FIDELITY: A PRIMER

 

I. Born Torn

Lydell called me with the news that he was torn. This, of course, was no news at all. Lydell has been torn since birth. This time it had to do with his sons, Max and Ernest. The boys were twins, and still in utero. Lydell couldn’t decide whether to have them circumcised or not.

He’d done the leg-work. When it came to so deeply personal a matter, he was nothing if not thorough. Uncircumcised men, he had found, did have a slightly higher incidence of infection, but the infections were usually trivial and easily treated. Balanitis, where the foreskin became red and inflamed, was uncommon. Phimosis, where the inflammation led to scarring, trapping the penis in its hood and making erections and intercourse painful (if not impossible), was likewise rare.

Circumcision, by contrast, was a uniformly traumatic event. What effect this trauma had was debatable, although the preponderance of evidence suggested long-lasting and not entirely beneficial sequelae. After all, such a grisly and disfiguring procedure at so young and tender an age. At any age. Was this absolutely necessary for a man to be a man? Some thought not.

As to the issue of pleasure, there seemed little question. The greater the amount of intact skin, the greater the concentration of nerves. The greater the concentration of nerves, the better the sensation. And while sensation itself did not guarantee pleasure, there was certainly the chance that it might.

On the other hand was tradition. Lydell was a Jew. Jews were circumcised. Judith, his wife, thought the boys might think it slightly odd if they were not. But she could see the other side too, most notably the avoidance of unnecessary pain and trauma. If pressed, she would probably have cast her vote with letting the poor things’ tiny penises be, but in the end, she deferred to her husband, who not only had a penis but strong views as to its proper handling and use.

Lydell consulted a rabbi, who advised him to search his soul. He suggested he remember his parentage and lineage, and if he still had doubts after that, to take a good hard look in the mirror. In addition, he referred him to the Old Testament, First Kings, Chapter 3, which spoke of King Solomon, the great and illustrious Jewish leader, who, when faced with two women, each claiming to be the mother of the same infant, advised them to share the baby by cutting it in two. The false mother agreed, the true one did not, and thus was the question of motherhood decided.

Lydell pondered the well-known tale. On the face of it, the message seemed clear enough: be clever, be insightful, value life (and love) above possessions. But the lesson seemed difficult to generalize, and Lydell sensed a deeper meaning that was far from transparent. He puzzled it day and night, up until the very hour of the boys’ birth.

They came out strapping and healthy, with dark, curly hair, brown eyes, and flattened little baby faces. Identical faces, at that. Identical bodies. They were, in fact, identical twins.

It was a transformative event for Lydell. Both the birth and the fact that they were identical. A light seemed to shine from above (it was a sunny day). Suddenly, the path was clear. Ernest and Max, Max and Ernest: the very sameness of the children held the key to the solution. An individual was a precious thing—perhaps the most precious thing in the world. Just as the true mother would not permit her only child to be split asunder, so Lydell would not allow his two sons to grow up indistinguishable from one another. They were unique, and thus would be uniquely set apart.

One would be circumcised (this fell to Max). The other (Ernest) would not.

Judith took issue with this, strong issue, but Lydell would not be moved. He was resolute, and she had little choice but go along. She soothed herself (or tried) with the belief that somehow, somewhere, he knew best. The penis was his territory: she kept telling herself this. It was her mantra during this difficult and trying time. The penis was his.

II. Poolside, Where A Stone Tossed Years Before Creates A Ripple

He had a lingering medical problem. She had a difficult marriage. They met at the pool where their children were taking swimming lessons.

Her eyes were large and compassionate.

His hair was to his shoulders.

He wore a silver bracelet and held his wrist coquettishly.

She favored skirts that brushed the floor.

They sat on a wooden bench with their backs to the wall, watching the children swim. They spoke without turning, like spies. Pointed observations delivered in a glancing, off-handed way.

She was a devoted mother.

He was a solicitous father.

He had a daughter. She, two sons.

The swimming lessons lasted thirty minutes. To him this was never quite enough. He worked alone and felt the need for contact. He wanted more.

She was often distracted by her sons, delighted by their antics and their progress. She would clap for them and call out her encouragement.

