It did not take the Reverend David Benbow long to start the arduous journey back to a morally upstanding life. The very week of his confession and purpose of amendment before the Reverend Alfred Massey, David kept his date with Pamela Richardson. She did not answer the door clad only in mesh stockings and apron as propounded by The Total Woman. But it was almost that skimpy.
Pamela had no way of knowing this was to be a momentous evening during which her life was to be disrupted and her heart broken.
David had steeled himself against his own weakness and her desirability. She sensed something was amiss when he did not return her kiss. To arouse him, though he regularly needed little seduction, she had worn very little and what there was was easily removable. Somehow, as he seated himself in a distant, solitary chair and projected his awkwardness, she felt cheap and indecent.
He told her nothing she did not know. That their relationship was unfair to Martha. That their relationship was sinful in the eyes of God and the Church. That their relationship threatened his standing in the Church. She knew it was coming before he got to the part where he stated firmly that their relationship, for all of these reasons and more, must end.
She said nothing. There was nothing to say. She would not bring herself to beg or plead. The few tears that tracked erratically down her cheeks were the overflow of those she could not withhold. It was an embarrassing scene for him, a humiliating moment for her. After his tortured explanation of his inescapable decision, and with no spoken response from her, David left her apartment for, he felt sure, the final time.
It did not take the Reverend David Benbow long to rekindle his affair with Pamela Richardson.
There had been no change in David’s relationship with his wife. How could there have been? As far as Martha was concerned, all had been well, all was well, all would be well. She was unaware of any failure in their marriage. There was no way she could know her husband had found a gap and filled it with Pamela Richardson. Martha charged ahead as a realtor. The more successful she became the more involved she became and the more time she devoted to work.
David tried to fill the empty spaces with work and various professional involvements. Much of it was merely busy “make work.” He daydreamed a lot, and all of it involved Pamela. There were so many memories-every one of them pleasant if not rapturous.
Life during the separation was if anything, worse for Pamela. She did not even have the temporary relief of other involvements to distract her. So she was more than primed when the phone call came.
It was mid-evening Tuesday. Martha had not been home for supper. She’d phoned and told David not to expect her until quite late. They had planned to spend this evening together. They had scheduled dinner followed by a relaxing evening of leisurely foreplay and lovemaking.
It was the fact that the evening had been programmed. David had an easy time convincing himself of that. It wasn’t that he was weak. God knew how good he’d been, how hard he’d tried. But Lord love a duck, she could at least honor their appointment for an amorous evening.
David sat by the phone, staring at it until he was nearly mesmerized. At last he picked up the receiver and dialed the familiar number.
“Hello?” Her tone was tentative.
“Lonesome?” he asked gently.
Instantly, she melted. “For months,” she said.
“I’ll be right over.”
“I’ll be ready.”
So it began again. The same clandestine air; the same doubts, worry, concern, and above all, the same guilt.
David could not bring himself to return to Alf Massey. It would be too reproachable. He had promised, as part of the rite of reconciliation, save the mark. In time, David made an appointment to see a priest whom he had never met in a neighboring city, but whose prolific sectarian writings David had long admired.
The two spent a pleasant evening together at the elder clergyman’s home, talking mostly about their separate and different writing careers. Finally, David was forced to speak of the real reason he had come. He told the whole story, including his evening with Alf Massey, the ensuing virtuous interlude, and his recidivism.
“So,” the priest said, “what do you plan on doing about this situation?”
“I’ve come to seek your advice.” David leaned forward in his chair, his gaze intense. “This is not merely an immoral liaison. I have grown through my relationship with this wonderful woman. I am far more understanding with my parishioners, not so quick to condemn as I once was. I think it may be good for clergymen-at least some of us-to be in the state of sin, or what an unenlightened Church might consider the state of sin. Otherwise we too easily become sanctimonious bastards, condemning others whose temptations and failures we cannot understand.
“Besides,” David continued, “my love for and with Diane”-he would not use her real name-“has made me a better writer. . added a dimension to my work that was not there before.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think,” the priest said, “you are trying to theologize a swollen prick.”
That pretty well did it. What could anyone say to so insensitive a clergyman? For the first time, David began to reevaluate the man’s religious writings. This time around David found the writings, formerly so admired, shallow and lacking in Scriptural depth.
Enough of advice. David was forced to admit that he was avant-garde, well ahead of his time. He thought of all the deadly dull sermons he’d heard preached by ninnies who were not conscious of any deliberate sin. Clergypersons who spoke down to the poor miserable sinners cowering in their pews. Better for those shepherds if they had sinned. Better for their congregations, their parishioners.
Well, he was sinning with considerable gusto. Not only was he sinning against Martha and with Pamela, he was lying more and more outrageously to Martha. And, he was convinced, he was becoming better. Not morally better, perhaps. But, somehow, curiously, he was becoming a better priest. More patient with those who claimed his time. More receptive to those who confessed their sins in shame and embarrassment. He was rather proud of that.
Nor was that all. He was becoming a better writer. More knowledgeable about the baser passions that motivated the Common Man.
It showed in the publisher’s appreciation of his third and latest manuscript. It showed in the book’s reviews and sales. This was only David’s third novel. Yet through it he moved up from bare survival to respectable sales.
As is customary, his publisher sent him copies of reviews of his book clipped from various newspapers and periodicals. His favorite came from a Boston paper. Among other things, the reviewer wrote: “Benbow exhibits remarkable insight into the mind of a woman bent on seduction. Inviting her victim into her web of intrigue, then suddenly turning from pursuer to pursued, from active manipulation to passive submission, Sarah proves herself the most effective seductress since Salome.
“Father Benbow must have heard some interesting confessions over the years!”
David had laughed as he showed that review and many others to Pamela. She, in turn, appreciated the pleasure of her anonymous debut in literature.
The ointment was not without its fly, however. David noticed a subtle change in the way some of his parishioners related to him, even some of the clergy as well. All were well aware of his literary accomplishments, of course. Most were proud of the honors bestowed on their pastor and/or friend. That wasn’t the problem.
Actually, David could not pinpoint the problem. It had something to do with his ability to describe illicit affairs with such evident authenticity. The same observation as that made in his favorite review. How could he know so much? Did he actually possess so vivid an imagination that he could transcend inexperience? Was he drawing from professional confidences? If so, was he careful to mask them sufficiently to avoid revealing real identities? Or could he possibly be projecting his own experiences? And if that were true, was he not chancing deposition?