Even Steven

We don't have secrets, so when we were settled with hot drinks and the scones and she asked, "So, what's new with you?" I hesitated only a moment before I replied, "Well, I did it."

"Did what?" Ginny asked, giggling, perhaps expecting some cute story about what I was currently wasting my summer vacation doing.

"It," I answered. "Last night."

She looked at me, her smile fading. "You mean...it?"

I nodded.

Her smile was now gone and her shoulders had sagged. "With who?"

"With whom," I corrected.

"Fuck that. With who?"

"You don't know him," I answered. She looked surprised, mostly, and like a hundred questions had just formed behind her forehead. But there was no mistaking that part of her look had a big dollop of disappointment to it. I told her the story I've just told you. I'd never had reason to mention Bradley to her, so the whole package was quite a bombshell.

When I was finished she sat for a while, her gaze wandering over the table top, sipping coffee from time to time. Finally she asked, "So what's next?"

"With?"

"You and Bradley. You and Steven."

I couldn't help but smile a little. "There's no next with Bradley. He'll be off to the airport in a little while and back in Portland by this evening. I'm as certain as I can be that I'll never hear from him again. I think he was as relieved to get out the door last night as I was to close it behind him."

She considered that. "So how was it?" I wasn't sure what I heard in her question. Was she just asking? Or was it, 'Was one roll in the sack with a strange cock good enough to maybe completely fuck your marriage for?'

"It was okay," I replied. We were always honest with each other, but I knew I wasn't going to tell her about either the existence or the nature of that austere orgasm. "It wasn't what it would have been ten years ago. I can't imagine why I couldn't figure out before we did it that it wouldn't be."

The look Ginny regarded me with was full of sympathy. I was relieved to see the look didn't have any component of, 'Well, I'm glad to see you finally figured that out, blockhead.'

She said, "So, I guess that answers any questions about whether you missed a fork in the road ten years ago?"

"No, Ginny, it's not like that," I answered. "I know if I could go back to that fork I wouldn't, even if I knew I could still have with Bradley what I have now. Besides, what Bradley and I almost did back then, well, we understood it wasn't going to be the start of anything. I love the life I'm living and I love it with Steven. I guess I just thought..." Shit! How to make this not sound like the most fucked up bit of reasoning in the history of humankind?..."that we were going to finish what we started, put the scales of the universe back in balance. Something. I guess." I lost it. For a moment I wasn't sure if I was going to laugh or cry. When the sounds finally emerged they could have been either, but only for a moment. Then I started to chuckle, picked up steam, and soon I was in the grip of hysterical laughter. Ginny seemed surprised, but in a moment she was right there with me.

When we'd finally settled down I said, "Just get a Sharpie and write Stupid across my forehead." She began to rise. I grabbed her arm. "No! No, that's not necessary! Stop!"

"You sure?" she asked.

"Yeah. I just have to figure out how I'm going to handle this with Steven."

As if a switch had been thrown, Ginny's still-bubbling chuckles were gone and her face was as hard as I've ever seen it.

"Fuck that, Annie! Just fuck that! You're not going to handle it with Steven. You're never going to breathe a word of this to him," she said with an intensity and passion I'd never heard her manifest.

"I don't know, Ginny. I mean, not right away maybe, but someday I think I...."

"You know my mother? My mother?" Ginny cut me off, and her voice had lost none of its stridency. Yes, I'd met her mother several times. Sweet lady. Ginny had a brother three years behind her, and almost as soon as he was off to college Ginny's mother and father had divorced, right out of the blue. Ginny didn't wait for me to acknowledge any of that.

"I never knew this until after the divorce," Ginny said. "My mom made....a mistake, back when I was about eight or nine. Some guy at work. It was once. It meant absolutely nothing. She was torn up about it and had no idea how it could have happened. Well, she just had to 'fess up. Annie, I had a great childhood with parents who were solid and loved me like the dickens, and were in love with each other. And, you know, they were. They really were. I think they really were, even after. But when mom told me about this she told me that dad never got past it. When she told him the light in his eyes just died. They stayed together until my brother was out of the house. I don't know how they did it, but I never suspected a thing. They faked it that good for years. There were no arguments or name calling or slammed doors or snide comments or bitterness. Nothing. I think they even still had sex sometimes. Then they were done. And, you know, I think they could still get back together and spend the rest of their lives loving each other. If dad could just get over it. But I don't think he ever will. I wish he could, but I don't blame him, because that's the thing, Annie: you just never know how someone will take something like that. Some people can take it. Some people can't." She had a hand on one of my shoulders and her grip was tight as she shook me a little. "Annie, you don't ever, ever want to have to find out which of those people Steven is. If you love Steven and your marriage then you just put this the fuck behind you and forget it."

