Virtue in Iniquity

"Tomorrow to the hospice," my wife finally decided, refusing to say a full sentence with such dire meaning. I'd been practically bedridden the last two weeks, and the doctors thought I might go within a month. The pain was everywhere as my body was giving up fighting this tumor and that. I asked for my laptop and sent my wife to the other room to watch tv without the sight of a dying man hard by.

I sent a chat request. She was there. "Hi," she typed.

"Miriam, I'm dying."

Pause, more than usual.

"Oh no, no, I thought you were just sick once in a bit. What is it?"

"Cancer. Probably soon. Within the month. They'll take me to hospice tomorrow."

"Oh, Charlie, I'm just devastated."

I waited a little longer. "I had to go sooner or later. We had to end sooner or later."

"I will miss it...it was good, for me. I had more of a sex life with you-without a touch or sound-than I could have imagined possible. I'm so sad." She paused a moment. "Have you prepared everything?"

"Yes. As well as can be. We saw it coming. I didn't want to worry you."

It was silent a moment for two so far apart. What to say?

"Has it been a good life, Charlie?"

"Yes, I think so. I have the kids, my wife. Grandchildren. And finally you-just a joy. Yes, good."

Quiet again, not awkward, we were just old friends, lovers of a sort, wishing time did not pass. A wave of exhaustion passed over me.

"I doubt I'll contact you again. You have those kids, you take care of them. And that husband of yours."

"Of course. How will I get through the droughts?" she said, and laughed probably. She meant the periods her husband did not want sex. She thought he had a lover, but she did not know for sure.

"Perhaps he'll come around. Or you'll meet someone online, like me."

"I'm being selfish. You are passing and I worry about me."

"I know you were thinking on screen." I took a breath. "It was important to me, our moments."

"For me too. I will so miss you."

"Very tired now, Miriam. Lots of drugs. I must go. Goodbye, Miriam." I had to write her name, to think it, as much as I could because soon I would never. I felt the sleep coming as she sent her last.

"I wish it were never this time of your life, or mine with yours. Goodbye, Charlie."

Chapter 5 Martha and Miriam

Martha Potter picked up Charlie's laptop, the chat page open still but several pages full of semicolons from Charlie's hand resting on the keyboard unsent, and composed an email letter to the woman she knew as Terry, still the chat name at the top of the page. She understood computers and programs more than Charlie realized. He'd drifted off as he closed. The address of Terry was there to be had. She considered paging back to the chat, but decided against it.

Martha had known for many years of Terry and Charlie's long, masturbatory relationship. She had not read many of the chats, although she'd had many opportunities. Charlie would get in a hurry and leave the chat on his screen, or minimize and forget and think he'd gotten away with one. But she'd seen an early one, cried-and realized its utility, and finally its limits. She realized her role in it. Had she really thought he could be perfectly celibate-or SHOULD be celibate?

She wrote to Terry-the name in the address.

Terry, or Whoever You Are,

Charlie is failing. The doctors gave him a month to go, but I think that was generous. Perhaps a week. His drugs will be increased in one or two days, likely, and he will probably not be sensible much after that. You should consider his last chat to be his final communication.

I know in your own way you have cared for Charlie for a long time. There are all kinds of love, and the longevity of your relationship astounded me and made me respect it-and even you. But we are not friends. I will notify you at the present address when Charlie passes. I will check his address for any message you might want to send anyone here, Charlie or myself.

Martha

Miriam reread that note many times, wondering that Charlie had written so little of Martha, as Miriam had written little of her family or husband. So it had been. The relationship was sexual, sometimes advisory, friendly, but not familial. They built a sexual friendship without a meeting. It was not an affair to be expanded into a life. Neither of them wanted that. Charlie loved Martha, but her lack of sexual appetite had left him sexually destitute. He'd finally turned to the internet chat and eventually met Miriam. Martha did not fight it. Charlie never mentioned it, and probably thought it was his secret. The few chats Martha read convinced her Miriam was committed to her family, too, and was in no way attempting to wreck the Potter family.

Two and a half weeks later, with Martha holding his hand, Charlie's countenance eased from furrowed and strained to relaxed, and his life abandoned him. The three thirty-something children were gathered around, but the teenaged grandchildren were home, having visited days before when Charlie was mostly awake-and made final goodbyes which they perhaps did not realize were final. The family hugged. The one son and one of the daughters made a point of kissing Charlie's forehead before leaving the room. Eventually it was only Martha and Charlie's remains. She held his hand, lifeless as it was, for several minutes.

She got up and went to the closet. She pulled out his laptop and set it up, using his password to get into his accounts. She found Terry, with Miriam explained in the address book, and typed a new message.

Miriam,

Charlie passed away a few minutes ago. The funeral will be in a few days.

I will make no further communication unless you contact me.

Martha

She clicked Send.

Chapter 6 Decency and Honor

Charlie Potter was not a well-known man, but his wife was involved in church and civic organizations, had worked at the public library running a local branch for decades, and had grown up in the town. She'd been on the town council for a decade when she was younger. The citizens came out for her and because he had been not unlikeable, not unpopular, and not evil. They did not mind him, nor did they mind showing up for her. He was known as a good father who yelled too much at sporting events-a laid-back guy who often made jokes that were just a tad inappropriate. No one really disliked him, he just didn't have any close friends. The church was mostly filled, in a widely-spaced way.

