At first, David vehemently opposed her sacrifice. In the end, he had to capitulate. While his family was beginning to tolerate the notion of his clerical ambition, their indulgence did not extend to supporting him—let alone his wife—while he pursued his goal. The seminary would require his total investment of time and energy. There seemed no alternative to Martha’s plan. She would work, he would study.
She chose real estate, principally because, irrespective of gender, there was virtually no ceiling on one’s prospects in that field. There was no perceived limit on how many houses one could sell if one worked at it in a dedicated manner. And dedication was mother’s milk to Martha.
So they were married.
Since Martha’s parents were dead, David’s father bent far enough to provide a splashy wedding for them. But shortly thereafter, cold reality set in. She worked, he studied. Both played their roles diligently. In time, David was ordained and assigned to an upper middle-class parish on the outskirts of Chicago. At this point, it became possible for Martha to withdraw from the business world and become a homemaker. Something she would of course have done with dedication.
But it was a little too late for that.
Martha’s diligence had begun to pay off handsomely and literally. She was earning David’s salary many times over. And it did come in handy—although, as often as he allowed himself to think of it, it did tarnish his self-image.
Professionals in their chosen fields, they began to take on inflexible routines. His work week focused toward the weekend when he would conduct formal services. Meanwhile there was plenty to keep him busy Monday through Friday with meetings, classes, instructions, and counseling.
Martha evaluated, showed, and sold houses morning, noon, and night, weekdays and weekends.
In time almost everything in their lives became subject to scheduling. When they might balance their checkbooks, when they might eat together, when they were able to squeeze in some precious quality time, when they might enjoy sex.
Sexual expression had had a playful, spontaneous character for only a few months after they were first married. They did not engage in intercourse before marriage. Their honeymoon was all either of them could have expected. Soon thereafter scheduling became a limiting and controlling factor. Regulating so natural an expression of their love so early in their marriage exacted a price. The price—a rigid formality plus the sublimation of powerful instincts—they were willing to pay in exchange for the financial security they were building. Somehow, Martha seemed more willing to sublimate than David, though it was not easy for either and led to arguments—which grew less frequent as time proved them futile.
Enter Pamela Richardson.
Pam Richardson was one of many parishioners who came to David regularly for instruction or counseling or both. In Pam’s case it was counseling.
Pam had been an orphan, adopted at age five by a couple who should not have been allowed to adopt anyone. It wasn’t physical abuse, it was psychological deprivation. Her adoptive parents withheld love, approval, and encouragement. She became very withdrawn at an age when she could not absorb so radical a privation.
As an external manifestation of her inner insecurity, Pam developed a facial tic that affected only the left side of her face. So, when she experienced almost any emotion—happiness, for instance—only the right side of her face reacted. This produced an admittedly grotesque abnormality.
The man she learned to call “father” laughed and ridiculed her. The woman she learned to call “mother” wasn’t any help. She saw it her duty to be supportive of her husband. Pam came in a distant second.
However, mother did take the little girl to a doctor who, by testing, ruled out any physical cause for the abnormality. For no obvious reason, the doctor predicted that the little girl would recover from this psychosomatic illness when she reached her fifteenth birthday.
Whether he had the insight of the psychic, was extraordinarily inspired—or lucky—or whether it was the power of suggestion that made it a self-fulfilling prophecy, at her fifteenth birthday Pam’s tic vanished, never to reappear. But her depression continued, even intensifying, as she no longer had the external defense mechanism of the tic as an escape hatch.
It was in a state of deep depression that Pamela first visited Father David Benbow. So deep was her depression it bordered on despair. David came very close to referring her to a specialist immediately. He probably would have had he not been taking a course in pastoral psychology at the time. As part of the course, he was assigned a professional psychologist who monitored the cases he was then handling. Thus, through him, Pamela in effect had the benefit of professional care without paying for it.
In the beginning, David’s monitor was equally apprehensive about Pamela’s condition. David was advised to try supportive therapy in massive doses to try to generate some sort of positive self-image, which seemed to be totally lacking.
So it began.
David could not have imagined a plainer young woman. Pamela never wore any sort of makeup. She always appeared tired, virtually exhausted. This she attributed to a recurring nightmare that made her reluctant to fall asleep.
In the repetitive dream, she was backstage in a large auditorium that was filled with strangers. She was, very reluctantly, competing in some sort of pageant. The other candidates (for what, it was never clear) were beautiful, intelligent women her own age. She dreaded going on stage where she was certain to be humiliated.
Eventually it would be her turn. She didn’t even know what she was supposed to do when she stepped through the curtains. She never entered onto the stage willingly. She was pushed out. Once on stage, people began to laugh at her. One in particular, a strange half-man, half-animal that resembled a hyena, laughed her to scorn. (Her father, David wondered, who, by his constant, brutal ridicule, had ravaged her fragile ego strength like a scavenger?) At this point, she would waken in a cold sweat and fight off sleep for the remainder of the night.