He sensed in some small way that she was using them as a buffer, or a baffle, to deflect his interest in her and hers in him, to disrupt their fledgling chemistry.

They spoke about their jobs. About their children’s schools. About religion. She was Jewish. They spoke about the Holocaust. She decried the lingering hatred. It upset her, even as she understood it. She was interested, in theory, in forgiveness and reconciliation.

He listened to her closely and attentively, often nodding his agreement. He showed his sympathy and understanding, smelled her hormones, won her trust.

At the end of the lessons they parted without ceremony, sometimes without so much as a word. She wrapped her sons in towels and escorted them to the dressing room, waiting outside the door until they were done. He did the same for his daughter. Afterwards, there was candy and then the walk to the car. Often the five of them walked together, though they rarely talked. The kids weren’t interested, and the grown-ups had had their time together. Half an hour, session done.

III. Brain Work

His name was Wade. He’d been married twenty years. There was a family history of mental illness, notably depression (a grandmother) and manic-depression (a great aunt). Another grandmother suffered from feelings of inferiority. Wade’s father had a number of compulsions, none in­capacitating, while his mother, heroic in so many ways, lived with the anxieties and minor hysterias typical of a woman of thwarted ambition with too much time on her hands.

Wade himself, like his great aunt, was a victim of mood swings. A year previously, after a brief bout of mania followed by a much longer one of despair, he started taking medication.

It was a good year for medication. Sales were booming, and three of the top ten drugs on the market were specifically designed to treat disturbances of mood. This represented an enormous advance from the days of his great aunt, who had to make do with electric shock (it served her well), insulin shock (not so well), and prolonged hospitalizations.

Wade tried Prozac, but it left him feeling muzzy-headed, about as animated as a stone. He tried Zoloft, with the same effect. Paxil likewise left him feeling like a zombie, and in addition, it robbed him of his sex drive.

He was too young to go without sex. At forty-six, he felt he was still too young to be a zombie. So he stopped the medication.

Eli Lilly called him. Pfizer called him. SmithKline Beecham called him, too. They sympathized with his problem. Sacrifice was difficult. No man should have to give up his manhood. But likewise, no man, particularly no American man, should have to be depressed.

Ironically, after stopping the pills, he got better. He was no longer victimized by sudden bouts of mania, nor was he paralyzed by depression. He was able to work, to care for his daughter and be a decent husband to his wife. He was sane again, and functional, in all ways except one. He remained impotent.

This happens, said his doctor. Give it time. This happens, said Lilly, Pfizer, and Beecham. Read the small print. We regret the inconvenience. We’re working on a cure.

Months went by, and he didn’t recover. His penis didn’t get hard, not even in the morning when his bladder was full. His penis, poor thing, rarely stirred.

IV. Virtue and Necessity

Judith had no intention of having an affair. She believed in the sanctity of marriage, most especially her own. That said, her husband had of late been going through one of those times of his. One of those intense and trying times of self-intoxication, when he couldn’t see beyond himself, couldn’t think or talk about anything but his desires, his beliefs, his needs.

Judith did her best to show compassion, but in truth, she was tired of his histrionics. Ten years of marriage, eight since the boys were born, had taken their toll. She wanted a man, not another child to care for.

Men were useful, or they could be, and loveable, that too—vaguely, she remembered this. They had that male way about them, that male sense of entitlement and self, that male look and feel. In theory, there was much to recommend a man. They were sexy. They smelled good. They got things done.

She wanted one of those.

V. In Heat

The pool was by the ocean. Cypress trees and sand dunes ringed the parking lot. Across the street in one direction was a golf course. In another was the city zoo.

Often, when walking to their cars, they’d hear a high-pitched keening sound. A peacock’s cry, perhaps an animal in heat. Or a golfer in extremis.

She was a businesswoman. She organized trade conventions.

He was a cartoonist. He made his living with ink and pen.

He had a fey and predatory nature.

She had a sixth sense.

Their conversations were never casual.

She was in a book group, all women. Why all women? he asked, to get her talking about her womanhood. To be of and among women.

It’s safer, she said. The whole sexual thing. And women have a way of talking. They have an understanding.

They see beneath the surface.

They share the same complaints.

What complaints, he asked.

She smiled. So many.

