My Loving Husband

"Mrs. Butler?" the voice on the other end of my cell phone asked with a twinge of unhappiness. I recognized the voice of John's secretary.

"Hello, Joan, what is it?"

"Oh, I'm so, so sorry. Mr. Butler collapsed in his office, they've taken him to the hospital."

"Oh, my God! Do they know what's wrong?"

"They didn't say, but it sort of seemed like a heart attack or a stroke or something."

"I've got to get there!"

"Yes, ma'am. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, not that I know of. Thank you so much. I'll let you know what happens."

I didn't care that my hair was uncombed or that my mascara wasn't perfect. In a haze I drove to the hospital, then took another twenty minutes before I found anyone who could tell me of my husband's condition. He'd had a coronary thrombosis and was in severe distress. A bypass operation was indicated, they would start in hours if I gave permission, which I quickly did.

I was joined by Scott and Margot, and they sat with me through the night and into the next morning, when finally the doctors announced the operation was completed, it would be days until he was out of danger. I saw him a few hours later, and his eyes opened.

"Hi," he whispered.

I bent to kiss his cheek. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry."

"No need to be, I just need you to get better. I'm here if you need me." Then they kicked me out, told me John needed to rest.

For almost a week the three of us formed a vigil until at last John was released from ICU into a private room. Two days later, an ambulance brought him home, we converted a den on the first floor to a sickroom. For three months he recovered slowly, and every moment of every day I waited on him, prayed that he'd get better, and he did, in tiny steps. Everything about our life changed, from the things we ate to the time we ate to the exercise we took to the temperature we kept the house at. He talked almost every day with Scott, Margot often told him to get off his ass and stop malingering. When John was allowed for the first time out of the house to walk fifty paces through the garden, we thanked God for the miracle. Two weeks later, we went to the club and he managed to practice putting for ten minutes, it was wonderful. And on the first day that I drove him to the office downtown and he was able to put in half a day's work, they threw a subdued welcome back for him.

~~~~~~~~~~

He recovered, we recovered, we were still alive, in love, and happy. After a seven month lapse our vacations returned. John regained his desire for golf, although his handicap climbed a dozen strokes, after a year's hiatus we resumed the tradition of the summer Invitationals.

Unfortunately, one thing had changed permanently, John was no longer able to achieve an erection. The doctors suggested it might be psychological, the psychatrists could offer little help. John was refused Viagra, the doctors felt it might interfere with his medicine and cause another attack. They hoped, as we did, that eventually the situation would simply go away.

One night at a restaurant with Margot I confessed the plight, the frustration on both my and John's part. She sympathized, then in her impish demeanor offered to share Scott. It was a joke I think, and besides, I didn't want another man, I wanted John.

That didn't stop us, of course, from doing everything that we could short of penetration. John became expert at satisfying me with finger or mouth, and we obtained plastic toys. Even if he remained pliant, I was often able to satisfy him with my mouth. We realized we could live without penetrative sex.

Three years after his heart attack, John and I were still living without it.

~~~~~~~~~~

In June, my thirtieth high school reunion was held. John joined me for the dinner and dancing, and my old clique wanted to have another drink. John decided he'd had enough, my friends promised him I'd get a ride home, no need to stay.

We danced, a boy I'd dated a few times when I was eighteen spun me around the floor. Tony had no ring on his finger, he'd never remarried after his divorce fifteen years prior. His hair was still full, the lines on his face looked no more mature than they had in school, his clothes hung on him stylishly. When they kicked us out at two in the morning, it was Tony who gallantly offered me the use of his passenger seat. Through the dark woods of our suburb his convertible traveled.

"I can't believe how beautiful you've become," he complimented, "you're even more good looking than you were back then."

"Thank you. You haven't changed much either."

"Do you ever regret the fact that we never made love back then?"

"No, of course not. I didn't do it with anyone in high school," I confessed.

