward his own room. This could be my one chance to experience the silent fuck, but I let it pass right by. I shake my head vigorously to tell him no.

  For the rest of the afternoon, I roam the grounds like everybody else, figuring I’ll try to give this spiritual quest thing a whirl. Om, Om, Om, I mumble to myself. Gosh, that’s boring. Rome, Home, Dome, Nome. A little better. Barry, Barry, Barry. Maybe I can conjure him up.

  And damn if a man doesn’t suddenly appear in front of me. Not Barry, but then, I’m only a novice. What woman wouldn’t be proud to summon up a man, any man, on command? This one—bald, tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed all in white—crosses his arms in front of his chest, looking surprisingly like Mr. Clean. He raises his hand and beckons me forward, wanting me to come with him. Setting off, Mr. Clean walks briskly ahead of me and I follow four paces behind. We go past the pond to a narrow path in the woods and I see a small cottage at the end.

  And Barry is standing out front.

  Mr. Clean goes inside and closes the door, but Barry stays where he is. Once I’m standing in front of him, I’m not sure exactly what to do. If he were really just Barry, I’d give him a hug. But do you touch Rav Jon Yoma Maharishi? Maybe I kiss his ring. No, that’s the other guy. Barry takes the lead and puts both his hands on my head. Am I being blessed, or is he going to give me a kiss?

  Barry steps back and slowly spreads his arms in a welcoming gesture. When I saw him this afternoon in the meditation room, I halffigured that his performance was just that, a show. But even up close, he exudes an aura of peaceful calm and serenity. And something in his deep gray eyes tells me that he recognizes me after all.

  “Is it okay if we talk?” I ask, keeping my voice low. Maybe speaking doesn’t count if we keep it under a certain decibel level.

  Holding his hand against his chest, he shakes his head—but then pointing toward me, he nods almost imperceptibly. So I can talk and he won’t. Sounds like a lot of marriages.

  He sits down on a rock, and I squeeze in next to him on the hard, uncomfortable perch. But Barry seems perfectly at ease. I know his consciousness is on another plane. I didn’t realize his butt was, too.

  “So when did you become a Maharishi?” I ask brightly. Oh, great, I sound like an idiot. I haven’t spoken for one afternoon, and I’ve already lost all my conversational skills.

  Barry smiles beatifically. Obviously I need to work a little harder to get an answer.

  “Five years ago?” I ask, persisting now in a question that I really have no interest in. “Ten? When you were in India right after I knew you?”

  He doesn’t give any indication of a response, but I’m not giving up. “Here’s what we’ll do. Just stomp your leg once when I get the right answer.” I demonstrate, stamping my own leg a couple of times, like a horse.

  Despite himself, Barry laughs. Now I take it as a personal challenge to get him to say something, anything. I try to remember what Adam did when he was nine to get the stone-faced Buckingham Palace guard to finally break down and grumble, “Go away, kid.” If the Queen knew he’d talked, the guard would probably have been beheaded. What’s the worst that could happen to Barry? He gets booted out of Nirvana?

  But I don’t have to try as hard as I thought. Fate does the work for me. Mr. Clean cracks the door open and holds out a portable phone.

  “Psst, Maharishi. You have to take this.”

  I wonder what life-and-death emergency has gotten him to break his vow of silence.

  “Your agent in L.A.,” Mr. Clean says excitedly. I should have known. Hollywood trumps holiness. “Your prayers have been answered. She has interest in a talk show from that new cable channel—the Cosmic Consciousness Network.”

  I’m not sure CCN is as important as CNN, but thank goodness for digital cable or we’d all be stuck with only five thousand choices.

  Barry slips off to take the call. I stand outside for about five minutes until he’s done, and then he opens the door and invites me into the cottage. I can’t wait to see how a maharishi lives. I expect it to be stark and austere—white walls and maybe a couple of hard-backed chairs. But instead Barry seems to have spent a lot of time at Crate & Barrel. Two green Ultrasuede couches crammed with cushy throw pillows face each other across a glass coffee table. The coordinated area rug is decidedly plush, and a comfy leather club chair is positioned near an elaborate Bose entertainment center.

  “Can I offer you some soy milk?” Barry asks.

  After twenty years, it’s not exactly what I expected him to say to me, but it’s a start.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Chocolate or vanilla?” he asks.

  I didn’t know it comes in flavors. “Strawberry?” I request, just to see how far I can push the envelope.

  He slips into the kitchen and comes back with two glasses on a bamboo tray. He hands one to me, and sure enough it’s pink. He’s a Maharishi; he’s supposed to have the answer to people’s prayers. But as I take a sip of the yucky concoction, I remember the old adage—be careful what you wish for.