For three months they met. They never touched, not once. Sat an inch apart, backs to the wall, sweaty and sticky in the steamy equatorial heat of the pool. The children were their safety net. The children and their marriages, their loyalties, their loves, their pacts.

VI. Setting the Record Straight

I’d like to clear my chest. Bear with me on this. I’ve known several Judiths in my life. One was a belly dancer. Another was a lawyer. The one who stands out the most was a red-headed woman, big boned and brassy, out of Nebraska. Married a man name of Chan, Sam Chan, an acupuncturist. The two of them emigrated to Argentina, where they set up practice. As far as I know, none of these Judiths ever worked on conventions, or for that matter, had twins. But it’s possible. I just can’t say for sure.

As for Lydell, the only Lydell I remember with certainty was a football player, and I may be wrong about that. It might have been basketball, and come to think of it, the name was Lyell, not Lydell.

On the other hand, this guy Wade, this is a guy I know. And I have to say, my opinion of him is not high. I met him at the pool—Judith introduced us—and we ended up seeing each other a few times on the side. So what I know about him is firsthand information. It’s gospel. Same goes for his wife, a helluva nice lady name of Flora, whom I also had the chance to meet. What she sees in a guy like this is beyond me. The man’s a charmer, no question, especially with the ladies. But the fact is, he only delivers what he himself decides to. What and when. That’s the type of guy he is. A manipulator. A control freak. He draws cartoons, for god’s sake.

His whole purpose in coming on to Judith was to save his marriage. That’s how he justified it. It was the impotence thing—he just couldn’t stand not being able to get a hard-on. It was a humiliation to him, he told me. A humiliation and a disgrace.

He and Flora had tried everything. The pills, the pumps, the injections, the talk. He’d been to a prostitute. And hypnotism, he’d tried that. Now he was trying a married woman.

He didn’t plan to take it all the way, even if she wanted to. He had his limits, or so he said. It was the idea of it, the titillation. The journey, not the destination. The hunt.

It was a noble purpose, I suppose. To save a marriage. (Although to hear Flora tell it, she was getting by all right. She was, by nature, independent, and had her work to occupy her. She also kept a plastic dildo in her bedside table to use in time of need.)

A noble purpose, but ignobly executed. The man was using Judith. That’s what I can’t stomach.

Then again, she was using him.

VII. A Somewhat Tortured Logic

The boys had a pet rat named Snowflake. She was a gentle, friendly rat, with a white coat and a long pink tail. At the age of a year Snowflake developed a tumor in her side. It was small at first, the size of a grape, but it grew rapidly. By six months it was the size and consistency of a ripe plum. They took her to a vet, who diagnosed a lipoma, in other words, a big ball of fat. This was good news in the sense that it wasn’t cancer. Less good was the two-hundred dollar fee to have it removed.

Lydell felt the surgery unwarranted. Snowflake was a rat, and rats could be had for pennies. Beyond the issue of cost was the deeper question of value, the life lesson about man and the natural world. In Lydell’s view, intervention was far too often man’s way with nature. And it didn’t have to be. There was much to be said for watchfulness, for letting the world weave its intricate and beautiful web without disrupting its threads prematurely, if ever.

There was also the issue of anthropocentrism. Judging the rat unhappy in its current condition was so quintessentially human a gesture, so human an assumption, that it could easily be a mistake. Perhaps, the creature was content with its burden. Perhaps, it didn’t care.

The question of consciousness came up: did the rat notice that it was different from other rats? Was it even aware of the mass?

After some discussion, it was agreed that the rat did, in fact, notice. There was really no ignoring a lump that size. But whether it cared, whether its level of consciousness included a sense of dissatisfaction with the ways things were and a desire to change them—this was uncertain. Snowflake had such a genial temperament to begin with. Even when the mass, after being dragged along the floor of the cage for months on end, became infected, her demeanor didn’t noticeably change. Perhaps she slowed down a bit, but then she had never been much interested in speed. And being a rat of good breeding and character, qualities the boys learned about in detail, she wasn’t the type to complain.

The tumor grew. At a subsequent visit the vet was frankly amazed. “This animal should have been dead months ago,” he exclaimed, a comment notable, if not for its thoughtlessness, then certainly for its ambiguity. The boys were left to ponder just what exactly he meant.

