Fragility

I stopped and regained my grip. Susan sat trembling in her chair her face turned down, her white-knuckled fingers laced together under her chin. After a few deep breaths I resumed.

"In spite of all the reasons that you gave for what happened there is still no excuse for it. We do not live in an open marriage, Susan. We decided against that very specifically when we became engaged. It was you, in fact, who insisted on complete fidelity. I agreed so there was not much of a discussion but I'm sure you remember, don't you?"

"Yes."

"So no matter how needy any guy is or how sorry you feel for him, no matter how much your ego needs a boost and no matter how much you've had to drink on any occasion, there is no excuse for abandoning your commitment to me. If your desire is so great that you can't control it, you have an obligation to tell me and end this marriage first. Anything less is betrayal. It will only take a word or two; I won't try to stop you from going. But don't try to have that and me both. It won't work. And . . . if you want to play Good Samaritan, then . . . rescue homeless pets, or something."

I was somewhat surprised to realize that I had come to the end of my diatribe so quickly. I had said all I could and finished rather lamely. After several moments, Susan raised her eyes to mine.

"Can we go to bed now?" she asked.

"Do we understand each other?"

"Yes. I am sorry, Jim, very, very sorry and I promise you it will never happen again. You have my word. Can you forgive me?"

Her sincerity and directness disarmed me and I could only stammer. "Sure . . . yes, of course . . . OK, let's go to bed."

At first we lay side by side on our backs staring at the ceiling. Finally I sought and found her hand. She returned my squeeze and I pulled her to me. She buried her face in my shoulder and the dam broke. She sobbed and sobbed, clutching me tight around the chest. When she was cried out she sat up and reached for a tissue.

"Can you forgive me?" she asked in a quavering voice.

"I said I did."

"Tell me again!"

"I forgive you! And you must forgive me, too."

"What for?"

"I was wrong to keep at you, to make you describe all the details of what happened. I feel ashamed and embarrassed for putting you through that."

"Don't think about it any more. I forgive you. Besides, it might have been the catharsis that we needed to get it out of our systems." She was silent for a while, then, "I was too --- graphic. I wanted to hurt you for prying and insisting on the details."

"Did you exaggerate to make it --- more painful?"

"No. Everything I said was . . . oh, accurate, I suppose. Please let's not talk about the details anymore! What I wanted you to understand was that I had this happy feeling about having helped him --- balm for his ache, I suppose, and I wanted to protect it, to keep it just for me, a completely female reaction. Describing what happened in grisly detail ruined it."

"Sorry, Babe."

"No, no, no! No more sorry!"

She came close again, I wrapped my arms around her, and eventually we sank into a sodden sleep.

That was the end of the episode. But not, as you might imagine, the end of the story.

We began the next day, a Sunday, as "a bright new beginning." We got up late, read the paper, went out to brunch and walked in the park holding hands. We had loving, satisfying sex for the next five nights. Things got better for Susan at work. I was promoted to Associate Professor at the university. We didn't see Rod and Joanne again.

But eventually the new resolve wore thin and we settled into the old routine again --- or a new version of the old routine. Neither of us strayed from our commitment but there was a shadow between us and it grew darker as time went along. It wasn't that we didn't trust each other. We did. But it was no longer necessary. Our marriage had never used trust as a bargaining chip. After that premarital agreement to be faithful, we had never had conversations about whether or not we could trust each other; no ground rules had been laid down, no demands ever made. It was just assumed. But now there was a new and different atmosphere; now the possibility had been thrust in our faces and we were forced to admit, every day, that it existed and it wore at us. If Susan had strayed after that night, if she had broken her promise, I would almost have been glad for a reason to leave and I'm sure she felt the same. But neither of us did anything of the kind. And so, it dragged out for three more years before we mustered the courage to divorce. It was clean, gentle even, without rancor or fanfare, a sad, soggy, emotionless ending that left both of us fatigued and bitter.

A little time passed. I accepted a chairmanship at another university halfway across the country. Susan and I had dinner about a week before I left. It was an awkward affair. Neither of us had taken up with anyone else and felt no desire to reconcile. We spent the hour-and-a-half it took to eat talking of our respective jobs and other harmless topics; there was no mirth, no laughter, merely polite smiles. When I looked into her eyes, they were lusterless and dull and I was shocked by the certain knowledge that mine were, no doubt, the same. I felt limp, thick, realizing that there was no possibility of emotion, let alone passion, between us. This woman, whom I had loved, who once could drive me to lust with just her breath on my cheek, now sat across the table from me and I felt nothing except a vague desire to end the evening and be gone. It was as if all passion possible between us had been spent that night around the oak table in our kitchen.

We said goodbye in the rain outside the restaurant and went our separate ways. I left a week later. I have never seen or heard from her again.