Jake leaned on one arm and looked at me, his expression serious. “I can do that. I think.”
“And no one else knows. No one.”
Jake grinned. “I can’t tell my friends I’m having sex with the hottest woman in town?”
I considered. A little free publicity never hurt anyone. “Okay,” I said. “As long as your friends understand that your—that Sophie can never know.”
“What about your friends?” Jake asked. “Besides my—besides Sophie, I mean. Are you going to keep me a secret from them?”
I didn’t need to consider that question at all. Aside from Sophie, and possibly John, I didn’t have any friends. And, really, I didn’t even know Sophie and John all that well, did I? No one else would care that I was having an affair with a twenty-one-year-old graduate student with a fabulous butt.
No one would care.
That meant I was free.
“No,” I said. “I’m going to enjoy you all to myself.”
22
Dear Answer Lady:
I think of myself as a good person. I send money to several charities at Christmastime and I sometimes offer to go to the grocery store for my neighbor who is very old and walks with a cane. The other night I was out with a friend at a bar. A really unattractive woman sat next to us and we got to chatting about the stuff you chat about with strangers. At one point I complimented this woman on her outfit, which was, in truth, hideous. She really seemed to appreciate my kind words. After she left, my friend asked me why I’d lied to the woman. I told her because I always try to say something nice to people, especially when they are ugly or poor. I mean, I have so much and they have so little. My friend didn’t understand; in fact, she hasn’t returned my calls. What could I possibly have done wrong?
Dear Self-Righteous Snob:
On the one hand, you are an ego-driven piece of trash. On the other, I must admit that you have some grasp of the social contract, in which white lies and meaningless compliments play an enormous part. I really have no advice for you other than to suggest that when the end of the year rolls around you consider writing a check to my own favorite charity: me.
EVA
“You see those two at the table in the corner?” I whispered.
Sophie glanced ever so naturally at the painting on the corner wall. “The man with the silver hair and the woman in the red blouse?” she whispered back.
“They’re having an affair. He’s been married for over thirty years to the same woman. This one is his mistress. His latest mistress. He recycles about once a year.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”
“I did some work for his company once, about five years ago,” I explained. “He attempted to recruit me for the job of prancing around town with him but I declined the offer. Though I must say he’s known as a generous guy. I’m sure I could have scored some good jewelry.”
“That’s horrible!” Sophie leaned in. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to talk so loudly,” she stage-whispered. “What a creep!”
I shrugged. “He’s actually a pretty nice guy. He gives a bundle to one of the city’s most needy homeless shelters each year. And he set up a scholarship at his wife’s alma mater.”
“But still . . . He cheats on her!”
Poor Sophie, I thought. She sees life as black and white while I see it as entirely gray. “Practically every married person I know cheats,” I told her. “Not all the time, necessarily, but when the opportunity presents itself. There’s no harm in it, really. As long as the spouse at home doesn’t find out. It can be very simple.”
Sophie shook her head vehemently. “Cheating,” she said, “is never simple. And it’s wrong. It’s insulting to the person being cheated on. Anyone can see that.”
“I suppose that’s one argument,” I conceded. “It’s just that I’ve seen so many functioning marriages that include affairs or the occasional fling it’s hard to imagine a marriage that doesn’t include some degree of illicit sex.”
“Who are these people, anyway? Where do you meet these people?”
“Everywhere,” I said. “At work, mostly.”
“And they just admit to cheating on their spouses?”
I couldn’t mistake the look of distaste on Sophie’s face.
“Some talk pretty openly about their extracurricular activities, yes,” I said. I thought about one of the senior art directors who regularly brought his latest mistress up to the office for a tour. “And sometimes, it’s just rumor, but in most cases, the rumors turn out to be true. People leave a trail of clues, no matter how careful they think they’re being.”
Of course, as the words were leaving my mouth I was desperately aware of how they applied to my own situation with Jake. Was it only a matter of time before Sophie, before John, discovered our little secret? I felt uneasy and wished I hadn’t steered the conversation onto the topic of behind-the-scenes sex.
Sophie snuck another look at the illicit couple in the corner. “How do these people reconcile being a good spouse with being an adulterer?”
“You’re assuming,” I said, “that they even try to reconcile the two. Plenty of people live two distinct lives and never, or rarely, feel the need to excuse or explain it to themselves or to anyone else.”
“I could never live a lie,” Sophie said.
I’m not exactly living a lie, I thought in my own defense. I’m not the same as an adulterer. But why should all these fine moral distinctions matter to me? Conversations with Sophie could rattle my usual complacency.
“No, you probably couldn’t.” My tone was distinctly mean-spirited.
Sophie, in turn, looked disappointed in me. “You make it sound like living an honest life is a bad thing.”
“People have to live their lives in the way they have to live them,” I said. “Who am I to judge someone else’s behavior? I don’t know what goes on inside the head of my colleague who loves his wife and kids but who’s been having sex with someone on the side for years. As far as I can see, in terms of how he relates to my life, he’s a nice guy. He’s hardworking, goes to church, has a friendly smile. That’s all that matters.”