Max, a child of fledgling polemical tendencies, assumed he meant that without the operation Snowflake would be better off dead. He didn’t want her to die, and he argued with his father to intervene. He invoked the rights of animals, the concept of tzedakah (charitable deeds, from a charitable heart), the universality of souls. A canny, verbally precocious boy, he presented his case eloquently (albeit unsuccessfully). In this he made his father proud.

Ernest was, by nature, more reserved. He was slow to express his opinions and whenever possible avoided conflict. This had earned him a reputation, right or wrong, for being shy.

On the surface he accepted his father’s dictum. The rat would live its life, then die. But underneath the surface he knew otherwise. Underneath, his mind was rife with fantasies of a different sort. If Snowflake should have been dead but wasn’t, then clearly she had powers hitherto unimagined. He’d read about such beings—entities, they were called—in comic books; he’d seen them on TV. Alien entities. Invincible, ineffable, immortal ones.

Snowflake was no ordinary rat. Each day she lived and beat the odds was proof of this. She was something different. Something special. Something more.

Ernest therefore didn’t worry. Whatever happened, Snow­flake would be okay. Consequently, there was no need to argue with his father. On the contrary, he agreed with him. Leave the rat alone.

Judith, meanwhile, fumed.

She agreed that a rat was a rat, but this particular rat, their rat, was a pet. Pets were family, and family needed to be looked after. She thought what Lydell was doing, what he was teaching, was stingy, gratuitous, and cruel.

And insufferable. And sadistic. And Nazi-Darwinistic (she got to him with that). And, quite frankly, obscene.

He got her back one night. Got her bad. He was talking about the money they were saving by letting nature take its course. Then he dropped the bomb.

He wanted to use it to get Ernest circumcised.

Ernest at this point was eight.

Judith said, No way.

Lydell pleaded his point. He admitted to having made a mistake.

Live with it, she said.

He couldn’t.—I look at him and think, how can this be a Jew?

—He’s a Jew if he wants to be. If you let him.

—I’m ashamed of myself. I set him apart. I thought I knew best, but I didn’t.

—You want to atone? Leave him alone. Practice what you preach.

—Let’s ask him, said Lydell.

Her eyes flashed.—Don’t you dare.

VIII. Idealism! Temptation! Restraint!

She had long fingers, hazelnut eyes, and a passion for people.

He had a soft mouth and a way with words.

She missed the freedom and excitement of her younger days.

He dressed for the occasions. Wore his brightest colors. Worked for her attention.

She saw in him a respite. A way station on the arduous and lifelong path of marriage. She was going through a period of reflection, a taking account of her life. She was recalling what had been put aside, what dream of self, what vision. Retracing her past to its fork points: the choice to marry, to have a career, to be a mother. And prior to that, the choice to end the wildness and anarchy of a protracted adolescence, the choice to grow up and follow the rules. To be a solid citizen. To practice self-respect and love.

Which she intended to continue.

Being an honorable woman. With honorable desires.

She never littered. She never spat. She wouldn’t cheat.

A woman of conviction, she had her limits, too.

He favored irregularly shaped panels as opposed to the traditional squares. He also liked to experiment with sequencing and placement. Linear cartooning was too constrained for his taste. Too contrived. If he was going to the trouble of drawing all those pictures, he wanted people to look at them, not skim past them as if they were the written word.

He had Ideas. He spoke of a modern aesthetic. Commitment to craft and to Art with a capital A. He was passionate, which made it easier to tolerate his pomposity.

She was drawn to him.

He thrilled at the game they were playing.

He also had qualms.

He meant no harm.

She was flattered by his attention. Interested in his ideas. At one time she herself had painted.

Aha, he chortled. A kindred spirit!

Hardly that, was her reply. A hobbyist, at best. But nothing at all since the boys were born. She missed the creativity of it, the tactile pleasure of brush in hand, the fun. Not that she couldn’t live without. Obviously, she could. And furthermore, she didn’t believe in regrets.

He agreed. Regrets were useless.

Yes, she said. Completely useless.

Utterly, he added with panache.

At that they ceased to speak, meditating silently on the uselessness of regret.

They were so determined to be friends. It was their stated purpose. A male and female friendship. Their creed.

