Chapter 5

Thursday, June 13

I decided to take the next day off, too. Loud sounds and bright lights were still bothersome, and my head still ached, so I figured Coldwater County could limp along without my services one more day. I spent half the day in bed, the other half out on the deck, drinking iced green tea. That day happened to be a Thursday, so that put us into the usual three-day weekend.

Friday, June 14

Friday afternoon, Greta said that she had to go into the office to catch up on some paperwork. While she was gone, I called my Nurse Practitioner to report my post-hospital progress and to whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

Then I drove down to WallyWorld in the RV and bought three dozen ribbed condoms. I figured the ribs would prove that I was supportive of my wife when she questioned my sincerity, if we even got that far in the discussion.

Contemplating the in-situ application of those ribs brought another issue to mind.

I didn’t think that Greta and Phil were having a love affair, per se. I think they were just fucking for the adventure. One of the major kicks in any illicit relationship is the clandestine nature of it, the thrill of doing something both risky and pleasurable. I wondered whether discovery might be enough to pull the plug. That really wasn’t my intent. I just wanted it out in the open. Then she wouldn’t have to lie about going into the office to work on a day off.

As I thought about it, I realized that my major reservations went back to those I mentioned earlier. First, that I didn’t see love involved and, second, that Phil seemed to feel so superior because of it.

On Greta’s part, I was confident that cozying up to her boss was just one more way for her to seek control of her world in her desperate quest for security. But with Phil, I saw it more as a way to get at me, though I could be personalizing it way too much. However, it bothered me that he might be using Greta in such a demeaning way, because I didn’t think Greta would want me to be hurt, not in her worldview or in mine. Still, it wasn’t as if Greta suspected Phil’s motives; it wouldn’t be the type of thing she’d be comfortable examining. Even so, his motives, or at least my presumption of them, brought out my protective instincts regarding Greta.

In the long run, it didn’t matter. With my recent attitudinal adjustment, brought about by a pipe to my head, and the near-death experience, it was, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” Operation Condom was a go.

She discovered the condoms in her purse Saturday morning. We were headed out for breakfast and I was still reluctant to put myself into a situation where rapid head-turning might be required. Forgetting I’d dumped the box of rubbers in her bag late the night before, I asked her to drive.

She went to search for her keys, and pulled out three or four condom packages, instead. She said, “What’s this?” and I suddenly remembered what I’d done. Fuck. I’d rather have had some coffee first, but too late now.

I turned toward her. “What’s what?”

“These condoms. My purse is full of condoms. Did you put them here?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one. Did you put these condoms in my purse?”

“How can you ask that? Who else might have put them there?”

That gave her pause for a couple ticks.

“Nobody. Nobody else could have got to my purse.”

“Maybe someone at work is playing a joke on you.”

Another couple ticks.

“No. When I came home yesterday there were no condoms. Now there are condoms. That leaves you.”

“What possible reason would I have for filling your purse with condoms?”

Another couple ticks. Then a couple more. All the while she’d remained standing, holding the open purse by one strap, next to the stairs down to the garage.

“None I can possibly imagine.” She started pulling condoms from the purse and, walking over to the kitchen, began putting the wrapped condoms on the kitchen counter. “So what did you expect me to do with them?” she asked, her back to me.

Now I paused for a few ticks and dropped the faux-innocent tone from my voice.

“I want you to use them.”

She looked up from her purse and there was an uncertainty on her face, though it was quickly smoothed over.

“Use them how?”

Setting fire to the bridge, I said, “When you have sex with Phil. Or are you already using protection?”

“What? No. I’m -- I mean, ah, what are you talking about? I’m not having sex with anybody. Except you.”

“Not anymore. Not until we both get checked for STDs. And then, only with a condom.”

She began to shout. “What are you talking about, you sonuvabitch?! How could I have any STDs?”

“Because Phil is known as quite the lady’s man. And if he isn’t using condoms with you, it means he probably hasn’t been using them with any other women, maybe for years, so we’re both connected to a chain of hundreds, maybe thousands of possible infection sources. Why in fuck I didn’t think of this a year ago is beyond me, but I just didn’t.”

