Sacrifice

"There's no such thing as a free lunch."

"Everything has a price."

"If something seems too good to be true, it definitely is."

My father was full of aphorisms while I was growing up, but they all ran to the same theme. I'm sure those nuggets filtered into my subconscious and helped shape my character at some level, but you know what really made the difference in my formative years?

Jack Masters.

Asshole Jack Masters.

My personal bully.

Asshole Jack impressed upon me the reality of sacrifice in ways my father could never envision. Asshole Jack was creative as well as cruel, and when I left my little Pennsylvania coal town for college he had made it abundantly clear that anything I gained in my life would come at cost. Sometimes great cost. We went to school together and lived in the same small town (population 1800) for more than twelve years, so he saw me several times most days, and every time he saw me he would attack some part of me: my name, my body, my clothes, my acne, my religion, my hair, my friends, my books, my bike and later my car, my classes, my glasses. He accused me of many things: bestiality, pedophilia, cowardice, homosexuality, and cross-dressing were recurring favorites. He always outweighed me -- by forty well-muscled pounds when we graduated high school -- and while he did hit me just often enough for me to be ever vigilant he specialized in psychological warfare.

I hated Asshole Jack. A white-hot hatred. I suppose I still do, fifteen years or so since I last saw him, gloating as he squired my lifelong crush Sarah McIntosh right past me at prom, patting me on my shoulder with a hand that I learned about ninety minutes later held chocolate that melted from my body heat and ruined my rented tux, forfeiting me the hundred-dollar damage deposit.

Like I said, he was an asshole. Fortunately he was never going to graduate, so he left the next day for boot camp. I never laid eyes on him again.

But by then he had prepared me well for adult life.

* * * * *

"Are you okay, Shlomo? You're very quiet tonight."

Marcy looked at me with her wide brown eyes. I fell in love with those eyes, about two weeks after I fell in lust with her full breasts and rounded hips and thick dark hair that tumbled past her shoulders. It took her longer -- my gifts are well-hidden by my five-and-a-half-foot frame that features thin shoulders and a thinner chest -- but she claimed to have found love with me too.

I was heavily doubting her claim at the moment.

I have many faults, but I'm not a coward. You don't face Asshole Jack every day for a dozen years or so and not learn to stick up for yourself just to minimize the damage. There's no question I lost the battle of attrition over the years -- badly -- but I did learn that taking your lumps sooner was infinitely better than taking them later if for no other reason than it avoided the dread of anticipation. Plus every so often it would surprise Asshole Jack enough that he'd let my torture slide.

"No, not really. When were you going to tell me about Tom Haskins?"

Her eyes got wider and her generous mouth made a big oh, and then she slowly deflated in her seat. Surprise has its advantages, but, as was usually the case, I expected that I'd come out far worse for wear in the end.

I stayed quiet, staring impassively at her. She couldn't hold my gaze, but she couldn't stop herself from looking back at me either. My visage gave her nothing -- I wouldn't show what I was thinking and especially not what I was feeling. More training from Asshole Jack: never give them anything they could use against you. She finally gathered herself with a deep breath.

"I'm so sorry. How did you find out?"

I continued to stare at her. Her question was predictable. Under stress most people go to what they can control. Rather than consider how I might be feeling, the man she purports to love, she wanted to know how she screwed up the logistics of her affair. Or dalliance. Or whatever she called her thing with Tom Haskins. But I learned from Asshole Jack, always through trial and many errors, that the best way to keep the pressure on an opponent was to keep her guessing. About everything. When she realized I wasn't going to answer she looked to her lap, where her hands wrestled with themselves.

"I am sorry, Shlomo."

I waited.

"I don't know what to say."

More silence.

"Please say something, my love."

"I think 'your love' might be having a similar conversation with his wife Jackie about now."

"Oh, my God! Tell me you didn't tell her."

"Okay. I didn't tell her."

"I can't believe you told her."

"Don't believe it then, but I didn't tell her." I waited a beat. "She told me."

Marcy blanched, then buried her head in her hands. I wasn't sure that she loved me any longer -- if she ever did -- but I did believe she loved her reputation among friends and family. And now that information about her affair was in the wild, away from her control, her reputation was in peril.