"Really! My goodness, I thought you and Tommy Boyce were an item." I drunkenly giggled at the memories. It was then that Tony drifted the car into a wooded park, the path overhung with trees, after eighty yards of the road and a turn into a parking lot we were completely out of sight of other cars that might pass in the wee hours of the morning. A brook bubbled it's song when Tony turned the ignition off, and when he bent towards me I opened my mouth in invitation. Suddenly my blouse was open, his hand was on my breast, my nipple was being twisted, I made no effort to stop him. Then his lips were kissing the little circle, dragging a moan from me. And when his hand crept between my legs, I stretched them apart, for in my drunkenness I desired his offering.

My own hand drifted to his groin, and there was a wonderful lump, the kind John used to have. Tony unzipped himself, pulled fabric around and suddenly the rod was unsheathed, my palm felt its heat, its rigidness. Tony slipped into my seat, above me, I knew I what I was doing, the alcohol in my system made it less concerning, but it was my own flesh that wanted the incursion. The altercation took fewer than five minutes and was less than explosive for me, although I tremendously enjoyed the sensation of a living man filling me again, the first time in nearly three years.

As he dropped me off, Tony asked if we might meet again. "Probably not," I answered, "this was a big mistake."

John seemed asleep when I entered the bedroom, and I tried to keep the running water I used to soap and rinse quiet.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning John was absent from the bed, it was later than I normally woke, I was sure he was walking the dog or reading over coffee. I felt myself, my arms, my belly, my breasts and, especially, down there. 'What a mistake,' I thought. 'What if the police had come by and caught us? My name would be all over town, everyone would know what I'd done.' And although Tony was somewhat attractive, he'd never be my dream man, I'd simply used him like so much horseflesh. But when I remembered what had been done to me, and my fingertips came in contact with the hidden tip, I had to stuff a fist into my mouth to keep from screaming with the eruption.

John was in the breakfast nook when I came down. "Sleep well?"

"Yes, I did. You were out like a rock when I got home."

"I was really tired. Did you have fun after I left? What did you do?"

"Oh, we sat and then danced some. Abbey drove me home," I lied.

"That's nice. She seems a sweet person," my husband complimented.

~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn't until late in the week that my cell phone rang, Tony on the line. "I was thinking we could get together again," he tempted.

"I don't know, I don't think we should."

"You know you'd enjoy it," he promised, "come over to my place."

"Tuesday night, seven o'clock?" I caved.

At his apartment in the heart of the University district, I let him disrobe me, play with me, and then climb above me and screw me. I was surprised to find myself wet for him, and as he drove into me I waited for the emotion to charge through me, and I pulled him into me as I came.

~~~~~~~~~~

Six weeks later, the emotions were making me sick. Everytime I traveled to Tony's lair guilt racked my soul, and although while I was with him I was assuaged, on the drive home I'd tell myself I would never do it again, and some nights sleep would evade me until dawn.

If possible, John was even more loving than ever, and when I was in my darkest period he'd hold me, brush the hair from my forehead, soothe me. One night when I was low, he asked, "What's wrong? How can I help?"

I knew we couldn't go on this way, and so I tearfully confessed. "Oh, my love, I've been having an affair. I'm sorry. I'll never do it again. He means nothing to me. Please forgive me."

John never moved, never stopped hugging me to himself, didn't twitch one muscle in a manner that suggested annoyance or disapproval. "It's fine," he appeased, "it's nothing to be concerned about."

"What do you mean?" I cried, "I've been unfaithful."

"Have you? Have you really? Each morning, you've been here to see me off with a cup of coffee and a kiss. Each night, you've been beside me in my bed. We play together, we work together. A little thing like sex can't make you 'unfaithful.' As long as you love me, that's all I need from you."

Like a flood, my stress dripped from me, the tears slid down my face, my man caressed me. "I can't believe you're being so forgiving about this," I murmured.

"I'm not forgiving, because there's nothing to forgive. I told you years ago that this would happen, that it would be all right when it did. Do you remember?"

"Yes."

"So, it has happened. And why not, why shouldn't you want something I can't give you?" And he laid my hand in his impotent lap.

I glimpsed a sliver of his wisdom, and we cuddled. Half an hour later, I asked, "Is there anything you want me to tell you?"

"It started the night of your reunion, didn't it?"

"How did you know?"

"It was obvious. When you came home, later than you should have, I was still awake, but I pretended to sleep, trying to give you space I thought you needed. I could sense the emotion in you when you came to bed. The next day, you were sometimes smiling unexpectedly, other times you were almost depressed. You didn't hide your feelings very well that day."

"Why didn't you say something?" I asked.

"I had to wait for you to admit it freely. And now you have. And now that it's out in the open, we can deal with it. How do you feel about this man?"

"His name is Tony. I went to high school with him. I don't love him, there are times when I don't even like him much."

"But he makes you feel good."

"Sometimes. Other times, it's just something to do. I'll stop, if you want me to," I offered.

"There's no need," my loving husband consoled. "Have your affair, but come back to me after you've had your pleasure."

