THREESOMES, FOURSOMES, AND THE LIKE

By Charles Deemer

 

 

            The day I learned that Rosemary Brooks was in love with me, I wept. Over gin-and-tonics she sang, “Tra la la, and I’m in love again,” and her tears were the prism that led me to her heart. What could I tell her? That her husband was my best friend, she my wife’s? That the pure pitch of her confession had shattered, like a song, the mirror by which the future reflects the past, making impossible now the shared habits of our lives – the bridge games, tennis, dining and dancing, camping in Virginia, holiday picnics with our two sets of kids? As Rosemary wept, I wondered if we could even finish the play together.

            It was to discuss the play that Jonathan Delgado had brought us together at the Rainbow Lounge. Rosemary and I were Community Players, an affliction not shared by our mates, and had been cast as Editor and Mrs. Webb in Our Town. After two weeks of rehearsals Jonathan, our director, was not pleased with us: we failed to portray the marital balance between habit and happiness, boredom and love, that he found in the roles. At Jonathan’s suggestion we all met at the Rainbow on a Sunday afternoon, where Rosemary and I listened to Herr Direktor explicate the Webbs once again, before begging a premature departure to keep a golf date.

            As soon as he left, I said, “That ass. What the hell does he mean by a marital mode? Are we happily married or not? I wish he’d give me one piece of concrete business – something, anything. He’s too theoretical to be a director.”

            Rosemary seemed away, even as I had been away, for Jonathan’s lengthy explications could bore mere mortals. I snapped my fingers and grinned.

            “He’s gone. You can come back now.”

            “I haven’t been anywhere,” said Rosemary.

            “Really? Such endurance!”

            “It’s where I am that bothers me.”

            “And where is that?” I asked.

            Rosemary touched my hand and said, “Happy and terrified. Can you keep a secret?”

            I said I could.

            Suddenly theatrical, Rosemary sang, “Tra la la, and I’m in love again.” Then she shook her head and said, “Oh Christ, I’m not kidding.”

            And there it was, without warning, without subtext. Rosemary took a handkerchief from her purse and began to weep, not openly, but with a guarded sadness that troubled me as much as her words. Not sure what to do, I excused myself to the men’s room.

            When I returned, Rosemary was gone. She had left a note on a bar napkin:

            Sorry. Late adolescence, I guess. Let’s play the Webbs like they hate each other. Don’t quit on me. I’m not myself these days. R.

            How candlelight had belied the white heat of the day. Outside I stopped, blinded, having to shade my eyes and squint to find the parking lot. I entered the humidity like a shower and, with my car’s air-conditioning on the blink, was soaked by the time I pulled into our driveway.

            Dear, brave Sarah; indefatigable, ambitious Sarah – the heat did not frighten her, she was outside riding the lawn mower, my wife, her red hair hidden under the defiance of a black scarf. Our twin boys were off at camp, and so Sarah was cutting the grass herself, looking a far cry from Rosemary in the clinging frailty of a flowered dress. Sarah waved, and I thought I saw hair under her arms. I blew her a kiss and pulled into the carport.

            Another gin-and-tonic in the den did nothing. I decided to shower, and it was there, in the contest between beating water and lathering soap, that I felt my cheeks dampen out of the shower’s cold reach, out of the humidity, and I realized that I was weeping for the first time in years.

 

            On Monday I made it to the ten o’clock coffee break before phoning Rosemary. I called from a payphone at a filling station, feeling wicked and apprehensive, but also strangely excited, as if Rosemary’s late adolescence had prompted my own. When she didn’t answer after two rings, I feared she wasn’t home. Then at the fourth:

            “Hello.”

            “Hi.”

            “Is this Ed?”

            “Were you expecting someone else?” I tried to picture her at the phone – but would she still be in her robe, or in a summer dress, a bikini? I knew nothing about the habits of her morning.

            Rosemary said, “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Ed, I want to apologize about yesterday. I have no right to—“

            “You don’t owe me an apology.”

            “I shouldn’t have burdened you.”