Now Greta looked worried.

“A year ago? Why a year ago?”

“It’s when I first knew that you were having an affair with Phil.”

“You knew a year ago?” she said, in a small voice.

I just looked at her. “Sit down at the table. I’ll start some coffee.”

Standing there, she watched me walk past. Then, as I put the kettle under the faucet, she saui, in a worried, quiet voice, “I don’t want a divorce.”

“Neither do I,” I said. “Just sit down and think things through for a few minutes while I make the coffee.”

“I’ll stop seeing him. I don’t want a divorce.”

I put the kettle on the burner and turned toward her. She still hadn’t moved from near the counter. I started to walk toward her and she cringed, backing up a step. I stopped.

“Greta, I want us to talk about this. I do not want to divorce you over this. I don’t intend to punish you and I certainly will not attack you. Please sit down. We’ll talk. If you’d like a hug first, I’ll be glad to give you one. I think I need one.”

I held my arms open, but she stood there, looking like a cornered animal.

“I’ll make the coffee. We’ll drink coffee and talk. I love you. If you want a hug, just come get one.”

I measured some ground beans into the coffee press, added a pinch of salt. I put the thermometer in the spout of the tea pot on the burner, then got out the mugs.

I heard the scrape of a kitchen chair and I heard Greta sniff. Greta hated to cry.

I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket -- I always carried a clean one -- and took it and the mugs to the table, where I set everything down. Then I went to get the sugar and the half-and-half and bring them to the table.

By that time, the water was up to temp. I filled the press, stirring the ground coffee with a wooden spoon. Then I put on the press’s screen assembly and started the chrono function on my watch, After that, Icarried the press and a couple spoons to the table. I kept the press and stood at my usual place, across from Greta. When Greta made the coffee, she was always in a hurry and would push down the press and its filter screen too soon, leaving tinted water to drink. Then she’d complain that it was a stupid way to make coffee.

I never insisted that she use the coffee press. She could have had instant coffee, if she wanted, or used the drip maker that was in the cabinet under the sink. But she usually waited for me to make the coffee. And I liked the so-called French press, so that’s what I used.

I paused behind my chair and looked at Greta. “I love you Greta. I will not divorce you unless you insist.”

I sat down. “We need to talk about what we are going to do, not what I am going to do. We decide together. That’s why we’re married.”

She looked at me as if I were describing the protocols for electing a new pope.

“Greta, Sweetheart, what would you like to say?”

“I don’t want to get divorced.”

Time for a different tack. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t rather divorce me and marry Phil?” Phil was divorced -- three times.

“No! No! I want to stay married to you, Gary.” A breakthrough; she used my name. “I don’t want to marry Phil.”

“Okay, then, that’s what we’ll do. You and I will stay married. You won’t marry Phil.”

“Oh, thank god. I wasn’t sure you’d understand.” When Greta’s insecurities were on the loose, her otherwise high IQ took a disabling hit.

My watch beeped and I pushed down the filter screen and poured from the coffee press into the oversized mugs. I pushed her mug and the sugar bowl toward her. I used only the half-and-half, she used only the sugar.

She stirred in some sugar, but kept her eyes directed down at the mug when she was done.

“Aren’t you mad at me?”

“No, Greta, I’m not.”

“Gary, you’ve got to be mad. You’re just suppressing it.” Now she brings the professional skills home.

“Then I’ve been suppressing it for a year and you never noticed a thing. Or else ... I’m not angry. Occam’s razor, Greta.”

“Do you really think we might have an STD?”

“We’ll have to be tested. Do you want to go to see Emily, or, uh,” I faltered as it dawned on me, “or do you want to go to, uh, the Planned Parenthood clinic in Plattsburg?” Shit! Fuck! Damn! Emily would have to be tested, too. How could I have been so stupid?

“Oh, Gary, I’m such an idiot. This really threw me for a loop. We don’t have go to Emily, we don’t have go to Plattsburg or tell anyone. I made Phil wear condoms. He always wore condoms. Always. I wasn’t thinking, when you asked me, before, I just went blank. I’m okay. I don’t have an STD.”

