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Allen ein schönes Rest Wochenende Statistics 45, Members 4, Active members 6, Threads 57, Posts P Users. My queasiness remains, I suppose, as perhaps it should; I have no desire to know who she makes love with or how many times she does so.
And she, of course, would never breathe a word of it to any of us, perhaps especially not to my sister. I have also been thinking lately that my father may not be the quiet, ignorant cuckold I once took him for.
Now I think that he loved my mother well, and made love with her well, and therefore he knew that weeks or months without touching were not in her nature.
Yet his sense of duty, and to some degree his ambition and love of the intelligence trade, required him to be stationed overseas on remote assignments for months at a time.
And his sense of love and duty required that he not ask my mother to hole up somewhere nearby, just for his occasional comfort; nor did it let him ask for a fidelity that would be broken, along with his trust.
Instead, I think, he said nothing, and trusted that my mother would find a decent man to make love with, and spare him both the details and pain of any emotional bond that would threaten their marriage or plans to have children.
There was, after all, nothing to do but trust her. For her part, I think she did likewise, trusting my father to wear a condom when loneliness and ardor became wearisome, and likewise trusting him to keep his sensual pleasures safely separate from his feelings of love and devotion for her.
And when, as her book suggests, her boss asked her to make love with him, she also agreed to this, my father was, if not relieved, then unsurprised.
I think now that whatever discomfort the image of his sexy wife splayed under another man no doubt caused my father, he preferred it being another Japanese-American man to any other.
What outraged me when I first read her book, and now causes me to smile with wonder at her naughtiness, was her apparently guileless pleasure in maintaining two lovers when my father would come home on leave.
Now, having experienced it myself, I believe her lack of guilt evidences an inner confidence which I greatly respect, especially when compared to my own conduct.
My mother, I sincerely believe, assessed who she was, the love match she made with my father and the career paths she and my father had chosen, and made a clear-eyed decision of what would sustain her through the times apart.
Cleaving off her part-time lover during his leave probably struck her as needless and perhaps even phony; to her, I think, duty to the secrecy that bound and protected them both was neither hypocritical nor immoral.
Indeed, it was perhaps the boldest form of morality and duty a married couple can share; the point was not to hurt or humiliate your partner with the mechanics of what kept you whole in their absence.
From references in her book and odd bits of recounted family history, I gather that my parents decided to start having children when they turned twenty-five.
They may not have understood all that it entailed, but they wanted them just the same. I gather my father stopped using condoms during his visits.
I imagine her lover complained about using them, as did the lover in her book; and so, shouldering the birth control burden herself, she began using a diaphragm with him.
In the very scene I first turned to in discovering her memoir-novel, the heroine is languorously enjoying a second lovemaking session on a hilltop picnic towel.
Her sense of spiritual completeness causes her to hold her lover to her, to capture the full joy of unity with Nature. Later, as they lay snuggled together, still warmly bonded, she wonders if her sense is premonition; and despite her usual precaution, it does seem the soft circle of rubber was dislodged in the perfect afternoon of lovemaking.
Thus, did I enter the world. This realization took some years to sink in. Everyone had always commented that my brother and I looked like my mother, while my sister took after my father.
This apparent contradiction was the source of a long-standing family joke. By carefully piecing together snapshots and the accompanying timeline, I believe that within days of missing her period, my mother flew to Turkey and spent a long weekend with my father--sufficient explanation for my birth eight months later.
In any event, my slightly premature birth was unremarkable. Her lover certainly bore a resemblance to her husband, but not strikingly so.
Without becoming too dewy-eyed, I think my mother responded to the duty she undoubtedly felt to her unborn child. She paused, trying to remember any difficulty, and seemed to fail.
A second child would have put those thoughts to rest. Or perhaps she feared my father was infertile, and that he would begin to question her initial pregnancy if nothing came of their unions.
With my mother, both of these are entirely possible, since both would conserve the marriage and family unit equally well. But given my own current confusion, I tend to distrust any conclusions about my mother, or my own situation, that seem too facile.
My mother was fortunate to find a trustworthy lover who was blessed with a distant marriage of convenience; his requests for transfer to Hawaii never seemed to get granted, and so he stayed on in D.
I am not sure what instigated his eventual transfer, be it bureaucratic machinery or his own decision to leave D. In any case, my biological father left when I was six, and my mother quit her job shortly thereafter; she then housewived her three children until my father returned for good several years later.
Apparently the following affairs she tried were not so fulfilling or lasting; and eventually, I think her unhappiness forced my father to forego the overseas assignments which might have boosted his rank to Colonel.
He returned to a D. If he felt bitterness over the cost of her happiness to his career, he never expressed it to me. Now I wonder, in a sort of distaff irony, if he would not have been happier if my mother had found another willing and kind lover to satisfy her for another four years, until his overseas duties could have borne their final fruit.
Yet I think not, for even as I try to distance my own affair from her book, the powerful emotions and sexual joys she describes are too natural and imperfect not to be drawn from experience.
I cannot doubt that she did make love one perfect afternoon on a remote Virginia hilltop, or stood nervously awaiting her husband with the dampness of a morning tryst still on her skin.
And yet I am wary of that conclusion, too, for it serves too neatly as a sort of generational justification for my own affair. Just as my mother was the lonely woman far from her husband, so the woman I furtively meet is in the Bay Area, far from her husband in Honolulu.
And it would please me, too, if I could believe that I was like my mother, sustaining myself to be dutiful by means of this affair.
But I cannot believe it, for it strikes me as false on so many counts; first of which is that my wife and I have made no unspoken pact, as my parents did.
My affair feeds me, but it also distracts me; it does not enable my duties as husband and father, it cripples them. Yet in saying that, I also wonder if the rot did not start with her, and that in glorifying her balancing of infidelity and duty, I may be trying to let her off the hook for the subtle damage she rained on her children.
But that very path ends in letting me off the hook, swinging the responsibility from myself to her. Perhaps that is illusion, too, but I cannot honestly say I felt the uncertainty that children feel when their parent is weak, distracted or vulnerable.
My mother seemed to know what she needed, and found it without burdening her children. Perhaps few, perhaps none; perhaps he too favored the conveniently married.
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