Yes, it sounded a little lame even to my own ears.
“Plenty more would matter to his wife,” Sophie said indignantly. “And to his kids if they found out their father was a cheat!”
“Yes,” I agreed, “it probably would matter to his family if they found out. But that’s not my concern.”
Sophie seemed to be thinking aloud when she said: “How can he go to church and stand before God and know he’s living a lie?”
Didn’t the Catholic Church preach that God forgives sinners? Maybe, I thought, the sinner has to repent of his bad behavior and promise never to do it again before he gets the good-to-go from God. I wasn’t sure how it all worked but didn’t want to drag religion any further into the conversation than I’d already inadvertently done.
“Sophie,” I said, “I can’t answer that for you.”
“I’m not saying that I’m perfect, I’m not, but . . . It’s just so hard to wrap my head around things like affairs and one-night stands. It makes me feel very confused.”
“So,” I suggested, “don’t think about them. Focus on the stuff you can get your head around. Like . . . Well . . .”
“Real estate,” Sophie replied promptly. “My job, I mean. My son. Taking care of my home. My parents. The fact that my ex-husband is dating someone half his age.”
“How clichéd of him,” I commented, annoyingly aware of my own clichéd situation with Jake. At least, I argued silently, I’m not cheating on anyone. Even so, on some very murky level my life was beginning to feel just a bit—well, murky.
Sophie laughed. “Well, Brad isn’t always the classiest guy. He cheated on me, you know. Twice, maybe more. I know I denied it before, but now I want you to know the truth.”
“Oh,” I said. Wasn’t that how friendships were supposed to be, ever more intimate? I shifted a bit in my sea
t. This friendship thing was a dangerously slippery slope.
“I never knew about his affairs until he asked for a divorce,” she went on. “He didn’t have to tell me at all. I’d already agreed to a divorce. But I think he needed my forgiveness.”
“Or,” I surmised, “he needed to hurt you for not begging him to stay.”
“No,” she said. “Do you think?”
“I don’t know. But the male ego is fragile. It was stupid of him to tell you, really. You could have gotten furious and demanded a lot more in the divorce than I’m guessing you demanded.”
“Maybe,” Sophie said. “I was angry at first. But the more I thought about it the more I realized I didn’t care so much. Back when I was happy—at least, back when I thought I was happy—I would have died if I found out Brad was sleeping around. But hearing about his affairs when I did just confirmed that the marriage was really over.”
“Lucky Brad,” I commented dryly. “He got off easy. Anyway, is that why you’re so against adultery?”
“Really, Eva,” Sophie said, as if scolding me. “Even if Brad hadn’t cheated on me I’d still think adultery is wrong. Maybe it’s understandable in some cases, I don’t know, but in the end, it’s wrong.”
Just to play the role of devil’s advocate I said: “Not if it’s done with consent of the spouse.”
“Of course. I guess.” Sophie shook her head. “But that sort of thing puzzles me. I’m very straightforward when it comes to relationships. I believe they should consist of two people who are committed only to each other.”
“No further restrictions?”
“No. What sort of restrictions would there be? Except of course that both people be consenting adults.”
“Of course,” I said.
“I know you think I’m a prude or hopelessly narrow-minded,” Sophie said suddenly. “But I’m not either of those things, Eva. I like sex as much as the next person.”
Sophie made this statement as if to convince herself, not me.
“I’m sure you do,” I said.
Just then the illicit couple from the corner table walked past us. The man nodded at me, and winked. The woman raised a hand, ostensibly to pat her perfect blowout, but really to showcase the diamond ring she’d no doubt earned the hard way.
When they were gone, Sophie shuddered; I think it was for real.
23
A liar, storyteller, or dissembler might be described as someone with a Silver Tongue, but the man or woman who chooses against speech knows that Silence is Golden.
—Give Them Nothing: Silence Speaks Volumes
John
I flung my tie on the bed. The shirt followed. Both would go to the dry cleaners in the morning. The suit could be worn once more as long as I gave the pants a quick press.
Yes. I am a man who irons. This interesting fact did not, however, seem to ensure successful dating experiences.
Take, for example, the dinner from which I’d just come. Teri had set me up with a friend of hers from college. Her name was Cheryl. She had a master’s degree in education and worked as a public high school teacher. Needless to say, Cheryl was bright. Not brilliant but above average. She was also nice.
I would not be seeing her again.
I tossed my socks into the hamper and wondered if I was a horrible person. Was I just one of those Shallow Hal–type guys after all, completely focused on a woman’s appearance rather than on her character and personality?
I revved up the electric toothbrush and dismissed the notion as ridiculous. There was ample evidence to prove otherwise. I was a nice guy. Pretty much anyone could tell you that. Just ask my mother.
Maybe it was the sting of the mouthwash that brought on the flicker of righteous indignation. Why, I thought, is it wrong for a nice guy to want to date—and eventually to marry—a woman he and every other red-blooded straight guy in the room finds attractive by the generally accepted standards of contemporary beauty?
