Error Correction Ch. 04

Three months later. I am a man of business, relentless in pursuit of success. I toil day and night in the insurance field, sowing policies, hauling out dividends, putting up Mason jars stuffed with green bills. The money flows, a rapid river of cash that I kayak upon. I have no time for feelings or friendship.

I cancelled for the foreseeable future my weekend golf. Instead, I drive up to my old haunts in Cambridge, and lug an actual physical textbook into some of the same buildings I lugged textbooks into decades before.

I have enrolled in a Master's program in Psychology. I told you I minored in it, didn't I? It comes back like falling off of a bicycle. I did not much care about specialty then. Now I have an advisor who studies human sexuality. I feel like I already have a Ph.D. in it, but my research experiments violated all kinds of rules and my protocol would never be approved by the board of review. I speak up in class only to answer questions with facts obtained from the text or a journal. Sometimes a topic comes up that I could contribute some substantial and oddly-specific information taken from my own life, but my peers might be alarmed by my particulars. Too much sharing, as my very much younger classmates would say.

One clear and very cold winter day I was in the Sandwich office when the receptionist buzzed and asked if I had time for a walk-in question. A woman in the waiting area wanted to see me. This happened all the time. People just don't think they have to make an appointment with an insurance agent the way they do with a surgeon or a manicurist. The best we can do is smile and pitch our wares.

I stood up as the woman entered. There was something just vaguely familiar about her. She had her long blonde hair in a pony tail. She wore a conservative blue plaid pant suit with a pearl necklace and earrings. She was a knockout -- blue eyes, wide face, thin lips, perfect lipstick. Red as is traditional. She was all tits and ass under that suit. I willed my eyes to stay on her face. It was not easy. I shook her hand and introduced myself. Her grip was strong, her nails immaculate and red to match her lips. I indicated that she should sit.

"How can I help you?" I began.

"I'm Cynthia," she said, her eyes intent on my face.

I did not know how to respond to that statement. People usually say My name is.... You only start out the way she did if she expected me to recognize her--

"Rebecca is my lover."

That blonde. I had seen her on Zoe's refrigerator door. I felt a rising alarm.

"Is she okay?" I burst out, jumping up from my chair. "Is the baby okay?"

Cynthia made a calming motion. "Everyone is fine."

I sat back down, the profound sense of relief on my face readable from the green on a Par 4.

My heart was racing nevertheless. The question on my lips was of course 'What do you want' which would sound incredibly crass, so I stifled my salesman self and waited for her speak first. She just regarded me with her head tilted, thinking.

"Wondering why I am here?"

I nodded.

"Becky doesn't know I came to see you. She thinks I am at a meeting in Braintree. I thought I would be near, so...."

We just looked at each other for a long moment. Finally, she said, "I want to know what your intentions are toward my girlfriend."

I chortled. Then the absurdity really dug in and I guffawed. I laughed in a customer's face, a sin, a true mark of a bad salesman. Then her face crinkled, she smiled, she also began to laugh. The joke rebounded back and forth between us and intensified until finally the laughter petered out from fatigue. I wiped my eyes with a tissue and passed her the box.

"I know," she said, still chuckling. "It didn't sound that absurd when I was rehearsing it in my head."

"I'm starved," I said. "Would you like to have lunch?"

We ate at a local gastropub, in a booth in a back corner so we could talk. On our way out to my car, I had followed her, admiring her wide voluptuous hips that refused to be concealed even under a winter coat. Because I am a man, I imagined her naked. Then my brain processed the facts. Rebecca? My wife, the missionary sex in the dark mother of two? Naked between those long muscular legs? The blonde's red lips moving over Becky's furry cunt? I shook my head. If I hadn't seen the picture of them together -- well, you know. I never would have believed it. Still didn't really believe it.

Cynthia had grown up in rural Missouri, went to college, married her high school boyfriend, moved to Maine, started a career in hospital administration, got divorced, met Becky in the hospital cafeteria, invited her out, invited her to move in.

"You had no idea she was... so inclined?" She asked.

"You don't say lesbian in Maine?"

She giggled. "No, we do. We don't say it in Missouri, though. As my ex told me loudly and often when I confessed to him that I had feelings for women."

"Inclined?" I said, thinking. "No, she never gave me any reason to think that she.... You know." There was nothing I could think to add that wasn't stupid or downright offensive, so I changed the subject.

I grilled her about Becky's health and the baby's progress. Finally I ran out of questions, and she spoke like she had been waiting for an appropriate moment.

"Mr--"

I out my hand in a stop motion. "Mike, please."

She smiled. "Mike. Okay." She took a deep breath. "Becky and I want to get married."

I should have expected this, but I had not. I nodded and put my attention to my sandwich. For Becky and Cynthia to get married meant that -- Becky and I would have to divorce. I took a long time with the bite, thinking about my response.