Mirabile dictu! Such lofty ideals! Such audacity. Intimacy without jeopardy. Freedom of expression. Pleasure without pain.

IX. Further Revelations

How do I know these things? Word gets around. These are my friends.

If you believe Wade, what he was doing was for a good cause. If you ask me, Flora let him get away with too much. But she saw it differently. She, after all, had to live with his mood swings, and he’d been free of them for nearly a year. She wasn’t about to upset that particular apple cart. Her philosophy was fairly straightforward: if a man wanted to hang himself, so be it. The tighter the leash, the greater the chance it would break.

Judith, quite simply, was filling a need. When you’re with someone like Lydell for as long as she was, someone with his capacity for self-absorption, you can’t help but have periods of loneliness and longing. Periods when you feel yourself shriveling for lack of companionship. Periods of self-doubt when you wonder if anyone hears or sees you at all.

Judith fought these feelings. She had work, which helped. She had her children. And now she had a new companion, someone who wanted her around, someone who looked at her and listened.

It was a flirtation of ideas, she told herself. A flirtation of interests. A flirtation of spirit and, therefore, of necessity.

Flirtation, she felt, did not preclude fidelity. On the contrary. Fidelity depended on respect, and it was self-respect that made her flirt. God, she knew, helped those who helped themselves. It was up to her to make her presence known.

X. The Scholar Finds a Way

Sabbath Day. Lydell wears a yarmulke pinned to his head and a many-fringed tallit around his hefty shoulders. In his anguish and his fervor he has turned to the Bible. The Book of First Samuel, Chapter 18, wherein David slays two hundred Philistine men and brings their foreskins to King Saul (who had only requested a hundred) as dowry for his daughter Michal’s hand in marriage. What King Saul wants with so many foreskins, what he does with them, is not mentioned. Lydell can only speculate. Reading the Holy Scriptures has him in a barbaric, morbidly Old Testament mood.

King Saul might have made a tapestry of them, sewn together with the finest threads.

Or a flag, a battle standard to be borne against the heathen armies.

A patchwork quilt.

A bridal veil.

A blanket for his wives.

While fresh, he could have used them as grafts for poorly healing wounds.

Once dried, as snack food for the troops, like pemmican.

Or party favors.

Or rewards for jobs well done.

Yahweh, God in Heaven, God of Lydell’s father and his father’s father, is an angry God. He is a spiteful God, a savage God, a vengeful God. But He is a smart and clever God, too.

Lydell has one more thought. One that King Solomon, son of David and grandson of Saul, might have approved of. Solomon with whom he feels kinship, Solomon the wise and understanding, Solomon the just. Solomon who in his later years forsook his religion for that of his wives. Solomon who, smitten with love, turned from Judaism to the pagan faith.

A foreskin can be re-attached. Not one cut off in a fly-infested battlefield and carried for days by camel in a rank and grimy sack, but a fresh one, a hygienically-removed one, a pretty pink virginal one. There are doctors, cosmetologists, who will do anything for a price. If Lydell can’t get his son into the fold, he can join him outside the fold. It would be an act of atonement. A day to remember. A yom kippur.

XI. Visions of Grandeur

He wanted to touch her. He wanted to run his hand down the crease in her buttocks. Smell her, lick her, slather his body with her tart and liquidy self.

He thrilled at the thought of it, the temptation.

He wondered if this was the mania. If it was, he could wash his hands of responsibility. You couldn’t blame a person for being ill.

Besides, he was serving Flora.

Patient, loving, flint-eyed Flora. Faithful Flora, who gave him all the slack he needed to hang himself.

XII. Onan the Barbarian

It was Flora, incidentally, who alerted me to a recent survey of Net users that found ten times as many synonyms for male, as compared to female, masturbation. She was doing research for a book on gender and technology. While not particularly surprised at the disparity, she did find it rather offensive. She was also somewhat dismayed.

Religion, politics, and humor were common themes among the more than two hundred male-oriented entries, although a good number seemed chosen solely on the basis of alliteration or rhyme. As for women, the themes ranged from the pedestrian to the sweepingly grandiose, from the Biblical to the sublime. Among the examples: “doing my nails,” “parting the Red Sea,” “surfing the channel,” and “flicking the bean.” And, of course, that old metaphysical standby, “nulling the void.”