She ended, and we were silent. I'd known Ginny's parents had divorced some years before. Once I'd asked why, but Ginny was so evasive in addressing the question and so quick to change the subject that I realized it was a sensitive issue she couldn't find the strength to address even with me. I backed off and haven't gone there since, and now I knew just how deeply the event had hurt her, and the continuing pain she feels from watching her parents live their lonely, separate lives.

Both our eyes were full of tears that never fell. She gave my shoulder another shake. Finally, I nodded my head. "Yeah, Ginny. Okay. I get it. I get it."

She looked at me a while longer and then said, "I gotta go take a piss." In all the years I'd know her I'd never heard her use the word 'piss' instead of 'pee.'

I didn't notice until she returned, but she'd gone to use the bathroom in the master bedroom. Morbid curiosity? When she emerged from the hall she stood in the living room looking at the couch and coffee table.

"You slept out here last night?" she asked. It was obvious. I'd put the wine glasses in the dishwasher after Bradley had left, but the empty from the wine I'd killed, sucking right from the bottle, was on the coffee table. The quilt that usually adorned the back of the couch was on the cushions and had obviously been used as a cover.

"Yeah," I acknowledged.

"Come with me," she ordered. She led the way down the hall. In the bedroom she pointed at the bed. The sheets, pillows, and blankets were as we'd left them. Then she was talking to me. "With women it's things: touchstones, physical objects. I don't know if I got that from Oprah or Dr. Phil or Dear Prudence or where the fuck. But it's true. You sell that bed, Annie. If you're ever gonna blab this to Steven it'll be because you can't stand to see that bed or sleep in it one more time. Get it out of this house. You told me Steven doesn't like it anyway."

That was true. My parents had bought us the bedroom set for a wedding present. They hadn't told us to go pick out something we liked, they'd just bought the set and had it delivered. We could handle that the pieces were ugly, but the bed had what they call Sleigh head and foot boards. Mom had been the instigator, and it didn't take a degree from Swami U. to figure out that I was conceived in the sleigh bed they still had (At least, I don't think it very likely I was conceived on the living room coffee table or with mom bent over the kitchen counter, but you never know, do you?), and she wanted whatever grandchildren might come along to be conceived in the same sort of bed. There was no place to set anything on the headboard, not a glass of water or a lamp. And the bed was short. Steven is six feet tall, and he doesn't scrunch up as much when sleeping as a lot of people. So his feet were always pushing against the footboard. We'd talked about getting something more attractive and comfortable.

"Well, do you think...," I began.

"Just shut up and do it," Ginny said. Then she was marching back down the hall. Her movement was so sudden I didn't for a moment realize she was gone. I caught up with her in the living room. She was opening the door to leave.

"You going so soon?" I asked.

With the door open, and her halfway out, she turned back to me. "I'm pissed at you, Annie. I mean, I'm so pissed at you I can't see straight." I had no idea what to say. Then she closed her eyes, and a few tears that had been ready to fall were squeezed out. She rubbed a hand on her forehead. "But I'll get over it." She was silent briefly and then said, "Do you think you're a bad person?"

The question surprised me. I was torn in answering. After spending so much time being told what to tell my husband and what to do with my bed I thought it might be time to stand up for myself a little. But that troubling chorus was still humming. "No. No, I don't think so," I answered. "But, yeah, the word 'slut' has been..."

"No, Annie, don't do that to yourself. That's just another road that ends at flapping your mouth with Steven. You're right, Annie. You're not a bad person. You're like my mother: a good person who made a mistake. Don't let a mistake fuck over the rest of your life." Her face finally softened. She giggled grimly and shook her head. "Miss Fuckin' Hot Pants. I'll call you later." Then she was gone, out into that unforgiving and all-revealing sunlight.