Martha was there, bustling about. She greeted people she knew, nodded to many, and thanked some for coming. There were many things that needed doing at a funeral. She had the help of her two daughters, Lizzy and Marie. Charles Jr., youngest of the children at 35, stood about and did not seem to know what to do with his hands. His two boys were 12 and 13 now, and sat in stiff clothes while his wife kept them mostly quiet in the second pew. Lizzy's daughter was now 15 and would sit by her mother since her father left them a year earlier. Marie was engaged to be married for the second time, but her beau was in Europe on business. (Oddly enough, her first husband was in a rear pew and she wondered, now why was HE here?) Martha and Charlie's children sat with their mother in the long front pew to display support for their mother, who thought that reasoning was backwards.

Just before the funeral was to begin, as the priest and servers were seen milling about in the vestibule, there was a hush as everyone found a seat. The organist was ready to commence and looked for the priest to signal. Then a woman in all black walked in and down the center aisle, toward the casket, stopping in the center. She looked about, not sure where she should sit, and everyone watched her. She wore a hat and a dress that reached her ankles. She was thin and dark-haired and wore just enough makeup for people to think her attractive but not painted. Her tummy was a little round. She was 29. Except for the widow, she was the only other woman wearing a veil, wispy and suggestive more than concealing. Martha turned in the pew and saw her standing in the center aisle, halfway down. Martha inhaled sharply and her children took note.

Martha stood and exclaimed quietly, "Miriam!" The whisper was clearly heard by her children. They looked where she did and saw the woman staring at their mother. She was a very elegant, black-haired woman, so young, and completely unknown to them. She was asking something with her look and the cant of her head. Martha then said to the children, "I am going to ask her to sit with us."

She walked over to the woman as the priest and servers lined up to enter. Martha whispered to her, "Miriam? You are so young!" She saw the priest waiting to begin. "Would you like to sit with me?"

Miriam smiled and said, "Yes, thank you," nodding. Martha took her elbow.

The two women in black moved to the children in the first pew, whom their mother introduced, saying that Miriam was someone their father had known for many years. The Mass began, and the women sat side by side. Somehow the children-and anyone in the congregation who looked-knew that they were not intimate, not kith. Nor were they enemies, at least here.

They sat together for the ceremony. The stranger wept gently during the eulogy, and Martha did, too. At communion Miriam walked up with the family, first of all the people in the congregation, and the priest offered her the Eucharist. She shook her head and said, "I am Jewish, Father," at which he smiled, said "As was Our Lord," and gave a brief prayer after raising his hand over her.

The thirty-somethings were puzzled for the whole Mass, but the ceremony only allowed a few moments for whispers. Martha smiled at their wonder. Marie and Lizzie gave each other looks occasionally. "How did she know Dad?" Marie asked Lizzie at one point. Lizzie shrugged as if to say, I have no idea. Later, Charlie Jr. thought, when Mom was alone with the family, he'd ask. He wondered if she would answer. It was impossible, he realized: Dad had a secret?! It couldn't be... An affair? Was she a love child?

Charlie, Martha thought, I had no idea. She's younger than our son! That thought brought a smile to her lips, too. It wasn't about dirty words and imagined sex acts, Martha realized. It was about sharing what can only be loving when shared, and is so much better when it is. She had called Charlie a rascal; perhaps he was that and more. She wondered at Miriam's motivation-such a pretty girl, such a life yet to live!

I wonder if I could have done for him what she did, Martha thought. I wonder if I could have been more to him in our marriage. I should have tried, she thought, yes, I should have. She did not feel sad, and she did not feel regret for her loss but for his. She had taken a turn in the road that had left her husband only celibacy or sin. Charlie had figured it out, maybe not fully, but mostly. Dumpy, plain, common Charlie and the Jewish girl... Perhaps he was in heaven. There were certainly greater sins.

Miriam felt welcomed and alienated at the same time, and she marvelled at the strange relationship that had brought her to this place. Martha held her elbow whenever they walked together-to the cemetery, to Charlie's and Martha's house which bordered the cemetery, and during the reception there. Miriam was grateful for her consideration. She felt protected. Martha was never far from her side, asking her to help with food and chores in the kitchen. Miriam gradually eased into the family dynamic for this one afternoon. Charlie's children spoke quietly and asked her, How did you know Dad? How did you meet? But Martha always saved her, swooping in, explaining they had met ten years before, after all of them had left home. She intimated that the relationship was mainly by correspondence, which was true.

The children discovered only that Charlie knew Miriam and that his death was a loss to her, also. It was all very vague. Perhaps, they thought, Charlie was not as simple as they'd assumed.

"Charlie would appreciate you being here," Martha said once.

Miriam looked at her, and Martha remembered an old statement of her mother's: funerals are for the living, not the dead. Miriam had not come for Charlie.

"I appreciate it, and the children...they will appreciate it differently," Martha said with a smile.

"They want to know, and so would I," said Miriam.

"Charlie was a man of no mystery during life," replied Martha. "They thought they knew everything about him and it was uncomplicated, straightforward, dull. Let them wonder. No child should know everything about a parent. Just as no child should know all of a parent's sins, there is no right to know all his loves. I look forward to their speculation." Martha was smiling and Miriam felt as if they were conspirators.

She was a remarkable woman, Miriam thought. She compared her father to this lady and saw two people of strong character and strong motive. Her father protected her relationship to Charlie in his way, and Martha protected it now that it was resolved.

She was glad she had come.

"You're a good person, Martha. Charlie always said he was lucky you loved him."

Martha patted her arm at that and went about serving more hors d'oeuvres.