Silent Treatment

It may seem stupid, or childish. I can't say I disagree. But I'm not sure that if it happened to you, you would react any differently.

It was in the middle of an argument. We'd had a lot of them lately, Kate and I, but this one was particularly bad. I don't even know what it was about—something trivial, like the laundry or an unpaid bill. One of Kate's bad habits is that in an argument she'll bring up all sort of irrelevant complaints, things that have nothing to do with the subject of the argument, and fling them at me.

They can be things that happened years before—"and remember when you didn't pick up my sister at that party like you promised to!"—or just things that occur to her to hit me with. This was one of those.

"And you just never stop talking, do you know that, Steve?" She delivered this in a withering tone. "Nothing makes you happier than the sound of your own voice.

"Even when we're making love, you never shut up!"

There was a silence. Kate must have seen from the look on my face that she had gone too far. I was stung, and I just looked at her. It was in my mind to say, "I had no idea that my talking during sex bothered you. It's my way of expressing my love, and my excitement"—then I thought, no, Steve, just don't say anything.

Perhaps not knowing what else to do, Kate pushed on. "Well, it's true, Steve. I'm trying to enjoy sex, just getting into the feeling of it, and your talking is so distracting. It's just the opposite of what turns me on."

There was another silence. Kate continued to glare at me defiantly, and perhaps also a little uncertainly. Whatever we had been arguing about was long forgotten.

I had no desire to end the silence. I was hurt, badly. It felt like one hell of a cheap shot. If she wanted sex without speaking, why had I never heard about it before? We'd been married more than three years. I had always thought my words of endearment, my expressions of desire and excitement pleased her. She talked less than I did in bed, but she always said at least a few words.

Finally—after what must have been two minutes at least—I stood up. "OK, Kate. I'll try only to speak when I have something important to say." Then I left the room.

*** *** ***

I'm not proud of what I did after that. All I can say is that I was really hurt. That blow out of left field really got to me. I decided, "OK, you want silence, by God I'll give you silence!"

Our fighting had been getting worse. The first year of our marriage I would have described as blissful; the second, quite happy; and the third, somewhat troubled. I still loved Kate, but we seemed less and less able to be content with one another. There were fewer happy and close times, more tense moments and arguments over trivial things.

One big problem was my traveling. As a sales rep for a plumbing supply company, I had a 3-4 day trip at least once every month. Kate didn't like my being away so much, but she knew before we got married that it would be like this.

She also wanted us to start a family, which I refused to do for another two years or so. I was expecting a promotion at that point which would allow me to give up the traveling. I just didn't want to have a baby until I could be home all the time.

So those were the big issues—but more and more lately it seemed as though even tiny things could set off a fight. The reservoir of love and good will seemed almost to have run dry, and I didn't know why.

One part of what she'd said especially nagged at me: that my talking during sex was "the opposite of what turns me on." Did that mean she'd been enjoying sex with somebody else, somebody who didn't talk?

It seemed ridiculously far-fetched, but only until I started to think about it a little more. During my last trip, about 10 days earlier, I'd twice been unable to reach her on the phone during the evening, long after she should have been back from work. The second time I'd finally called her cell phone, but she'd had it switched off. When I called the next day, she'd said she went out for a beer with some friends from work—which seemed reasonable, except that I'd called the house about 10:30 and she was still out.

Then there were the three times in the past month I'd answered the phone and the person on the other end had hung up. Not a big deal, but before the past month it hadn't happened more than once in a year.

So yeah, I got more and more suspicious. And I pulled out the Yellow Pages and did something about it.

*** *** ***

For the next two weeks Kate must have thought she was living with a mute. She got no chitchat from me, no idle conversation, no words unless absolutely necessary. Instead of "could you pass the salt, honey?" I got up and got it myself. In response to "what's the weather going to be like today?" I passed her the weather page of the newspaper.

If she asked me to make dinner that night, all she got was, "OK". When she left for work and said, "goodbye, honey," I gave her a smile and a wave.

It became a kind of perverse game, to see how few words I could manage to speak to her in a day.

Kate knew I was angry and hurt, and she knew why. For the first few days she didn't seem to care much, but after that she started trying to make up. She didn't exactly apologize—that was a rare event in our house—but she became much more affectionate. Kisses greeted me in bed in the morning, on the way out for work, when we got home, at bedtime, and sometimes in between.

She would lean over and give me a hug while I was reading the paper over coffee in the morning, or rub my shoulders while we were watching TV.

It was a funny thing, though. Even as my anger gradually calmed down—and nobody can stay white-hot angry over a period of days—I kept saying as little as possible. Before uttering a sentence I'd ask myself if I really needed to say it, and usually the answer was no. I was listening more, observing more, and keeping my thoughts to myself.

