The Men I Didn't Marry

by Janice Kaplan

  “We never worried about that on the beach in Virgin Gorda,” he says.

  “Manhattan’s a different island,” I say.

  The mood slightly altered, we drift back down the widely elegant, circular staircase, out of the museum, and into the frigid night. We take a cab to Grand Central, and while we’re waiting for the train to Chaddick, I point out the twinkling constellations that cover the station’s vaulted ceiling. Not quite the big open sky of a Caribbean island, but the New York version of Nature.

  “The funny story is that the city spent a fortune renovating the ceiling, and after all that, whoever did the map drew it backwards. It’s like you’re looking down at the sky instead of up.”

  “Yeah, funny,” says Kevin, who doesn’t seem entertained. In fact, he doesn’t seem like he wants to be here at all. His eyes are downcast and his shoulders slumped, and his arms are crossed in front of him.

  I rub his arm. “Are you mad at me because I wouldn’t make love in front of Buddha?”

  “No, I’m just—” He clutches his stomach and lurches away from me, rushing down a staircase toward a sign that says RESTROOMS.

  I scramble after him and wait outside for what seems like a very long time. I check my watch. We’re about to miss the train to Chaddick, but I feel as helpless as I used to when Adam was in grade school and I had to let him go into a men’s room by himself.

  So I do what I did then, and standing at the doorway, shout into the vast tiled room.

  “Kevin? Kevin? Are you okay? I’m right here. I’m waiting for you.” My voice bounces off the walls, but nobody answers.

  “Kevin? Kevin, do you need any help?”

  A businessman in a blue pinstriped suit, carrying a briefcase, comes out of the men’s room and gives me a smile.

  “Is your little boy in there?” he asks. “I know how you feel. My wife always panics when our son uses a public bathroom by himself. Want me to check on him?”

  “That’s very nice of you,” I say, but I hesitate, since trying to explain why my six-year-old is six feet tall might be a little tricky.

  Just then, Kevin stumbles out of a stall and staggers toward us. He’s pale, his eyes are bloodshot, his mouth is hanging open, and there’s a little drool on his chin. The businessman grunts disapprovingly at what he assumes is my drunken companion and hurries off.

  “My god, you’re sick,” I say to Kevin, taking his elbow and trying to steady him. “What happened? All you had tonight was seltzer.”

  “And crabmeat,” he croaks. “I’ve been poisoned.”

  “Food poisoning,” I say, trying to be consoling. “It’s awful, but it goes away. Let’s get you home.”

  We make our way up to the trains, and Kevin leans heavily into me. I hold his elbow more tightly and feel his body swaying out of my grasp. “We’re almost there,” I say encouragingly.

  But maybe not encouragingly enough.

  Thud.

  Kevin collapses on the floor of Grand Central, his half-closed eyes staring upward at the constellation-filled ceiling. One way or another, he’s seeing stars.

  I kneel down next to him. “Are you okay?” I ask stupidly, because obviously he’s not. He’s breathing raggedly and out cold.

  Two policemen rush over to us, their nightsticks swinging against their legs and their guns sticking noticeably from their holsters. They’re each leading a sleek, bomb-sniffing dog.

  “No grenades, just bad crabmeat,” I explain as they circle around us.

  The policemen are quickly satisfied that we’re not an international threat, but the dogs aren’t sure yet. One of them sniffs at Kevin’s neck, and I want to explain that he usually smells a lot better than he does right now. But the dog and I obviously have different tastes in men because he gives Kevin a little lick.

  “That’s nice,” says Kevin, just starting to come to. But in a moment he realizes he’s on the floor with a dog and sits up, startled.

  The policeman leans over. “Would you like us to call an ambulance, sir? Get you checked out at the hospital?”

  “Yes,” I say, worried about him.

  “No,” says Kevin.

  “Come on, maybe a doctor can give you something,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “It’s okay. A couple of hours of vomiting and I’ll be fine.”

