by Nancy Thayer
Ron Bennett was one of the most moral men Wilbur had ever met. If a lumber or plumbing or hardware company had a sale on some item, Ron always passed the savings along exactly to his clients, rather than paying the sale price and charging the full price and pocketing the difference. He would not try to beat the competition by giving a low estimate for a job and then surprising the customer with a much higher final bill. He had always made it a habit to give as many jobs as possible to high school and college kids, but he never tried to pass them off to his clients as accomplished professionals. He was an honest man. He had come to be much admired by the members of the community, even loved. Realtors had no trouble selling a house that Ron Bennett had built, because over the years the quality of those houses had shone through so well that “It’s a Bennett house” was a phrase that inspired confidence. The people of Londonton had great affection for Ron Bennett, and in his turn he loved them back. He chaired many boards and worked tirelessly for a great number of necessary charity groups, and it was apparent that he liked doing all of this, he liked exerting himself on the behalf of the world around him.
In the past few months, Ron had been in charge of the construction of the new recreation center which was being built on a plot of land donated by Jake Vanderson. Two years ago a bill had been passed in Londonton which allowed the city fathers to raise money through donations from the townspeople to build a recreation center. Londonton was tranquil and idyllic, except for its children, especially adolescent boys from poor families who had nothing to do after school but hang around the main shopping street of town, smoking cigarettes and wisecracking. When the recreation center was completed, other activities would be possible: there was to be a large indoor gym for basketball, volleyball, gymnastics, wrestling, and other indoor sports; private rooms for music lessons and counseling; goodold movies inexpensively rented would be shown on weekend nights; there would be chess tournaments and sex education courses. Everyone in Londonton was eager for the center to be finished, and Ron Bennett was giving it all his spare time, and more. Because he was in charge of the construction, he had been given complete control of the funds, and it was apparent that he was doing everything he could to give the community the best quality for the least money. Ron was unyielding in his standards. The Londonton Recreation Center would be every bit as sound and enduring as any of Ron Bennett’s houses. One had only to go over to the skeleton building and run a hand over the carefully cut and joined and sanded boards to know precisely what kind of a man Ron Bennett was.
Ron did have a flaw, however. Wilbur thought that only he and one other man—Peter Taylor—knew the complete truth about this imperfect side of Ron, and as far as Wilbur was concerned that secret could go to the grave with him. He hadn’t even told Norma. Ordinarily Wilbur told his wife everything he knew—half the pleasure of knowing something was the pleasure of sharing it with Norma. But in this case the slightest indiscretion on his wife’s part could do serious damage to the life of someone in the community, and Wilbur didn’t want to risk that. He knew that civilization was based as much on well-chosen silence as on well-chosen words.
Ron Bennett was a womanizer. His lechery was pure and personal rather than social; he did not chase after women in order to impress other men. He had, in fact, never talked with any other human being about his escapades until four years ago, when he had gone fishing with Wilbur.
Wilbur had been cranky that day. Retirement was annoying him; he felt always at loose ends, and had quickly found the projects he had planned on filling his days with to be either boring or too quickly done. When Ron called to suggest they spend that surprisingly warm April Sunday fishing instead of attending church, Wilbur had agreed happily enough. But out in his garage, as he puttered around getting together his fishing gear, he had accidentally gotten a hook caught in his thumb, and that had made him feel clumsy and old and useless. He had thought to himself that Ron was asking him to go fishing only out of pity, to give an old geezer something to do. So he had been taciturn during the drive to the lake, and Ron had been quiet, too. They had parked the car and lugged their gear and a cooler full of sandwiches and beer out to a promising spot on the edge of the lake and settled in for the morning.
It had turned into a good morning. The grass around the lake was pale and new and damp from morning dew, and the trees all around the shore of the lake were just starting to bud. Wilbur had put a fresh worm on his hook and cast his line into the blue depths of the lake, then sat down on the little canvas stool he carried for such occasions, and waited. He drank a beer even though it was only nine o’clock, and felt the heat of the sun on his chest. His bitter thoughts began to evaporate. He thought it wasn’t that bad, after all, to be an old man being humored by a younger one. Still, though his mood improved and he made comments about the weather and the possibilities of getting a bite, his mind was on himself.