Cheryl was smart and pleasant but she did absolutely nothing for me. Maybe if her wit had been sparkling I might have overlooked her bitten-down nails, might have found something charmingly quirky in her supershort, tightly curled hair, might have thought her diminutive size was adorable and not—well, a little weird.
The simple truth was this: I was way better-looking than Cheryl. I’m not bragging, just stating a fact anyone with eyes could verify.
And this bothered me. And it bothered me that it bothered me.
I imagined the whispers that would follow us whenever we entered a room together: Why in God’s name did he marry her? She must be good in bed, dude, ’cause she’s nothing to look at. Man, he could have gotten a model and he settled for that?
I know men. I know women, sometimes. I know people, and all of them, even the most upstanding among them, have moments in which they can be petty and mean and stingy with their kindness.
Maybe it’s wrong but appearance and appearances matter to me. Not exclusively, of course. Consider Eva. Physically, she was fantastic. But her personality put a big damper on any feelings I might have for her.
I dabbed cream under my eyes and carefully stroked it in. I’m not trying to dodge old age, but neither am I courting it.
I want, I thought, to be turned on by the woman I’m going to marry. I want to be smitten with everything about her, and, yes, I want other men to look at me with envy and at my wife with admiration.
Evening ablutions completed, I stared in the mirror at my forty-two-year-old face. And there it was, the truth. I could pretend all I wanted. I could hold doors and pay for dinners and even fight for the neglected rights of neglected women. Nothing could change the truth.
“You,” I said aloud, “are a pig.”
24
Dear Answer Lady:
A friend of mine is studying to become a Catholic priest and while he hasn’t yet taken his final vows, and therefore has not yet sworn to live a celibate life, he is currently dating a young woman. This woman knows nothing of his true situation. How exactly he misrepresented himself to her I don’t know. What I do know is something about his motives. Never having dated much before becoming a novitiate, he feels this is the last chance he has to experience sex without breaking a “law” of sorts. Be that as it may, the young woman in question is being seriously misled. The other evening while at a bar with a small group—all of whom have been forced to keep our friend’s secret—she confided in me that she’s in love with my friend and expecting an engagement ring before long. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to break my friend’s confidence; I pride myself on being loyal. But what he’s doing to this young woman is wrong and the longer he pretends to be someone he is not, the harder the truth will be for her to bear. Do you have any suggestion?
Dear Friend-Whose-Loyalty-Is-Sadly-Misplaced:
Send the young woman in question an anonymous note revealing your “friend’s” treachery. Send another anonymous note (no use in causing trouble for yourself) to the proper church authorities revealing your “friend’s” unethical behavior. Be ready to comfort and support the disappointed young woman. There’s a good chance that before long she will be wearing your engagement ring. Best of luck!
JOHN
“So, how was your date with Cheryl?” Teri asked. “Tell me everything.”
“Well,” I replied carefully, “there’s not much to tell. We went to dinner. It was nice.”
“What was nice, the restaurant?”
I moved the stapler to the left side of the phone. I moved it back to the right side. “Yeah, it was okay. Not my favorite place but Cheryl picked it, so . . .”
“So, what else? God, John, it’s like pulling teeth talking to you. You have no gift for gossip.”
“I wasn’t aware,” I said, “that gossip had become a good thing.”
“Did you have a nice time with Cheryl?” Teri asked, ignoring my comment. Her tone brooked no more evasion on my part.
I shrugged to the empty office. “Yeah, it was okay,
you know.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Teri demanded.
“Nothing’s wrong with her. I just wasn’t attracted to her.”
Teri sighed magnificently. “Sex isn’t everything in a marriage, you know.”
“Yes, Teri,” I replied patiently, “I know. But there should be some spark, at least in the beginning.”
“Is it because she’s so short? It’s her height, isn’t it?”
“Of course not,” I protested. “What kind of a person do you think I am?”
“Right now, I’m not so sure.”
“Don’t you want your brother to be happy?” I asked rhetorically.
“Of course. It’s just that Cheryl called me this morning and said she had a wonderful time with you last night.”
My eyes widened in genuine surprise. I’d thought she was as uninterested in me as I was in her. God, John, I told myself, you’re an idiot. “She did?” I croaked.
“Yes, she did. And she told me you said you’d call her. But now you’re telling me you don’t really like her!”
“I didn’t say I don’t like her,” I argued. “She’s very nice. I just don’t want to go out with her again.”
“Then why did you tell her you’d call her?”
Good question.
“Because, well, it’s what you say.”
“What who says?” Teri shot back.
“Guys. It’s what guys say at the end of a date, even if they had a miserable time. It’s just . . . easier.”
“Not for the women you’re lying to!”
“Come on, Teri, do women really believe men when they say they’re going to call? What woman believes anything a man says?”
“Not funny, John. I am so mad at you right now. I want you to promise me you’ll call Cheryl and apologize.”
“What are you suggesting?” I asked stupidly. “That I tell her the truth, that I don’t want to see her again?”
The Friends We Keep Page 9