  If only. Kevin’s right about the vomiting, but instead of a couple of hours, we’re at day two and counting. Yesterday I played Clara Barton, bringing him ice chips, then ginger ale, and finally by dinnertime, clear chicken broth with saltines. He was cranky the whole time, but no match for Arthur, who practically fired me on the phone when I called in to say I was staying home with my sick Kevin.

  I can’t possibly miss more work, and I’m dressed for the office when Kevin finally wakes up, obviously feeling a little better.

  “You’re leaving?” he asks, looking at me in disbelief.

  “Just for one shift,” I say. “There’s no relief nurse, but I think you’ll be okay.”

  “Can we make love first?” he asks. “I’ve been here three days and we still haven’t made love.”

  Instead of snapping, “That’s because you were too busy throwing up,” I go over and give him a long kiss.

  “Stay in bed,” I tell him. “I’ll join you there as soon as I can.”

  “It won’t be soon enough,” he says, kissing me and stroking my cheek. But then he sits up. “Anyway, I’m finally hungry. Mind getting me some breakfast before you go?”

  “Sure. What would you like?” I ask, looking anxiously at the clock and hoping he’s hankering for a Pop Tart, not a pile of pancakes.

  “I don’t know. What do you think? Maybe a couple of hard-boiled eggs, or an omelette.”

  “Either,” I say, trying to be agreeable.

  “Hmm. I could eat oatmeal or eggs benedict. French toast with maple syrup. Or a bagel with cream cheese,” he says, thoughtfully going through every breakfast food available anywhere. “I love Belgian waffles. Do you have a Belgian waffle maker?”

  “Sure,” I say slightly exasperated and finally losing patience. “I always keep a Belgian cook who specializes in waffles tucked away in the pantry. For God’s sake, it’s only breakfast. Just tell me what you want.”

  Kevin crosses his arms in front of his chest, insulted. “I don’t mean to be a burden,” he says. “But I did rearrange my entire schedule to come up here and see you, and you can’t even rearrange a day to be with me.”

  “I’d have to rearrange a lot more than a day to be with you,” I say, blurting out what’s been in the back of my mind for weeks now.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “If we’re going to be together, I’d have to change my whole life. Move to Virgin Gorda and give up everything.”

  “So much to give up,” he says snidely. “New York’s just a fabulous place, isn’t it? A thankless job. A bunch of pompous jerks at a party. People fawning over stupid art any three-year-old could make. Poison food. Yeah, so much to give up.”

  “You forgot a couple of things,” I say, my voice trembling. “My kids. My friends. I thought that museum was interesting. At least it was different. And I happen to like my job and I want to keep it.”

  “Then that’s it,” says Kevin, angrily getting out of bed. “I don’t want to keep you from anything. I’ll just leave.”

  We stand across the room from each other, glaring, neither of us taking a step or giving an inch. Same old Kevin. Hurt him, and he’s done. But this time I’m not letting go of him that easily.

  I walk over and put my arms around him.

  “Don’t go. Not like this. I love you, Kevin. And if you love me at all, please be here when I get home.”

  He strokes my hair but doesn’t answer. I feel my heart pounding. I couldn’t bear to come back later and find Kevin gone.

  “You can’t go now; your plane ticket’s not until tomorrow. It’s got to be worth a night with me not to have to pay the penalty fare,” I say, making a weak j
oke.

  Kevin sighs. “I’ll stay. Of course I’ll stay. The real penalty would be leaving before we had one more night together.”

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  INSTEAD OF OPENING The New York Times when I get on the train, I stare out the window, thinking about Kevin and what we’ll say when we see each other later.

  “Mind if I join you?” asks Steff, taking the seat next to me. Then, knowing commuter-train etiquette, she adds, “We don’t have to talk. You can read the paper.”

  “I’m not reading, as you may have noticed.” And it wouldn’t matter if I were. A man can get away with parking himself next to a friend, burying his head in the headlines, and not exchanging a word beyond “Morning.” No sense wasting a syllable on whether it’s a “Good” morning or not. But working women sharing a seat are compelled by the laws of sisterhood to chat. On our way into the city to run corporations and make high-powered decisions, we spend thirty-five minutes swapping stories about the new nail salon in town, the cheating butcher (he’s having an affair, and, worse, he overcharges for the ground round), and how the kindergarten art teacher gives too much homework.