            I breathed so deeply that Rosemary must have heard me. I closed my eyes and said, “Rosemary, Rosemary. The burden is mine and I accept it. I accept it. I feel the same way about you.”

            “Oh, Ed, please don’t—“

            “I will. I have to. You’re lovely. Do you understand what I’m saying? You’re so lovely.”

            I heard only her sobbing.

            “Rosemary, I just need time to think a few things out. Not about you. I’m surprised at how suddenly I know how I feel about you. But I don’t have to tell you about the complications.”

            Still crying, Rosemary said, “Why did you have to call?”

            “Why did you have to tell me what you did? Because it’s there. Listen to me. I don’t regret that you did that. I’m glad you did. I mean, I feel fifteen years younger already.” There was joy in my voice but Rosemary still wept.

            “Listen, I’m stealing time from work. Fix yourself a Bloody Mary and try to smile. Everything will work out. I’ll be back to you soon, I promise.”

            For the rest of the day I was tempted to phone her again, to have our goodbyes without tears, but the only time I dialed her number I hung up before the first ring. Nor did Rosemary and I speak to each other, other than as the Webbs, at rehearsal that night. Jonathan applauded our finding the correct marital mode and congratulated himself on arranging a successful Sunday afternoon.

            By the time Sarah and I undressed for bed, the essential complication was clear to me: I was not out of love with my wife. At the same time, if not in love with Rosemary, I was very much attracted to her, I found her beautiful, desirable, and suddenly … willing. This is not to say I wasn’t still attracted to Sarah. Physically, her breasts were my joy. Rosemary hardly had breasts at all. Physically, Rosemary’s buttocks were as tight as a teenager’s. Sarah carried an ample cushion with her everywhere. Physically, then, I was attracted to both women. But I was not out of love with my wife, my friend, my confidante, and for this reason I could never cheat on her. As soon as Sarah put aside her historical novel and turned out the light, I asked, “Can we talk?”

            “Want me to turn the light back on?”

            “No.”

            How to begin? Finally Sarah had to ask me what I wanted to talk about.

            “Rosemary,” I said.

            Sarah turned on the light.

            Shading my eyes, I continued. “I’ll come right to the point. After our little fiasco with Jonathan yesterday, Rosemary told me she was in love with me. Wham, just like that. It really threw me. I didn’t realize she and Mike had such serious problems.”

            “And how do you feel about her?”

            “I don’t know. She’s very beautiful.”

            Sarah took my hand, and I turned to her.

            “I love you,” I said. “I love you but at the same time can imagine going to bed with Rosemary. I just can’t accept committing adultery.”

            Sarah nodded.

            “How do you feel about it?” I asked.

            “I’m not sure.”

            This was ground on which, as on a fault in earthquake weather, to tread softly. In the nightstand beside me, within my reach, was the lesbian pornography on which our marriage had been saved and re-erected, a companion at first more Sarah’s pleasure than mine, but ultimately more mine because it was hers. Yes, I could picture myself in bed with Sarah and Rosemary together; I thought Sarah could, too.

            She broke the silence.

            “Rosemary phoned this afternoon. We’re having lunch together tomorrow.”

            “She called you? What’d she say?”

            “That she had something important to tell me.”

            “I guess she wants you to know,” I said. “You’re her best friend.”

            “I suppose so.”

            “Want a cigarette?”

            “Yes.”

            We smoked in bed, silent, my right foot touching Sarah’s left. The bed was already moist from the heat and the humidity and our sweating. Two years ago this same bed had driven us to the brink of divorce; weeks later it had brought us together again, naked under an electric blanket while snow fell outside, on an afternoon when Sarah told me she was attracted to women and fantasized about making love to women, a confession that surprised and stunned me, before exciting me, so that the sex with which we capped the reunion was better than any we had had recently, and we decided to make another go of it, especially for the children’s sake.

            Stabbing out the cigarette, I asked, “Do you want to make love to Rosemary?”

            Sarah blew smoke at the ceiling. I thought she looked puzzled.

