The Men I Didn't Marry

by Janice Kaplan

  Bill goes to work, anchoring his boot against a rung of the ladder to brace himself. With two hands, he steadies the vibrating tool in front of him and begins his version of the Chaddick chain saw massacre. Smoke billows from the machine and chips start flying everywhere. A moment later, the bough starts to break.

  “Timmm-ber!” call out Amanda’s twins gleefully.

  People scurry away as the branch crashes to the ground with a resounding thud. Then there’s a flutter of applause for Bill, the champ.

  Disgusted, I turn to go into the house. My feet are freezing. I left Virgin Gorda wearing sandals, and even though I’ve already added a pair of wool socks, my body’s thermostat is not set to be back.

  And I’m not set to be back, either. I go into the house, thinking about the warm good-bye I had with Emily at Kennedy Airport when I put her into the van heading back to Yale. I can’t even think about my good-bye with Kevin. He kissed me before I boarded the plane, murmured for me to come back soon, very soon, and tucked a wildflower behind my ear. Unwittingly, I touch it now as I glance at myself in the hallway mirror. I’m tanned, my hair has light streaks from the sun—and my flower has wilted. I bring it into the kitchen and put it into a little china teacup that I fill with water.

  I place the cup tenderly on the windowsill. It’s always hard getting re-acclimated after I’ve been away, but today seems worse than usual— and not just because I’m already missing Kevin. I slowly look around the room. I know I left the kitchen spotless, but now I see dirty glasses on the counter and crumbs dotting the floor. A plate with a half-eaten bagel has been abandoned in the sink, and instead of being scattered by the slot at the front door, the mail is piled high on the table. I go upstairs, dragging my suitcase behind me. The duvet is spread over the bed in my room, but it looks clumpy and the pillows are in the wrong order. That can mean only one thing: Bill has made the bed. Why is it that no man knows the difference between a European square, a sham, and a basic king-size down pillow? Do you really need to watch designer Nate Berkus on Oprah to figure out that the small one with the decorative design goes in front?

  I straighten the linens, almost more annoyed that Bill mis-made the bed than that he’s been sleeping in it. Almost. Because what the heck has he been doing here anyway?

  I take off my sandals and dig through my closet for a pair of shearling-lined boots. I pull them on, but they squish my toes and hurt my ankles. Ouch. After all that island freedom, my feet aren’t ready to be bound again. I somehow manage to zip the boots and march back outside, where woodsman Bill is still accepting kudos and letting neighbors cart away the newly cut logs for their fireplaces. I hope they’re not expecting to cut down on fuel costs this winter, because that firewood needs to dry out for about five years before it will burn.

  Bill clumps over to me in his muddy boots. “So, how you doing, stranger? Haven’t seen you in ages,” he says.

  “She hasn’t been around in ages,” pipes up Amanda.

  “I’ve been taking in your newspapers,” says Rosalie. “It’s a pretty big stack. If you don’t want them, I could use them for a crafts project.”

  “And we just got a puppy,” says Amanda, vying for my now-valuable cache of old issues of The New York Times. I think I’ll give them to Rosalie. I like the idea of preserving Maureen Dowd’s columns as pa-pier mâché picture frames.

  Bill scoops up some kindling in a canvas carrier. “Have you been away ever since Thanksgiving? I know you weren’t home last night, anyway.”

  “Not really your business,” I say snippily. “And what are you doing at the house? Not enough trees to chop on Ninety-third Street?”

  “I live here, too,” he says.

  “Not anymore.”

  One of Amanda’s twins starts to cry. “Mommy, they’re fighting. Make them stop fighting.”

  I snicker. This is what happens when you send your toddlers to a Montessori school. They expect everyone in the world to get along.

  “Maybe we should continue this conversation inside,” Bill says. “Light a fire and have a couple of drinks.”

  “I don’t want to be inside with you,” I say.

  “Of course you do,” prods Rosalie. “You two should make a romantic fire and patch things up. It would be so wonderful to have Bill back for Christmas. I was hoping we could all go caroling and we don’t have enough tenors.”

  “I’m a baritone,” says Bill, defending his testosterone levels. As if the tree-pruning weren’t enough.