Flora makes a good point. The list, while notable, is decidedly short. Is this because women masturbate less than men? A common belief, but one that is unsupported by the data. Is it because they talk about it less? Again, the data say no. Could it be that they simply refused to participate in the poll?

Or have we been silenced? (We, I say, for I take this quite personally—an injustice to one, male or female, is an injustice to all). Shamefully silenced, I might add, our lips sewn together by the threads of inequity, our tongues disenfranchised from the very words we would use to express our self-love.

We may not “tease the weasel,” we keepers of the flame. (Why on earth would we ever do that?) We may not “tug the slug” or “pump the python.” Nor, routinely, do we “bop the bishop” or “make the bald man puke.” But listen. We surely burp the baby, we toss the salad, we choke the chicken, we pop the cork, and at least every few weeks we whip up a batch of instant pudding. And yes, oh yes, we do sometimes have sex with someone we love.

We’ve been silenced, I say! Robbed of speech (if not thought), cheated in all the ways we have always been cheated.

Tickling the taco. Brushing the beaver. Making soup. Rolling the dough.

Is this what they think we do all day? Imagine. It’s outrageous.

We are more than homebodies. More than domestics. More than mothers and whores.

We need to rise up. The time has come to null the void and give these words a second meaning, a meaning more powerful and self-fulfilling than staying home to surf the channel or idly flick the bean. We can brush the beaver later, ladies. The void needs nulling now.

We need to be creative. On behalf of Flora and everyone else who has ever felt the yoke of inequality, I incite you: soar above your own Mt. Baldy. Be irreverent. Be enticing. Pound the peanut. Pick the peony. Wave to Dr. Kitty. Laugh out loud.

Send your words and phrases, your ditties and your doggerel, your witty little euphemisms and inventions, your unchained melodies to me. Send them quickly. Send them to my web site. Everyone’s a poet.

Send them now.

XIII. underwaterworld

The children were diving for hoops. Slapping the water, struggling downward to the bottom of the pool, then splashing to the surface like puppies.

—I’m happy with my choices, she said. All in all.

—I’m happy we met, he replied.

She waved to one of her sons, who had succeeded in getting a ring.

—No? he asked.

—Yes, she said.

—Outside of my wife I’ve never had an intimate female friend, he said.

She waved to her other son, who was poised on the edge of the pool, building up the nerve to jump.

—You’re a beautiful woman.

—Don’t, she said.

—I’m only observing.

She fell silent.

He told her not to worry. He was impotent.

This interested her.

He thought it might. Not entirely impotent, he added. Lately, he’d been having signs of life.

She changed the subject.

The book group had been reading Dante. She told him of a dream she had.

—We were pilloried outside the gates of Macy’s.

—The gates?

—The gates, the doors. Whatever. You on one side, me on the other.

—Which store?

It was an irrelevant question, but somehow he made it seem otherwise.

—The one in Stonestown.

—Busy day?

—Very. We were naked.

—How embarrassing.

—Yes. Exceedingly.

—What was our crime?

—Swimming.

—Swimming naked?

—No, just swimming.

—That’s it?

—Yes.

—Swimming’s no crime.

—It wasn’t the swimming, she said. It was the fun.

XIV. The Art of Compromise

Judith had been thinking. Maybe Lydell was right. Not that Ernest should be circumcised, but that he at least should be talked to. Presented with the options. Sounded out.

She spoke to him alone one day after school. He was in his room, playing with his pet. Or rather stroking her fur and comforting her. The tumor was now enormous. The days of the entity known as Snowflake, at least on Earth, were clearly numbered.

Ernest, unlike his brother Max, was not a verbal child. He came across as rather distant sometimes. But he never missed a word that was said. He absorbed and processed everything. His mind was as facile as anyone’s, and his inner world was deep.

He listened patiently to his mother, and when she finished, surprised her by saying he wanted to have the circumcision done. She asked him why.

—Because, he said.

She pressed him.—Because why?

He hesitated a moment.—Because I deserve it.

It was an ambiguous statement, and one that begged for an explanation. First, however, she reiterated that in her eyes, in everyone’s eyes, he was fine—he was perfect—just the way he was.

