Thy Neighbor's Wife (23 page)

When they arrived at the lake, it was early evening and Barbara was relieved to discover that their cabin had two private bedrooms. But before they unpacked their luggage, John suggested that they quickly go out to dinner before the restaurant closed. After a few drinks, a good meal, and much amiable conversation and laughter, Barbara felt more at ease; but later, on returning to the cabin, she saw Carol and John place their luggage in the same bedroom, and soon they began to casually undress.

Barbara remained in the living room, stunned, silent, waiting for an explanation that was not forthcoming. Too proud to reveal her discomfort, too shocked to even think clearly, she sat on the couch staring at the open door of the bedroom. She heard them hanging their clothes in the closet, speaking softly. The open door was no doubt John’s way of saying that she was welcome to join them, but he would not be coaxing her, the decision would be entirely her own.

It was confusing, harsh, and frightening, and all the earlier talk on John’s part since their marriage about the merits of open sexuality did not now alleviate Barbara’s uncertainty; it was one thing to agree with John’s theories and quite another to employ them in moments like this, with a woman she had just met, and the longer Barbara hesitated the more she knew that she was unable or unwilling to move toward the door.

She felt numb, dizzy, and it took all her resources to stand and walk into the other bedroom. She closed the door. It was after midnight and she was very tired and cold. She realized that she had left her suitcase in the living room but she did not want to get it. Slowly undressing and folding her clothes over the back of a chair, she got into bed and tried to sleep; but she remained tearfully awake until dawn, hearing the sounds of their lovemaking.

The next day, shortly before noon, she was awakened by the soft touch of her husband and his gentle loss. Carol was smiling behind him, holding a breakfast tray, and soon they both were sitting on the bed, stroking her and comforting her as if she were a young girl recovering from an illness. Barbara felt strange and embarrassed. John said that he loved her and needed her; Barbara, forcing a smile, did not reply. He suggested that after breakfast they all go swimming and skiing on the lake, but Barbara said that she preferred remaining in bed a while longer, and told them to go on ahead, she would join them.

She spent part of the afternoon in the cabin, then took a long walk in the sun and crisp air, regaining her composure. She was not angry with John or Carol, though she conceded that this weekend surely was the beginning of a new phase in her marriage; but instead of feeling panicked or threatened, she felt oddly contented and free. Her husband had freed her of certain indefinable fears and romantic illusions about sex and body pleasure, as distinguished from the meaning of marital love. Her awareness that her husband had been sexually engaged the previous night with another woman was, after she had recovered from the shock, not really so shocking; and when John had announced his love for her in front of Carol this morning, Barbara believed
him, for now there was no reason for lying. Their relationship had become more honest and open, had expanded not only for him but for her. She knew that now she could do as she wished, with whomever she pleased, without risking his rancor, or so she assumed. His railing against covert adultery and senseless sexual possessiveness and jealousy had culminated last night in a defiant act against a centuries-old tradition of propriety and deceit, and she admitted to being both stunned and stimulated by what had just transpired in her life. She was married to an uncommon man, mysterious, unboring, unpredictable, a quiet man who said he loved her and needed her.

Soothed by the walk, she returned to the cabin, took a bath, and changed her clothes; then she left for the restaurant-bar looking for John and Carol. John smiled and waved as he saw her, and both stood to embrace her as she arrived, and Barbara soon felt almost as comfortable with Carol as she did with her husband. Though the bar was crowded and noisy, there was a special warmth among the three of them as they sat drinking and talking, and the dinner with wine that followed in the restaurant represented to Barbara an almost celebratory conclusion to all the preceding hours of anguish and anxiety; and the last thing she expected at this time was that the complexity of her life would be compounded.

Shortly before eleven o’clock, at the end of dinner, she was surprised by the sudden arrival at their table of a man to whom she had been attracted in the past. The man was a friend of her husband’s named David Schwind, an engineer; about thirty years of age, he was one of the few men her husband knew in Los Angeles who had not been married at least once. Barbara had met him earlier in the year while water-skiing with John and others at Pine Flat Lake, near Fresno, and she had then been drawn to his strong but delicate features, his athletic body, and his somewhat shy, aloof manner. David Schwind was employed at Douglas Aircraft, and John had seen signs of his mechanical skill during the weekend when David had quickly repaired the motor of a malfunctioning skiboat. Since then, in various ways, John had re
cruited David’s friendship, taking him to lunch, seeing him socially after work. Now at Lake Arrowhead, as David joined their table and sat next to Barbara, unannounced but obviously expected by her unsurprised husband, Barbara had no doubt that David’s presence was attributable to a telephone call made by John earlier in the day. While the purpose of this visit was not entirely clear to her, it was a foregone conclusion on her part, knowing her husband, that it had a purpose, and would in time clearly reveal itself.

