Masquerade

by William Kienzle

  “No, no, I understand,” David interrupted. “I know in my heart that’s not a viable alternative. It’s completely unfair to Pamela. And I feel guilty as hell about it. That’s why I’m here. But even though it’s not going to solve anything, I had to mention it as an alternative.

  “Then there’s breaking up with Pam. It would tear me apart. Her too. But that’s the obvious, ‘moral’ choice no matter how much pain is involved, isn’t it?”

  Massey continued to puff wordlessly.

  “But there’s a third possibility. What if I confessed the affair to Martha and offered her the choice of divorcing me? Uncontested. That would let me marry Pam and we’d be happy. Of course, it would shatter Martha. But, I think, only for the moment. She would promptly get so reinvolved with her real estate, that after a short while she’d wonder who was that person who once shared her life.

  “So, Father, I don’t find the future as cut and dried, as rhetorical, as it might seem.”

  Massey removed the pipe from his mouth and shook his head. “David, David . . . the alternatives to what you correctly called the ‘moral’ situation don’t exist for you.”

  “Don’t exist?”

  “Maintaining the status quo, continuing your adulterous relationship with Pamela will drive you mad. I’ve seen it happen to too many good men. Your conscience will never let you rest. The guilt has forced you to seek me out. It’s clear from your own lips that you know it can’t continue as it has.

  “Besides, you risk losing everything if you continue this clandestine affair. Just as you also risk losing everything should you divorce Martha and ‘make an honest woman’ of Pamela.”

  “Lose everything? I don’t . . .”

  “David, there are two grounds for deposing a priest.”

  “Yes: in the case of faith or morals. I know.”

  “You’re not in the process of denying any of the doctrines of the Church. You aren’t making heretical statements. The matter of faith is clear-cut and fairly easy to judge. The area of morals is a horse of a different color. There are gray patches. But a priest’s adulterous relationship qualifies nicely.

  “Just how do you suppose your congregation would feel toward you if they knew you had engaged in adultery with a vulnerable woman who was your dependent client in therapy?”

  It was the word “vulnerable” that reached him. It burned his soul like a brand. It was true. She was very vulnerable and he had taken advantage of her vulnerability.

  “I think,” Massey continued, “there is no question that you would not survive a morals challenge. And it makes no difference whether you keep Pamela as your paramour or divorce Martha and marry Pamela.”

  “No difference!”

  “No difference. In the eyes of your people, nor, I assure you, as far as the bishop is concerned: You will have betrayed the professional ethics of the therapist-client relationship. It is bound to come out that you were romancing someone who had come to you trusting that she would receive professional help.”

  “But that’s not true! Pam’s therapy was concluded before—a long time before—we became lovers!”

  “Try to convince others of that. Besides, even if you could convince anyone, the next charge that would be brought would be that you were setting her up for the later affair. One is just as bad as the other.”

  Benbow considered his position as Massey had outlined the probabilities.

  Massey could surmise what the younger clergyman was thinking. “That’s not all,” he added.

  Benbow met Massey’s eyes evenly.

  “You are the author of a book, a novel that, I understand, sold rather well.”

  Benbow nodded.

  “It’s a good book, I think,” Massey said. “I read it. Enjoyed it. Going to write more?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Thought as much. The formula was good, good enough to bear repeating. The Episcopal Church played a big role in your book, David. You brought an authentic touch to it. The reader could tell that right off. What if by the time you get around to writing the next book, what if you are a deposed clergyman, disgraced in the eyes of your Church as well as in the psychology profession?”

  Massey paused to let the full impact of that possibility pervade David’s mind.

  “Under those circumstances,” Massey continued, “think your reading public would be as enthusiastic about a writer who’s been held up to ridicule and scorn by two respected professions? Think the publisher would risk ‘taking a bath,’ I believe they call it, by publishing a writer with so uncertain a future?”

  David was speechless. It seemed that Massey had finally stumbled upon a few genuinely rhetorical questions.

  “That’s a pretty bleak picture,” Benbow said at length. “Think that would really happen?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I suppose so. If it got out. After all, I have no intention of publicizing my relationship with Pamela, professional or romantic.”

  Massey tipped his head forward and studied Benbow as if looking over the top of glasses, which, in reality, were nonexistent. “David, you must know that in this day and age it is difficult to hide such things. What you’ve told me this evening did not come as a total shock or a complete surprise.”

  “It didn’t?”

  “You know how clerical gossip is. Oh, there’s been nothing of a documented nature that I’m aware of. But your habits have changed. You’re probably not even aware of that. Just subtle things. Like being away from the rectory on given evenings. Now and again someone would ask Martha about it. She’d quite innocently give the excuse you gave her. Presbytery meetings, confirmations, other events that Martha accepted at face value, but which the inquiring clergy knew had never taken place, or that if they had you were not present.

  “Now I don’t want to unnecessarily distress you. I don’t think anyone has guessed what’s really going on. But they’re not far from the truth. David, you are on extremely thin ice. If you don’t do something about this, you’re going to fall in. And if you do, you’ll likely drown.”

