Thy Neighbor's Wife (18 page)

Most married people, she said, had “ownership problems”: They wanted to totally possess their spouse, to expect monogamy, and if one partner admitted an infidelity to the other it would most likely be interpreted as a sign of a deteriorating marriage. But this was absurd, she said—a husband and wife should be able to enjoy sex with other people without threatening their primary relationship, or lying or feeling guilty about their extramarital experiences. People cannot expect all of their needs to be satisfied by a spouse, and Barbara said that her relationship with John Williamson was enhanced by their mutual respect for freedom,
and they both felt sufficiently secure in their love to admit openly to one another that they sometimes made love to other people.

Hearing this made Bullaro nervous, and he quickly interrupted to say that he certainly hoped that she was not planning to tell her husband about this motel visit. She laughed, and replied casually that such an admission would not in the least upset John Williamson because he was not the jealous type. Bullaro suddenly felt panic and fury rising within him, and he jumped out of bed and was about to scream when she quickly held up her arms, shook her head, and told him to relax, calm down, she would say nothing to her husband. Bullaro was barely pacified; and though she repeated her promise, he did not completely trust her.

He decided after leaving the motel that he would never go to bed with her again. Her libertine life with her new husband and her ridiculous philosophy about sexual honesty was guaranteed to boomerang, and when it did he wanted to be nowhere in sight. Having read enough newspaper stories about the murders of wives and paramours by husbands considered not the jealous type, Bullaro knew that he had better be wary of Barbara Williamson. At the very least his continuing involvement with her, now that she was experimenting with her new-fangled freedom, could scandalize his marriage and abruptly terminate his promising career. As an insurance man, he assessed his current situation as too risky.

Two days later, when his secretary buzzed his office to announce that Mrs. Williamson was on the line, he was ready to tell her that he was permanently unavailable for lunch and whatever else she had in mind; but when he picked up the phone, she greeted him with a rather urgent question about an insurance problem, and her tone was strictly business throughout their discussion. She also informed him that there was an outstanding woman who wished to apply to New York Life for a job as an agent, and Barbara requested that he conduct the interview and give the company’s customary evaluation test. Bullaro, whose responsibility included recruitment, arranged the time on his calen
dar for the following afternoon, and Barbara thanked him and hung up.

The applicant that Barbara escorted into his office was a lissome woman in her late twenties with long dark hair, angular features, and expressive eyes that focused warmly upon him throughout the interview. Her name was Arlene Gough, she had been born in Spokane, and she now lived in Los Angeles with her husband, an engineer. She said that she had worked as an interior decorator and also as a secretary at Hughes aircraft, but she expressed confidence in her ability to sell insurance. She was conservatively dressed in a well-tailored gray suit, and Bullaro was impressed by her articulateness and poise as well as by her sensuality, and he hoped his attraction would not be too obvious to Barbara, sitting across from his desk.

When his secretary came in to say that the test papers were ready, Barbara waved good-bye and left, and Arlene Gough was shown into the conference room. It was now late afternoon, and before Mrs. Gough had completed the examination most of the staff had gone, and the office was about to close. She seemed confident as she reentered Bullaro’s office and asked him when the results would be known. He said that it would take a few days and that he would keep her informed. She asked if he would mind if she remained in the building while he finished his work, and if he would then drive her home—her husband was away on business and Barbara had been unable to wait. She lived not far from Bullaro, and he said he would be happy to drive her.

In the car she sat very close to him, was convivial and attentive, and when they arrived at her home she invited him in for a drink. The house was quiet as they entered, and after she had returned from the kitchen with ice she stood near him at the bar and looked into his eyes as if waiting to be kissed; and when he did, she responded immediately and placed her body firmly against his. He felt her arms around his neck, and then her hands moving slowly down his back to his hips and thighs, and finally she whispered that they should go into the bedroom.