            “That’s what it amounts to, isn’t it? I can’t cheat on you. If I’m going to bed with her, then so are you.”

            “It’s scary,” Sarah said.

            “I know. But we love her, don’t we? She’s your best friend. She wants me. It’s the only resolution that makes sense.”

            “You wouldn’t feel threatened?” Sarah asked.

            “No. Not as long as I was there, too.”

            “I dreamt about it once.”

            “When we watch those movies, aren’t we really the actors?”

            “It’s all so damn scary.”

            “We love each other. That’s our protection.”

            Sarah put out her cigarette and went to the bathroom for a glass of water. Watching her go, I imagined the buttocks tighter, without stretch marks. Sarah and Rosemary together – why couldn’t it happen? We were adults. We knew who we were.

            “What about Mike?” Sarah asked from the doorway. “Does he get left out in the cold or what?”

            “I guess that wouldn’t be fair.”

            “Once, when we were talking about this, you said another man in bed would threaten you. Remember? There could be another woman, but not another man.”

            Yes, I remembered.

            “So what about Mike?”

            I wasn’t sure. He was my closest friend, yes, but my affection for him had no physical connotations, no resemblance to the thoughts I could have about Rosemary. But Sarah’s point was obvious, we could hardly steal his wife away from him.

            I said, “It would rather depend on Rosemary, wouldn’t it?”

            “I don’t know. This is all happening too fast for me.”

            “You see her tomorrow. You’re going to have to tell her how we feel.”

            “Then tell me what to say.”

            “Look,” I snapped, “you don’t have to get bitchy. I thought we were in agreement.”

            “I’m not being bitchy. I’m confused and scared.”

            “Why should you be confused? You’ve fantasized making love to a woman. There’s nothing new under the sun.”

            “This is not the same. This is now. This is real.”

            I went to Sarah and embraced her.

            “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bark. I guess I’m scared, too. But we have talked about it before.”

            “I know.”

            “You said a swingers’ club sounded too impersonal.”

            “It still does.”

            “So if you can’t do it with your best friends, who can you do it with?”

            “I don’t know.”

            I kneeled and kissed her stomach and, despite Sarah’s passivity, we began to make love.

 

            The ledge books in which I earn my living were filled with columns I could not adjust. At noon Sarah and Rosemary would have lunch together, and through the morning I was obsessed with the countdown to the hour. I was worried about what, if anything, Sarah would tell her; we had articulated no mutual confession, no proposal, nothing. Shortly before ten I put my work aside, closed the office door, and typed a letter.

 

            Dear Rosemary,

 

I am deeply touched by your feelings for me, which I also feel for you. But I’m still in love with Sarah, who also has strong feelings for you. It seems to us, then, that the only way we can all express our affection is by expressing it together, the three of us in bed, or perhaps four, depending on how you feel about Mike. We know that this is scary, being something none of us has done before. But if you can’t love your friends, who can you love? Think about it.

 

Affectionately,

 

Ed

 

            I put the note into an envelope and sealed it. Telling the department secretary I’d be back within the hour, I drove home to give the envelope to Sarah, who at lunch could give it to Rosemary.

            When I discovered that her car was not in the carport, I felt panic. It was only ten-thirty. Were they keeping their rendezvous early, and if so, why? What were they sharing among themselves that did not include me? Inside I dialed Rosemary’s number but when she answered, I hung up. Was Sarah there? What were they doing?

            In the refrigerator I found a can of beer. I mixed it with tomato juice, a drink introduced to me by Mike, who had picked it up on a hunting trip in Idaho. Speak of the devil: through the dining room window I saw him turn into the driveway. I met him at the front porch.

            “Taking the day off?” Mike asked.

            Then it was Sarah he was here to see. Suddenly I felt very alone, very ignorant, very conspired against.

            “I could ask you the same thing.”

            “A red one looks good,” said Mike. “Got any more beer?”

            We took our drinks to the den, where we sat down at opposite ends of the divan.

            “Well, what’s going on anyway?” I asked.

            “A whole bunch, buddy. A whole bunch.”