  “So, Hallie, what brings you on this spiritu
al journey?” my maharishi asks as we sit down on the couch.

  I don’t know how long we have to talk, and I learned from the last session that I’d better be direct.

  “I wanted to find you,” I say. “Even after all these years, I have such happy memories of our time together.”

  “I do too,” he says, clasping his hands over mine.

  I gulp. “I couldn’t figure out what happened when I didn’t hear from you in India. I thought maybe you’d met someone else. Or you’d died.”

  “The person you knew did die,” he says calmly. “And then I was reborn. I went to see the great teacher Advaita Ramana Maharaj and he taught me what it means to be free.”

  “But why did you have to be free of me?” I ask, the insecurities I felt at twenty flooding back.

  Barry looks soulfully into my eyes and intertwines his soft, smooth fingers with mine.

  “Because he found me,” says Mr. Clean, coming over and territorially wrapping an arm around Barry’s waist. “We found the light together.”

  Ahh. Now I’m seeing the light, too.

  Mr. Clean tenderly strokes Barry’s arm. This is going to make it a little more awkward to talk about our great romance. Even the Pope gives private audiences.

  But Barry is unfazed.

  “Hallie, I did love you, but in a different kind of way. Perhaps you wondered why we never had sex.”

  “Not really,” I admit. “I thought you were being a gentleman. Or you wanted our wedding night to be special.”

  In fact, I’d been kind of relieved when Barry didn’t make any advances while we were traveling together. We snuggled a lot, which was lovely, and coming off my intense relationship with Eric, that was all I wanted.

  “Did you ever have a wedding night?” Barry asks carefully.

  “A really good one,” I say happily. “Breakfast at the Nevis Four Seasons is excellent.” And as far as I can remember, our honeymoon was the only time Bill was ever willing to spring for room service.

  “You picked a good husband?” asks Barry.

  Did I? Who knows. I realize that’s part of why I’m here and what I’m trying to figure out. Lately, I’ve been thinking I made a mistake in marrying Bill in the first place. But looking at Barry—and Mr. Clean, who’s now nibbling his ear—I see that a matchup between us never would have worked out. I don’t think I was destined for a life of soy milk and silence. Not to mention the other obvious problem.

  “For a long time, I thought my husband was pretty decent,” I say honestly. “Unfortunately, he’s moved out.”

  “People move, people change,” says Maharishi, practically chanting. “What happens in the present is temporal. Never let an incident of the moment make you regret the joys of the past.”

  Bill’s being on Ninety-third Street seems more like a major crime than a minor incident, but I hear what Barry’s saying. Just because something ends doesn’t mean it wasn’t worthwhile. My marriage is over, but for a long time it made me happy. I can’t regret twenty good years, two terrific children, and a mortgage that’s almost paid off.

  But I can regret that Mr. Clean is pointing to the clock and spiritual silence is obviously about to descend again. An otherworldly glow returns to Barry’s countenance. I may still be in the cottage, but I have a feeling he’s back on the mountaintop.

  “Will I see you at satsang?” Barry asks softly, ushering me toward the door.

  “No, I have to get back home. Anyway, thank you. I think I got what I came for.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder and give him a light kiss on the cheek. And what the heck. I give one to Mr. Clean, too.

  Chapter SEVEN

  YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO get personal with your clients, but something about Charles Tyler makes me want to hand him a Zoloft. For the last fifteen minutes, he’s been squirming in his chair, chewing the side of his lip, and tapping the toe of his expensive Church’s shoes against my highly polished desk. If he wears away the varnish, I’m going to tack a refinishing charge onto his bill. The more we talk, the more anxious Mr. Tyler seems to get. Since I’m not licensed to dispense drugs, I reach into my top drawer for the next best thing.

  “Some Gummi bears?” I ask, holding out a half-eaten bag of the squishy candies. I used to carry them around to give the kids when they were little and I got hooked. I swear they’re as addictive as nicotine. Maybe I should bring a class action suit against the candy maker.

  “Thanks,” says Mr. Tyler, reaching to take one. Then he changes his mind and sits back again. “Actually, no.” A brief pause and he rocks forward and grabs a handful after all. “Well, yeah, thanks.”

  Instead of putting the candies in his mouth—which would mean he’d have to give up chewing his lip—he plops them on my desk. And a moment later he starts sorting them by color. There seem to be an unusual number of greens in this batch. I resist the urge to grab the sole red one.

  “So, Mr. Tyler,” I say, trying to regain some professional demeanor, “we haven’t made a lot of progress. Let’s go back to square one. You told Arthur that the plaintiff, Beth Lewis, is incorrect in claiming that you gave the promotion to Melina Marks”—I gesture toward the naked woman in the pictures—“because of your personal association. You told him you were innocent.”

