I Wasn’T Even Here: A Novel

By Tom Stapleton

Clay Easter is sixty-three-year-old disabled man whose wife leaves him. While the news doesn't devastate him, it does mean some big changes are coming. He works as a copy editor and part-time musician, and he begins to find solace and refuge by practicing Zen. He soon finds out his wife has died, and that his disability is worsening. He attends a five-day Zen retreat that spurs not only enlightenment, but a decision that will put his life on a completely different track.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496930255

Tom Stapleton

Tom Stapleton has written short stories, novels, newspaper and magazine articles, scripts, and plays. He trains corporate and public-sector clients in written and oral business communications. Tom has taught writing courses at UCLA and the California Institute of Technology. He lives with his wife, Jean, and two dogs in Glendale, California.

Book preview

Zen Retreat - Day 1

He drove to the Zen center the afternoon before a five-day retreat would begin. Packing light, he’d stuffed clothes and toiletries into a medium-sized duffel bag. The center was perched atop a rise past a residential area and a commercial park in a large undeveloped plot of land, nothing but open fields surrounding it. The long driveway curved up an incline lined with scrub bushes on both sides.

The building looked nothing like he thought it would. He envisioned something like a Chinese-style pagoda structure with a gracefully sloping roof. Instead, a non-descript one-story building painted white presented itself. Beyond it sprawled a cluster of smaller buildings that he took to be residences and other facility buildings. They looked like the cabins he’d stayed in as a boy when he’d gone to camp. The parking lot was filled with more cars than he expected. He didn’t notice any signs indicating that this was the Zen center, but his van’s navigation system announced that he had, in fact, arrived at his destination.

He was greeted at the entrance by a man in monk’s garb who smiled and bowed as he stood by the door of the van.

Welcome to our Shambala Center, he said. You are Mr. Easter?

Clay began stepping down from the driver’s seat. Yes, I am.

We have been expecting you.

I’m glad to be here.

The monk said, I am called Mali. He looked native-born American to Clay and spoke English without a trace of an accent. Clay shook the monk’s hand and began making his way to the rear of the van, his hands against the metal sides for support as he swung his legs forward.

Mali helped him with the wheelchair and then slung the duffel bag over his shoulder. Let me show you to your quarters, he said. I’ll wait for you to get settled and will then show you the temple hall.

As Clay wheeled along a walkway, he noticed that the monk wore sandals. He got a hopeful sense that the entire retreat would be low-key and relaxed.

At the first cabin, Mali stopped. This is our accessible dormitory. In addition to this ramp, the inside is scaled differently than the other residences. Much like a handicapped-accessible hotel room.

Clay wheeled up the ramp to the doorway. Mali had opened the door and held it with an arm extended so that he could enter.

You’ll note the accommodations are spare, Mali pointed out. However, you’ll find you do have the necessities. Come, let me show you.

The inside of the cabin was small, but looked comfortable. A twin bed lined one wall. Opposite it was a plain table with a lamp and a chair. At eye level was a small mullioned window with shutters, and down from the bed a bathroom with shower, toilet, and sink. The shower had a pull-down bench and hand-held showerhead. It was spacious enough that a wheelchair could be rolled in. Clay preferred to wheel up to the bench and then transfer.

Mali said, No TV, and no phone, unlike a hotel. You may, of course, use your cellphone, but we ask that retreat attendees try as much as possible to minimize its use.

I notice no iron or ironing board, Clay said.

Not necessary, Mali said. We suggest garb we provide, a robe that you can change daily. You’ll find it comfortable, if not very stylish. Most retreat attendees dress alike.

Like a uniform.

Yes. However, if you prefer to don your own clothing because it suits you or is more comfortable, by all means you may do so.

I’ll think about it, Clay said. Could I get an ironing board if I wanted to?

We can certainly make one available.

Clay took items from his duffel bag and set them on the bed. You know, he said, if I’m going to be here, it makes sense to be all in. I’ll wear the robe.