So he had been surprised when Ron suddenly spoke. “I don’t know if I can continue going to church,” he had said. “I’d like to talk with you about it, Wilbur, I’ve got a real problem.”
What a revelation that morning had supplied. Wilbur had been stunned, saddened, and envious as Ron spilled out his confession of lust and fornication. So many women, and such good women, had come into Ron’s bed, or rather into the bed at the Cozy Times Motel, located fifteen miles away from Londonton. Many of them, according to Ron, had instigated the relationship, but just as many, he was quick to admit, had become his lovers only after a real siege on his part.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Ron had said. “At first I thought it was just a passing stage I was in, a sort of delayed seven-year itch, that sort of thing. Judy talks now and then about having another baby even though we’ve been married nineteen years and our children are in their teens. It’s a sort of craving she gets from time to time, and it will come on her real strong, and then after a while disappear. I’d been faithful to Judy for a long time, all through the hard years when John and Cindy were babies, and all through the years when we didn’t have much sex because we were afraid of getting Judy pregnant. I love Judy more than anything in the world, and I’d rather die than make her unhappy. She’s the best person I’ve ever met. In a way, I worship her. But, well, oh, hell, Wilbur, I feel funny telling you all this, but I’m at my wits’ end. I don’t know what to do. Is it okay, your hearing all this? Do you feel all right about it? What it is, is—Judy.… Sex just isn’t very important to Judy. We’ve even talked with her psychiatrist about this. She can’t help herself. I know she loves me. She loves me, and she cares for me, and if she wants to have sex with anyone, she wants to have it with me. But frankly it doesn’t cross her mind very often. Weeks and weeks can go by without her wanting anything more than a good-night kiss. I don’t know. I can’t imagine being married to anyone else. I love our home, our family, our life together; hell, I love Judy. With all my heart. But sometimes I feel like some kind of—werewolf or something. I’ll be sitting in my office and a woman will come in, and I’ll be completely transformed by lust. These women don’t any of them mean anything to me, and I let them know it. I don’t mean I’m insulting or cruel, but on the other hand I don’t lead them into believing that I care for them, or that I mean to have a lasting relationship with them. And you’d be surprised at how many women are happy to have just that. Sex is such a damned problem. Even during those times when Judy makes a point to be romantic and loving, even when I have sex with Judy several times a month, I still get such insatiable desires. God, I should just have my nuts cut off.”
The fish hadn’t been biting that day in spite of the good weather. Wilbur and Ron had stared out at their steady bobbers and drunk beer and talked about sex, and in the end the only advice Wilbur could offer was the suggestion that Ron go talk to his minister about it. Wilbur never had had an affair outside of his marriage, although he did not admit that, because he was afraid he’d embarrass himself and perhaps alarm Ron. He assured Ron that many men did have extramarital affair
s, but in his secret mind he wondered if many men indulged with such frequency. He didn’t blame Ron. He could understand what he was doing. And Ron’s love for his wife, his concern for her, was so strong that Wilbur could only admire Ron for it.
“Do you think I’m bad?” Ron had asked. “Truthfully.”
Wilbur had laughed. “Hardly bad. But I guess you could get yourself into a difficult situation this way. I mean that somebody could get hurt. Yet I don’t know what to say. If it were any other man, I’d suggest that he get busy with other activities—but there’s no way you could be busier. There isn’t a man in this town who helps the community more than you do. Still—”
There was an awkward moment before Ron picked up Wilbur’s thought and bluntly articulated it. “Still it’s a shame I’m an adulterer.”
“Well,” Wilbur sighed. “Lord, I don’t know. I’m sorry, Ron, I don’t know what to tell you.”