            “You’re really here to see Sarah.”

            “Yes. She’s having lunch with Rosemary.”

            “I know.”

            “She out shopping?”

            I nodded, studying Mike’s reaction, trying to discern if he knew something about her present whereabouts that I didn’t.

            “I wanted to ask a favor of her.” Mike swirled red beer in his mug, raising foam. “I wanted her to find out something for me.”

            “Anything you can talk about?”

            “I think Rosemary’s having an affair.”

            The she already had put distance between them, and he had felt it. I looked away, down into my mug, not knowing what to tell him.

            “For a while I was worried it was you,” said Mike. He forced a laugh. “If you’ve been to bed with her, buddy, I think you owe it to me to tell me.”

            “I haven’t been to bed with her,” I said. “I love my wife.”

            He reached forward and squeezed my arm.

            “Thanks. But there’s someone, damn it. I know there is. I have to find out who, you know?”

            “You’re sure you’ve got it right?”

            “You’d better believe it. You’d know if Sarah was keeping something from you.”

            “I guess I would.”

            “Christ,” said Mike. We were silent until he finished his beer. He stood up. “Are you taking the day off?”

            “I left some work home I needed.”

            “Then you’ve got to get back?”

            I nodded.

            “I should, too. Let’s have a boy’s night out soon and I can tell you all the gruesome details.” Again he forced a laugh. “Ain’t marriage a bitch?”

            At the car he offered his hand and I took it, grasping firmly, man to man, shaking it while he said, “I’ve got to lean on somebody, buddy, and you folks seem to be it. If Rosemary tells you anything, after rehearsals or anything, I’d appreciate knowing. Even if you’re sworn to secrecy, buddy.”

            “Sure.” We released our grips.

            “How’s the play going?” Mike asked.

            “So-so. Jonathan’s an ass.”

            “If she tells you anything, even a hint …”

            “I’ll let you know.”

            Mike smiled and shrugged, as if to repeat, Ain’t marriage a bitch? I waved him off and returned to the house, where I phoned Rosemary again, determined to talk to her, and to Sarah. I could not betray Mike, not now, which meant that Sarah and I could not invite Rosemary to our bed without him. Yet I wasn’t sure that I could accept his presence, even if Rosemary could; though I envied him his trimmer physique, which I’d seen often enough while showering at the club after tennis, the thought of embracing it, him, repelled me. The complications stacked too high now, and I wanted to be back the way we were before Rosemary’s confession, when physical attraction was more clandestine, less complicated.

            Although Rosemary did not answer the phone, I wasn’t convinced that she wasn’t there. Sometimes, making love on an afternoon when the boys were at their grandparents, Sarah and I would ignore the ringing that dared to interrupt us. Blissfully ignore it. I returned to work by way of Rosemary’s but her car, too, was gone. Then where was she? And Sarah? It was eleven-fifteen.

            I had no appetite for lunch. After the department cleared out I began phoning restaurants that were Sarah’s favorites, and the fifth try was successful.

            “Where the hell have you been all morning?” I asked.

            Sarah said, “Shopping for Tad’s birthday. If we forget him at camp, he’ll never forgive us. What’s wrong?”

            “Has Rosemary told you yet?”

            “No. She’s been listing her complaints.”

            “And what are they?”

            “She feels old. She thinks she could’ve been a great actress if she never married.”

            “She hasn’t mentioned me?”

            “Not yet.”

            “Listen, Mike came by. He suspects what’s going on.”

            “He came by the office?”

            “By the house. I’d come home to give you a letter.” I realized that I didn’t have the envelope.

            “What letter?”

            “I’ll explain later.”

            “Ed, my lunch is getting cold. Did you want something?”

            “I don’t want you to tell her anything. I don’t want to go through with it.”

            “I wasn’t going to tell her anything. I can’t go through with it either. I’m going to have to run.”

            “Sure, have a great time.”

            “Ed, I love you. Stop worrying.”

            “Who’s worried?”

            “You sound positively jealous. Can’t you trust me?”

