Two Husbands
A year has passed since he confessed.
Late one night, after I had taken a shower, I found him sitting in front of his computer. He didn’t realize I had come up behind him until I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. He stiffened. Glancing at the website on the screen, I knew why. As I stood back and stared at him in disbelief, he solemnly turned off the computer and went into the kitchen. Confused, I followed and joined him at the breakfast table.
Had anyone else told me something like that about my husband, I would’ve laughed at them. Tom and I had been married fifteen years. A total surprise. He’s one of the most masculine men I’ve ever known: six foot one, broad shoulders, generally a no nonsense kind of guy. I didn’t have to ask why he was looking at a film clip of two men, both naked, one leaning over the other from behind—he simply told me in no uncertain terms.
Fifteen years. How could I have not known? I had never been so overwhelmed by so many debilitating emotions: shock, disbelief, anger, confusion. Then those agonizing next few days trying to talk to him, trying understand exactly what I felt angry about. It finally came to me. Not so much his errant sexuality as the fact he had not been honest with me. I had been married all that time to a man I didn’t really know. Then another few months worrying the confession was a prelude to our divorce. How could he love me if he was attracted to men?
At first I thought an affair with another woman would have been easier to deal with. At least that’s something I understand. I backed away from that notion after thinking about it. Another woman would have left me feeling inadequate as a wife, a torment I’ve managed to avoid, at least to some degree. Though his eyes still followed me when I crossed the bed room naked, though he still held me and draped his leg over mine when we slept, I often still wondered if he’d rather be in bed with a man.
As I muddled through those first few weeks, most frustrating was his reluctance to talk about it. He would listen patiently to my doubts and concerns, or sit quietly through my anger and tirades, then reconfirm his love and assure me he was the same man I had always known. Beyond that, getting answers was like pulling teeth. Questions followed by quick generic answers.
“When did you first know?”
“In high school.”
“Did something happen?”
“No. I just knew.”
“Have you ever touched a man?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a relationship?”
“We were close friends for a year before you and I got married.”
“What happened?”
“I met you.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“A few times.”
“Do you still think about him?”
“Now and then.”
“Do you miss him?”
He hesitated, then: “What does that have to do with you and me?”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I still miss him,” he finally admitted.
I remember how this impacted me, this unsettling piece that complicated the puzzle, that also served to evoke more questions.
“Have you seen him since we’ve been married?”
“He moved to New York.”
“Would you?”
“Not if you didn’t want me to.”
Ah, so that burden would be on me. More weight on my shoulders when I’m trying to reduce the load.
“Have you seen anyone?”
“No.”
Relief. At least that’s what I wanted to feel. He had not been honest about his sexuality, why would he answer me honestly now? When you discover something totally out of character about your husband, you’re prepared for any number of surprises. You have misgivings about him, and I hated suspicion—it felt like bile rising in my throat.