—I want to be like everybody else, he said.

—The world’s a big place. Everybody’s different.

—I don’t want to be.

Her heart went out to him.—I understand, she said.

He asked if it would hurt. She said it would. He said he didn’t want anyone to know.

—Not Max?

He didn’t mean Max.

—I’ll have to tell your father, she said.

—Let’s surprise him, said Ernest.

—I don’t think he’d like that.

—It’s my choice, isn’t that what you said?

—To a point, said his mother.

—It’s private, he said. Between you and me. Like between you and that man.

—What man?

Ernest averted his eyes.—You know.

XV. The Sweet Embraceable

You can put yourself in someone else’s shoes, you can even get inside their shirt and pants, but it doesn’t mean you know them. It’s guesswork who they are and what they’re thinking and feeling. Guesswork and maybe intuition. As an outsider, you do your level best, but you never really know.

It’s what they say and do, not think. If a guy says he’s faithful, despite the fact he’s getting hard-ons plotting how to get some chick in bed, he’s faithful. If a woman says she’s faithful, despite the fact she’s sitting squarely on the fence, she’s faithful.

If they don’t touch, they’re faithful. If they don’t think, they’re dead.

The two of them didn’t touch. I mentioned that already. Not at the pool or anywhere else. Not once.

Wait a minute. I forgot. They did touch. But only once.

It happened in a neighborhood cafe. They had a date, a nighttime assignation. The kids were tucked at home in bed.

The swimming lessons had been over for several weeks. They’d spoken once by phone but hadn’t seen each other. He was carrying a briefcase in one hand. With the other he touched her palm in greeting. Lightly, like a whisper, or a veil. Imperceptibly, she caught her breath. She let the contact linger.

He said,—I’ve been thinking of you.

She said,—Did you get my letter?

—No, he said.

They took a table in the corner, ordered coffee and dessert.

—I’ve started to paint again, she said.

—How wonderful, he replied.

—Watercolors. I used to paint with them a lot.

—What made you start again?

—You, she said.

His penis stirred.

—I’ve given myself two hours a week. Not much, but it’s a start.

—A start is all you need.

—I told you in the letter. I’m surprised you didn’t get it.

—You could have called, he said.

She had wanted to. But in the wanting knew she shouldn’t.

He said,—I’ve been painting, too. Drawing really. Cartoons. Of us.

Her heart sped up. She got a little nervous. “Us” had never been mentioned before. “Us” to her meant husband and wife.

—I’d like to see them.

He told her they were pornographic. He’d brought them with him.

—I think they’ll turn you on, he said.

She felt a little flutter in her chest.—Well then, maybe not. Maybe I shouldn’t.

—They do me, he added.

He could have said “you,” not “they.” He had before, or almost.

Then again, he could have brought a carriage drawn by horses. He could have brought a slipper.

She had to smile.

—Do you do drawings of your wife? she asked.

The question gave him pause.—On occasion. Why do you ask?

—Cartoons? Pornographic ones?

He shrugged.

—I don’t want anyone getting hurt, she said.

—No one’s been hurt, he said. And then,—I don’t either.

She wanted to see the pictures. Itched to see them.

Equally, she was determined not to compromise her marriage. Not to act dishonorably. She wondered what behavior this allowed.

She felt torn.

He said,—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you grief.

He said,—I didn’t mean to tempt you.

He was wearing silver that night. A silver chain around his neck. A silver earring. A silver bracelet, the same he’d worn the day that they first met.

He had washed his hair in chamomile shampoo. He had used a scented body soap.

He said,—I’m wrong. I have been tempting you.

She felt the truth in this.—Why?

—To see how far you’ll go. To test your limits.

—Why?

—Because I don’t trust mine.

—And mine you do? She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.—You’re daring me to be unfaithful? Is that it?

—No, he said. I’m daring you not to be.

How puerile, she thought. How unappealing and crude.

He didn’t care for her. She saw this plainly now. Nor did she care for him.

It came as something of a revelation. As did what followed: they cared for each other equally.

How remarkable, she thought. How apposite.

—Show me the pictures, she said.

He took a folder from his briefcase and handed it to her. His penis, which had defervesced, showed signs of life.