"Oh, my God."

I stayed quiet, staring at her evenly. She eventually looked at me again. My gaze seemed to unnerve her, and she startled.

"Oh, Shlomo. I'm so sorry. So, so sorry."

We seemed to be covering the same ground, which didn't interest me in the least. I stood up and, despite my inner turmoil, I spoke coolly. Asshole Jack's lessons continued to yield dividends.

"I'm going to the study. Please use the guest room tonight. And for the foreseeable future."

"Oh, Shlomo! Wait!"

But I didn't.

* * * * *

Marcy Brown wasn't the most beautiful woman I'd met, but she was up there. We shared a dorm and Intro to Macroeconomics sophomore year, so we studied together. Early September In North Carolina is usually hot, and she dressed for comfort, leaving many of her very womanly charms on display. Like most late-teen boys I was expert at hiding erections, so I managed the first couple of weeks of our sessions with only a couple of awkward moments.

After six or seven study sessions I found that I didn't notice her round and firm breasts or her pinched waist or her voluptuous hips as much. She was smart, sure, but she used her smarts to think about what we learned, how theory worked -- or didn't work -- in the day-to-day functioning of the world. Like most of our fellow students I was a learn-to-regurgitate kinda guy, which helped me make the Dean's List every semester of undergraduate study, but Marcy was the first person I met who actually applied our learning. It shouldn't be a shock, but it blew my mind at the time.

Marcy was also hilarious. I had developed a dark sense of humor thanks entirely to Asshole Jack, so I used sarcasm -- maybe overused it -- while she led with irony. Marcy was way more optimistic than me, shinier, brighter, but she keyed into my fatalism and kept me laughing.

So pheromones and intellectual admiration and dopamine sealed my fate. I fell in love with Marcy Brown.

I didn't ask her out that semester. Asshole Jack had ridiculed me to each of the three dates I had during high school, so I learned to avoid dating. Even talking to girls came with high risk of humiliation. I did it, but I did it carefully, always with an eye towards Asshole Jack. College wasn't high school, but the ghost of Asshole Jack loomed large in my headspace.

Second semester of our sophomore year Marcy studied abroad, in England. I missed her, but I considered her far out of my league and therefore a frustration, so I dated a couple other girls, each only briefly. I returned to campus for my junior year just as much of a virgin as when I left. I found Marcy in my economic policy class, and we rekindled our little study group to even greater success, since I had matured somewhat. But I was still smitten.

I was surprised one evening when we met at the student union to prep for a quiz the next day.

"Have you eaten, Shlomo?"

"Nah, not yet. I'll grab a bite when we're done."

"Then let's kill two birds with one stone. Pizza?"

"Sure!"

We ordered a medium pepperoni-and-olives. I prefer Italian sausage, green peppers, and onions, but the other is Marcy's favorite. I tried to steer our conversation to block grants to foreign countries versus directly funding NGOs, but Marcy was far more interested in interrogating me.

"I've never met anyone named Shlomo before. Where does your name come from?"

"It was my grandfather's name. He died the year before I was born, and my father wanted to honor his father. Growing up I tried to go by Jake -- my middle name is Jacob -- but everyone just called me Shlomo. So, popular demand."

"I know nothing about Judaism. To be honest, I don't actually know much about any religion. I can't even say what my family believes."

I laughed. "My family is 100% secular Jew. The nearest temple for us was probably forty miles away, so we hardly ever went. I can bluff my way through a Passover seder, but just barely. I know about four Hebrew words. I haven't even watched "The Ten Commandments." I know way more about Catholics. My best friends were Catholic, and I went to more Catholic masses than I ever did Jewish services."

"How did your family end up in western Pennsylvania?"

"My dad is a dentist. After graduating he found a place where he could be the only dentist in the area. The town used to have a traveling dentist who came through every few months for a couple weeks. It worked out well for my father -- he's a good dentist, and people like him. I guess it was tough for my folks at first, but pretty soon people from the surrounding towns came to see him. By the time my sister and I came along he and my mother were settled and comfortable. I don't know what he's going to do with his practice when he's ready to retire though -- hopefully he can find a dentist who wants to live there."