"Cynthia, my whole life depends on making that woman happy. I am dead serious, even though to you it probably sounds like bullshit, after everything that I have done to her."

"That's odd. The way she tells the story, she has done you the harm. She feels tremendous guilt at whatever it was that she did."

I paused. "How much has she told you about us? You don't have to answer that. I don't want to cause any conflict between you two."

"She won't talk about it. At all. At first I thought it was me, that she didn't trust me enough to share. I was angry. I asked her who Amelia's father was, and--" She noticed the flinch, and reached out to put a hand over mine. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think." Her hand was warm. It was the first time a woman had touched me in a very very long time.

I just shrugged and took a drink of my beer.

"Anyway," she resumed. "That's not why I am here. Not at all. But if you do want to tell me anything about...."

"I pushed her to fuck around. She got pregnant. Pretty simple. It makes me feel like piece of shit. Every day."

She sat back in her chair.

"Look," I said, much less sharply. "Are you going to tell her you saw me?"

She nodded. "Unless you want me not to."

"No, don't have any secrets from her. Please don't hurt her by lying. And when you tell her about this, make sure she knows that all this is my fault. Mine alone. Tell her to be happy. Please?"

Cynthia had no poker face. She was conflicted. She bit down on her bottom lip, ruining the lipstick application. I think she didn't want to convey any information to my wife that put me in a sympathetic light. We were, after all, competitors for Becky's vagina.

I can read people pretty well. It's one of the secrets to my success in business. I was as sure as I could be at that moment that Cynthia was a good person, the kind of good person I would be attracted to. The kind of good person that Becky would be attracted to. And I do mean emotionally and spiritually. Sex often follows, of course. Sex is a natural consequence of two humans forming a bond. Shit, it hurt me deep in my abdomen to even think that. This woman and my Becky forming that profound bond. I sighed.

Cynthia was also reading me, and put both hands flat on the table. I always found this was an unconscious tell that a person was about to speak the truth.

"Mike--" She glanced away nervously, then steeled herself and looked back into my eyes. Hers were as blue as that gemstone whose name I could not recall. "Frankly, I came here ready to hate you. Rebecca will tell me nothing about you. Zoe -- well, let's leave her out of it. I have never questioned your daughter about you two. It seemed... rude. I thought what I knew of Rebecca's past and you and the way she acts physically when the topic of your relationship does come up that -- well, that you had abused her."

It was my turn to lose at poker. I shook my head violently.

She continued before I could form a protest. "But I don't get that vibe from you. Of course, men are predators and actors who will tell any story to get what they want."

"I have never lied to Becky. Not once in our life." I thought shamefully about my fib that it had been the neighbors who noted Andre's car, but I wasn't going to count that against me.

She nodded slowly. "I think you are telling the truth. Of course, I don't know you all that well, so... do you mind if I drop back here sometime?"

I tilted my head in confusion.

"I am trying to understand Rebecca," she said. "I think I am in love with her. You know?"

I nodded. Yes, I did know being in love with Becky. Better than anyone, I had always thought.

"And I just realized today that knowing you better helps me get to know her."

Great. Now I am going to participate in another seduction of my wife. But Cynthia was not the kind of person I could gin up dislike for. I realized something myself -- I would be happy to see her again. Maybe Becky could never be my friend, but I could maybe be the friend of her friend. It was better than nothing.

When I dropped her back at her car, Cynthia shook my hand, pulled me close, and kissed me on the cheek.

"When I came in," she said softly, "you got scared. You were afraid that something had happened to Rebecca. That hit me hard, I have to confess. But... you two have a lot of years between you. I could rationalize that."

She pulled back. Her blue eyes were shining with tears. "Then you got even more frantic asking about Amelia -- and that took my breath away."

She kissed me again. "Next time I'll call ahead."

I sat in my chair by the fire that night for hours, sipping on a warming bottle of beer and thinking. I had been reading great stacks of material for my graduate work. Texts, monographs, conference proceedings, all studies of the human sexual response. I had yet to encounter any description of my situation, not even close. When I had watched Becky getting pleasured by another man's penis, my reactions were pretty and predictably typical of an average male. I felt anger, envy, jealousy, lust. Any normal male bursting into a bedroom and surprising his wife as she was getting fucked by another man would feel that tide of overwhelming emotions. It might turn to violence, screaming. Indeed, I had been surprised, but as I had set it up and given her permission, I had no right to be angry at anyone but myself.

But when I pictured her and Cynthia together, I did not get that mixture of emotions. I felt some jealousy and envy only because it was not me giving her pleasure. I felt lust because -- well, the image of two beautiful naked women caressing each other aroused in me a normal male response. I realized I was happy for Becky. I did really hope that she was in love with Cynthia and that they would be happy together.

I truly wished her love and felt like the loneliest piece of shit in the universe while doing so. It was one of the lowest pits of a many-pitted year.