Whatever influence Bullaro’s normally cautious character
might have exerted over the passions of his penis were now nonexistent, and he unhesitatingly followed her and quickly undressed. Soon he saw her lovely nude body that was as graceful and sinewy as a dancer’s; and later, when he entered her, he felt her long legs wrap around him, her cool heels pressing against the lower part of his back. Bullaro was ecstatic, and as he came he heard her sigh, felt her movements quicken, and he could hardly believe what was happening in his life—Arlene was as sexually voracious as Barbara, and he could only conclude that there must be something quite bizarre or lacking in their marriages.

Since Arlene’s husband was due home in the evening, Bullaro left shortly after 7
P.M.
, feeling pleasantly exhausted as he drove through the quiet suburban streets into Woodland Hills. He saw Judith on the lawn as he turned into the driveway, and getting out of the car he immediately apologized for his tardiness, explaining that he had been obliged to have a few drinks with an agent who was having personal problems. If Judith was skeptical, she did not show it, and as he went into the house with her he was spared further explanation by the interrupting noise from the television set and the cries of his children.

The next day Barbara telephoned him at the office to ask how he had liked Arlene, indicating that she might be aware that they had gone to bed; but Bullaro replied formally that he was reserving his opinion until he knew the results of the examination. Bullaro was anxious to get off the phone, and when Barbara suggested lunch, he quickly agreed to a date later in the week and hung up.

An hour later, Arlene Gough telephoned to say how much she had enjoyed being with him and expressed the hope that after she knew her husband’s travel schedule for the following week she might call him and arrange to see him again. She quickly added that she wanted to see him regardless of the results of the test, and Bullaro was relieved to hear this, for he had just decided that it would be a grave mistake to hire her.

During the next two months Bullaro visited the Gough residence several times on his way home from work; and, against his better judgment, he also resumed seeing Barbara Williamson. Resolutions to the contrary, he found it difficult to resist Barbara’s persistence, partly because he enjoyed the brief erotic rendezvous and he also thought it unwise to reject her now that he was also seeing her friend Arlene. Though neither woman ever made sexual inquiries to him about the other, he assumed that they were confiding in one another, but this possibility did not bother him as long as he believed that their husbands were unsuspecting.

Barbara’s constant reassurance had finally convinced him to stop fretting, to worry less and enjoy more; no one was being hurt, she reasoned, and much pleasure was being exchanged. He had to agree, and he was also aware that his intrigues with Barbara and Arlene had revived his sexual interest in his wife; and since he was functioning efficiently in the office, he saw no reason why this happy blend of circumstances should not continue unabated.

But on a rainy Monday morning in the early winter of 1967, as Bullaro arrived at his office, his secretary informed him that she had just received two calls from a persistent man named John Williamson. A sudden queasiness penetrated Bullaro’s stomach, and he felt a feverish chill. The secretary, who apparently did not realize that the caller was Barbara’s husband, said that he had left no message except that he would soon call again.

Bullaro nodded, entered his office, and closed the door softly. He lowered himself slowly into his red leather chair, rubbed his forehead, and attempted to remain calm. On his desk facing him were photographs of Judith and the children, and on the walls were hung sales awards from the company, his diploma from NYU, a plaque commending his support of the Boys’ Club of Hollywood. Quickly his whole life seemed unhinged, about to crack into pieces, and he hated himself for his foolishness and he blamed Barbara, too, for misleading him. He was sure that if he
had been guided by his true instincts he would not be in this situation, although at this moment there was nothing he could do but wait and prepare for the confrontation. The worst that could happen would be a physical threat to his life, or a scandalous highly publicized court case that would embarrass Judith and the insurance company. Even if Williamson turned out to be, as Barbara suggested, an unpossessive man, he might nonetheless seek some financial compensation, blackmail, a personal loan or business favor, or perhaps he would request something unusual and extraordinary.

Bullaro heard the phone ring, then his secretary buzzing to inform him that Mr. Williamson was on the line. With all the jauntiness that Bullaro could summon, he said hello. The voice on the other end was low and resonant, so soft that Bullaro could barely hear it.

“I’m John Williamson, Barbara’s husband,” he began, “and I was wondering if we might have lunch.”