In the meantime, in a mood of blithe resignation, Barbara ordered another drink and responded amiably toward David, although she detected within him a certain discomfort and reticence. Sipping his drink, saying very little, listening absently while John and Carol did most of the talking, of which little could be heard over this increasingly noisy Saturday night crowd, David Schwind seemed to be debating within himself the wisdom of being where he was. A half hour later, after John had paid the bill and rose to leave, David reacted by suggesting that perhaps he should be on his way; but John urged that he return with them to the cabin, and Barbara smiled at David in a way she hoped was reassuring.

It was well past midnight as they returned; and, after they had sat for a while in the living room, Barbara volunteered to make a pot of coffee and asked David if he would mind igniting the small stove in the corner. While waiting for the water to boil, Barbara and David stood talking together, soon becoming so engrossed in one another that they were unaware of the fact that John and Carol had quietly left the room. When David turned and noticed the unoccupied sofa, he seemed startled.

“Where’s John?” he asked.

Seeing that the bedroom door was closed, Barbara replied with newfound nonchalance, “He’s with Carol.” As David looked at her quizzically, she hastily added, “It’s okay. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“But shouldn’t I be going?”

“No, please don’t,” she said quickly. “I’d like you to stay.” She
moved closer to him, put her arms around him, and told him that her husband was counting on his staying overnight, and so was she. After reaching behind him to switch off the living room lights she took his hand and led him into her bedroom. She closed the door and immediately began to remove her clothes.

Making love to David that night, and again at dawn, was for Barbara a source of great release and unabashed pleasure; and far from having any misgivings about it, or feeling romantically detached from her husband, she felt quite the opposite. She believed that she had now achieved a new level of emotional intimacy with John, and that they had both shared during the night, in different rooms with different people, a gift of loving trust.

Instead of loving him less after sleeping with another man, she was sure that she loved him more; and when she got up for breakfast, leaving David asleep beside her, she was greeted in the living room by her husband’s approving smile and kiss.

J
OHN BULLARO,
whose extramarital affair with Barbara Williamson had been incredibly sanctioned by her husband—who had also taken Bullaro to lunch and urged that the affair be continued—knew that he had no choice but to comply with John Williamson’s astonishing request, and this he diligently did during the winter of 1967 through the spring of 1968.

Bullaro had also agreed to visit the Williamsons’ new home in Woodland Hills and meet a few of their liberated friends, an obligation that he anticipated with trepidation until he arrived one night to find the group very congenial and attractive, particularly a petite dark-eyed brunet who greeted him at the door with a serene smile and wearing only a negligee. Her name was Oralia Leal, and in the light of the doorway he could see her upturned breasts and dark nipples through the delicate material, and as he followed her through the foyer he observed her graceful hips and the fact that under the negligee she was completely nude.

While Oralia Leal went to get him a glass of wine, Barbara and Arlene Gough came forward and kissed him, and then escorted him into a large dimly lit living room in which a half-dozen people sat fully clothed on the rug and on chairs listening attentively as John Williamson in a soft voice discussed the work of the Indian spiritualist Krishnamurti.

Seeing Bullaro, Williamson stood and thanked him for coming,
and then introduced him to the others in the room. Williamson was informally dressed in a sports shirt, slacks, and slippers, but the other men were in business suits and ties, as was Bullaro, and the women wore dresses and jewelry and moderately high-heeled shoes. Only Oralia’s attire suggested a preparedness for bedroom frolicking, or hinted at the possibility of her later staging an erotic solo performance that the others would watch. But when she returned to the living room with Bullaro’s wine, she seemed to be exceedingly shy and modest, even embarrassed by her appearance, and soon she sat curled up on the floor at Williamson’s feet as if seeking his protection, and she said very little during the rest of the evening.

Bullaro sat on a sofa between Barbara and Arlene listening as the discussion was resumed about Krishnamurti, a man he had never heard of, nor did he know much more about Maslow and the other names that figured prominently in the exchanges between Williamson and his friends. Feeling intellectually inadequate, Bullaro petulantly reminded himself that he must revive and broaden his education, must read more books, must expand his interests and not allow himself to be so circumscribed by the narrow demands of the insurance business. It seemed that whatever scholarly drives he had once possessed had ended when he received his master’s degree in education, and now he was forced to sit ignorantly in a room dominated by a burly blond man who had not gotten beyond high school. Bullaro studied this man at whose feet sat the feline Oralia, and begrudgingly acknowledged that Williamson exuded an air of effortless authority and demonstrated a carefree command of facts and figures and people; and Bullaro also conceded with a certain irritation that there was much he could probably learn from him.