Mali asked, Will it impede you being able to get around in the wheelchair?

It shouldn’t.

I’ll leave you to get settled and will return for you in a few minutes.

On a small table beside a bed was a pamphlet welcoming retreaters and outlining expected conduct at the Center. There was a suggestion that cellphones be switched to off or airplane mode while attendees were anywhere on the grounds outside the temple hall or the cabins.

Ten minutes later Mali knocked on the cabin door, announcing himself. Clay had pulled on the hooded robe over a tee shirt and the pants he was wearing. He wheeled out and followed Mali to the main hall where a number of other people dressed like the monk, some of whom were women, were gathering with a small group who Clay took to be other retreat attendees. He wondered if they’d be referred to as retreaters or retreatees.

The group gathered at the entrance to the hall where they were led inside. Clay scanned the place, noticing Samadhi cushions gathered in a corner and what resembled a small altar at one wall. There was a table with an incense burner and little else at each end. Two support beams stood about 15 feet apart down the middle of the large space. The walls were painted white. On one was a row of small windows and on two others hung framed paintings featuring lettering in an Asian language. Clay guessed it was Chinese. The only door he saw was the one the group came through. He wondered whether this was a violation of fire codes. A man dressed in the same garb as Mali appeared from behind the group and walked to the center of the large room. Clay estimated his age as near his own, though he could never be sure. He was bad at guessing ages.

A bell sounded three times. Then the man folded his arms and smiled. I am Roshi Hand, and I welcome you to our Shambala center. It is good to have you each here for our retreat. Others will be joining us later today and tomorrow. For the next five days, this will be your home, and we will all be family, a family that gets along well and doesn’t fight over money.

After the mild laughter subsided he went on. Our Zen center is just that, a Zen center. We are not a Buddhist temple, though some of the people you will interact with here are Buddhist nuns and priests. I am the director, sometimes referred to as abbot, because I am also a Zen priest. The monk then came to his side. This is my assistant, Mali.

He settled himself onto a Samadhi cushion that Mali set down for him, lowering himself carefully and gathering his robe in one hand as he did so. Does anyone here know what Zen involves? he then asked.

That sounds like a koan, someone answered.

Koans will be part of the retreat, Roshi said. "But to answer my own question, Zen primarily involves sitting, lots of sitting, in meditation. We call it zazen, and while in meditation, sesshin. It’s not the words or their meanings, though, that is important. You may ask, then, what is important? I would leave that for you to decide. The retreat will have the meaning, or the no-meaning, that you assign it. Look upon the next five days as a contemplative time, a time for reflection. As you do so, think about this: what does a mirror reflect? It reflects what is already there."

The group was told they could return to their quarters or explore the Center. They were asked to meet at 6:00 p.m. in a dining hall Roshi Hand pointed out. Clay wheeled himself back to his cabin where he stretched out and checked his cellphone for email or voicemail, then took a nap. As he dozed off he listened intently to the deep unbroken silence. The quiet was calming, comforting.

*     *      *

Clay trailed behind the group led into the dining hall by a young female monk. He was among two dozen or so people attending the retreat, most of whom had donned a robe similar to his. The age range seemed to be 50’s and 60’s, with a few people obviously younger. Several of the retreaters were women. He expected that there might be a meet & greet session once they took their table for dinner, but he was wrong. In many ways the inside of the hall resembled any other cafeteria, but everything about it was sparer. The monk leading them said to look for her when they filled their trays, that she’d be waiting at a table. People silently filed into several lines.

Clay rolled up and took a tray. One of his fellow retreaters asked if he needed help, but he told him he was okay. At the food stations a sign announced, Let us acknowledge the farmer, the cook, and the kitchen worker by whose labor we eat this food today. There were ample amounts of food, but limited varieties, all fruits, vegetables, and breads. Clay took a plate and began filling it with salad fixings. He put bread and a pat of butter on another smaller plate, then a bowl of clear soup. He noticed there were no meat dishes and wondered whether he’d be going vegetarian for the next few days. It wouldn’t have surprised him. He supposed he could manage it. He doubted very much whether there were any alcoholic beverages. That, he might have a harder time managing.