  Benbow was pensive for a few minutes. Finally, he said, slowly, heavily, “There doesn’t seem to be much choice then.”

  “It took longer to reach that conclusion than I would have expected. But, no, I think there is not much choice.”

  After a few more moments’ silence, David said, “This is going to be tough, probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I don’t think I’ll make it without God’s grace. I wonder, would you mind if we had the rite of reconciliation?”

  “Confession? If you wish. Certainly.”

  Benbow made his confession of sin, which did not much differ from the prior conversation. Before granting him absolution, Massey told him, as a penance, to meditate on the 51st Psalm, which begs so eloquently for God’s infinite and ready mercy.

  David Benbow left Father Massey’s rectory that evening clean and determined to walk the straight and narrow.

  17

  And so he did. For a while.

  It did not take the Reverend David Benbow long to start the arduous journey back to a morally upstanding life. The very week of his confession and purpose of amendment before the Reverend Alfred Massey, David kept his date with Pamela Richardson. She did not answer the door clad only in mesh stockings and apron as propounded by The Total Woman. But it was almost that skimpy.

  Pamela had no way of knowing this was to be a momentous evening during which her life was to be disrupted and her heart broken.

  David had steeled himself against his own weakness and her desirability. She sensed something was amiss when he did not return her kiss. To arouse him, though he regularly needed little seduction, she had worn very little and what there was was easily removable. Somehow, as he seated himself in a distant, solitary chair and projected his awkwardness, she felt cheap and indecent.

  He told her nothing she did not know. That their relationship was unfair to Martha. That their relationship was sinful in the eyes of God and the C
hurch. That their relationship threatened his standing in the Church. She knew it was coming before he got to the part where he stated firmly that their relationship, for all of these reasons and more, must end.

  She said nothing. There was nothing to say. She would not bring herself to beg or plead. The few tears that tracked erratically down her cheeks were the overflow of those she could not withhold. It was an embarrassing scene for him, a humiliating moment for her. After his tortured explanation of his inescapable decision, and with no spoken response from her, David left her apartment for, he felt sure, the final time.

  It did not take the Reverend David Benbow long to rekindle his affair with Pamela Richardson.

  There had been no change in David’s relationship with his wife. How could there have been? As far as Martha was concerned, all had been well, all was well, all would be well. She was unaware of any failure in their marriage. There was no way she could know her husband had found a gap and filled it with Pamela Richardson. Martha charged ahead as a realtor. The more successful she became the more involved she became and the more time she devoted to work.

  David tried to fill the empty spaces with work and various professional involvements. Much of it was merely busy “make work.” He daydreamed a lot, and all of it involved Pamela. There were so many memories—every one of them pleasant if not rapturous.

  Life during the separation was if anything, worse for Pamela. She did not even have the temporary relief of other involvements to distract her. So she was more than primed when the phone call came.

  It was mid-evening Tuesday. Martha had not been home for supper. She’d phoned and told David not to expect her until quite late. They had planned to spend this evening together. They had scheduled dinner followed by a relaxing evening of leisurely foreplay and lovemaking.

  It was the fact that the evening had been programmed. David had an easy time convincing himself of that. It wasn’t that he was weak. God knew how good he’d been, how hard he’d tried. But Lord love a duck, she could at least honor their appointment for an amorous evening.

  David sat by the phone, staring at it until he was nearly mesmerized. At last he picked up the receiver and dialed the familiar number.

  “Hello?” Her tone was tentative.

  “Lonesome?” he asked gently.

  Instantly, she melted. “For months,” she said.

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  So it began again. The same clandestine air; the same doubts, worry, concern, and above all, the same guilt.

  David could not bring himself to return to Alf Massey. It would be too reproachable. He had promised, as part of the rite of reconciliation, save the mark. In time, David made an appointment to see a priest whom he had never met in a neighboring city, but whose prolific sectarian writings David had long admired.

  The two spent a pleasant evening together at the elder clergyman’s home, talking mostly about their separate and different writing careers. Finally, David was forced to speak of the real reason he had come. He told the whole story, including his evening with Alf Massey, the ensuing virtuous interlude, and his recidivism.

  “So,” the priest said, “what do you plan on doing about this situation?”

  “I’ve come to seek your advice.” David leaned forward in his chair, his gaze intense. “This is not merely an immoral liaison. I have grown through my relationship with this wonderful woman. I am far more understanding with my parishioners, not so quick to condemn as I once was. I think it may be good for clergymen—at least some of us—to be in the state of sin, or what an unenlightened Church might consider the state of sin. Otherwise we too easily become sanctimonious bastards, condemning others whose temptations and failures we cannot understand.

  “Besides,” David continued, “my love for and with Diane”—he would not use her real name—“has made me a better writer . . . added a dimension to my work that was not there before.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think,” the priest said, “you are trying to theologize a swollen prick.”

  That pretty well did it. What could anyone say to so insensitive a clergyman? For the first time, David began to reevaluate the man’s religious writings. This time around David found the writings, formerly so admired, shallow and lacking in Scriptural depth.

