“What?”
“No thank you!”
Their meal is consumed without the further benefit of alcohol, and because of this, their conversation—with its manifold repetitions—is less than scintillating. No matter how earnestly he attempts to focus on her, and she on him, there is always a television’s temptation within peripheral vision. The food is good and filling, though. By mutual consent, they skip dessert. Once she pays the bill and he visits the restroom, it comes as a great relief to breathe the air of the well-illuminated night.
Budge and his soon-to-be ex-wife stroll back across the bridge over the Wabash and up the hill to the Victorian mansion. The other guests have apparently turned in for the night. Extending upward from the formerly gas-lit foyer is the grand staircase with its burnished bannister.
“Hey, this gives me an idea,” he says.
He climbs quickly to the top of the stairs, plunks his rear end on the bannister, and lets gravity slide him down. “Yow!” he exclaims, striking the newel post with his thigh.
“Shhh! Don’t wake up everybody.”
“I won’t. C’mon, try it. It’s fun.”
I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Suddenly I’m playful as a pup. What accounts for it—the beer? the fries? Really, I must monitor these mood swings; I might stumble onto a literary gold mine. I could write a novel in different humors, as the Victorians called them. The characters and setting and plot hold steady, while my descriptiveness wanders all over the map. Might be interesting.
She demurs, but doesn’t mind waiting at the foot of the staircase while he slides down the bannister again, this time braking with his hands. Eons ago, she might have partaken in such an amusement, but now it’s an appearance and propriety issue. He can’t blame her. What fifty-something, male or female, would act so silly?
“Guess I had to get that out of my system,” he offers lamely.
She smiles indulgently. “You always were a little boy underneath that gruff exterior.”
“Always were and always will be,” he laughs.
It is a good moment for the two of them, perhaps the best of the entire day. Formality is at a minimum, barriers are down. Together they tread the steps slowly and easily, and Budge’s optimism shifts into high gear.
We’re going upstairs to take the test—the Can We Get Back Together? test. We’re separately weighing the pros and cons. What part of our new identity can we give up? What part are we willing to give up? How much face-saving is called for, and can we pull it off? Moreover, how can we prevent a breakup in the future if we reach another situational impasse?
I feel like grabbing her and kissing her, but I dare not. This has to be a mutual advancement, not one leading the other.
In actuality, Budge’s ruminations are one-sided and presumptive. She doesn’t reach out to take his hand, nor does she give any indication, once they’re in the room, that she’s going to rush into his arms and treat the occasion as a second honeymoon. Instead, she matter-of-factly goes to the bathroom to change into her night clothes and brush her teeth. Budge is left sitting on his side of the bed in a half-demented state of exasperation, wondering if reason has altogether deserted him now that his latest fantasy is about to be denied.
Okay, okay. Enough of this hopeful crap. I’ll just crawl under the covers—at mattress’s edge—and will myself to sleep. No more fool’s paradise for me. On the subject of sex with my ex I won’t say another word or think another thought. Why have I persisted in carrying a torch for her? Hasn’t she given me the clearest indication that I no longer hold her interest? She has requested my company, not my sexuality. I’m somebody she trusts, a eunuch of known quantity. But it’s not me, not in a million years! Gawd, why didn’t I just stay home with Matty, who’s willing to make love with me at the drop of a hat? Willing and grateful. I don’t even have to ask her anymore. She’s like one of those touch screens on a computer. Touch her anywhere, and she engorges with desire.
He takes his laptop from the suitcase and switches it on. He’ll type her a quick email right now.
Dearest Sweetheart,
I’m missing you something awful! I’ve been busy all day, and have only just now found time to write. How are things going in Maryland? Time seems to pass slowly without you. Nevertheless, it’s the bewitching hour, so I better sign off.
Now it’s Budge’s turn to use the bathroom, so he gets up and goes straight for it, avoiding eye contact with the nearer object of his lust, who is well-wrapped in a bathrobe with her hair brushed mannishly along the sides of her head, and her neck and forehead shiny with moisturizing cream.
