My Loving Husband

He was the perfect gentleman in the morning, and for the rest of the week. Although we shared meals and conversation, and he was incredibly warm towards me, neither of us spoke of the moment, we both seemed to evade any contact that might move towards flirtation. Thursday evening I showed him the progress I'd made on my tasks, he agreed that Goodwill should have this and that, other things might be sold. He offered me the pick of Margot's jewelry, and I accepted two necklaces and a bracelet that reminded me of the good times, when I wore them on future occasions I knew her spirit would be upon me. Friday night we met John at a restaurant after his flight. And when we arrived at our house, Scott surprised both of us by insisting that the time of intense therapy was ended, he'd sleep alone at his house that night, although he quickly accepted an invitation to our Country Club the following day for a round of golf with John.

Over a drink, John and I spoke of Scott, and he questioned me about Scott's emotional state. Through a series of questions he explored the week I'd spent with the other man, how I'd soothed and calmed him, and in turn had begun to cope with the death of my best friend. I confessed the moment of weakness that Scott and I shared, but that it had gone no further. Although John suggested it was probably for the best, he gave no indication that the alternative would have been a disaster.

~~~~~~~~~~

Five months passed, Scott was with us often. He depended upon both of us for support, and he often asked me to have a solitary lunch or dinner with him, especially when he knew John was out of town or engaged during the evening. He wasn't dating, had no desire to meet other woman. One time he told me, "If you weren't married to John, I'd probably be asking you out." I was flattered by the compliment, but there was never a moment when we were tempted to move beyond the siblingish relationship we'd established.

My fiftieth birthday rolled around, there was a large party held at the Country Club, a hundred and fifty of our dearest friends, John worked for weeks to ensure it's success, and I thanked him publicly for the efforts, and for being my husband for sixteen years.

The next morning, an hour from John's tee time at the club, he was still abed. I went to wake him, saw that something was amiss. John's pallor was less fleshy, his energy seemed reduced. He decided to sleep in that day, surprising because, even though he was seventy one that year, he was always an early riser, and never failed to be excited about a round of golf. We chalked it up to the commotion of the party, he met Scott at the club for nine holes in the afternoon.

As a wife I couldn't help but be concerned, and for the next three weeks I observed my husband, seeing small signs that I took for physical deterioration: more time in the easy chair, a tendency to drop off into a nap at odd hours, lack of appetite, fleshy whiteness where there used to be robust pink. Finally I suggested a physical.

John's doctor inspected him, took EKGs and other tests, ordered blood analysis, and a week later sent John to a heart specialist. "It's probably nothing," the doctor said, "but it doesn't hurt to be certain."

The cardiologist kept John for hours at his office, repeating some tests, inflicting others on him, then his nurse sent us home, telling us we'd be contacted in a week or so. Then we were commanded to return to the specialist. A few things, such as the EKG and blood pressure, were taken again, and then the cardiologist saw us in his office.

"I wish I could give you better news," he started, "but I'm afraid this is serious. Mr. Butler, without using Latin terms you wouldn't understand, your heart is failing you. It's very sick, it's not going to get better." He went on for another ten minutes, but the executive summary was all we needed.

John was blunt. "What can I do?"

"Other than the things you've already been doing? Proper medication, diet, rest, the right kind of exercise, that's under control now, and you should keep that up. It'll help your heart cope, but it's not going to help it recover, nothing will."

"How about a heart transplant? Will that help?"

"If we could get you a heart, yes. However, your blood type and other concerns mean you'd be a hard match. And to be candid with you, sir, your age is against you. If a heart that was a good match for you was available, they might skip over you and transplant it in someone younger. I won't try to defend the practice, but it's a fact."

My mind shut down, I felt the tears begin to leak. But John remained strong. "How much time do I have?"

"Hard to say, very hard," the cardiologist answered. "We deal in probabilities over time. I'd say that the chances of you surviving a year are much better than 70%. Five years out, I'm afraid it's less than 15%. Of course, I could be completely wrong, you might outlive me." He paused, you could tell he was expert at these discussions. "If I can, I'd like to leave you with one thought. You are alive today. Live well, appreciate every moment."

"That's good advice, doctor, thank you."