  Enough of advice. David was forced to admit that he was avant-garde, well ahead of his time. He thought of all the deadly dull sermons he’d heard preached by ninnies who were not conscious of any deliberate sin. Clergypersons who spoke down to the poor miserable sinners cowering in their pews. Better for those shepherds if they had sinned. Better for their congregations, their parishioners.

  Well, he was sinning with considerable gusto. Not only was he sinning against Martha and with Pamela, he was lying more and more outrageously to Martha. And, he was convinced, he was becoming better. Not morally better, perhaps. But, somehow, curiously, he was becoming a better priest. More patient with those who claimed his time. More receptive to those who confessed their sins in shame and embarrassment. He was rather proud of that.

  Nor was that all. He was becoming a better writer. More knowledgeable about the baser passions that motivated the Common Man.

  It showed in the publisher’s appreciation of his third and latest manuscript. It showed in the book’s reviews and sales. This was only David’s third novel. Yet through it he moved up from bare survival to respectable sales.

  As is customary, his publisher sent him copies of reviews of his book clipped from various newspapers and periodicals. His favorite came from a Boston paper. Among other things, the reviewer wrote: “Benbow exhibits remarkable insight into the mind of a woman bent on seduction. Inviting her victim into her web of intrigue, then suddenly turning from pursuer to pursued, from active manipulation to passive submission, Sarah proves herself the most effective seductress since Salome.

  “Father Benbow must have heard some interesting confessions over the years!”

  David had laughed as he showed that review and many others to Pamela. She, in turn, appreciated the pleasure of her anonymous debut in literature.

  The ointment was not without its fly, however. David noticed a subtle change in the way some of his parishioners related to him, even some of the clergy as well. All were well aware of his literary accomplishments, of course. Most were proud of the honors bestowed on their pastor and/or friend. That wasn’t the problem.

  Actually, David could not pinpoint the problem. It had something to do with his ability to describe illicit affairs with such evident authenticity. The same observation as that made in his favorite review. How could he know so much? Did he actually possess so vivid an imagination that he could transcend inexperience? Was he drawing from professional confidences? If so, was he careful to mask them sufficiently to avoid revealing real identities? Or could he possibly be projecting his own experiences? And if that were true, was he not chancing deposition?

  To further complicate matters, David could not be certain he was not imagining it all. Guilty consciences frequently played tricks like this. David knew that to be so. And he was guilty, about that there was no doubt whatever. But it was this very guilt that was making him a better man, a better priest, a better writer.

  In the end he leaned toward the theory that it was all in his mind. This was by far the more comfortable supposition. To speculate otherwise was to admit that his affair with Pamela threatened to bring him down, write finis to his ecclesial profession, his literary career, his marriage, to a most satisfying life that was getting better by the day.

  Nonetheless, doubts lingered, sometimes haunting, his waking hours, occasionally invading his dreams.

  Enter Klaus Krieg.

  At first blush, David was flattered. It is one thing—and a marvelously wonderful thing—to be accepted by a publishing house. It is an even more heady experience to be sought after by a publishing house. And, beyond doubt, P.G. Press wanted him. Nor was P.G. Enterpr
ises unknown to David.

  He had watched the televised Reverend Krieg more than once. It was a professional interest. While David had no inclination to indulge in an Elmer Gantry-like fire-and-brimstone ministry, he was fascinated by Krieg’s ability to manipulate a diversified crowd.

  David might never have paid any attention to the publications arm of P.G. Enterprises had it not been for that television ministry. As it was, he was barely aware that Krieg published books of a religious nature. Occasionally he’d seen some in bookstores and markets, but the garish covers had discouraged investigation.

  When the contractual overture came from Krieg, David began looking into P.G. Press. He had been around long enough and had enough worldly experience to know about the nonexistence of the free lunch.

  Among his upwardly mobile parishioners were representatives of many diverse professions. One in particular was a sales representative for a large commercial publishing house. David talked with this gentleman about the P.G. offer and was strongly advised against signing the contract. So he sent Krieg a brief, cordial, one-man-of-religion-to-another letter declining the offer without stating any reason for the rejection.

  And that, David thought, was that.

  But it wasn’t.

  Evidently Krieg had some sort of inability to take no for an answer. Periodically, he would write David, always finding a fresh angle on which to hang another invitation. David began deliberately postponing a response to such proposals, hoping Krieg would get discouraged or resigned, or lose interest, or experience any reaction that would cause him to cease and desist. But nothing seemed to work.

  Things got even more intense after the publication of David’s third and latest book nearly a year ago. Father Emrich and the Reluctant Convert received nearly unanimous favorable criticism in the periodicals that deigned to review it. And, though sales were only slightly better than that of his previous work, that was satisfactory.

  David’s continued success triggered an increased effort by Krieg to sign him. But oddly, the Reverend’s communications no longer called for a formal reply. In fact, Krieg’s missives now consisted almost entirely of propaganda highlighting P.G. Press’s achievements. Krieg made quite clear what manner of success he envisioned for David once he were to enter the fold. His overtures required no reply; they merely overflowed with information about the rosy future beckoning David.