But one thing that Bullaro was apparently not going to learn tonight was the real purpose of this evening, and the sort of relationship that existed between these people and the Williamsons. After having sat for more than an hour and drunk a second glass of wine, and having cogently replied to one of Williamson’s questions about the rising cost of medical malpractice insurance after
the discussion had shifted to the recent heart transplant performed by a surgeon at Stanford University, Bullaro was obliged to say that he had to be getting home. So far the scene in this living room was, except for Oralia, typical of what could be found in any suburban home; and while much might transpire in the hours ahead, Bullaro knew that time was against him tonight. His wife, Judith, was waiting up for him, he having explained that he would be only briefly delayed by a late business meeting. John and Barbara Williamson also said, as they escorted him to the door to wish him good night, that they hoped he would soon return and stay longer, adding that they had visitors every night and he was always welcome. Bullaro nodded and thanked them, and knew that he would return if for no other reason than to see again the svelte figure of Oralia Leal and to satisfy his curiosity about these people Williamson called liberated.

During the following week, early one evening, Bullaro appeared at the Williamsons’ door and was greeted by Barbara. He apologized for not telephoning in advance, but explained that while driving through the neighborhood on his way home he noticed the many cars parked in the driveway and thought that he would stop in for a brief visit. Barbara said that she was pleased that he did and, taking his arm, accompanied him through the foyer toward the living room. There he suddenly stopped, held his breath—sitting in the living room were several people who were completely nude, just sitting on the furniture or on the rug sipping wine and talking among themselves with an unselfconsciousness that amazed Bullaro almost as much as the sight of their naked flesh.

Although he had been forewarned about the possibility of nudity during his memorable lunch with John Williamson, as Bullaro now entered the living room with Barbara he felt his pulse quickening, his palms moistening, and a stirring in his groin. He turned toward Barbara for an explanation, a mere word or a gesture that might reduce the tension and awkwardness he felt, but
Barbara casually led him toward a sofa on which sat a buxom red-haired woman whose large freckled breasts were covered only by a strand of pearls.

“You remember John Bullaro from the other night, don’t you?” Barbara asked, and the woman nodded and smiled, and as she extended her hand up toward him, her breasts also rose. Bullaro blushed. Barbara guided him around the room to meet other people, but all he saw in furtive glances were dangling breasts and hairy chests, bare buttocks and white thighs, pubic hair of various colors, penises that were large and small, circumcised and un-circumcised, and, remarkably, unerect.

In the corner Bullaro recognized the familiar body of Arlene Gough, who was talking to a couple that were fully clothed, for which Bullaro was grateful. Kneeling next to them, near the stereo, was the well-proportioned presence of David Schwind, the engineer Bullaro had met during his first visit. Sitting in the center of the room, surrounded by a small circle of people who seemed to be listening raptly to his words, was the burly figure of John Williamson, broad-chested with a potbelly and small penis, a blond Buddha whose right foot was being massaged by the dazzling olive-skinned Oralia, a nude Nefertiti whose perfect body, Bullaro assumed, was the envy of every woman in the room.

Williamson called for Bullaro to come join him, and Bullaro, leaving Barbara with David Schwind, stepped carefully over assorted torsos and limbs to settle himself on the rug next to his host and Oralia, who smiled at him demurely and said hello. She continued to massage Williamson’s foot. Though Bullaro tried to focus only on the faces of the people around him, and to suggest by nodding his head often that he was paying attention to what they were saying, his eyes kept darting back toward the contours of Oralia, and he was aware that her dark skin was unblemished, her breasts did not sag, her stomach was smooth, her black pubic hair was a neatly trimmed triangle, and he was tantalized by the sight of it. He felt his penis stalking within his shorts. Lifting up his knees, he sipped the wine that someone had handed him.

Looking upward, trying to avoid an obsession with Oralia’s enticements, Bullaro studied the heavy wooden beams of the high slanted ceiling, which he estimated to extend about thirty feet above the floor. It was an unusually designed house, perched on a mountain peak overlooking the Valley, and during his earlier visit he had observed from its spacious patio, after dark, a spread of glowing lights from the houses below. Except for a small staircase in the living room, which led up to an elevated kitchen, the house’s entire living area was restricted to the main floor; and from where Bullaro now reclined on the rug he could see the closed doors of what he guessed were two bedrooms, one of which suddenly opened to reveal a nude couple walking out, arm in arm, to rejoin the party.