~~~~~~~~~~

After a few days, the doctor's counsel had sunk in, we made a conscious decision not to obsess, but simply accept and enjoy what we already possessed, especially our love for one another. John went over his will and such, I was aware that he was leaving me with the house and forty percent of his wealth; I could expect to live out my years in comfort. We'd always realized this day might come, when I as a relatively young woman would attend John's funeral. But I wanted more years, and although I didn't feel cheated, I did think the gods might have been kinder.

John retired, sold his partnership and backed completely away from the business. When we were home, we were at the club daily. John continued to play golf with me and his other friends, but sometimes after nine or fourteen holes he might decide it was enough. John's children wanted to see him, of course, and were welcomed to stay as long as they could. Scott often stopped at our house for dinner, or just to see how John was doing.

One night, after I'd tucked John into bed, I sat with Scott in the den, a glass in my hand. I remember being keyed up, as at that point John and I had essentially given up all thoughts of a physical relationship. Scott picked up on my vexation, wondered what was wrong. "The truth? There are times that I wonder why this is happening. I'm a young woman yet, years ahead of me, and I'm wasting away." Then I chuckled, "Margot would make fun of me, you know, one time she suggested I borrow you for the bedroom. Do you think she would have minded if I took her up on it?"

Scott smiled, "No, I don't think she would have, even when she was alive. A couple of months before . . . well, she told me that if I didn't have another lover within a year, she'd come back to haunt me. I don't think I'm going to make her timeframe, I still don't have any desire. But if I did, you'd be the person I went looking for."

"You're a friend," I said, hugging him. "You'd actually do that for me?"

"It'd be a sacrifice," he laughed, "but I'd try my darnedest." Of course, nothing happened that night, or any other night, but I thought of how nice it would be with Scott, and I suspect he fantasized about me as well.

We travelled to the places John loved. The south of France, the links of Scotland, Prague, the Caribbean. The first time we went back to the sea, Scott refused to go with us. He gave an alibi that had to do with business, and perhaps it wasn't an excuse, but I sensed the underlying reason was that he was still too confused to place himself at a resort with the two of us but without his love, Margot.

After fifteen months, John was much worse. Three, sometimes four naps per day, he could barely putt on the practice green for five minutes, walking the stairs of our house was an arduous chore. The doctor observed that John's heart would probably stop sooner rather than later. And John decided he craved one last trip to the windward islands.

We chose our favorite resort, I ensured we'd have a suite on the first floor only a few yards from the ocean with a marvelous view. Concierge service was available for the times we'd need to eat in the room, I talked directly to the resort doctor, paid for a nurse to be on duty every moment we were there, alerted the manager to our known and potential needs. I even decided to charter a private jet, knowing that the additional cost would be worth John's comfort. Scott, realizing this might be the last trip ever with his comrade, decided to accompany us, we booked the room adjoining ours for him.

As the small jet reached cruising altitude, John signaled to the attendant. "Bring these two sad sacks a mimosa and an orange juice for me." When we had the drinks in hand, he toasted, "L'Chaim." 'To life.' I sniffled back a tear, and drank to the life this generous man had had. And, as if he'd read my mind, John lectured both of us.

"Listen, you two, this is supposed to be a party. We're on our way to the best island in the world, and you're acting like it's going to be a funeral. Well, I'm not dead yet, so don't bury me. Scott, if Margot was with us, what would she be doing?"

He laughed. "She'd be telling you to get up off your ass and stop malingering."