“Greta, that’s good news, really good news. I believe you, Greta. I should have known you’d be careful. The thing is, though, I don’t trust Phil. Not as far as I could shit him.

“Greta, I want us to get tested anyway. We’ll go to Plattsburg. Or we can go to Kingston, if you want, make a weekend of it. Walk on the beach. Whale watch. But I won’t be comfortable until we get tested.”

“I always saw the condom, before and after.”

“And you paid close attention all the time in between? You weren’t ever, uh, lost in the moment? Did you always see him remove the condom, or was it sometimes just seeing him holding one up after he’d withdrawn?”

She looked embarrassed. “Phil wouldn’t do that.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, why would he?”

“To hurt me by hurting you. Maybe by poking holes in the condom, hoping to get you pregnant.”

“I can’t get pregnant.”

“What the doctor said was that it would be very difficult for you to get pregnant, not impossible.”

“But we never use anything.”

“We talked about that, that we’d allow for a pregnancy up to your thirty-eighth birthday, then I’d get a vasectomy.”

“I can’t get pregnant. That’s what I told Phil.”

“I believe you. I don’t trust him.”

“Why would he want to hurt you?”

“I’m not asking you to tell me, but I want you to think about this: When he speaks about me, is it with respect or disdain? Has he tried to get you to do things that would annoy me or even hurt me? Does he call me by a disrespectful nickname? Does he say things like, ‘I don’t know what you see in that guy?’ Maybe suggest you’d be better off without me?”

She was picking at her fingernails.

“I pick up on his disrespect whenever I encounter him, Greta. It’s worst in management team meetings, when he can play off his buddy, Jimmy. For some reason, those two are not comfortable with me. And Phil’s let slip plenty of double meanings that I’m not up to snuff in the bedroom department. He likes thinking he’s made a cuckold of me.”

“But doesn’t that bother you?”

“What, specifically?”

“That he’s made a, uh, cuckold of you.”

“He hasn’t.”

“Sure he has.”

“No, Greta. Cuckold is based on the notion of the cuckoo, which lays its eggs surreptitiously in other birds’ nests. The other bird raises the cuckoo’s offspring, and the cuckoo chick, being larger than the other chicks, pushes them out of the nest. The cuckoo steals the nest and replaces the offspring.

“A cuckold has had his spouse stolen from him.

“Greta, I have never thought of you as belonging to me. I’ve always considered you your own person, with your own choices. You’re my partner, not my possession. Phil took nothing from me. You gave yourself to him. I could have stepped in when this first got started, I knew that would have stopped it. But I didn’t see that as my role or responsibility. Phil sees you as a possession he took. But he didn’t take you from me since I didn’t possess you in the first place.

“Greta, if I don’t have your love freely, then I’ll have to live without it.”

“But, Gary, I do love you.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Greta. Still, it doesn’t mean that I own you. Which brings up another question. What do you plan to do about Phil?”

“What do you mean? You want me to quit my job?”

“No, I didn’t mean anything like that. I meant, what kind of relationship do you want to have with Phil?”

“He’s my boss.”

“He’s been your boss since we started here. But he also became your, uh, paramour, your boss with benefits.”

“That’s over. No more benefits.”

“How will you tell him?”

“I’ll just tell him.”

“That may not be so easy for you. Do you worry that he might fire you if you cut him off?”

“He can’t do that. I’d go to the EEOC.”

“Reckon you’re right, at this juncture. But can you tell me why you first went to bed with him? What started it?”

“Oh, don’t ask me that. It was the usual stupid stuff. Working together, fooling around a little.”

“When that started, did you feel better about your work?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It was when we started the PTSD program.”

“I want to ask another question, but I don’t want you to think I mean anything by it. I’m just trying to make everything clear for both of us. Okay?”

“Whatever.”

“Did you like being with him more than being with me? I don’t mean just the sex, but everything. Is he more comfortable to be around that I am?”