Cynthia was true to her word and called me a few weeks later. We settled on meeting in Portsmouth on one of the days I would be in Cambridge anyway. And we continued to meet periodically over the next few months. Some highlights from our conversations might be illuminating:

First visit.

Me: Does Becky know... where you are?

Cynthia: Yes, she does. Shall I ask if she wants to come with me next time?

Me: No. Don't do that. And I don't think she wants to see me anyway.

Cynthia: I know you two talk every Sunday. Why don't you just ask her?

Me: (Long pause.) I can't. I can't move. I can't go left or right. Up. Down. I'm stuck. I'm an ugly worthless insect pinned to a board. And the pin goes right through my heart.

Second visit.

Me: (Emboldened by wine.) Becky never once gave any indication that she--

Cynthia: Liked to munch the rug?

(I actually blushed.)

Cynthia: Sorry. Defensive overreaction.

Me: It's okay. It's just hard for me to imagine.

Cynthia: Not much difference. Tongue, fingers, the odd toy. Just no dicks.

Me: I guess that guys can't admit that women can really cum without them.

Cynthia: Oh, we cum. Boy do we cum. (She notices my discomfort but does not apologize. She has stopped apologizing for who she is or what she does. I like that about her.)

Me: (Gathering courage.) Then tell me -- when Becky cums for you, is she... loud?

Cynthia: (Seeming offended, something she rarely is.) Look, Mike, I grew up soon a small farm outside a small town. I was the girl in pigtails and a nice dress. I was supposed to marry and get knocked up and cook pies and shit. Nothing in my life prepared me to be a lesbian. I have spent the last few years catching up, so my skills may be a little incomplete.

Me: (Putting up a hand.) Sorry, I didn't mean to disparage your abilities.

Cynthia: That's okay. I overreacted again.

Me: So -- what is she like?

Cynthia: (Sighs.) Do you really want me to do an impression right here in the restaurant? It really seems like a violation of Rebecca's privacy. (Realizing something.) Besides, you were married to her. You know how she cums. (Sees my face.) Oh....

Me: Yeah. The best orgasm I ever, ever gave her -- it was like she was letting out a deep breath at her annual physical. She came for me like she was doing me a favor. There was a quota. One time a night, max. I've revisited our sex life with my therapists many times. The best word I could find to describe her orgasms with me is... polite.

Third visit.

Cynthia is describing an administrative mix up at the pediatrician's office. The secretary had misspelt Amelia. "Who the hell doesn't know how to spell Amelia? And then they spelled her middle name Ann, with an e. I swear, Rebecca would have left the practice if they had misspelled her last name."

My heart skipped three beats. I could feel heat and color rise up to my temples. My blood pressure spiked. "Wha -- What is her last name?"

Cynthia gave me a long pitying look. "She's got your last name, Mike. Becky put it on the birth certificate."

I drove back to Cambridge, emotions pouring through me. I could not put a name to them individually, but summed together I wanted to shout with triumph, to blubber in the deepest remorse. I wanted to stop the car on I-95 and run along the median through the broken bumpers and long dying grass.

Lying in bed that night I still was infused with a sense of hope. Hope of what, I could not pin down. Thoughts ran through my head. One of those was the realization that Cynthia had not once since the day we met mentioned the divorce. She had not nagged me about it or demanded a progress report. My appreciation and respect for her increased every time that thought raced back around the track in my brain.

Fourth visit.

I arrive late at the restaurant. Cynthia is seated already, and as I approach the table, I see the stroller. I freeze. The adrenaline starts to pump. I want to run back out the door, but I make myself do square breathing. Then will myself forward.

"I couldn't get a sitter," she said simply. I had a sense that she was lying, but what could I do about it?

She had already ordered wine for us, and as we made small talk she glanced often into the stroller while I struggled to keep my gaze somewhere in the other direction.

After a while she said, "Oh hell, Mike. You have to do it sometime. She's awake."

I turned involuntarily to where she was reaching into the stroller. She lifted the baby up and it looked right at me. Looked into my eyes.

And I put out my arms without my brain willing it. Amelia Ann accepted my embrace quietly. She was big enough to sit down on my lap, where she stared up at me.

She had big brown eyes. Becky's eyes. Her chubby face was the same shape as Becky's. The nose was on its way to becoming her mother's nose. Amelia was a mocha-skinned tiny version of my wife.

I stroked her kinky hair and looked at Cynthia, who had been holding her breath. "She looks just like baby pictures of Becky," I said in wonder. Cynthia sighed with relief.

I extended my index finger and Amelia took it in her fist. She tilted her head in the exact way her mother would when she was receiving insight about the world. I knew, and I am not a believer in such things at all other times, that this little girl recognized me. I believed that day. This tiny human recognized my aura, my energy, whatever you want to call it. Recognized it because she had absorbed it in the womb, because she had spent nine months inside a woman who loved me.