* * *

"Your friend was right, you know," Pat said. "Not to stereotype, but women tend to be like that. When they feel guilty about something - especially about naughty sex - they want to not be reminded. They'll get rid of the bed, like you did, or the sheets, or throw away gifts, or they'll avoid places that remind them of what they did. It's all about not being reminded."

It took a couple days but I finally took Ginny's advice. I listed the bed in the Freebies section of the Juneau Empire classifieds. The item being sold doesn't have to really be free. You can put a price tag on it of up to one hundred dollars. But I listed the bed for free. The ad appeared the next day and a couple came to look at the bed that evening. I guess they expected some absolutely free wreck. They were surprised to see a piece of furniture in such fine condition that they could take away just for the asking. They'd driven over in a pick-up, so that's what they did: took the bed apart, loaded it up, and drove off with it, mattress, box, and all.

That was Wednesday night. Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday nights I'd slept on the couch. Wednesday night I was on the couch again, but not by choice: it was the only option. I went to Southeast Furniture on Thursday and found a platform bed they had in stock. It had a headboard you can put things on, but no side railings or footboard. Steven could stretch out all he pleased. They delivered and assembled the bed on Friday, and I was back to sleeping in my bedroom.

I'm sure you're wondering, 'So, who is this Pat person she was writing about after the last break?'

After my confessional with Ginny I still had about seven weeks until Steven came home. I thought I'd use that time to do some sessions with a licensed counselor to work through my thinking on all this. I saw her once a week for six weeks.

"So, selling the bed was a healthy step," Pat continued. "I hope it helps bring you some closure. I can't tell you what to do about the content of any conversations you might have with your husband when he returns. Sorry. But maybe we can spend the next few weeks discussing the issue and maybe I can help you clarify your thinking in whatever direction that thinking wants to go."

I thanked her, and told her I'd like very much to do that.

"By the way, and again not to stereotype, but men are usually entirely different," Pat told me before we started into the background information she'd need to work with me. "When their erection ends up someplace it doesn't belong, and they want their existing relationship to continue, they tend to assuage their guilt and make amends through grand gestures: pricey gifts, a lavish vacation. If a Juneau guy suggests a trip to Vegas or Hawaii then he's probably just suggesting a trip to Vegas or Hawaii. If he's suggesting out of the blue a Mediterranean cruise or a trip to Paris, that's when the antennae have to pop out. Sometimes it's agreeing to that absurdly expensive addition on the house she's been wanting for years. Okay. So, tell me what your childhood was like: happy, troubled, any abuse or neglect issues?"

The sessions helped, if in no other way than in letting me vent, and explain, and call myself stupid, and kick myself some, with someone who, like Ginny, would never breathe a word of this. But, really, when the sessions were done I was no more certain about what to do in terms of telling Steven or not than I'd ever been. So, I nervously passed the last few days until his return.

* * *

"Annie!" Steven exclaimed. "What made you do it?"

Steven's exclamation had come when he'd walked through the bedroom door. Before he'd even put his bags down he'd seen the change to the room. The next moment his bags were on the floor, forgotten, and Steven was stretched out on his back on top of the object of his enthusiasm. His feet hung over the end of the mattress, and he wiggled them up and down, unimpeded.

"Oh, my God, Annie! This is great, just great!" Steven enthused. "How come?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I just thought it would be a nice surprise. I was as ready to get rid of that old monstrosity as you were. So, ta-da!"

Steven rolled onto his front and came up to his knees in the middle of the bed. He faced the end, put his hands in a configuration like he might be holding onto a pair of hips from behind - the reminder of Bradley doing the same making my stomach roll - and thrust his pelvis a few times. Elvis Presley couldn't have done it any better. "So how's that going to work?" he asked. One thing sleigh footboards are good for is to lean on when getting plowed from behind.

I couldn't help but laugh. "I guess we'll have to figure that one out. But how about not tonight?"

"Not tonight?" Steven asked, and the disappointment was apparent in both his voice and face.

"Well, I just meant not that way. Of course we're going to play a game of Hide the Salami."