Shwe paused and looked to her right, with a slight frown. Then she said, “In some ways, maybe. For one thing, he’s not as intense. Phil and I would never have a conversation like this. Living with you is like always having to answer the question, ‘Why?’ Or, really, more like, ‘Why not?’ You drive me nuts, sometimes, with stuff exactly like this.”

“But didn’t you imply, when we first started this conversation, that you’d rather be with me than with Phil.”

“If I had to choose, of course, I’d pick you. What did you think I’d do?”

“What if you didn’t have to choose?”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean, what if you didn’t have to choose between us? What if you could continue with both of us, just like you have been?”

She sat up straight and frowned.

“Is that a trick question?”

“No tricks. We’re trying to figure things out. The truth will set us free.”

“Okay. Hypothetically, who wouldn’t want to have multiple, guilt-free sex partners?”

“Is that what you want? Multiple, guilt-free sex partners?”

She sipped her coffee, looked off into space.

“Maybe two or three. More than that would never work.”

“Who’s your third?”

“What? I didn’t mean anyone. I was just talking?”

“Tate?” I suggested.

“What?! Tate? Not to say I wouldn’t, but he and Louise are so tied together, if one of them eats, they both feel full.”

“So you’ve thought about Tate?”

“Like any guy.”

“Jimmy?”

“Maybe with a double shot of rohypnol. That guy makes my skin crawl.”

“Grant?”

“That snoozer? Maybe. If everyone else on the planet was dead.”

“Chet? Max?”

“Duh. Who said it had to be a guy?”

“Ah, yes, I forgot. Well, we’ve already ruled out Louise. Though I wouldn’t mind tapping that.”

“Gary, he’s your best friend. I’m going to tell him.”

“He already knows. I tell him it’s best he check his pistol frequently, against the time he needs it but I’ve removed all the cartridges.”

“You bastard.”

“I’m not a bastard. I’m an asshole.”

“I stand corrected.”

“One of the clients?”

“I’ll admit there’s a couple juicy ones.”

“So who?”

“Who else do we hang with?”

“The Stoessels, but Nancy’s a little long in the tooth, even for someone of your advanced years.” Greta was four months older than I was, but we’d been born in different years, she on December Third and me on March Twenty-ninth. Nancy Stoessel was only forty eight or forty nine and was acknowledged not to look anywhere near her years.

“Hey, Nancy’s sexy, but not my type.”

“Then I’d have to say that Liz Garrison and Emily Iverson don’t seem quite your type, either. Or is it that tall drink of water, Greg, that you thirst for?”

“Not so much as his definitely better half.” She grinned.

“What? You’ve got the hots for Emily? Well, bad news, she thinks Phil is a turd magnet and has no idea what you see in him.”

“What are you saying?!” she practically shouted. “Does Emily know about me and Phil?”

“Oh, Sweetie, I’ve got bad news. Pretty much everybody knows.”

“What do you mean, ‘everybody’?”

“That’s not my word. That’s the word that Tate used.”

“Tate, too?! Does that mean Louise...?”

“Like Tate says, if one of them knows something, so does the other.”

“What about at work?”

“Greta, it’s a small town. Everybody knows everything.”

“How am I ever going to be able face people?”

“Greta Honey, you’ve been facing them for over a year. The only thing that’s changed is that now you know about it. Nobody’s going to treat you any different than they have been, nor think about you any different.”

“But what must they think of me?”

“Easy enough to answer. Does anyone treat you bad, show disrespect?”

“Other than Jimmy the Jerk? No. I seem to get along with most people, at least the people who work with me and help me with things. I guess there’s nothing odd.”

“Well, then, Jimmy is the exception that proves the rule. If they thought poorly of you, they’d treat you poorly.”

“Maybe I’ll take Monday off.”

“Like Tuesday would be any different?

“Tell you what, let’s go talk to Tate and Louise tomorrow, get Louise to invite us to dinner. I think it’s my turn to pretend to invite them over.”

“Louise will be okay. But could you take Tate for a walk or something? Just ‘til I get my mind settled.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“That still leaves Emily.”

“Well, I don’t know if she’ll go to bed with you, but I’m sure she’ll still be your friend.”