David and his monitor studied this nightmare in great detail. Its manifest content seemed unmistakable. It was her father, more than anyone else, who subverted her self-confidence. As an orphan, she needed to be warmly accepted by someone very special. Instead, she was rejected by a “mother and father,” the very people one would expect to be most nurturing and loving.
She was, then, the ugly duckling in unfair competition with others with whom she ought to be able to compete fairly. She wanted to stay secluded from everyone—backstage—but society kept demanding that she mount the stage of the workaday world.
She couldn’t escape. Not in the real world, not even in sleep.
One more item: On the rare occasion David could get her to laugh, she would reflexively cover the left side of her mouth as if the early tic were still present. It wasn’t, of course, but subliminally did she imagine it was?
It was slow, painstaking therapy. David at times felt as if he were monkey-in-the-middle between his monitor and his client. Gradually, however, his nonjudgmental acceptance and encouragement began having an effect.
The first sign was so subtle, David almost missed it.
For the very first time—in his contact with her, and, in fact, in many years—she wore the softest hint of lipstick. But, thank God, he did recognize what for her was a sizable, if tentative step. He complimented her effusively. She smiled broadly, covering the left side of her face.
Thereafter, she wore makeup regularly and charmingly. David never failed to notice and compliment her on her appearance. Next she began wearing more attractive clothing. David was amazed at the external transformation. She was really quite an attractive woman. Not a ravishing beauty, but one who would catch the eye of the discerning man.
Progress came more rapidly now. The day she laughed openly without even an attempt to cover her face, David and his monitor celebrated later with a toast of an inexpensive wine.
Finally, she vanquished the nightmare. She was unsure at first that it was gone permanently. But night
after night of peaceful sleep convinced her it was over.
With no regression, in sight, it seemed safe to declare her cured. A psychoanalyst might have kept her in therapy for years more. But in the school of psychology to which David and his monitor belonged, the sessions were over. He agreed with his monitor that it was over.
But it wasn’t.
She kept making appointments with him. He kept scheduling her appointments. They always found something to talk about. The forty-five minute hours became fifty-minute hours. Then a full, honest sixty-minute hour.
Her transformation had been slow, inchmeal. Something like those hair color formulas that supposedly darken gray hair so imperceptibly that no one notices that the user is “peeling years away.” Nonetheless, Pamela’s transformation had taken place and was continuing. Since she had begun using makeup stylishly and wearing flattering clothes, she had very definitely changed from a plain, all but invisible person to an appealing young woman.
Being noticed and being asked out by men was a new experience. She was unsure how to handle it. She decided, and made it a routine decision, to turn down all invitations to dates. She did this out of loyalty to David. But she would not have been able to explain her reasons. He was a priest, moreover, a married man. He was her counselor/therapist.
Transference was running wild. David Benbow had become her father figure, her older brother, her friend and confidant, her secret lover, “pure and chaste from afar,” as the song had it.
David was familiar with transference. He had studied it as part of his psychology course. He had experienced it many times with clients. He knew—or was pretty sure he knew—what Pam was undergoing. He did little to control or channel her strong and chaotic emotions.
Some three months after counseling therapeutically and theoretically had ended, Pam invited David to dinner at her apartment. Technically, the invitation was for the Reverend and Mrs. Benbow. But Martha never saw the invitation. The evening in question Martha was scheduled to be in charge of the real estate office. It figured that she would be babysitting the office, showing houses, or contracting to sell. She was driven.
Pam expressed regrets she did not feel upon learning that Mrs. Benbow would not be able to attend. It was only when David arrived, presenting a bottle of medium grade wine (all he could afford without Martha’s knowing of the unscheduled purchase) that Pam learned that Martha had no idea where David was that night.
It was an innocent evening, with a satisfactory dinner and pleasant conversation. David helped with the dishes. It ended at the door with a brief, modest embrace. He kissed her cheek. She kissed the air. And yet . . . and yet each felt some surge of excitement. Nothing of any consequence had occurred, but she felt slightly incestuous and he felt a bit adulterous. It had everything to do with his thinking he was called to a higher life than average men, her being virginal, their previous therapeutic relationship.
In the face of all that, they continued to meet for dinner at her apartment at least once every other week. Familiarity, like everything else in their relationship, grew gradually, slowly. Rather than remaining seated at the table after eating, they sat on the couch—a sofabed—frequently holding hands. At parting, they kissed on the lips, but as brother and sister might.
It happened, as it most certainly had to happen. One evening he talked freely and openly about his marriage, painting it as considerably less intimate than it actually was. Her heart went out to him in his self-described isolation. They kissed passionately. She invited him to disrobe her. He protested that he did not know how he could stop at that point. The invitation was not withdrawn.
All he could think of was what a waste it had been to cover that body with so much clothing for so many years. He had never even imagined breasts being such perfectly molded mounds of flesh.
He was right: He could not stop.
The barrier had fallen, never again to be rebuilt. They felt guilt, deep and abiding guilt. But, simply, their passion far outweighed the guilt.