  “I am innocent.”

  I sigh. As lawyers always say, if I had a quarter for every time a guilty client said he was blameless, I could buy myself a new Maserati. And take lessons to learn how to drive a stick shift.

  “But the pictures would suggest that you are indeed personally involved with Melina Marks,” I say, understating the case. Actually, the pictures would suggest that he and Melina have a future on the Playboy Channel—which might be a good thing, since if I can’t figure out a defense, he’s not going to have a future at Alladin Films.

  “My involvement with Ms. Marks has no relevance.”

  I stare at him in disbelief.

  “Your involvement with Ms. Marks is exactly what this case is about.” I glance down at the glossy evidence. “And I’m going to jump to the conclusion that you do indeed have more than a professional relationship with her.”

  He looks sideways at the offending photos. “Perhaps I do.”

  “But you didn’t disclose that important information to Arthur.”

  “He never asked. He asked if I’m innocent and I am innocent.”

  That’s Arthur. Too polite to bring up the word “sex” in a sex discrimination suit. But I’m not.

  “Let me be blunt. The plaintiff has charged that you’re having sex with this woman. And you are having sex with this woman.” I look up at him hopefully. “Unless there’s another explanation for these photos.”

  For an answer he nervously uses his thumb to grind the lone red Gummi bear indelibly into my pristine mahogany desk. That refinishing charge is starting to look pretty reasonable.

  “I’m unhappy to have you prying into my personal life,” he says, finally.

  In total frustration, I fling a paper clip across the room. “Mr. Tyler, help me out here. Everything Beth Lewis has charged in her lawsuit seems to be true.”

  “Not at all. Ms. Marks was promoted for perfectly legitimate reasons. I gave Arthur all the records that show she’s done amazing publicity for some of our biggest clients. For example, Melina has handled Reese Witherspoon, while Beth never got above the Tilda Swinton level.”

  “Tilda who?” I ask.

  “My point exactly. If Beth were a better publicist, you might know. Melina, however, is an exceptional employee.”

  “An exceptional employee who’s having sex with her boss. How do you think that looks?”

  I know exactly how it looks, down to the mole.

  Mr. Tyler stands up. “Please, you’ve just got to get me off.” He looks at me desperately, and I soften.

  “Anything you can tell me that might support your case?” I ask. “Anything at all?”

  He hesitates and reaches down to the carpet to pick up the paper clip I
threw. He anxiously tugs at it, breaking it into pieces which he then plants like flagpoles in the gummy candy.

  “I really can’t say more about it.”

  I have a sneaking suspicion that if he wanted, he could make this whole problem go away. But right now only Mr. Tyler is going away. He shakily reaches for his briefcase and edges out of my office without so much as a backward glance.

  After another two meetings, I start to scroll through fifty new e-mails. Could the deposed Nigerian prince who’s offering to deposit ten million dollars into my checking account (if only I’ll give him the number) be legit? Is it worth a free weekend at a new resort in Altoona if I have to sit through a two-hour presentation on buying a time-share? Good thing I’m such an important lawyer or I’d never be getting all this high-class spam. I’m just opening an e-mail that actually needs a response when Bellini calls.

  “I’m around the corner from your office. Come meet me at Starbucks,” she says.

  “I thought you had a lunch date,” I say. “Some new guy.” Bellini recently signed up with a dating service to get fixed up for lunch at least twice a week. But so far the manicotti hasn’t led to anything meaningful. She’s been on three midday dates and only the restaurants have gotten rave reviews. There hasn’t even been any sex après sandwich.

  “I didn’t like the guy I was matched with,” Bellini says briskly. “I left before I even got a chance to eat.”

  Wow. I can only imagine what a disaster he was if Bellini, the patron saint of “he has potential,” couldn’t find a reason to stay long enough to wolf down a tuna salad.

  Five minutes later, I find Bellini in Starbucks, sitting at a small round table with a greasy white bag in front of her from the pizza place across the street. She’s busy pulling the mushrooms off the top of a slice and popping them into her mouth.

  “I didn’t know they sold pizza at Starbucks,” I say.

  “They don’t. But nobody eats the lunch food they sell here. Seven dollars for the smallest salad you’ve ever seen.”

  I look around, and sure enough, everybody in the café seems to be digging around in her own personal deli bag. This Starbucks location is doing a landslide business—for the Korean grocer across the street. But I’m not going to worry about Starbucks’ quarterly earnings reports because there’s a long line of businessmen waiting for their four-dollar cups of take-out cappuccino. And from the number of people who are ensconced at tables typing away furiously at their laptops, maybe Starbucks is renting out office space.