At the far end of the food stations was a beverage dispenser beside stands with utensils and napkins. Clay poured himself a glass of water. The choices were that or milk and soft drinks. No alcohol. A sign above read, Please take only what you need. Clay thought about putting the meal on plastic but then saw there were no cash registers. He’d forgotten that everything was prepaid. Some of the others had arrived at the table ahead of him, so he pulled up his wheelchair at one end. The group gathered at two tables pushed together. There was only a handful of other tables in the dining hall, with only a few other diners. The atmosphere was oddly quiet. Clay was about to introduce himself to the man at his left but noticed another sign on the wall, Please observe silence while eating. The monk who had led them was already eating from a soup bowl and a salad plate before her. What could barely be heard was a stream of music similar to that played in a spa, Asian-themed. Low in volume, it was soothing and seemed a good choice at mealtime.

Clay ate in silence, finishing his meal quickly. He wondered whether it was appropriate to get seconds, then decided against it. There were no desserts. He noticed a few kitchen workers making their rounds like busboys, clearing tables and restocking the food stations. When everyone had finished eating, the monk stood.

The remainder of the evening is yours to spend as you choose, she announced. For those who wish to attend, there will be a meditation session at 7:00 p.m. in the main hall, as there is every night. There is also a library beside the hall if you care to examine the reading materials. We will awake in time tomorrow morning to assemble for the first meal of the day at 8:00 a.m.

As she bowed to the group, one of the retreaters asked, Um, if we’re new to meditating, can we attend tonight?

You may attend, to observe or participate. If you prefer to wait until tomorrow, meditation instruction will begin then.

Clay checked his watch. It was 6:30 p.m., the spring light lengthening the day. He wheeled toward the library, which was a small two-room annex to the main hall. The shelves were stocked with hardcover and paperback books. All would be reachable from his chair. Clay wheeled to a shelf and glanced at the books. He pulled out one titled Eat, Sleep, Pray and rolled over to a comfortable-looking chair that he transferred into and began reading. The story was about a young Zen student who entered a Japanese monastery, beginning the adventure of a lifetime. After a time he put down the book and found a magazine titled Tricycle. There was an article with a photo about Mali. He started reading, but within a few minutes was napping. When he awoke the time was nearly 7:30. He’d been hoping to attend the evening meditation session, but told himself it was okay, he could catch the next day’s session or sesshin. He wasn’t sure which it was.

On his way back to his quarters he stopped and breathed in the night air. Though the temperature was chilly, he turned his face up to the sky and listened. A quiet had descended, a deep quiet such as he’d rarely experienced. Clay took it in, his thoughts turning to events that had recently happened, most of which had been negative and upsetting. His mind filled with thoughts of how he was losing more and more physical abilities – one by one – the older he got. Then he remembered what he’d learned from the Zen book a friend had lent him. No one has to allow unwelcome thoughts to enter the mind. We wouldn’t allow an unwelcome visitor into our house, so why admit certain thoughts? And that’s all they were, just thoughts. Vapors. Figments of his imagination. They were no more real than anything else his mind might conjure.

Clay rolled into his bedroom with the library magazine in his lap. Maybe the publisher would like to become an e-client. He checked his cellphone for email. One had come in from Dora and another from his friend Sticks, both asking how it was going. He’d respond tomorrow. For now, he felt tired. He pulled himself into the bunk and read a few more pages, then tried meditating for several minutes. He tossed and turned for an hour before finally falling off to sleep.

Chapter One

He was daydreaming in the back of the conference room, fantasizing about ways he could kill his wife. Have to make real sure he covered his tracks. Maybe he could take her on a mountain drive, lure her out of the car, then strangle her and toss the corpse over a cliff. There was a name for a steep, precipitous drop like that over the side of a mountain, he was sure, but it was eluding him at the moment. But then again, maybe there wasn’t a name for such a thing. There probably was a specific word for killing your wife, too, but he didn’t know what it was, some kind of -cide. Uxcide?