The men went quiet for a while and Wilbur had stared out at the middle of the lake where the sun shone so brightly that the water seemed to be all sheen, no color. He thought of what it must be like to be Ron, who had held so many different women in his arms and knew what it felt like to stroke long and short waists, bony and fleshy women, blondes and brunets. Monogamy was as good a rule as any other, Wilbur thought, because, like other rules, it imposed arbitrary constraints on daily life which made that life less exhausting to live. Breaking one important rule once was like letting just one pregnant rabbit into your house; you’d never be free of the consequences. Obeying certain social laws was often a painful task, but in the long run it made life simpler. Yet it was too late now for Ron to think of all of that. He’d made his decision long ago. Wilbur didn’t like Ron any the less for it; he could understand Ron and even envy him, and he felt that every other married man would have, too.
In the four years that had passed since Ron’s first confidence, he and Wilbur had gone fishing again four times, once each spring. That was the only time they had really talked intimately, although they saw each other often at parties and church and town meetings. The second spring Ron had said, “Well, I’m not stopping, but I am cutting back,” and they had laughed about that and it became a sort of password between them. “The thing is,” Ron had said, “it’s not dangerous to my health. It won’t give me cancer or heart problems or make me gain weight—hell, it helps me keep my weight down! I have gotten more select about the women. I take a lot of care to be sure I don’t go with a woman who wants love or a long relationship. But you’d be surprised, Wilbur, at how many women want just a good, easy, free fuck.”
“And what about Judy?” Wilbur had asked.
“Judy is a saint,” Ron answered. “I love her. She has no idea about all this, I’m sure—”
“But what about the women?”
“What do you mean? I thought I explained that. The women I sleep with don’t mean a thing to me—”
“No, no,” Wilbur interrupted. “I mean what about those women saying things to Judy or to other women who might talk so that eventually it would get back to Judy?”
Ron’s face went as harsh and unattractive at those words as Wilbur was ever to see it. “Huh-uh,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s no chance. Wilbur, I’m telling you, I’m very careful about this. If I think a woman might talk, I don’t mess with her. Most of them don’t exactly run in the same social set, if you know what I mean. Wilbur, I know this sounds strange to you, but Judy means more to me than anything in the world. She’s a treasure. And I work damned hard, making enough money to keep her happy—it takes a hell of a lot of money to live the way we do. I keep her happy, and I always will. It doesn’t hurt her if I have these dumb affairs. Hell, it probably helps. It relieves her of a burden. She’s got enough to do without servicing a randy old bull like me.”
Wilbur kept his eye on Judy and paid attention whenever Norma talked about her, and it seemed to him that Judy was just about as happy as any woman could be. The Bennetts continued to be a thoroughly admirable couple. Once when Wilbur came upon them suddenly in their kitchen at a cocktail party, he caught them off guard and was given, in the blink of an eye, a perfect tableau by which to divine their private life.
“Oh, dahling, won’t you take this tray for me, you great big handsome man, you,” Judy was saying. She was obviously mimicking Liza Howard as she sauntered over, hips thrust forward, to Ron. “My,” she went on, giving Ron the canapé-laden silver tray, “you do have such strong hands.”
Both Ron and Judy were laughing, and Wilbur knew in a flash that Judy could not have imitated that ultimately sexual woman so openly had she not trusted Ron completely. The look they shared with each other was that of conspirators. Ron was safe, in spite of his little affairs, and so was Judy. It was all right.
That night, Wilbur had gone back into the living room and sunk down onto a sofa and for a long while merely watched the other people. They moved among themselves and the drinks and food with such subtle elegance, such gentle fluidity, that from Wilbur’s vantage point the entire party seemed choreographed. Mitchell Howard had been alive then, and Wilbur had studied the man, wondering what he thought of his young wife, who was moving about the group restlessly. In fact, Liza flashed on and off. Her changes of mood fascinated Wilbur. One moment she would be leaning against a wall, drink in hand, bored and so still she looked like a mannequin, and the next moment, when a man approached her, she would absolutely glow. Wilbur at this time was sixty-eight, and he thought he certainly didn’t have the energy to sleep with such a woman, but for once the idea of voyeurism was intriguing.