When he comes out of the bathroom, his wife is already in bed with her face turned to the wall. He snaps off the various lights and tentatively grasps his side of the covers.
“Oh, would you get me a glass of water,” she says meekly. “I forgot.”
Budge feels his way to the bathroom sink and rips the wrapper from one of the plastic glasses. The tapwater is lukewarm and reeks of chlorine. He wouldn’t drink it himself, if he could avoid it.
“Here,” he says, venturing off-limits to her side of the bed.
“Thanks.”
As she drinks, he goes back to the side where he belongs and slips between the covers as unobtrusively as he can. The room turns out to be not very dark. The pillow and mattress are lumpy, the sheet and blanket scratchy. He judges the bed’s comfort level at a two or three on a scale of ten. He hears the hoot of a towboat on the river. He hears the rhythmic nasal breathing of his bedmate, who lies still as a mummy. He imagines that he can feel her inviting presence, but what he is actually sensing is a sudden onset of his own fatigue. He knows that he could fall asleep instantly, and is fully prepared to do so. All thoughts of unrequited sensuality subside in this muzzy tapering of consciousness.
He is jarred back to reality by the sound of her voice.
“I’ve been thinking about tomorrow,” she is saying. “We should reach Chicago by mid-morning. Maybe we could do a little sight-seeing. Is there any place you’d like to visit in particular?”
Budge is not sure how to reply. Yesterday, she gave him the impression that she wanted to get to California as quickly as possible. Now she’s saying something different and, what’s more, inviting his input.
“Well, uh …” He thinks hard. It has been a long time since he was in Chicago, since they were, maybe ten or twelve years ago. “We could always go back to the Art Institute.”
“We could, but I was thinking of someplace else.”
C’mon, bitch! You asked and I answered. What is this, anyway? I’m ready to nod off—hands off you and everything—and you’re ramping up some big intelligent discussion. I was under the impression that the whole point here was to ignore each other, pretend each of us is sleeping alone.
“I was thinking of Oak Park, where all those Frank Lloyd Wright houses are,” she continues. “We could take a walking tour. Would that interest you?”
Budge is wider awake now and receptive. “Sure it would.”
“We’ve never been to Oak Park, and since our trip is pretty much open-ended …”
As he listens to her, he can’t help but notice two distinct changes: 1) she’s using the first person plural with apparent sincerity, and 2) she’s admitting to the possibility of a detour for the sake of their mutual enjoyment. The trip is no longer just about getting to California. In addition, he notices a change in his own attitude: his drowsy grumpiness has given way to the old feeling of joy he used to have just by being in her presence.
“Hey, that’s a good idea. It’s something we’ve both wanted to do.”
Oh, it’s so much easier to be agreeable! The smile muscles versus the frown muscles—less is more. I love the pronoun we. We, we, oui! It has been such a long time since I’ve spoken it with impunity. It used to be jinxed; the more I said it, the worse our relationship got. In the months before our breakup, she’d chastise me for my pigheaded presumption. I had no right to speak for her. My
opinions were mine and mine alone. Hers were the polar opposite. We shared no common ground—was that quite clear? Jeez, I’ve been afraid to utter the word ever since.
With Oak Park firmly on the agenda, the conversation dribbles to a halt. They’re both lying on their backs, carefully avoiding physical contact, but he can distinctly feel the radiation of her warmth. Their shoulders can’t be more than a foot apart.
“Are you sleepy?” he asks, addressing the ceiling.
“Mm, yes. Aren’t you?”
“Not anymore,” he says. “I was earlier, before all this business about Oak Park.”
“It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m glad you brought it up.”
For Budge, this relaxed state of rapport brings back other days, better days. He badly wants to reach out to his former life’s companion.
Would it be a crime if I just took your hand? If I held your hand as we lie here and drift off? Would you misinterpret my overture and think that I wanted to climb on top of you and fuck the daylights out of you? Would you pull away and give some tiresome lecture, remanding me to sleep in the car? I wouldn’t put it past you. You want all the benefits, but not the responsibilities. You want my help, but you don’t want to help me—help me make it through the night, as the song goes.