Problem was, the body could be found, or the car could be seen on the way going or coming, or he could only think he’d killed her but she might crawl out of the forest, make her way back to civilization, and turn him in. The way his luck went, that’s what would happen. He’d get found out and spend the rest of his life in prison or, worse, be lethally injected in a death chamber with her family there gleefully watching him die. Certain to be in the gallery of spectators, in the front row, would be his sister-in-law, who loathed him. She wasn’t his favorite person, either. Never had liked her, right from the get-go. He’d always appreciated a rightful symmetry about that: when he disliked someone intensely and that person felt exactly the same about him.

Still, at the moment, any dire outcome seemed preferable to him than the prospect of letting his wife live. Things had been going worse than south between them for some time and –

He was snapped out of his reverie by the sudden silence, which meant the meeting was mercifully ending. The droning voice of his supervisor had stopped and the projector shut down. As he traversed the corridor back to his office, his cellphone buzzed twice. An email. He was trying to train himself to resist the OCD temptation of checking the damn thing every time it buzzed, telling himself that whatever it was could wait. But he gave in, slipping the cellphone out of his belt clip and checking the email. Another spam. Apparently he could resist anything but temptation. When he’d attended a company-sponsored time management workshop, the instructor had said to set aside designated times during the business day for checking email, otherwise you’re a slave to every buzz or ding alerting you. Like so much else in life, though, he just gave in to temptation, thinking of himself not as a slave but as a drone. An underpaid, underappreciated, unhappy drone. Which didn’t make him unique, because everyone he worked with felt underpaid and underappreciated. He’d bet a lot of them were unhappy, too. He thought of himself as a working stiff who was lucky to have a job in this wretched economy.

A working stiff with a wife he had to kill, no doubt about it.

It wasn’t even that he hated her, like her sister. He thought he probably did still love her, sort of, on some level. But he knew she didn’t respect him anymore, felt little other than contempt for him, belittling him and humiliating him, leaving him with what was left of his dignity in shreds. What he needed to do was grow a pair and fight back, but that capability – if he’d ever really had it – had been beaten out of him years before. He could leave her, file for divorce, but that would be a triumph for her. That’s exactly what she would want him to do. Initiate the divorce so he’d have to pay out lavishly. Which he would do over his dead body. But he didn’t want to be bothered about being liable for it. So the only acceptable alternative was that she had to be done away with.

But he knew he didn’t even have the balls to do that. So nothing would get done. Like so much else in his life. Like cleaning out the garage. He’d be stuck in this nightmare marriage that he couldn’t wake up from and that was the way it was. He’d never do a damn thing about it.

Back at his desk he Googled ways to kill your wife on his laptop and was surprised that something actually came up. There was even a You Tube video with a send-up on how to kill your wife, which he started watching when Ronelle came in like she always did, just breezed into his office like a hot, unwelcome wind, the kind that unsettles you and messes up your hair and puts you in a shitty mood, her entrance causing him to hit the red X at the top of his computer screen so she wouldn’t see what he’d been watching. He felt his face go warm in embarrassment, as though he’d been caught in the act checking out online porno, like when his mother barged into his room as he was masturbating. He was pretty sure he’d pulled the bedcovers up in time so she’d be none the wiser. She didn’t let on that she knew damn well what he’d been doing, but you never know. Although, his mother, she may not have had even the slightest inkling.

Once, his wife had even walked in on him with member in hand. They hadn’t been married long and she’d gone out the door one morning, on her way shopping as he’d come out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his torso. They were living in their first apartment then and he knew in retrospect that he should have waited till he heard the car start up and pull away. But the moment the door was closed he dropped the towel, plopped down on the sofa, and went to work. He hadn’t even thought to lock the damn door. Not two minutes later it flew open and there she stood, looking right at him as he lay holding his tumescent organ, no way for him to finesse his way out of this one.