Greta was attractive in her own right. Platinum blonde hair, blue eyes, the only Scandinavian feature she lacked was notable height. She came in at five-foot-seven, which was average. She enjoyed what was once referred to as a full figure, curvy with large breasts and flaring hips, a figure that drew the attention of most hetero men. I was proud to walk at her side.

However, I had lied to Greta about Emily. I did know if Emily would go to bed with her. Under the right conditions, likely she would. Greta and Emily had both enjoyed same-sex relationships in college, though both were more interested in living with men. Emily had already told me she thought my wife was hot.

All things considered, this was turning out way better than I’d had any reason to hope. Still a few loose ends, though.

“How ‘bout we go over to Kingston this week, get the testing done?”

“Hell, we might just as well let Emily do it. Or go into the County Public Health Office and show my ass.”

“That’s the spirit!”

“Get fucked, Gary.”

“You serious about Em doing the testing? No beach, no whales?”

“We could still go. Let’s get somebody to go with us. Tate and Louise or the Iversons. We could play Twister.” For Greta, Twister was no-commitment foreplay, when there was to be no main event.

“Or get Greg to fly us someplace. San Francisco or Las Vegas,” I suggested

“Oo-oo. Whatever happens in Vegas...,” she said, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“Not to cause you to crash and burn while flying to Las Vegas, but to return to the topic, how do you intend to handle, uh, deal with Phil?”

“I don’t know. Do you have an opinion?”

“Only one, and I’m not sure it’ll be helpful.”

“Well, what?”

“Unless the sex you’re having is really good...” She wiggled her hand in the ‘Meh’ sign. “ ... then I think that, once he finds out that I’ve known all along, he’ll drop you.”

“Really?”

“Maybe it’s just my ego talking, but I think his approach to you had a lot to do with getting at me.”

In fact, I’d suspected all along that the sex they’d been having wasn’t very good, except in the notion that any sex is good.

Because of her overall diffidence to intimate, self-revelatory relationships, the promise of Greta’s sensual physiognomy failed to deliver between the sheets. She was, at best, a very sexy-looking but hesitant lover, having to be led patiently into mutual gratification of any sort. Her adoption of a coital position other than missionary required either unfeeling demands or careful, loving persuasion. Oral interplay held no appeal for her; though, if pressed, she was much more reluctant to give than to receive. Experiments in alternative forms of arousal were invariably met with disdain. She was rarely given to even private self-stimulation. Over time, and left on her own, her libido seemed to cycle, at most, only two or three times a month. On those occasions when she found herself in the throes of, not so much passion as arousal, she preferred to be manually stimulated and -- go figure -- she liked anal penetration. Just not very often.

What had first alerted me to her affair, was a notable change in that pattern. But more on that later.

Otherwise, that seemed to be her history, from what she and others had told me, including a former intimate girlfriend, intimate in that sense of the word. My educated take on it was that Greta was afraid to let go, to lose the tenuous control she felt was always about to slip from her grasp. She could become aroused, but there always came a point where she’d hold back, to become the operator of the roller coaster rather than a passenger on it.

Her reluctance to lose control carried over into how she dealt with intoxicants, too. She didn’t enjoy them, seldom imbibed, and then only when required as a social convention.

Concurrently, while Phil might be considered handsome, by the standards of the day, he did not display those attributes that might have been expected of an enlightened or knowledgeable lover. If anything, he was more misogynistic and unapologetically self-centered. I could not envision him taking the time and effort, or even to have the imagination, that was required to bring Greta to climax. Especially if the goal was for her to reach multiple climaxes, a goal that was always my objective.

While Greta might give every outward sign of overwhelming desire, overwhelming was the operative word for her partner. Even when reaching her peak, her cries were less the transcendence of passion than the screams of fright on the first high drop on that roller-coaster. After her orgasm, she’d have a worried look, as if I might do that to her again. And she was right to be worried.

But, when she was acquiescent, she never turned away or refused my touch, until physical exhaustion or hypersensitivity would overtake her. Then she’d breathe, “Enough,” and she’d snuggle into my embrace until we’d fall asleep.