Again, John raised his glass, this time to our friendly ghost. "And that's the attitude I want on this trip. When I can, I'll be active. I intend to dance with you, young lady. I bet I can wade out to the floats and get sun burned. And the three of us are going to play golf. When I'm napping, I expect you two to go have fun. Snorkeling, tennis. After I go to bed at night, go get drunk in the bars. And Scott, you've never been any damn good at the tango, practice it with Jacqueline. Are there any questions?"

There weren't, and this time all three of us loudly proclaimed, "L'Chaim!"

~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks to the speed of the jet and the waiting limo, we'd spent less than five hours in transit, but still John required a nap. I was tempted to sit in the room and wait on the off chance that he'd require something, but Scott argued, "Let the nurse do that, isn't that what you're paying her for? There's plenty of afternoon left, put your swimsuit on." We headed for the largest pool, full of people, many of them younger, but not more beautiful, than we. A rum and juice from the swim up bar, then a sit under the palm tree.

"John's quite a man," Scott commented.

"That he is!"

"He's got a point, you know. We need to have fun while we're here, not only for his sake, for us too."

"Yes, you're right. Let's make a pact. No sorrow, not until . . ." In spite of my brave words, tears sullied my cheeks.

Scott tenderly wiped them away. "No sorrow, until we bury him. Then we'll both cry. All right?"

"All right," I agreed. "Come on, let's make a reservation to go snorkeling tomorrow." We skipped across the resort, hand in hand. When we got back to the rooms, John was awake. "That's the way I like to see you two – with smiles on your face." He had his swim trunks on, and he did indeed paddle out to the floats, climb aboard one, and ordered Scott into the beach for a fresh round of drinks.

"You like him, don't you?" he asked me.

"I've always liked him, from the first time I met him."

"Yes, but I mean, you like him – in that way."

I knew what John was getting at. He was rarely as blunt, but I assume he realized he had little time to be obtuse. I was as honest as I could be. "I don't know. I'm not sure. I've never really tried to find out."

"Why not? You know I wouldn't object."

"But when I've got you, why should I want something else?"

"One time you did."

"That was a mistake," I speculated.

"I'm not sure," John suggested. "Yes, you know you weren't in love with him, but he gave you what you needed. With Scott, you could have that, and love too, if you wanted it."

"You're a dear to propose it," and I made it clear that more colloquy on the subject would be unwelcome.

John felt well enough to go to dinner with us that night, and if he only tasted his salad and entrée, drank only half a glass of wine, still he felt our love for him. Afterwards, he wanted me to take him back to the room and prepare for sleep, by 9:00 he was out.

Scott and I headed for the night club, and for two hours we watched the floor show, then danced. We walked back to the rooms, I made certain John was peaceful, then Scott suggested a moonlight swim, a tradition the four of us had in other years. My favorite pool was the laguna de l'amor, there in the deeps colored by the rose tinted lights we swam in the tepid water and engaged in discourse.

Scott started, "While you were dressing, John and I had the strangest talk. Has he become unhinged lately?"

"No, not at all. He's always been completely lucid, except when he's tired." This suggestion worried me. "Was he manic? I didn't see that."

"No, he seemed completely in control, but what he said was odd. Basically, in a round about fashion, he advised me to make love to you."

This, of course, made sense to me. John, having an abbreviated view and wanting to ensure that we were well cared for when he was no longer with us, was attempting to play match-maker. "Yes, he mentioned that to me as well. He's in his right mind, you needn't worry."

"What do you think about that?"

"About his sanity?" I balked.

"No, about the idea that we might become . . . well . . . more than friends."

Gently, "I'd need to think hard about it. You know I like you very much."

"And I, you. I must confess, there are times I've fantasized about you."

"Since we lost Margot?"

"Even before. She knew I found you attractive, and in the privacy of our bed she encouraged me to dream about you."

"Knowing Margot, she had a fantasy man of her own."

"Oh, she would have easily traded me in for a young Sean Connery. You understand, this was simply a game, neither of us ever acted on our urges. Surely you and John have similar games."