~~~~~~~~~~

The carte blanche that my husband gave me offered a freedom I didn't know existed, and wasn't sure I wanted. Tony desired me only for the sex, I knew that, but while we were having an 'affair,' before I told John, I felt obliged to treat Tony as a lover. Once I realized he was no more to me than a thing to be used only for physical relief, we moved to a different relationship. When I'd get incredibly randy, once or at most thrice a month, I'd visit his apartment, disrobe and engage in gymnastic exercises. In those circumstances, I rarely failed to have an orgasm. And if he called me, I might or might not gift him what he desired, I remained in total control. But it was never more than generic sex, I could have been with any other man.

John could sense when I'd been with Tony, often we'd be physical with each other soon after I returned from an encounter, pleasant faux sex that never failed to satisfy us, make the love we felt for each other even stronger.

Margot discovered my gluttony over drinks at a lounge. I'd crawled out of bed with Tony, satisfied and glowing, dressed and met for cocktails with my friend. "Something's different. What's going on, girl?"

I twirled my glass, cast my eyes at the table, smirked. "I'm having an affair."

"It agrees with you. How are you hiding it from John?"

"I'm not. He knows and approves. Oh, don't look at me like that, that isn't how it is. He let me know that if I ever needed something – you know he's impotent – that I should go ahead." I gave her the details, told her of my unlove, that my venture had little impact on my marriage.

"Well, I'm no person to judge," Margot absolved. "As long as you and John aren't unhappy, I'm happy for you. Just be careful."

"Have you ever had an affair?" I asked.

"No. I thought about it, just once. A bachelor at a health club I belonged to. He was handsome, liked to talk to me. I met him for drinks a few times."

"What happened?"

"He invited me to his place, I was standing at the door, then didn't have the guts to ring the bell. I never went back to the gym again. I have this idea he's still waiting for me, but when I didn't show he probably just called an escort service!"