  Amanda knows when it’s time to leave. Turning to the twins, she says, “Come on kids, let’s get some hot chocolate back at our house.” And to entice Rosalie off the premises, she adds, “You come, too. I have some bottle caps at home I’ve been saving. You can make them into a belt.”

  When they all head off, I don’t make any move to the front door, even though at this point I’m freezing.

  “So why were you here last night? Was that Ashlee girl with you?” I ask, practically spitting the name.

  “Of course not,” he says piously. “I’d never do something like that. The marriage bed is sacred.”

  Glad to know where he draws the line. Desecrate the marriage, but not the bed.

  “So where is she and why were you sleeping here?”

  “Ashlee went off to a Mega-Vitamin and Mineral Conference in San Jose. She wanted me to join her, but if I’m going to do drugs, it’s not going to be potassium.”

  He pauses, waiting for me to laugh—which I don’t. So he moves on to the heart of the matter. “And frankly, Ashlee and I needed a little time apart. We’re on a break.”

  I wonder which one of them has put on the brakes. Their little joyride plowed through our marriage, and if it’s coming to a screeching halt, hallelujah. Maybe Ashlee got tired of a midlife crisis playboy or Bill was bored by his New Age plaything. New Age or old age, they were definitely the wrong match.

  “And you want to stay here on your break?” I ask.

  “Right,” he says with a big smile.

  “Wrong.”

  As usual, Bill only hears what he wants. He puts his arm around me. “Come on, Hallie. You must be cold. Let’s go in. You could make me some of your famous lasagna.”

  I laugh ruefully to myself, remembering that the night Bill told me he was leaving, I offered that very same lasagna—as if some tomato sauce and mozzarella would save our marriage. Couldn’t then and won’t now.

  I put my arm around him, and oozing false sympathy, I say, “Oh, darling, you can’t stay here because you need to take some time and enjoy living on your own. Stock up on Oreos. Watch the Home Shopping Network. It worked for me when you left, and I emerged a better, smarter, tanner person.”

  I open the front door and step into the house, leaving him outside. “Go, be on your own, sweetheart. Get severely depressed. Think that your life is over. I’d hate for you to miss the experience.”

  If Bill has a response to my wise and caring advice, I don’t hear it because I close the door firmly in his face. I’m going upstairs to rearrange the pillows.

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  NOW THAT I’M BACK IN NEW YORK, I take twenty-four hours getting re-acclimated before heading to my office. As I dodge across Madison Avenue to my first morning at work, a taxi almost runs me over.

  “Watch it, lady,” the cabbie screams. “Don’t ya know how to cross a street in New Yawk?”

  Apparently I’ve forgotten. I’ll have to accept the blinking “Don’t Walk” warnings until I get back my Manhattan edge. A couple of weeks on Virgin Gorda, and I don’t even remember how to jaywalk.

  Somehow, I make it alive to my law firm, and the moment I walk in, I’m glad to be back. In a funny way, my office feels more like home right now than the house does. Even as I moved up the ranks, I kept the same desk, and as I settle down into my familiar Aeron chair, it occurs to me that I’ve also kept the same pictures. Emily may think she’s a full-grown woman now, but at least here, she’ll always be a curly-haired four-year-old with a
freckled nose.

  A stack of memos spills out of my in-box and my assistant has dutifully left a log of phone messages that goes on for pages. A smart young associate named Chandler, who doesn’t trust e-mail, has stuck four Post-its around my computer, each marked “Urgent.” Today quite literally won’t be a day at the beach, but surprisingly I feel energized. Despite what the cabbie thinks, this is one place where I always know what I’m doing.

  I throw myself into two pending lawsuits, and by noon I’ve impressively negotiated a settlement in one of them. Or at least I’m impressed. I smugly hang up the phone. The legal eagle is back on the case.

  When Arthur summons me to his office, I stride down the hall, ready to report on my morning triumph and happy to see him again.

  But he doesn’t seem all that happy to see me. He barely looks up when I walk in, then ignoring me, he takes a phone call while I stand in the doorway, shifting my weight from foot to foot.

  He hangs up and, busily jotting notes on a yellow legal pad, says, “Sit down.”