They met no more frequently than they had before. But now there was no pretense that the evenings were mere dinner parties with small talk. They were trysts pure and simple. David had his cake and ate it too. Pamela joyfully anticipated their times together. Yet both knew that for her this was a dead-end trip. David made it clear that for both personal and career considerations, he could not, would not, leave Martha. Pamela insisted she understood.
But how happy can anyone be traveling an avenue that leads nowhere?
Pamela’s plight added guilt to David’s still sensitive conscience. When enough guilt accumulated, he phoned for an appointment to see Father Alfred Massey, a universally respected older clergyman who had been one of David’s seminary instructors.
After a substantial dinner prepared and served by Mrs. Massey, the two clergymen retired into the rector’s study where they would not be interrupted.
“Well, my boy,” Massey opened as he filled his pipe, “what’s on your mind?”
“It’s been a long time since I visited with you and Sara.” Benbow was beginning to feel ill at ease.
Massey chuckled noiselessly. “Since you were a student. Yes, I’d say that qualified as a long time. And I’d say there’s something on your mind.”
Benbow tried to smile but it wouldn’t come. “What I . . .we . . . say tonight, it will be held confidential?”
Massey nodded. “Of course, if that’s the way you want it. I’m not the type that runs off at the mouth in any case. Now, what is it, my boy?”
David told the tale: the therapy sessions monitored by an instructor; the friendship that grew from and extended beyond the professional relationship; finally, the affair that continued to this moment.
When he finished, he felt a decided sense of relief. He hadn’t anticipated the sensation but he should have. From his own experience of listening to the problems of others, in and out of the confessional, he’d experienced at least vicariously the miracle of the talking cure. But now he circled his emotional defenses closer, waiting for the unknown, namely Canon Massey’s reaction to an open-and-shut case of adultery.
Massey relit his pipe, puffing until his head nearly disappeared in the clouds of smoke. “How’s Martha?”
The question clearly surprised Benbow. “She’s . . . fine. Working hard as a realtor.”
“Yes, she always was a hard worker . . . put you through school, if memory serves . . . no?”
“Yes.”
“Does working hard mean what I think it means? That you seldom see each other?”
Benbow nodded.
“I see. May I ask, in general, about your marital relationship?”
Benbow would not lie, as he did with Pamela. Not now, not to Massey. “If you overlook the fact that we have to schedule almost all our intimate times together, it is not bad. Not bad at all.”
Massey’s eyes narrowed as if trying to see through the smoke, to understand. “Well, I know that you and Martha are still young, and that spontaneity in marriage is important at your stage. But if your sexual activity with her is as satisfactory as you indicate, then why . . .?”
Benbow pulled at his earlobe, turning his head from direct eye contact. “I’m not sure. I haven’t actually faced that question until just this moment. Maybe it’s man’s hunger for variety.”
“But surely more . . .?”
“Before we were married?” Benbow smiled. “Before I married Martha, there was no one, no wild oats. We were both virgins when we married. I’ve come to think that’s both good and bad news. Good news on the virtue scale. Saving oneself for one’s life companion. No sins of fornication or adultery, and all that. But bad news in the long run, I fear. Always the curiosity about what it might be like with someone else. Whether the experience could be different, better, more exciting.”
“And . . .?”
“And?”
“Did you find it all that much different? Better? More exciting with . . .?”
“Pamela.”
“Yes, Pamela?”
Benbow thought for several moments. “Yes, as a matter of fact. If I can state this without embarrassing either of us. It’s a difference—a vast difference as it turns out—in personalities.”
In spite of himself and despite the gravity of the matter, Benbow couldn’t help smiling. “Martha surprised me from the start. I thought all women were like this. She had no experience. She acted instinctively. The same sort of drive, of get-up-and-go that has brought her so much success in real estate . . . well . . . it’s the same in everything, including bed.” He looked thoughtful. “In marriage counseling, a problem frequently arises because the husband doesn’t bother satisfying his wife. That’s never been a consideration with Martha. Sometimes she gets concerned about whether I’m having a satisfactory orgasm. She . . . has no problem in that area.
“Pamela . . . well . . . Pam was—is—different. The two are diametrically opposed personalities. Martha does. Pam is done to. She’s utterly, completely passive. I find that attractive, stimulating, erotic, a turn-on.”
“You could get one of those life-sized dolls,” Massey muttered.
“I beg your pardon. What was that?”
“Nothing.” Massey tapped the dottle out of his pipe, selected a fresh pipe from the rack, and began the ritual anew. “Well, David, we are now faced with a number of predictable, hypothetical, rhetorical questions. I don’t feel we need to get into it too deeply. You know what you must do.”
It was a rhetorical question in the form of a statement. Yet David was unsure of his response. Still, he couldn’t help being frank. Not now. Not after he’d opened himself so candidly to his respected colleague. “Not really,” he said. “It seems there are at least two, maybe three alternatives. I could maintain the status quo. Martha is not aware of anything. I’m slightly more than fulfilled with two women almost programmed to fit my moods.”
Massey’s mouth was a tight line. “David! I want to remain as nonjudgmental as possible. But really . . .!”
Masquerade Page 20