Eventually, of course, Tony and I tired of each other. Fourteen months after that reunion, I called him one day, he told me he was seeing another woman. That was the last time I spoke with him, and truth be told, I didn't miss him. Sometimes, in the deep of the night, I desired a scepter of hot skin buried within me, but it did not need to be Tony's, and I did nothing to find a replacement.

~~~~~~~~~~

"There's a problem," Margot's voice lamented, although no tears fell from her eyes. "The doctors found something in my head." It might be a tumor, tests would have to be performed, Scott was being strong but of course he was worried. Over the weeks I held her hand as she lingered in the waiting rooms, and I sat with Scott at night when Margot rested, talking, listening, sometimes allowing him to cry as a child on my breast.

The results came in, even worse than anticipated. The lump was massive and propagating at an astounding rate. The physicians spoke of surgery, of poisonous treatments, and these efforts were attempted but it made no difference, the cancer spread, even though we hoped and prayed. Margot made her peace, certain that within a short time her husband would be widowed, that she would not be present for her son's wedding, she would never see grandchildren. She told me I was a comfort to her, with John's sanction I often slept in their guest room, the better to assist both Margot and her already grieving husband. A scant four months after her initial diagnosis she was thin, wasting, in constant pain, and we'd talk during the interminable nights. She asked for my promise to help Scott through the agonizing adjustments he was bound to experience, and I gave my word.

The funeral service was beautiful, as her closest friend I was called upon to eulogize her. When the guests departed and the son went back to University, John and I knew Scott's future was ours as well. In the ensuing days we insisted he stay with us, encouraged him with conversation and hugs, if he chose to sit in a chair and ponder we simply ensured he had sustenance and knew of our love.

The following week, John needed to journey on business, inspect a current building site, work with a client in the planning stage. He encouraged me to stay with Scott as much as possible, even sleeping in their guest bedroom. Scott welcomed my care, told me he was frightened of being alone.

I insisted that Scott leave for his office on Monday, he was required to begin the remainder of his life; he was only fifty-two, and although I understood his desire to immerse himself in the den, lick his wounds and never see the good in life again, we both knew the yearning would pass, for his own sake he had to live in the world, not outside it.

When he returned home in the twilight I prepared salads, he picked at his, I insisted he inspect the boxes I'd tearfully packed during the daylight hours. Tuesday evening, he remained maudlin, I decided the time was right for an excursion, we had dinner at a chain infamous for it's barbeque. I ordered him a drink, joined him in one, and we talked. Over the second beverage I brought back a memory. "Remember the time we capsized the sailboat?" The four of us had been on a sunfish, the boys were kidding themselves what tremendous sailors they were, and a sudden gust of wind accompanied by a squall bent the mast and dumped us unceremoniously into the bay. The rain passed quickly, the water was warm, we were all adequate swimmers with life jackets, there was no danger, yet there was a concerted sense of imperfection. The boys swam circles around the useless boat, trying to right it and cursing. I was anxiously looking for the fin of the shark I knew was desiring me for a snack. And it was Margot who said, "So a minister, a priest and a rabbi walk into a bar . . ." That remembrance brought another, and another, and soon we were laughing loudly at Margot's constant sense of presence, our sides aching with the levity, not caring that other customers in the restaurant failed to see the humor.

Strolling to our car, styrofoam boxes of leftovers in hand, Scott first put his arm around my waist, a substitute for the woman he could love no longer, at the automobile I put my head to his shoulder, and we transitioned from laughter to more tears, but these weren't as salty.

Back at his house, we decided to get out albums that Margot had put together of our trips. As Scott and I inspected the pictures of tropical environs, the four of us smiling and clinking glasses, Margot's flippant eyes, we sat together on the couch. His mood suddenly changed from mirthful to sorrowful, and I pulled him to me in what I intended to be a sisterly hug, but I sensed, as I know he did, a surprising shift from platonic to amorous. Was this what he needed, I wondered, what was required to move him forward? And if it was, should it be me to substitute for Margot? In the slight moment offered for consideration, I couldn't be certain of the answers, but I made a abrupt decision to allow it. I raised my face, expecting Scott to kiss me.

Our lips hung, inches apart, I felt Scott bow towards me, hesitate, then the spell broke, he muttered, "I can't." He rose, headed for the powder room, and in his absence I began to putter, putting the albums away, taking the glasses into the kitchen. He returned, then apologized for what he perceived was his own momentary lapse, not realizing I was complicit in the offense. Before we separated for the evening, each to his boudoir, he hugged me once more, chastely.

Between the cool sheets, I wondered at the moment. Was it wrong? Would Margot mind if Scott and I would have made love? I doubted it, she was always practical, and she would have been the first to suggest Scott move forward after the trauma; if that's what it took, she'd encourage it, and if there was enjoyment for me, she would have cheered me on. John? I remembered his kindness during my affair, he wanted only the best for me, and I knew he wanted the same for Scott. If we would become entangled, I knew John would respect my new relationship, probably would even encourage it.

I knew anything physical between Scott and I would, unlike the tawdry affair with Tony, be matched by a spiritual linking, but wasn't that something we already possessed? Making love with Scott would be a completion of our feelings, not a wrenching.

But was I imagining this? Perhaps for Scott, it would be a betrayal of his love for Margot, for John. Even, possibly, he felt no physical longing for me; in the seventeen years we'd known each other, he'd never done one thing, other than the moment in the living room, that indicated any sexual feelings towards me.

If he needed me, I decided in the end, I'd gladly let him have me. But it had to be his decision. I waited for the knock on the bedroom door, the confession of longing for me. But when I fell asleep, long after midnight, I was still alone, as Scott was.