  So much for small talk. I perch on the edge of a small hard chair across from Arthur’s mammoth desk. Every so often, I realize how brilliantly his space is designed for maximum power impact. If the Oval Office were this intimidating, the North Koreans would have caved long ago.

  “Good to see you,” I say cheerfully to Arthur. “How are you doing?”

  “Not well,” he says, putting down his pen and frowning in my direction. “I’ll get straight to the point, Hallie. I’ve tried to be understanding, but you’re pushing my good nature. I can’t work with you if you’re never here.”

  “Never here?” I ask incredulously. “It’s just been a few weeks.” And that week when Bill first left. And those weeks after when I was totally unfocused.

  “You ran off at Thanksgiving and never came back—even though you had a court appearance scheduled in that slander suit.”

  Shit. I forgot all about that case.

  “I’m lucky Chandler was here. You’re lucky too. He took over the case and saved your ass.”

  “I’m so sorry, Arthur,” I say contritely, the glow of my morning’s success quickly fading. “You know that’s not like me.”

  “I do. And that’s why I’m giving you one more chance.”

  I stare at him incredulously.

  “I like you personally, Hallie, but I can’t run a firm this way. Our next big problem is Tyler.”

  “I’ve been working on it. You know I ran into him on Virgin Gorda.”

  “Yes, you told me. Very cute story, et cetera, et cetera, but it doesn’t solve anything. Save it for your memoirs,” he says brusquely.

  I look at him, startled. If he keeps talking to me this way, he’s not going to want to read those memoirs unless he’s had a few shots of scotch first.

  “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Tyler and take Melina Marks’s deposition in a few days,” I say calmly. “I’ll do everything I can, but I can’t guarantee a perfect outcome.”

  “Well, then, I can’t guarantee you’ll still have a job.”

  On Thursday, Mr. Tyler shows up at my office as promised, but marriage hasn’t made him any more talkative. He asks if he can pay his way out of the lawsuit. He’s still adamant that he’s not in the wrong, but he’s willing to offer the plaintiff, Beth, a chunk of change to go away.

  Except Beth won’t bite.

  “She doesn’t want money, she wants vindication,” her lawyer tells me.

  “A big check can be big vindication,” I say, trying to negotiate a settlement and save my job at any cost.

  “I wish I could, Hallie, but I know Beth will tell me no. A big fat no. So all I can tell you is no deal.”

  I hang up the phone, frustrated. Plaintiffs always say it’s not about the money—and just my luck to hit the one who really means it.

  Screw it all. If Arthur’s not happy, I can walk out of here tomorrow and fly back to Kevin. Isn’t that what I really want to do, anyway?

  I get up and pace around my office. Yes, Kevin. I miss him desperately. I miss his body rubbing against mine and his crinkly-eyed smile. What I wouldn’t give to be in his strong arms right this minute. But that’s exactly the question, isn’t it? What would I give up to be with Kevin? When I was in Virgin Gorda and dreaming of staying forever, little details like my law practice didn’t seem very important. I convinced myself that I could do my work over the Internet and fly to New York for meetings. But apparently Arthur doesn’t see that as a possibility. If I move to Virgin Gorda, I’m going unemployed. Maybe I’ll open my own little island practice. Should be plenty of work. Some local lawyer has to write those risk waiver forms that scuba-diving tourists sign, promising not to sue no matter how negligent the scuba company and how dead they end up.

  I have too many decisions, but I’m going to be the one who makes them, not Arthur. I sit back down at my desk. If I quit my job to go to Virgin Gorda, I quit. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let myself get fired.

  For the next several days, I work tirelessly, and when Adam and Emily call, all I can talk about is the Tyler case. Bellini thinks I need an evening away, and she urges me to join her at a play.

  “Maybe. I haven’t been to Broadway in ages,” I say, trying not to think of the three dead ends I’ve hit on Tyler and how I need a new approach.

  “This show’s not exactly Broadway,” Bellini admits. “More Off-Broadway. Off-off-Broadway. Off Manhattan, in fact.”

  “How far off?”

  “Brooklyn. We’ll take a subway.”