She was so nonchalant about it, saying she’d forgotten something and hurrying past him into the bedroom. He saw the surprised look on her face, but she covered well. He didn’t say a damn thing, just sat bolt upright on the sofa, stark naked, not knowing what to do, his erection palpable. After only a few seconds she blew right back out again, saying she’d see him later, and was gone, just like that. Everything had happened in an instant. He pulled the towel up around him, watching from the upper-level sliding glass door as she pulled away. Then he felt as horny as he ever had. All he could do was laugh out loud and finish what he’d started. Neither one of them ever said another word about it. He’d always wondered, though, what could have been going through her mind at the time. It seemed to him that her reaction had been that it was quite normal a thing to burst in on your husband masturbating, as though it weren’t any big deal.

The slides for the presentation ready? Ronelle asked. It was the second time in as many days she pressed him about it. Whether they were ready or not was none of her business, but she could pester him with impunity because she’d been made the team leader by Ray, who was their boss and who had, for some unfathomable reason, put Ronelle in charge of the project. All Clay could figure was that she had to be in bed with Ray. She was utterly incompetent at her job but Ray liked her and that was all that mattered.

Still working on it, he answered without looking up from his computer screen. Ronelle was about to say something else when the phone rang and he picked it up, looking at her with a slight and what he hoped would be a dismissive smile. She turned in a huff and walked away, and he couldn’t help notice once again that, even though she was a bit hefty, she did have an attractive body and might even be a little fun in the sack.

It was his wife calling. He felt a chill. From his cubicle near the center of the floor he couldn’t see outside because the window facing onto the large greenbelt surrounding the building was a number of cubicles away. But he did perceive the penetrating light of midday, the warm spring sun beaming down, bleaching the surrounding neighborhoods and the whole city, bathing them in heat, and he wished he were outdoors, away from this cold, over-air conditioned workplace.

She was telling him it looked like her son wasn’t adjusting so well to his new circumstances and she’d have to go away for a few days to be by his side, see him through this, as she put it. The boy was a young man now, the product of a brief liaison she’d had in college. He lived with his father a couple of states away. Her conversation had something to do with her ex and the boy having to move in with his elderly parents because her ex had gotten laid off. Over the years he hadn’t really been paying that much attention to what was going on, hadn’t listened intently because there were regular crises with her son or her ex and he’d gotten tired of getting drawn into them. As she prattled on he wondered whether she really had to make the trip, and could think only of the expense. Which they didn’t need right now with things as tight as they were. But it wouldn’t matter if he objected, anyway. She was going to do what she was going to do regardless of cost and that was that. As it had been since day one of their marriage.

He finished working on the slides that Ronelle asked about and felt confident everything was as ready as it could be. He’d done his part, which was only one small cog in the big wheel. Other people on Ray’s team would have to do their part, too, for everything to come together. Which it probably would, as it usually did. But even it if didn’t, there was no huge consequence. Things would go on pretty much as they always had, business would get done and the people who held his pink slip would remain relatively happy. The only sour note that could get struck might be that Ray would feel a bit flustered for a time. But no matter: he’d just announce the formation of another project team and things would be back to square one. Ray’s mantra was, If you’re thrown a curve – swerve. That was the world of work in this office. Maybe any office. Except the ones on TV that Steve Carrell or Alec Baldwin worked in.

Chapter Two

The traffic was heavy on the way to the concert hall downtown, as was to be expected at this time of day along this particular route. It was early evening, the warmth of the day dissipating to a more comfortable level. He had the air conditioning going as he drove and noticed that the outside temperature registered a mild 70 degrees. He turned the A/C switch to off. His habit was to run the A/C only when the outside temp reached 75. He rolled down the driver’s-side window and the right-rear-passenger window, feeling the flow of outside air rousing him, distracting him from the mind-numbing routine of driving this well-traveled route.