About ten days after the argument Kate decided we should make love. Whether she actually wanted to or whether this was part of making up with me, I couldn't tell. After dinner, during which she told me some stories about work and I spoke no more than 6-8 words, she stood up and took me by the hand.

"C'mon, Steve, let's let the dishes wait. There's something else I need right now." This was said with a big warm smile, as she led me back to the bedroom.

She disappeared briefly into the bathroom and emerged in my favorite nightie, a short one that showed off her legs and flattered her beautiful firm breasts. It was black, but lacy enough to be see-through.

She pulled me over to the bed, gently stripped my clothes off, then sat me down and kneeled at my feet. I wasn't the least bit aroused yet, despite her appearance and her manner. But when she caressed my thighs, then my cock and balls, and then took me into her mouth, she got my full attention!

When I was hard we lay back on the bed together, kissing, and stroked each other. I felt extremely odd. I was aroused—Kate is very sexy, and we hadn't made love in more than a week—but at the same time I was incredibly detached. This didn't feel like making love with my beloved wife, but like pure sex with someone I hardly knew.

Had the distance grown between us because I was being so silent, or was I being silent because we had grown so far apart? I had no idea. In the meantime, though, I kissed her breasts and stroked her pussy and got her ready for fucking. When she was amply wet, and breathing hard, I climbed above her and entered her gently.

Needless to say, I hadn't spoken a word during all of this! And as we coupled smoothly, easily, familiarly, I remained completely silent. It felt unnatural to me—cold, distant. I wasn't even sure it was what Kate really wanted, but needless to say, after that argument I was not about to say a word!

It didn't seem to me that it was very good for Kate either, in fact. We screwed for ten minutes or so, and then I accelerated into my orgasm. The whole time Kate moved with me, but aside from her breathing did not communicate any real excitement or pleasure.

When we were done, I rolled off her. She snuggled into me, said "mmm" in what seemed like a happy tone, and we relaxed together for a while, still without any words.

I did not know what the experience had been like for her. For me it had been cold and empty. Whether that was because of the silence, or because of how far we had drifted apart, I had no idea.

*** *** ***

After a couple more days of the "nearly silent treatment" Kate began to get angry with me. "Can't you say anything?" she shouted one night at dinner. "Don't you have a single goddam thing to say to me?"

After a bit of reflection I replied, "I thought this was what you wanted." (As few words as possible, I thought happily!)

"Well it isn't! I want a husband who communicates with me, who shares himself and his feelings with me. I don't remember marrying a department-store mannequin!"

I laughed to myself—good line, Kate, I thought.

I said, "last week you complained that I never stopped talking, Kate. I'm trying to do something about that."

"OK, OK! I'm sorry I said it. You've gone too far, Steve. The 'Silent Sam' routine has gone on long enough."

I looked at her for a moment before saying anything. Partly my confused act was just to piss her off, and partly I really WAS confused.

"I honestly don't know what you want, Kate. First I talk too much, then too little. How am I supposed to know what to do now?"

She glared at me, clearly very angry. "Just cut it the hell out, OK? Just be the man I married! I shouldn't have said what I said. You DON'T talk too much. We were arguing, I was pissed-off, and I just threw that at you."

Again I waited before replying. "All right, Kate. But I have to admit, your words got me thinking that maybe I do talk too much, or without thinking first about whether I really have anything to say."

I thought for another moment. Then I smiled at her. "In a way all this has been helpful."

She smiled back at me, warmly, her anger apparently gone now, and for a moment I felt the closeness between us that had been missing for so much of the past few months.

"Let me ask you about making love," I went on. I wasn't trying to pick a new fight—I really wanted to understand. "Did you mean what you said about that—that I should not talk to you?"

Rather than answering my question Kate said, "Goddammit, Steve!" and left the table. For the rest of the evening she gave me the cold shoulder, which didn't really seem fair. I had been making an honest attempt to understand her feelings.

*** *** ***

Despite the harsh ending to the previous night's conversation, I awoke the next morning feeling more hopeful. Kate had backed away from her initial attack, she'd said she wanted me to talk to her, and it seemed maybe our lives could get back to something warmer and more normal with each other.

Unfortunately, for Kate the end of the conversation rather than the rest of it seemed to be uppermost in her mind. Her glares and her own tight-lipped phrases at breakfast made clear that the temperature between us was still icy, at least as far as she was concerned.

So we had a few more days of barely exchanging anything beyond the necessary communications. It almost seemed ironic to me—this time she was giving me the silent treatment, whether as a conscious punishment or just because she was too angry to talk to me.

It was another 3-4 days before Kate's mood changed again, drastically. She arrived home from work looking very upset and headed straight for the shower. Over dinner she was distracted, saying little and frequently losing the track of my conversation. This wasn't the angry silent treatment anymore—she was clearly preoccupied about something. But when I asked her if something was wrong—and I asked several times—she only made a vague gesture and mentioned "a problem at work". I noticed, though, that she wouldn't meet my eyes when she said it.