Once again, Budge is getting worked up. He is congenitally unable to let go of his desire for the woman who no longer desires him. In unnatural stillness, he lies on his side of the bed, jaw clenched, inaudibly breathing, eyes wide open. He tries to think of Matty, but she’s no match for the realness of his wife. His hips and shoulders are already starting to ache—the first casualties of the mattress. He can feel his bladder filling; within the hour, he’ll have to get up and use the bathroom. Without a doubt, it’s going to be a long night.
Five minutes pass, fifteen minutes pass.
“Oh all right!” his bedmate blurts wearily. “I know what you want. Go ahead, do it and get it over with!”
Chapter Nine
Gentle Reader, have you ever fucked someone who didn’t care one way or the other whether you fucked her or not, who did it only to satisfy what she perceived as your lust for her? You were so hot and bothered, she took it for granted that her allure was irresistible. Moreover, by acquiescing to your gratification, she was essentially controlling you; the payoff was your continued good behavior. And to twist the dagger deeper, she let you fuck her in a way that made you feel terribly guilty afterward. Has this, Gentle Reader, ever happened to you?
Budge is writing these lines in his journal, addressing his wholly sympathetic audience of one, i.e., himself, as he sits on the rumpled bed in the soon-to-be-checked-out-of room. His wife has gone down the street for bagels and coffee. Budge himself is hungry, but hungrier still to make sense of what happened last night.
I told her she didn’t have to make love with me, and she made a smart-ass reply. She said she wasn’t going to make love—catch the sarcasm in her voice, Gentle Reader!—but just have sex. I didn’t press for a clarification, figuring that an epistemological discussion would only lead to an argument. It was imperative to keep up the momentum. Coitus (for want of a better term) was my goal—same as it was almost every night during our marriage, come to think of it—but not having had her for so long, I couldn’t risk her changing her mind and saying no.
So I turned to her and tentatively put my hand on her shoulder. She didn’t move. I let my fingers stray in the general vicinity, which was well-sheathed by her nightgown, and she seemed relaxed enough. I drew my head closer so that my lips brushed her cheek. She gave no indication that I should stop, but she wasn’t reciprocating either. Her hands remained at her side, and she looked into my eyes with—from what I could tell in the quasi-darkness—a bemused air. It was as if she was saying, “I see you can’t help yourself, and I don’t blame you.” My fingers grew bolder, straying down to her breasts. It fascinated me to revisit these sites of her body which I had practically iconified over our long years of cohabitation. Through the silky fabric, I felt the shape of her bosom—yes, it was exactly as I remembered. Her breasts weren’t what you’d call ample, but they were distinct entities that easily conjured up a man’s erotic fantasy. My hand traveled south now, exploring her belly and haunches, avoiding, for the moment, the delta of my desire, so as not to give the impression that I wanted to rush things.
But she did want to rush things. Not that she said it to my face or anything, but she made it pretty clear that she wanted to get the whole business over with as quickly as possible. Arching her back, she reached down and tugged at the hem of her nightgown, pulling it right up to her armpits, thus granting me access to that part of her that was my ultimate destination as well as everything else. Coy it sounds, I know, but I was behaving with a sort of wordless formality. I was waiting for some indication that she was getting turned on, too. I listened to her breathing, carefully gauging her reflexes to my stroking, alert for any sign of reaction, let alone reciprocation. There were none. It was as if I was performing a kind of sexual autopsy. My lips and fingers were examining every inch of her exterior and coming up with no evidence of desire. No hard evidence, ha!