"Are you going back there when you graduate?"

I laughed. Loudly. "Oh, hell no! I am never going back there, except to visit. And then only maybe."

She asked me to walk her back to her apartment when we finished our dinner, and she got quiet as we approached her building. At the door to the lobby she turned to me, smiled, then kissed me quickly on the cheek and bolted inside. I stood watching long after she disappeared inside.

Neither of us did especially well on the quiz the next day.

* * * * *

A dirty coffee mug in the dishwasher was the only sign of Marcy when I woke up the next morning. I mostly worked from home. Editing articles for a business journal is just as easy remotely as in the office, so it almost always fell to me to get Samantha and Justine ready. I roused the girls -- they were both pre-adolescent early birds, so it was hardly a chore -- and got them fed, which was much more challenging since their breakfast tastes were diametrically opposed. Sammi would eat only cereal, and Justine anything but cereal. They dressed themselves, and I audited their backpacks to make sure they had everything they were supposed to have, then I drove them to school.

I took my usual fifteen minutes after returning home to have my once-daily cup of coffee, and as I sipped the dark roast and ate a banana I considered the situation with Marcy.

I loved her. I knew that, but she had wounded me greatly. The main question I'd have to answer is whether or not the wound was fatal to our marriage. And I probably needed more information to expose the answer. If she was going to trade me in, then that was that, but if she wanted to stay married I needed many more data points. I outlined a rough decision tree in my mind, and realized quickly that the first pieces of information had to come from Marcy herself.

Asshole Jack had trained me to function despite my anxieties, but knowing is always better than not knowing, so to allow me to fully focus on my work I texted Marcy.

-- when will you be home?

Marcy responded almost immediately.

-- before dinner?

The question mark indicated that she was unsure about the reception at home. Which annoyed me; I thought it was clear that she was expected in our home, just not in our bedroom. Did she think I'd expose my pain in front of our daughters? The physical, mental, and emotional health of our daughters was my highest priority -- I was willing to make a lot of sacrifices to protect their family experience. Not unlimited sacrifices, but a lot. How could she question that?

After a moment's reflection I realized that if a punctuation mark elicited such a strong response I was probably seething with anger. I think anger -- all strong emotions, in fact -- hinder objective analysis, and I pride myself on my analytical capabilities. I did a quick search of therapists, learning that there were specialists in relationships like marriage. I found a few whose reviews sounded like what I needed, and the fourth one had room in his schedule to meet with me late next week. I guess that would have to do. Calmer now, I replied to Marcy.

-- okay

I wasn't going to give anything away, mostly because I had no idea what I was going to do.

* * * * *

Marcy and I first had sex a couple weeks after our pizza date. I felt hugely self-conscious, far out of my depth, but my excitement at seeing her only in the flesh overcame all anxieties. She was smooth and firm and soft and liquid, and I came within seconds of slipping into her. And then again fifteen minutes later. And twenty minutes after that. She was sweet and kind and a little bemused by both my inexperience and my enthusiasm, but between my second and third climaxes I found a way to bring her along too. And as I got more familiar with both her body and our sex acts I made sure she got at least as much enjoyment from our couplings as I did. Which was always a lot.

Sex with Marcy was amazing, but then I didn't have any other reference points, so maybe it's always great. But as much as we enjoyed ourselves in the bedroom -- and the living room and the shower and the kitchen -- we got even more delight from the repartee we shared as we went about our days together. We just clicked.

We dated the rest of junior year, and after we each made a summer trip to visit the other's home and family, we returned to campus for our senior years. As Thanksgiving loomed, we started talking about our post-graduate lives, which organically expanded to include our post-graduate relationship. We decided that we'd move in together, with the other following the one who first accepted an offer. After that, marriage seemed preordained.

I was ecstatic about marrying Marcy. I thought she was beautiful, but I knew that she was much more than that. She was smart, she made me laugh, she encouraged me to take more career risks, and she facilitated connections with other couples, many of whom turned into very good friends. I loved spending time with her, whether we were discussing politics or watching a movie. And I thought I was good for her too: I grounded her when her feelings spiraled into anxiety, I was handy with basic tools and a paintbrush, I cooked a wider and better-received menu than she did, and I happily took on our finances and travel arrangement and anything else that required attention and follow-up. We complemented each other almost perfectly, and we both appreciated that.