He brightened considerably, rolled off the bed, and moved to one of his bags. He pushed it over flat on the floor, unzipped it, and began to pull a few things out, taking them to the dresser and placing them in drawers. Well, that was disappointing. Distracted so soon?

I stripped off down to my thong, reclined on the bed, and cleared my throat. Steven looked around.

"Sorry. I didn't mean for you to think I wasn't interested," Steven explained, as he walked on his knees over to the bed and got on. "I just needed to find something."

We came together, kissing, our hands wandering, heating up. We kept at it for some minutes, just enjoying each other and reacquainting. Then Steven pulled away.

"Hey, I need to drain the weasel." Classy, huh? "There was a line at the head on the plane and I didn't make it before we started the descent," he said as he got off the bed and backed up toward the bathroom.

"I'll be around," I answered and let him see a smile.

He moved into the bathroom, unzipped, and let loose a stream. I sat on the other side of the bed from the bathroom, turned away, one leg off the bed and the other tucked under me. I watched Steven. The window drapes were wide open, and I saw him reflected in the glass. Okay. Here's what Steven likes to call Annie's Sexual Weirdness #2. I like to do it with the drapes wide open. There are thick woods behind our house. No one will ever see us doing it: they'd have to be up in a tree to get the right angle anyway. But the possibility that someone theoretically could see gives me a naughty, hot little charge I like. A lot. So sue me. And yeah, you remember right: I did close the drapes with Bradley, didn't I?

I wasn't thinking of that at the time. I was distracted by the weight of my still-unmade decision. But that decision had to be made soon. Now. Ginny's admonition had been ringing in my ears and echoing in my mind for the last month and a half. God, it made sense. I could see the wisdom in her exhortations. Just take it to your grave, idiot. It made so much sense.

But if marriage is about anything it's about trust and truth and honesty.

I looked at reflected Steven again. He was just finishing, shaking his dick, and bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. In spite of my distraction I couldn't help flashing on, That can't possibly make any more pee come out. Can it?

Then Steven was stripping off, dropping his clothes in the hamper. Once he was naked he moved into the bedroom. He'd long ago stopped paying any mind to the open drapes. I put my head down. I didn't want him to know I'd been watching. I heard him behind me. He had crouched and was rooting around again in his suitcase.

I was still sitting on the other side of the bed, facing away. I didn't turn as I said, "Steven?" He was still rooting around and didn't answer. "Steven?" I said again.

"Yeah, honey, what's up?' he answered.

Here goes. "There's, um, there's something you really need to know about."

I turned toward him. He was just coming to his feet, turning, and then something was flying toward me. Instinctively, I caught it.

"You don't think I'd go somewhere for three months and not come back with a little something, do you?" Steven asked. I held the package in one hand, weighing it. "You going to open it?" Steven encouraged.

Why not? At this moment any reprieve, however short, was a godsend. I smiled at him and started working at the paper. Steven doesn't travel much, but when he does he always brings me a present. I love them, mostly because they're inexpensive, goofy little things. I teach English, so one time it was a tee shirt that read: "Rule of Grammar #11: Double Negatives Are A No-No!" Another time there was one with: "shirts with a haiku, they're kind of overrated, but I'm wearing one." I've also worked with special needs kids, so another time the tee read: "If Life Gives You MELONS You May Be Dyslexic." One time he brought me an amethyst geode. Once I'd gotten our recently-acquired, usable-to-put-stuff-on headboard, the geode was the first thing I put on it. But apparently he'd gone in a new direction this time. It definitely wasn't a tee shirt or a rock. The wrapping covered something squarish and hard.

It turned out to be a small velvet-covered case. I opened it. The word Fabergé was on the inside of the lid. In the bottom half were the most staggeringly beautiful earrings I'd ever imagined. No, strike that. I'd never even imagined earrings like this. They were studs, the stud behind a fat, glowing pearl. Hanging down from the pearl on each was a snowflake of white gold. The flake had six arms, each stuffed with diamonds, and at its center a six-point star with a central diamond, and a small ruby in three of the star sections.
Are these real? began to rise in my throat. But, of course, I didn't have to ask. They were real. Okay. Little Miss Curious just had to look them up on the Fabergé site a few days later. Japanese akoya pearls and collectively over half a carat of diamonds and rubies. Six grand in American dollars.