Whatever was going on privately in this house, or indeed what he could see with his own eyes, was clearly beyond his comprehension, especially while reeling in his present state of fettered agitation. He felt unconnected with this group, frustrated with himself. He hated being an outsider, even among these people, and that was certainly what he was tonight, a clothes-bound prisoner in a liberated circle of nudists. While the quest for adventure that had long plagued him now tempted him to remove his clothes, an even more persuasive force within him prevented him from doing so, mainly because he feared revealing for the first time in front of so many people that unpredictable organ he assumed was everyman’s burden—although, as was apparent from the number of flaccid phalli he saw all around him, no man seemed burdened tonight except himself.

If only Williamson had suggested before Bullaro had sat down that he perhaps would be more comfortable wearing fewer clothes, Bullaro might have impulsively complied; but without such prompting, it seemed impossible. It was probably typical of Williamson to let people untangle themselves from their own inhibitions while he remained detached, quietly observing, and Bullaro suddenly saw this whole house as a kind of maze into which Williamson had lured people, stimulated them with
undefined promises, and then allowed them to shift and scramble for themselves, all justified as a learning experience.

Hearing laughter behind him, Bullaro turned toward the foyer to see Barbara and Arlene merrily greeting a newly arrived couple, and Arlene, covering her pubis with a cocktail napkin, was wiggling her hips and batting her lashes in an exaggerated imitation of a stripper. Barbara, who had presumably remained fully dressed this evening because she was responsible for answering the doorbell, looked at Bullaro and waved toward him. Grasping this opportunity to separate himself from Williamson’s little seminar and the seemingly unobtainable Oralia, he got up and joined Barbara and the others near the doorway, from where he knew he could soon make his inconspicuous retreat.

He was restless, resigned to having spent an evening he could not really account for. He had seen everything and nothing. He had been confounded by visual bombardment. It was also getting late, close to midnight, and, if his wife was still up, he did not want a confrontation at home. He kissed Barbara good night, and she walked him to the door, reminding him that they had a lunch date on the following day. She suggested that they meet here at the house instead of going out, and he agreed, saying he would see her shortly before one o’clock.

Judith was asleep when he arrived home, sparing him the effort of having to lie about where he had been. But in a way he was sorry that she was asleep, for his sexual energy was now very high, and he would have enjoyed making love in the dark to the image of Oralia, which he considered vastly preferable to, and quite distinct from, masturbating Oralia out of his system. Bullaro had never greatly enjoyed masturbation, even as a Chicago schoolboy growing up around his father’s barbershop that had its share of girlie magazines. As an aspiring member of the Amundsen High School football team, he was influenced by the spartan philosophy of the coaches of that era who believed that masturbation was debilitating and dispiriting, that it drained combative drives; and when Bullaro himself coached the Hollywood Boys’ Club football team in the early fifties, he was still influenced by
such thinking. Intercourse, however, was an entirely different matter, at least where he was concerned, even though he did not know exactly why, or if, intercourse was less ravaging to the body than masturbation; but he dismissed the entire issue as academic tonight because he was not going to indulge in either.

Fixing himself a scotch and water, and taking a book to the sofa, he decided to read himself to sleep; and that is how he slept on this night, on the sofa, his chest covered by a large American Heritage edition of a book on the Civil War by Bruce Catton.

At dawn, Bullaro awakened and quietly went into the bathroom, shaved and dressed for the office. Leaving a note for Judith saying that he had a breakfast meeting to attend, he got into the car and was safely gone before Judith was up.

He felt uneasy and a bit guilty during the morning at the office, and he knew he should telephone Judith later in the day, although there was little that he could tell her except more lies about where he had been and what he had done. It was absurd and pathetic; he was reacting once more like the schoolboy he had been, covering up the truth, fearing exposure, misrepresenting part of his ethnic background to his neighborhood friends in Chicago, appeasing his Jewish mother by telling her the lies she wanted to hear so that they could both go on pretending he was what she admired in a son. But what was even more sickening in this instance with his wife was that, though he acknowledged feeling guilty about last night, he had done virtually nothing to warrant this guilt. If he had at least gone to bed with Oralia, or been drawn into a debauched bacchanalia on the Williamsons’ living room rug, then all the lying to Judith would seem worthwhile. As it was, his deceptions merely concealed his failure to fulfill his latent longings in that jaded and prurient parlor, and the whole evening also confirmed the wisdom of John Williamson’s argument that lying about sex was a waste of time and energy.

Bullaro marveled at the Williamsons’ marriage, that sybaritic
scene in their living room, and the fact that Barbara was casually greeting guests at the door while Oralia was sprawled nude on the rug massaging John Williamson’s foot and later who knows what else. Bullaro spent much of the morning ruminating on such matters while also concentrating on the prosaic paper work of New York Life, sitting in his red leather chair in an office on the walls of which were hung framed degrees and decrees testifying to his achievements and virtuous deeds in the community—none of which would delay for one moment his departure from the office at 12:30 for his erotic lunch with Barbara Williamson.