He would have liked to see Liza Howard naked. He would have liked to watch her making love to some man. She was one of those women whose entire demeanor changed when a man came near. She would be quite a sight to see in the bedroom. Everyone suspected the worst of Liza, as well they might, for one had only to look at the way she dressed to see what was on her mind. She had little subtlety; everything was on display. Her fabulous beauty was made apparent for everyone to see—and so were her opinions. Wilbur thought this a strange trait in someone so sophisticated. Whether she liked or disliked someone showed instantly on her face and in the attitude of her body, and Wilbur wondered why she did not use more discretion. Could she really be so ingenuous? He thought not. What it came down to, Wilbur decided as he studied the woman, was that Liza Howard did not care about what this particular group of people thought of her.
Still, Mitchell Howard seemed happy enough and it was clear that Liza loved her husband even though he was so much older than she. Wilbur realized after Mitchell’s death that Liza had loved her husband even more than he had suspected, for her face took on such desperate lines, as if she were now slashed with pencil marks, as if grief outlined her expressions. The flashing off and on was gone for a while; she was still beautiful, but harsh and still. Wilbur pitied her. He understood that sense of loss and hopelessness—he had gone through it all when Ricky died. Now and then when he saw Liza Howard at church, he wanted to speak of his sympathy, but she seemed so unapproachable. And as the months passed, she seemed to be making peace with her grief. Now she no longer looked harsh, and if she did not yet flash, she certainly did glimmer, as if containing some new secret fire.
“What does a woman like that come to church for?” Norma had asked, making a little sniffing motion with her nose, as if Liza Howard actually smelled bad.
“Well, she’s sad,” Wilbur had replied. “She’s lost her husband. She’s had a difficult life.”
“Hmmph,” Norma said. “With all her money and good looks? Don’t tell me she has had a difficult life. She just makes life difficult for others.”
Was Norma right? Wilbur wasn’t sure. He and Norma were not given to the sort of personal-philosophical discussions his sons loved, during which the safeguards of the heart were seared away, exposing one’s most intimate secrets. They had been through too much together for that—they already knew as much about each other’s intimate secrets as it was de
cent for any one person to know about any other. Now old age was making them even more vulnerable to one another, and as the weaknesses of their bodies became more and more exposed, it was essential that they be ambiguous in what was left to them—their personal life, their speech. There was always a serious danger in being too explicit.
So Wilbur understood vaguely that part of Norma’s grudge against Liza Howard was that Liza was a young and beautiful woman, while Norma was old. Wilbur wished she were able to have more charity in her heart toward Liza Howard, but he did not bother to press this. It would only have angered Norma, and Liza Howard was not an important enough person in their lives to be a cause for disruption. Wilbur assumed that by now Ron Bennett had been in Liza Howard’s bed and he envied him the experience, not so much for reasons of lust as from sheer curiosity. What was she like? Why was she staying in a community that so continually excluded her?
Wilbur shifted on the pew. He realized he had been staring at Liza Howard and at the Bennett family for a long time now, and that he had been concentrating on them rather than on Peter Taylor’s sermon. But the flame of indigestion which had irritated him was growing more steady, more piercing. With a jolt of fear, Wilbur realized that he actually hurt. He wished he had some Tums or Rolaids to cool that burning space between his lungs. He looked at his watch: it was only five after eleven. It would be a good twenty minutes before the church service was over and he could get to his car and home to find some kind of medicine. What had he eaten this morning? Nothing unusual. Eggs, bacon, and only one cup of coffee, orange juice, milk. A good healthy breakfast with no element in it that hadn’t been there on previous mornings. Last night’s meal had been bland and unprovocative, too, so why was his chest burning like this? Oh, getting old was awful. Every little pain made you think you were being grasped by the hand of death. It was the fear that was worse than anything. He could easily deal with the pain, but it was what this particular pain meant that bothered him.