She stuffed the folder in her purse.—I’ll look at them later.

—They’re yours, he said. Keep them. Look at them whenever.

It was the last they were to see of each other. Both knew it.

She wanted to give him something in return.

—A hug, he suggested.

She thought it over. Rising, she pulled on her coat.

—I’ll say no to that, she said.

He had risen also, expectantly. Now he felt cheated, and incomplete.

—Take it home, she said.

—Take what home?

—That impulse. That hug. Take it home and give it to your wife.

These were her parting words.

Upon thinking them over, he found, astonishingly, that they were exactly what he wanted to hear.

XVI. The Gift of the Magi

Solomon was wise, but he wasn’t all wise. Lydell was crazy, but his motives were pure.

He had the operation. He did it in secret. While he was healing, he dressed and undressed in private. To forestall questions and minimize discomfort, he slept with his back to his wife.

Judith assumed she was being punished for her philandering. Never mind that she had resisted, that she in the end had proved stalwart and faithful. Adultery was as much of the mind as of the body. Her husband might not know the details, but he had doubtlessly suffered. Had the roles been reversed, she would have suffered, too.

She swallowed her pride one night and asked his forgiveness.

—For what? he replied.

—For being so uninvolved, she said, thinking it best to break the truth to him slowly, by degrees.—So distant.

Lydell was nonplussed.—For that I should be asking yours.

She asked what he meant.

It was he who had been remote, he said, impossibly, insupportably so. Remote and self-absorbed. But all that was going to change.

—Are you going to touch me? she asked.

—There’s a reason I haven’t.

—I know, but are you?

—Yes, he said. Oh yes. Most definitely.

—Anytime soon?

He gave her a smile.—I have a surprise, he said, with a look that made her just the tiniest bit nervous.

They were in the bedroom. Ernest, who was still a little sore from his own procedure, was watching TV in the room next door. She’d been wondering how to break the news to her husband. Maybe now was the time.

—I have one, too.

—How perfect, he said.

That would not have been her word for it. Bracing herself, she told him about Ernest.

He was stunned. Thinking what the hell, she told him secret number two: she’d had Snowflake put to sleep.

Before, he would have gotten angry, possibly furious, but now he simply nodded. As if to say, of course, how fitting. How right. As if he finally understood. Moments later, having recovered his voice, he told her—and showed her—what he himself had done.

—Love made me do it, he said, bemused, contrite. And then,—I’m a fool.

—No, you’re not, she said. No more than I am.

They both were fools. And both, she felt, deserved a place of honor in their marriage.

She hugged him close. He hugged her back.

—It doesn’t hurt, he said.

She was glad of this.

—It feels nice, he said.

She felt the same.

XVII. The 17 Questions

How is a story told? With flesh and blood people, and a beginning, middle and end.

How is it held together? Imperfectly.

With what is it held? Epoxy and wire and glue, balls of string, strings of words, paste.

For whom is it told? The willing.

To what value? Submission.

At what price? An hour’s worth of television.

Is there a purpose? Yes.

What is the purpose? The purpose is hidden.

What are the prominent symbols? The foreskin stands for the natural wold and the untrammeled innocence of man. The circumcised penis is lost innocence, civilization. The skullcap is the foreskin re-found.

Are there other metaphors? Yes. The pool is the Garden of Eden. The rat is Fate. The multiple short chapters represent our fragmented world. The varying voices are false prophets. The title, Fidelity, is the name of a bank.

Can we read this story in parts, at separate sittings? It is inadvisable. Like foreplay, there is a cumulative effect.

Why all the sexual references? This is Biblical.

What happens to Judith and Lydell? Both are strengthened by their trials and tribulations. Judith lands a lucrative business contract. She and her book group tackle The Prologemena to a Future Metaphysics by Immanuel Kant. Lydell visits Israel. In a bizarre case of mistaken identity, he is abducted by a group of Palestinian freedom fighters, then later released.

And the boys? Max becomes a lawyer. Ernest, a veterinarian.

What about Wade? Wade is currently back on drugs and doing quite well.

And the rat? She lives in Heaven.

And the moral?

Life and death are ruled by Nature,

Foolishness and faith by man.

Between the God of Moses and Temptation,

You do the best you can.