  But one look at Steff, and I realize she’s worried about something other than ground round or her new self-ear-piercing business. Her eyes are puffy and she looks like she hasn’t slept. She reaches into her bag and some silver Hershey’s kisses tumble out. She unwraps three and heedlessly pops them into her mouth. Uh-oh. Eating chocolate in the morning can only mean one thing.

  “Richard says he’s leaving,” Steff sobs. “It’s not me. We’ve had a great run, but he’s ready for his second act.”

  I look at her in disbelief. Bill’s exact words. Did he feed Richard the lines or do men come preprogrammed with a midlife escape clause printed on their DNA? Maybe behind those Wall Street Journals they do talk on the train, after all.

  “Oh, Steff, I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching for her hand. “I wish I could do something for you.”

  “You already have. I’ve been thinking about you every day. You give me hope,” she says, fumbling for a tissue.

  I straighten my shoulders, feeling a tinge of pride. When you come right down to it, I’ve handled this pretty well. People always say that divorce is like death and you go through the same five stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I’m glad to be a role model for Steff on making your way through, but I should clue her in on the real phases: fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, and what the hell I don’t care anymore.

  “There is hope. Life goes on. After you get over the initial shock, it’s actually kind of exciting to go back into the world,” I say in my best encouraging tone. “We can make a future for ourselves, whatever it is.”

  “Easy for you to say,” says Steff. “Bill told Richard that he and Ashlee broke up.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” I ask.

  “That’s what’s giving me hope,” she says, apparently not as inspired by my fortitude as by the latest rumor. “With Ashlee out of the picture, you two could get back together.”

  “No, we couldn’t,” I say flatly. “I’m not that stupid. He ran around once; he’ll do it again. If it’s not Ashlee, it will be Candi or Randi or Mandi. With an ‘i’ instead of two ‘es.’ ”

  “At least you wouldn’t be alone. You’d have a husband.”

  “Not the kind of husband I want,” I say. “Besides, I have a boyfriend.”

  Steff drops her tissue in astonishment.

  “A boyfriend?” she asks, taking in the new information. And then, giggling at the word, adds, “That sounds so sixth grade.”

  “Trust me, it’s not,” I say smugly.

  “Do you sleep with him?” asks Steff, somewhere between shocked and interested.

  “Of course,” I say airily. Though between the distance and the dysentery, Kevin and I haven’t made love in way too long. At least that’s one thing I know I can fix tonight.

  When I get home, Kevin’s the one doing the fixing. A chicken is roasting in the oven, the table is set with candles—and despite the twenty-degree weather, Kevin greets me wearing a skimpy bathing suit.

  “Nice look,” I say, untying my scarf and playfully draping it around his neck.

  “I would have come to the door naked, but this is my concession to the conservative suburbs.”

  “Speaking for myself and the entire block association, naked would have been good.”

  “Not a problem.” He pulls off the bathing suit and flashes in front of the window.

  “Kevin!” I shout, quickly closing the blinds. I told Steff I had a boyfriend, but she doesn’t really need this much proof.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” he says.

  “Me, too. My fault.”

  And that’s it. We both know there’s more to say—a lot more—but there’s something we have to do first.

  “Hungry?” Kevin asks, kissing me.

  “For you.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

  We make love—hungrily—right there on the living room floor. Maybe I should have left the shades open, if not for Steff, at least for Darlie. She probably hasn’t seen it done right in a long time.

  Dinner isn’t quite as formal as Kevin had planned, but it’s a lot more romantic. We take the whole chicken (perfectly roasted, but a little too much garlic) up to bed on a tray, and tear it apart with our fingers. I hold out a piece for Kevin, and he takes it in his mouth, then licks my fingers, one by one. We kiss, greasily, and I giggle as our lips slide apart.