            “I trust you,” I said and hung up.

 

            The corporation claimed its dividends for my inefficient morning by keeping me at the office until six. Sarah had the patio table set for two and the barbecue coals glowing. I apologized for being late.

            “Sit down and I’ll bring you a martini,” said Sarah. Taking my briefcase, she kissed me on the cheek.

            I sat down at the table in front of a vase of flowers. What was going on? I wondered, although it was not unusual for Sarah to have my drink and dinner waiting. Yet the day was not ordinary, to say the least.

            Sarah’s manner, however, had no hint of the unusual. As we sipped our drinks, she made our plans for taking Tad’s birthday party to him at camp and then she told me that the roses looked diseased and that one of the lawn sprinklers didn’t seem to be working right, would I take a look at it soon?

            When she refilled our drinks, I asked, “Aren’t we avoiding what we should be talking about?”

            “It’s not you,” said Sarah.

            “What isn’t me?”

            “Rosemary’s not in love with you. She’s been having an affair with Jonathan.”

            “She’s sleeping with Jonathan?”

            “For about three months now.”

            “With Jonathan?”

            “You sound sorry it’s not you.”

            With Jonathan? I couldn’t believe it.

            “We had a very good talk,” said Sarah. “Very honest. We went to the Rainbow after lunch and stayed til after three. Rosemary did most of the talking, and I think it really helped her. She’s decided to break off with him and needed encouragement. She almost told you Sunday. You’re like a brother to her.”

            “Jonathan,” I said to myself.

            “You sound sorry.”

            “Christ, I don’t know how I feel. Like I belong in the booby-hatch.”

            “I read your letter. You left it on the dining room table. I think you should destroy it.”

            “I plan to, believe me.”

            “I have a confession to make,” said Sarah. She didn’t go on until I looked up from my drink. “I never wanted to make love to Rosemary.”

            “Let’s not play games.”

            “Maybe you did, but I didn’t. Because I already have.”

            “Terrific,” I said. “That’s just goddamn terrific.”

            “Not literally, of course.”

            “What do you mean, ‘of course’? What are you talking about?”

            “I’ve imagined it and that’s enough.”

            “Imagining it is repressing it.”

            “No, you’re wrong,” said Sarah. “Imagining it makes doing it unnecessary.”

            “Bull, bull, bull.”

            “Listen to me, I’m serious. We are the actors in those movies. And that saves us from having to literalize our fantasies. Christ was wrong, don’t you see?”

            “No, I don’t. I’m not repressed either. What the hell does this have to do with Christ?”

            “Wasn’t it Christ who said that to think adultery is to commit it? Actually it’s the opposite. Thinking it makes doing it unnecessary. Fidelity is based on fantasy.”

            Sarah, strong-minded Sarah, my wife, my friend, my confidante – I heard her but I didn’t understand her. Finally she dropped the sermon and we ate our stuffed pork chops in silence.

            At rehearsals I could not bear to look at Rosemary, but like old pros we endured, Our Town went up, and to a standing ovation came down. The boys returned from camp, and evenings I played ball with them, until the summer seemed ordinary again. Then Mike and Rosemary invited us over for bridge, where we all pretended nothing had ever happened.

            After a tennis club swim and barbecue in horrid, humid August, I set up the projector on the nightstand to show movies over our bed and onto the far wall. With each film Sarah and I, naked at the foot of the bed, paid less attention to the parade of women with their vibrators and dildos, strangers in threesomes and foursomes and the like, and more to each other, until finally Sarah sat on me and offered her breasts, my joy. We began the rhythm that led to climax.

            Suddenly Sarah said, “Look at the wall.”

            Turned, I realized that the film had ended, that behind me the reel was spinning aimlessly, and I saw within the screen’s frame our own silhouettes, dark against the blue wall, like anonymous shadows waiting to be filled into flesh. I bucked and settled, exhausted.

            Later Sarah said, “Maybe there are no failures of marriage at all. Maybe there are only failures of the imagination.”

            I said nothing, and on this we slept.

 

/end