“Yes, of course,” Bullaro quickly replied, “how about today?” Though Bullaro already had an important business luncheon scheduled, he decided to cancel it rather than prolong the agony and suspense.

“Fine,” Williamson said. “May I come by and pick you up around 12:30?”

Bullaro agreed, and Williamson thanked him and hung up.

For the rest of the morning Bullaro went through the motions of management, fingering documents on his desk, watching the clock. He tried calling Barbara at her office, but there was no answer, and he did not want to try her at home and risk being greeted by her husband’s voice.

At precisely 12:30, Bullaro’s secretary buzzed and announced that Mr. Williamson was waiting in the reception room. Bullaro left his office at once, and, with a hand extended in greeting, he walked toward a large broad-shouldered man wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and tie; he was in his mid-thirties, had very blond hair and a strong leonine face dominated by pale blue eyes
that were heavy-lidded and somber. Forcing a smile, Williamson shook hands and, in a soft voice that seemed southern, he thanked Bullaro for making himself available on such short notice.

Outside it was overcast but no longer raining. In the parking lot Williamson suggested that they take his car, a beige Jaguar XKE, which Bullaro quickly admired. Climbing inside, Bullaro noticed that there was an air-conditioning unit that had not yet been fully installed, and Williamson explained that he had just bought it, adding that he liked doing all his own mechanical work.

Williamson drove fast, shifted gears abruptly, and Bullaro saw through the tight-fitting suit that he had heavy biceps and forearms, and his ruddy freckled hands were strong and had thick fingers. Although Williamson never turned to look at him, concentrating on the road as he drove, Bullaro sensed that he was under intense observation, that his every nervous twitch might be perceived by Williamson’s peripheral vision. Bullaro could think of nothing to say but felt compelled to speak, and he ventured a comment about Williamson’s mild southern accent. Williamson answered that he had been born in Alabama, but added that he had not lived there since finishing high school. Bullaro waited for Williamson to continue, but only silence followed until Bullaro asked where he had gone to college. Williamson curtly replied that he had not gone to college. Bullaro wished that he had withheld that question.

As they drove on, the silence seemed increasingly foreboding, but rather than risk another awkward question Bullaro kept quiet and tried to relax by looking out the window and affecting an attitude of nonchalance. They were driving through Canoga Park in the Valley over roads with which Bullaro was quite familiar—he had sold insurance in this community, had ridden through it on his bicycle, had patronized its restaurants. As Williamson turned off the main road and directed the car up the street toward the Red Rooster restaurant, Bullaro’s anxiety increased—
this was where he had often gone with Barbara, and the choice of this place for lunch now struck Bullaro as darkly contrived.

Saying nothing as he got out of the car, Bullaro followed Williamson into the main room, where, after a few moments’ wait, they were escorted to a table near the back. The restaurant was crowded and noisy, but a waiter was mercifully available so that Bullaro could quickly call for a drink. Williamson sat with his hands folded, hesitating. He seemed either shy or troubled. Bullaro leaned forward in his chair. Finally, Williamson spoke.

“I know about you and Barbara,” he said quietly.

Bullaro, looking down at the table, said nothing, but he felt completely trapped, and he hated Barbara for having betrayed him.

“I know about it,” Williamson went on, “and I think it’s a good thing.”

Bullaro looked up with disbelief, doubting that he had heard correctly.

“You think it’s a good thing?” Bullaro repeated, his voice rising with incredulity.

“Yes,” Williamson said. “You are good for her. You fulfill certain needs in her life. She thinks a lot of you. I think it’s wonderful and,” he added softly but decisively, “I’d like it to continue.”

Bullaro was now even more confused, and he thought that Williamson might be taunting him with a twisted sense of humor. As he studied Williamson’s face, however, and saw the blue eyes regarding him gently, he was convinced of Williamson’s sincerity, although he still had no idea how he should react, what he should say, or what was the motivation behind Williamson’s request that the affair with Barbara be continued.