Okay, I told myself. If my circumnavigations were coming up negative, there was only one place left to go. My fingers began focusing on the outer labia of her cunt, gently working their way inward as they sought the necessary moisture for intercourse. I should interject here that my own sexual mechanism was in high gear; it would have been nearly impossible for her to ignore how I was being affected. As I probed digitally, I found it easy to imagine my whole self therein, as I had been at birth, passing through my mother’s vaginal canal. I thought about the unstoppable force of sex, the equation that leads to brand new beings pushing their way out of the same slippery darkness. My mind harkened back to the first such creation following the expulsion from the Garden and the begetting of generations past and future. We were about to echo the formation of the universe, by golly, and she wasn’t the least bit excited about it. Then and there it dawned on me that fucking is the singlemost important activity on humankind’s agenda, and it made me wonder why it’s so under wraps all the time.
“I think you should use a little saliva,” she said.
A little saliva! That’s exactly what I was planning to use. Before that, though, I wanted her to feel the erectile miracle projecting from my groin, feel how eager and hot I was, so I lifted her hand and placed it on my penis. For a moment, her fingers weakly grasped, then withdrew. She wasn’t interested. Not forcing the issue, I slathered on plenty of saliva and positioned myself between her legs. As I entered her, I kissed her gently on the mouth (she did not turn her head away). Over and over I kissed her, as if to coax some simulacrum of heartfelt osculation, however fraudulent. No dice there either. I could not raise her desire because she had none for me, period.
It is hard to describe what we were doing at this juncture. I felt like I was fucking a memory. There was something almost ethereal about possessing her in this way. (Note to ecclesiastics: this may provide a clue to what sex is like in heaven.) She was pliant and yielding after a fashion, but her core self was off limits. Instead of enjoying me, she was watching me. Mechanically, she did everything perfectly, including the little pelvic thrusts that always turned the corner, so to speak, of my point of no return. I absolutely reveled in her every nuance, including her minty breath, the perfume of her skin and hair, and the faint perspiration emanating from her armpits, but she only watched—and waited.
At last I ejaculated with an awesome hullabaloo, a real humdinger, far beyond anything I had experienced in recent months with Matty. My soon-to-be ex-wife turned her face away just then, as if she wanted to avoid any show of concordance or compassion with what I was going through. As I lay on her, molten ecstasy subsiding, she kept looking askance. I kissed her ear, her cheek, the nape of her neck. Soon I began to feel shame. What we had done was so one-sided. Sure, she had acquiesced—in fact, she had given the okay�
�but she had somehow vacated her body during the entire procedure. Now she was back in one piece, and it didn’t sit well. I could sense her discomfort. I saw clearly that only with great reluctance had she consented to satisfy me. I felt bad about taking advantage of her. It wasn’t exactly rape, but it could be construed as rape’s first cousin, indefensible persuasion.
“Was it good?” she asked as I rolled off her. This was the question she always used to ask when she herself was orgasmless, which was most of the time.
“you’re darn tootin’,” I replied, but my sentiment was pro forma. It hadn’t been all that good. How could it be good when it ended with such a feeling of aloneness and emptiness?
The journal breaks off as Budge hears her coming up the stairs.
“Here, I brought you a bagel with cream cheese, which I hope you won’t mind eating in the car. I think we should get on the road.”
Obediently, he does as she wishes. In light traffic they head away from Lafayette; she’s driving and he’s munching. Ten miles down the highway, she makes her first mention of what happened between them.
“Don’t get your hopes up for doing what we did last night, okay?”
“Okay.” What else can he say?
“I mean, don’t expect it to happen again, because it won’t.”
“I see,” he says.
“No, Budgie, I don’t think you see. You expect us to fall into the sack again, tonight and every night, just like we did in the old days, but it’s over between us. It’s been over for a long time. Last night was a moment of weakness on my part. Not that I regret it or anything, but it illustrated the impossibility.”
Illustrated the impossibility? I thought it did just the opposite. It showed how anything was possible, how—if we really set our minds to it—we could easily get back together again. Only one of us needs an attitude adjustment, so we’re halfway there already.
“I hear what you’re saying,” he replies.
“Well, I hope you do, because I don’t want us to go on hurting each other.”
Wrongful Reconciliation Page 11