  At seven o’clock, we squash ourselves into a packed subway car, something I haven’t done in years. The crowd seems better-behaved than I remember—fewer panhandlers and more slick-haired salesmen carrying briefcases. At the end of the day, they’re both trying to get you to part with a buck, but at least the panhandlers have a talent: they play the harmonica.

  In the crowd, I can’t even reach a strap to hang on, and as the train sways, I almost fall over. A young man sporting dreadlocks and a baggy Sean John sweatshirt gets up and elbows the buddy next to him to do the same.

  “Why don’t you sit down, ma’am,” he says considerately.

  I look at him in surprise. When did New Yorkers become so polite? And even more startling, when did I get so old that I’m offered a seat by someone who calls me “ma’am”?

  “I’m fine,” I say, deciding that I’d rather collapse on the dirty subway floor than admit I’m ancient enough to have earned someone’s spot.

  “No, really,” he says. “I think it’s terrible when young people don’t give their seats to older women.”

  I point to another woman standing nearby, wearing a long skirt and a parka. “Well, then, let her sit. She’s older than I am.”

  “No, I’m not,” she shoots back, planting her Easy Stride crepe soles firmly in place.

  “How about her?” I ask pointing to a woman with white hair and skin pruned from at least eighty summers without sunscreen.

  “I’m good, I’m good,” she says with a tap of her cane.

  But not everybody feels they have to prove they’re young. Some people just are. As we’re haggling over who’s the right vintage to sit, two Beaujolais Nouveaux pour themselves into the abandoned seats. The young men smile at the miniskirted teenagers, who cheerfully put down their bags and get comfortable.

  Forty-five minutes later when we arrive at our stop, my pride is intact, but my back isn’t. We rush down the narrow Brooklyn street, and I’m looking forward to sinking into a cushy velvet theater seat. But Bellini’s neglected to mention that we’re going avant-garde. Finally at the theater, I see the stage is an open bare black box and the audience is perched on backless benches.

  “I didn’t know we were coming to a Quaker prayer meeting,” I say, trying to find a tenable position on the wooden slats. “How’d you pick this show?”

  “Free tickets. My Starbucks friend gave them to me.”

  “You’re dating the barista?” I ask, remembering the guy
she picked up at lunch.

  “Actually, he’s an actor. And anyway, he’s not the barista, he’s the assistant manager.”

  “Excuse me. All the difference in the world.”

  “Probably a difference of about two bucks an hour,” she admits. “He’s a sweetie. I stop in at lunchtime and he gives me samples, no charge.”

  “You should go by Costco at dinner. They give out free tastes of generic mac-and-cheese in little paper cups. And the nice ladies in hair-nets who are serving it always let you take seconds.”

  “My Starbucks guy doesn’t wear a hairnet, and in this show, I don’t think he wears anything. He said there’s a whole scene with full-frontal nudity.”

  “Convenient. You can check him out before you decide whether to get serious,” I suggest.

  “Don’t be gross,” she says with a giggle. “I think your time with that scuba diver has coarsened you.”

  “That scuba diver happens to be . . .”

  “I’m not interested,” she interrupts.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you about his full-frontal nudity,” I say defensively. But to be fair, she’s already had to hear ad nauseam how wonderful it felt being with Kevin and how great he was in bed.

  “It’s okay,” says Bellini. “I don’t mind talking about Kevin. And I hope it works out for you two even though he’s G.U.”

  “Gee you?” I ask.

  “G.U.,” she repeats. “Geographically undesirable. I once had a man tell me we couldn’t date because he lived in the Village and I was on the Upper East Side. Too many subway stops. And it’s even harder for you and Kevin. You guys have to go through customs.”

  “This gives a whole new meaning to the question of how far a girl will go,” I say, shifting my knees to make room for two black-clad theater lovers who slide onto our bench.

  “As long as we’re talking about men, there’s Bill,” says Bellini.

  “Ouch,” I say, as one of the new arrivals steps on my toe.

  “Bill. Ouch. Natural reaction,” Bellini says. “And try to remember it. Now that he’s on a break from Ashlee, he’s going to want to come back to you. An ex-wife is like a comfy old shoe. But, darling, old shoes get pushed to the back of the closet again. You deserve to be somebody’s new Manolos.”