In the morning, her cynical aloofness would again hold sway.

I’ll be honest: The thought that Greta’s and Phil’s couplings were probably lackluster went a long way toward helping me keep the green-eyed monster contained.

Maybe it’s perverse, but I was glad that Greta was having her affair, and I was glad it was likely not that fulfilling. Because this was a test, a test of my own tolerance, a tolerance that, I feared, I did not possess in abundance. A test of a theory that I hoped would hold true, a theory I’ve touched on before.

The theory that love grows. That love enhances. Love adds, but doesn’t subtract. It multiplies, it does not divide. But I’m not talking about the feeling of love, that overwhelming urge to lose oneself in another and to absorb that other into yourself, the rush of obsession that sees everything in terms of the beloved. Perhaps that feeling’s a good place to start, but you cannot depend on that intense emotional state to last, to sustain the obligations that are taken on during the intoxicating early stages.

That love has two problems;

First, it is a jealous love. It involves one specific other and it responds poorly to anything that threatens, or even seems to threaten, the feeling of attachment. If the specific other person gives more than even the slightest attention to a third person of the appropriate gender, then the feeling of euphoric attachment can readily morph into a feeling of fear, doubt, and despair, or into an unreasoning, spiteful anger.

Second, that love fades. The feeling, itself, has a limited shelf life. It is a feeling based on the new and fresh experience of connecting intimately with the specific other in self-revelation and mutual acceptance. Eventually, that process runs its course. The new becomes familiar and one grows accustomed to the specific other.

However, while it’s still in play, those involved can take advantage of that energy.

That temporary intensity can be reshaped into unwavering commitment, the personal decision to fulfill those actions pledged during the initial rush, keeping in mind that it might be a tough course to follow, and sometimes even more demanding than just “tough”.

By the same token, if we can, by conscious decision, allow deliberate, fully-aware commitment to stand in for faded emotion, then we ought to be able to expand the perimeter of that determined commitment beyond the limits of any feelings.

In other words, if I love Greta, then I should allow Greta to be who she is, to commit myself to her support even if she moves in directions with which I may not be comfortable.

Else what point is love? To limit? To control? To oppress? To burden with guilt? With regret? With fear?

I don’t think so. I certainly hope not.

All the rest of his gobbledygook aside, Paul of Tarsus did write one crystal clear passage, in the thirteenth chapter of his first letter to his co-religionists at Corinth, conveying a universal truth that hinged on rationality, not emotion.

Love is patient, love is kind. Love does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. Love does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it does not store up grievances. Love does not delight in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails.

After all, faith is a commitment.

For another perspective on love, in a more personal context, we have that as expressed by Leroy, the character played by James Gandolfini in the 2001 motion picture, The Mexican, with Julia Roberts and Brad Pitt (Spoiler Alert):

When two people love each other -- really love each other -- but they just can’t get it together, when do you get to that point where enough is enough?

The answer to that question is simple. When do you get to that point where enough is enough?

Never. Never!

Granted, it’s an ideal. But why strive for the mundane?

“You think he’d drop me just because you’ve known all along?”

“More like, because I’ve known and, uh, let’s say, endorsed it. It will defeat a significant part of his motivation, his desire to disrespect me. Like I said, though, I could be wrong. It may be only my conceit. After all, you’re quite the babe. He may just like the idea of showing you off. I know I do.”

“But he’s never shown me off. We couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, maybe not in person. But I’m certain at least Jimmy has gotten the blow-by-blow. At the management team meeting, every Thursday afternoon, Phil’s there early, whispering in Jimmy’s ear, making gestures and motions that suggest sexual activity, smirking and laughing.”

“Oh, shit.”

“I think your weekly supervisory session with Phil is right before lunch on Thursdays, isn’t it. Often runs over into lunch, as I well know.”

“Double shit. Jimmy? Hell, I own them. The EEOC would skin them alive.”

“If you made a complaint. But they may have some insurance. Did Phil ever take photos or make videos?”

“He wanted to but ... fuck it to hell! He could’ve been running some mini cam somewhere I didn’t notice. Even a phone.”