By 6:30 p.m. he was pulling into the underground parking garage with the sign indicating the entrance was for performance personnel only. He pressed his KardKey against the electronic reader and was allowed entry. His customary ADA spot near the elevator was available, as it usually was, two spaces down from the assigned space marked P. Willingham. He pulled in and killed the engine, then looked at his watch. In the thirty minutes or so it took to drive from his home to downtown, his cellphone had buzzed four times. Every now and then, if traffic was jammed and he was crawling along slowly, he’d check his email in the car. But he tried diligently not to read emails if he was cruising along. It was bad enough other drivers did insane things on the road like apply make-up, talk on a cellphone, read a newspaper. Once he even saw a woman next to him changing a baby’s diaper as she drove. He vowed he wasn’t going to follow suit while driving and pose a danger to himself or others. Had even made it a New Year’s resolution.

Three of the emails were spam. The fourth was a text message from his wife that she’d arrived safely. She made it okay, didn’t die on the way. He returned his cellphone to his belt clip and popped open the cargo carrier hatch on his van. He slowly made his way along the side of the vehicle and retrieved his wheelchair, reaching the elevator as it stopped on the P1 level. Orvil Hackett stood inside with his French horn in its case. Orvil looked like central casting’s idea of a symphony musician. Flowing gray hair combed back and balding up front, slightly disheveled-looking, a bit stooped over, a look of artistic intensity and passion on his face. He especially looked the part on stage in his black tie and tails. He could easily be mistaken for an absent-minded professor or a mad scientist. Or Bernie Madoff.

Hello, Clay, Orvil said with his customary smile and stepped back in the elevator car to allow him entry. He said hi in return. There wouldn’t’ve have been room for anyone else in the small space, which was a huge pain when a number of musicians were trying to board the one elevator with their instruments. On performance evenings it often made more sense to park on a lower level and catch the elevator at the bottom, assuring that you got on and rode up past others on higher levels who had to wait interminably. It bugged him that some of his fellow performers who played smaller, lighter instruments like clarinets or violins insisted on riding in the elevator, too. Couldn’t they simply walk up the stairs and leave the elevator for those who really needed it?

He took his place at the side of the stage and reached for the bass that was in its rack. Some of his fellow musicians said hello, others nodded his way, some didn’t acknowledge him at all. It occurred to him that everyone is preoccupied with thoughts of self, going about what they have to do in rote fashion. Of course, he was no exception. He retrieved the sheet music from the instrument case and set the pages on the stand before him. Orchestra members began tuning up, striking discordant notes in their cacophony. He took out his catgut bow but decided he might not use it, given the selections they were rehearsing. He preferred plucking the bass, positioning himself beside and slightly behind it, the way jazz musicians typically do. The pieces to be rehearsed were more pop than classical, so the bow probably wouldn’t be necessary. Unless the conductor wanted to change the repertoire.

After the usual ten minutes or so, the conductor assumed her position on the raised dais center stage. Facility staff had neglected to get the air conditioning operating, so he soon began to feel warm, and one of the lights was out directly above where the conductor stood. She looked up above, craning her neck, and then returned her gaze to the musicians.

The A/C will be starting soon, I’ve been assured, she said. Apparently a fuse had to be replaced or something. She cleared her throat before going on. Before we get started, I have an announcement. You’re all aware of the economic situation for our operations. This orchestra, like all orchestras, is facing a financial pinch and we face the very real probability of concert cancellations during the upcoming season. The budget has been cut and may be cut further. But, for the time being, we carry on and hope for the best. Shall we get started?

The question was rhetorical, the one she asked at the beginning of each rehearsal session. He spun his bass 360 degrees on its point stand as he habitually did, pulled it in close with his left hand, and waited as the dowdy young woman who played second clarinet asked, What piece are we doing? the answer to which she would have known had she read the rehearsal sheet handout that had been distributed at the previous session. No sooner did she ask her question than her cellphone rang and she reached inside her blouse where she had the phone tucked into her bra and silenced it.

The conductor’s announcement wasn’t news; every musician was well