  “Breast or thigh?” I ask, offering him another piece of chicken.

  “Mmm, both,” he says, kissing my breast and making his way slowly to my thigh.

  We forget about dinner, and make love again. As the bed bounces, our leftovers topple off the tray and onto the sheets, but I’m too transported to care.

  We’re lying in each other’s arms when the phone rings, and noticing it’s Adam’s number, I pick up, as I always do. “Hi, Adam. How are you sweetheart!” I say.

  Adam launches into an enthusiastic description of his day skiing, and as I sit up to talk to him, I mouth “Sorry” to Kevin, who shrugs.

  Mogul by mogul, Adam tells me about his run down one of the black-diamond slopes. While I’m busy talking, Kevin rolls over so his back’s to me, and I reach across to rub his shoulders.

  “Sounds like a great day,” I tell Adam, willing for once to cut the conversation a little short. “Say ‘Hi’ to Emily for me. And when you head back to school tomorrow, drive carefully.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I’d never think to drive carefully if you didn’t remind me.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll always remind you,” I laugh, knowing that no matter how old they get—and how self-aware I think I am—I’ll continue to offer every cliché known to motherhood.

  I hang up and kiss the back of Kevin’s neck, but before he even has the chance to turn around, the phone rings again. Emily.

  “Mom, you told Adam to say ‘Hi’ to me,” she says in mock indignation. “You couldn’t even say ‘Hi’ to me yourself? I didn’t know you were so busy.”

  I look over at Kevin, thinking I’m not telling Emily just what a busy girl I’ve been.

  Emily’s as full of stories as Adam was, but she has a different slant on the slopes. Notably, a handsome ski instructor bought her hot chocolate and she thinks she’s briefly fallen in love. First scuba, now skiing. I’ve got to keep my daughter away from sports. Who said you should get a girl involved with athletics so she doesn’t spend all her time thinking about boys?

  “My kids are such a kick,” I say happily to Kevin when I finally slide back under the covers.

  “You’ve got good kids,” agrees Kevin, but instead of expressing any deeper interest in family life, he takes the remote and flips on the TV. We nestle against the pillows, and he scans the channels—hockey game, news, bad sit-com, rerun of TV Guide’s Twenty Greatest TV Moments (the original was fifty, but who has time?)
, weather channel, bad sit-com. If we stop at QVC, maybe I’ll buy some more jewelry.

  I gently take the remote from him and click off the set.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  “No,” he says, unconvincingly.

  “I’m sorry we got interrupted,” I say, trying to snuggle closer. “But I’m always going to pick up the phone when my kids call.”

  “You should,” he says.

  “There’s a ‘but’ in there.”

  He sighs and gets up from the bed, pacing in front of me. “I’m just starting to understand what you meant this morning about rearranging your life. It’s not that easy, is it? I haven’t had that much fun this trip, trying to fit myself into your world.”

  “That’s just the food poisoning speaking,” I say.

  “No, it’s reality.”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy yourself,” I say feeling defensive. “I did the best I could.”

  Kevin stops pacing for a moment and looks steadily at me. “I know that. We’ve both tried. I dropped everything to come up and see you during my busiest season.”

  “And now you’re mad because I didn’t drop everything to be with you every minute.”

  “I’m not mad.” Kevin stands square-shouldered at the edge of the bed. “I care about you, Hallie, I really do. But your world is here, mine is in Virgin Gorda. I’ve always been honest that I could never move back. But now that I’m here, I can see what your life is really like. It would be lousy for you to have to sacrifice everything for me.”

  “Being with you could never be lousy,” I say. I walk over and put my arms around him, laying my head against his bare chest. Then softly I add, “But it might be hard. Too hard.”

  We hold each other, not saying a word. Kevin strokes my hair and I feel my tears spilling against his chest.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  I take a deep breath and bury my head deeper against him. “I think I can’t move to Virgin Gorda,” I say, my voice breaking, “even for you. I guess I’ve known that in my heart for a while now, but I couldn’t face it.”