Masquerade fk-12

by William X. Kienzle

  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 tim
es 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. .!”

  “No, no, I understand,” David interrupted. “I know in my heart that’s not a viable alternative. It’s completely unfair to Pamela. And I feel guilty as hell about it. That’s why I’m here. But even though it’s not going to solve anything, I had to mention it as an alternative.

  “Then there’s breaking up with Pam. It would tear me apart. Her too. But that’s the obvious, ‘moral’ choice no matter how much pain is involved, isn’t it?”

  Massey continued to puff wordlessly.

  “But there’s a third possibility. What if I confessed the affair to Martha and offered her the choice of divorcing me? Uncontested. That would let me marry Pam and we’d be happy. Of course, it would shatter Martha. But, I think, only for the moment. She would promptly get so reinvolved with her real estate, that after a short while she’d wonder who was that person who once shared her life.

  “So, Father, I don’t find the future as cut and dried, as rhetorical, as it might seem.”

  Massey removed the pipe from his mouth and shook his head. “David, David. . the alternatives to what you correctly called the ‘moral’ situation don’t exist for you.”

  “Don’t exist?”

  “Maintaining the status quo, continuing your adulterous relationship with Pamela will drive you mad. I’ve seen it happen to too many good men. Your conscience will never let you rest. The guilt has forced you to seek me out. It’s clear from your own lips that you know it can’t continue as it has.

  “Besides, you risk losing everything if you continue this clandestine affair. Just as you also risk losing everything should you divorce Martha and ‘make an honest woman’ of Pamela.”

  “Lose everything? I don’t. .”

  “David, there are two grounds for deposing a priest.”

  “Yes: in the case of faith or morals. I know.”

  “You’re not in the process of denying any of the doctrines of the Church. You aren’t making heretical statements. The matter of faith is clear-cut and fairly easy to judge. The area of morals is a horse of a different color. There are gray patches. But a priest’s adulterous relationship qualifies nicely.

  “Just how do you suppose your congregation would feel toward you if they knew you had engaged in adultery with a vulnerable woman who was your de
pendent client in therapy?”

  It was the word “vulnerable” that reached him. It burned his soul like a brand. It was true. She was very vulnerable and he had taken advantage of her vulnerability.

  “I think,” Massey continued, “there is no question that you would not survive a morals challenge. And it makes no difference whether you keep Pamela as your paramour or divorce Martha and marry Pamela.”

  “No difference!”

  “No difference. In the eyes of your people, nor, I assure you, as far as the bishop is concerned: You will have betrayed the professional ethics of the therapist-client relationship. It is bound to come out that you were romancing someone who had come to you trusting that she would receive professional help.”

  “But that’s not true! Pam’s therapy was concluded before-a long time before-we became lovers!”

  “Try to convince others of that. Besides, even if you could convince anyone, the next charge that would be brought would be that you were setting her up for the later affair. One is just as bad as the other.”

  Benbow considered his position as Massey had outlined the probabilities.

  Massey could surmise what the younger clergyman was thinking. “That’s not all,” he added.

  Benbow met Massey’s eyes evenly.

  “You are the author of a book, a novel that, I understand, sold rather well.”

  Benbow nodded.

  “It’s a good book, I think,” Massey said. “I read it. Enjoyed it. Going to write more?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Thought as much. The formula was good, good enough to bear repeating. The Episcopal Church played a big role in your book, David. You brought an authentic touch to it. The reader could tell that right off. What if by the time you get around to writing the next book, what if you are a deposed clergyman, disgraced in the eyes of your Church as well as in the psychology profession?”