"Ours took a different angle," I agreed.

Facing each other, I crosswise on a float, he treading water, we shared an awkward hesitation. When his face drifted toward mine, I braced myself for the collision and was not disappointed. Our lips brushed, open mouths, I tasted the sweetness of his tongue. It lasted less than a minute, then I kicked away from him. Nothing more was said about the encounter, and though we were unwilling to share our thoughts, it was obvious we had them. He dried my back gingerly, we strolled through the gardens filled with the night calls of tree frogs, I placed my hand in his.

When we parted, neither of us knew how to end the evening. A hand shake? A hug? A kiss? A romp between the sheets? We settled for a verbal wish, 'good night.'

John was peacefully sleeping. If he clung to the pattern of home, he might not awake until mid-morning, I had no concerns about him, no duties at the moment.

A shower, I decided, would clear the air, purge the uneasiness from my psyche. Under the hot water, streaming over my mane and shoulders, I considered needs, desires, options. My loving husband was preparing me for the time, fairly soon we were certain, when I would not be required to concern myself with only his needs. Was he wise in this suggestion?

And what of my own desires? In my care for my husband, I'd hidden them, consigned them deep within my heart. Was it time, yet, for me to reach inside, clutch at them, allow them indulgence? Perhaps, once they gained their freedom they would somehow capture me, twist me away from my primary purpose?

No! Until the moment of his death, I would love, I would care for my husband. Then I realized he was preparing not only me, but also himself for the instant he could no longer care for me in return. If I twirled from him for a moment, would I actually be twisting back towards him? Confusion infused my soul.

The towel was soft against my skin, sensuous. My damp hair was dried with warm breezes, then brushed into thick, soft curls. I rubbed creams into my flesh until each inch was silken, donned a light peignoir, nothing more, attesting to my modesty, but leaving my flesh cool, my spirit enfolded. Finally, a spritz of rich perfume, I was prepared. But for what?

John continued in his slumber, at the moment he had no needs I could minister to. And, the other man? Did he have needs? And could I, should I, attend to them? My tormented soul whirled, and suddenly, as if a compass needle swung then rested on north, it steadied. I embraced my future.

Stepping outside the threshold, the air was cool, the palm trees pendulated in the tropical breeze. I stepped to the next door, found it unlocked.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, John devoured a hearty breakfast, eggs, fruits, toast, thick black coffee. "You two are trying to hide something. Should I change my name to Lord Hamilton?" Scott didn't catch the allusion, but I answered, "Only if you choose to refer to this gentleman as 'Admiral Nelson.'" John smiled, his wish for his two best friends had been granted. "I'm happy for you. And since this is a fait accompli, let us celebrate it." Three, not two, glasses of champagne were called for, and John saluted, "To the ménage-a-trois. Let us be happy."

For the rest of the vacation, I spent every moment with my husband when he was awake, satisfied his every need and desire, but while he was unconscious I spent hours with my lover, on a boat, in the water, and in his bed. We were satisfied.

~~~~~~~~~~

Only three weeks after our return, John urged me to play golf on a Thursday morning with my friends as I normally did. John didn't answer the phone after the round, I assumed he was sleeping, but after the lunch when there was still no response, I drove home.

John was sitting in his easy chair, a gentle countenance on his face. I called for an ambulance, but knew there was no hope, John was at peace.

I was praised at the funeral for taking it so well, our friends didn't feel much need to console me. Yes, a few tears fell, but in the sadness was happiness, for I'd spent nineteen years with my loving husband, he'd provided me with all I needed, and left me not without hope.

~~~~~~~~~~

Will I marry the man I'm having a love affair with? I have no idea. Perhaps he will become the second man I love, my third husband, but we both need time to heal, to reflect, to assure ourselves that the rest of our lives will be spent happily, peacefully. I'm sure both John and Margot will be content with such an outcome.