Is that love? I began to think maybe not. I did lust after her, and I initiated sex most of the time; she was the more passive partner of the two of us, but she always heated up nicely. I didn't have any sexual experience except with her, but sex always satisfied me, and I thought she was good with it too. She didn't always get off, but she never gave me any indication she felt wanting. I was happy when I was with Marcy, and once we decided to wed I saw every other woman I met as nothing more than another possible friend. I was all-in on our marriage, and once we had our girls that commitment was sealed tight.

Marcy obviously didn't feel the same way.

Had she always left room for others? Or was there something specific about Tom Haskins that drew her away from me and toward him? Was he an interlude or a change of direction? Had there been others before him? And did she want others after?

And the big question: was her infidelity a reason to blow up a family and a very satisfying life together?

* * * * *

I got through a couple articles and gave detailed feedback to each writer before lunch. I didn't think about Marcy more than a couple of fleeting moments when my concentration flagged -- Asshole Jack really had trained me well to put uncontrollables aside -- but when I broke for lunch the questions came right back.

I knew that I could survive discomfort. Thanks to Asshole Jack my entire childhood was uncomfortable -- and often unpleasant -- and yet I made it through with more than a few good memories. I was used to suffering, sometimes suffering a lot. I could do suffering.

But could I do torment? The knife that sits, lodged between the ribs, twisting every so often, inflicting new agony on top of old. That's beyond suffering and, I suspected, beyond my tolerance.

People give up much for love every day. They work at jobs they hate to support their love. Choose to fight disease and infirmities despite intense physical pain so that they can spend more time with the ones they love. Could I handle some emotional suffering for all the other things my marriage brought me? Brought my kids? Could I disrupt my daughters' childhoods with a divorce? Could I stand to have them away from me half the time -- or more?

The thoughts of the losses we'd all endure if I chose divorce made me queasy, but the grilled cheese stayed down. If Marcy chose divorce we'd still face all that collateral damage, but at least it wouldn't be on me.

Marcy and I really needed to talk.

* * * * *

Dinner was surreal, though Sammi and Justine seemed oblivious to the tension between their parents. Marcy shepherded them through homework while I cleaned up the dishes, and then we watched a couple episodes of the latest Disney series with smart-aleck tweens and clueless parents before sending the girls to bed. I let Marcy say goodnight first, then I kissed each of our daughters and turned off their lights.

When I walked into the family room I saw that Marcy sat in the chair with the ottoman, which was my preferred seat. I don't know if it was a strategic choice designed to unsettle me, but Asshole Jack had made me immune to such games by just plowing over anything I might to do to gain advantage. I sat on the sofa, at the end farthest from Marcy.

"So what are your plans?" I asked my wife. It's not that I'm impatient, but Asshole Jack taught me the wisdom of ripping the band-aid off. If pain is inevitable then dancing around it is just cruel.

Marcy teared up but she stayed quiet. I could do quiet too, so I just stared at her. Neutrally, as far as I could tell. She looked away first. I kept my eyes steady even as my heart beat a little faster. I didn't like limbo either, but I hid it better. Marcy looked at me again, then away quickly. Finally she sighed in surrender.

"I don't know what to do, Shlomo. I'm so sorry, and I don't know what to do."

I waited a beat before responding.

"I suggest you give it some thought then."

Marcy sighed again.

"Are you going to divorce me?"

"I don't know."

She looked up quickly, hopefully. I kept my face neutral and saw hers fall. She looked away again.

"When are you going to decide?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know. Are you going to divorce me?"

Her head shot up again.

"Why would I divorce you?"

"To be with Tom Haskins. To carve me out of your life. You tell me."

"Oh, God! I don't want you out of my life. I love you!"

I shrugged. "Could have fooled me."

Marcy began crying softly. I waited for her to find her composure again. It took a while.

"I do, you know. Love you. I always have."