I had no idea what was bothering her, but I figured my best option was to sit tight and see what developed.

And then the next day I got a call at work.

*** *** ***

Ernie Mattazollo had me come to his office during my lunch hour. He gave me a manila envelope and filled me in on what he had found out.

"Sorry to tell you, Steve, it was what you suspected. They're not even bein' particularly careful. She drives over to his apartment in the afternoons—I saw her do it a coupla times—and parks right in the lot. He's got a second floor apartment in the back. There's a hill back there, and with a telephoto lens there was nothin' to it."

I thanked him, wrote him a check, shook his hand, and left.

I had always been the world's most reliable employee, but that day I never went back to work. I called, left a message about a stomach flu, and went home. I looked at the photos, then put them back in the envelope. The only surprise was the guy.

Adam Findley hadn't been my best man, but he was one of my groomsmen when I married Kate. He'd always thought she was a knock-out, and told me so often when she and I were dating. But it had never occurred to me to consider him a threat, then or now. He was a ladykiller, and I'd almost never seen him without a girl on his arm. As the saying goes, he got all he needed.

I knew I'd cry, later. But right then I just felt cold, empty—like the last time Kate and I had been to bed together. Maybe now I knew why. Maybe I also knew why she suddenly had the opinion that I talked too much in bed!

I sat for a long time, just looking out the window. Thinking about everything, thinking about nothing. I pulled out the photos and looked at them again. They looked just like what they'd looked like the first time. I put them away.

*** *** ***

When Kate came home she was surprised to find me just sitting on the couch, doing nothing. "Honey, hi, what's going on?"

I didn't answer, just looked at her. I imagine my face looked neutral rather than angry.

"Steve, is something the matter? Why are you just sitting there?" Her tone got a little edgier, somewhere between concerned and annoyed.

I continued just to look at her. Kate could tell something was up, and she must have sensed it was nothing good.

"Dammit Steve, what's wrong? Did something happen to you today? Are we back to the old 'silent treatment' again?" She said this with a sneer in her voice.

I sat up straight. "How long have you been fucking him?"

"What?" Kate recoiled in shock, stepping backwards instinctively. She dropped into a chair across from me. "What the hell are you talking about?"

I remained silent. She did too, looking at me, trying to figure me out—but she couldn't keep it up.

"Steve, what is this? I haven't been fucking anybody! Where did that ridiculous question come from?" Her face was very pale, and she didn't know what to do with her hands. Finally she clasped them together on her lap.

She couldn't stand the silence, and my unblinking stare.

"Would you please tell me what the hell this is about, Steve? How dare you accuse me of cheating on you? Maybe you've got a guilty conscience about something?"

She looked at me, as though expecting that last question would hit home. I said nothing.

Finally, she couldn't take it. "Well, this is stupid! I'm going to change."

She started for the bedroom, but stopped short and looked at me when I held up the manila envelope. Without a word I pulled out my favorite photo from the group and handed it to her.

It was a shot of Kate on Adam's bed, naked, on her hands and knees, her lovely breasts visible. The photo was at a slight angle but nearly straight on towards Kate's face, with Adam standing behind her. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth shaped in an "ooh", so it appeared that he'd just slid his cock into her—whether pussy or ass I couldn't tell.

Kate looked at the photo for only a moment—then she dropped it with a gasp and jumped back from it as though it were a snake. She collapsed back into her chair, blushing red, unable to look at me.

"Steve, it's ... I ... it isn't ..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Finally her eyes met mine, some sort of unspoken appeal in them.

"How long?" I asked again.

She was sitting as far back in the chair as possible, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She was shaking her head.

"Honey, I ... it's ... oh Steve, I'm so sorry!"

I waited, looking at her. It must have been another whole minute at least. She couldn't stand the silence.

"Steve, please don't make me ... talk about it!"

"I'm leaving you," I said. I got up and headed towards the bedroom to pack.

"Wait!" she cried. "Steve, please—wait, I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything, just please don't leave!"

I sat back down, looking at her.

She looked at me imploringly. But she couldn't hold my gaze, couldn't look at my implacable face, and she looked down after a moment.

I waited. Finally she looked back up at me, her eyes wet, and said, "he told me you were doing it too."

Surprised, I almost blurted out, "what the fuck are you talking about?" Instead I remained silent, just gesturing at her with my hand to continue.

"Adam told me. That BASTARD! And at the time I was angry at you, and he was so convincing—and I believed him."

"Kate, you'd better just tell me the whole story."

She did. A little over a month earlier she'd run into Adam in the supermarket and they'd had a casual conversation. They knew each other reasonably well, and he had always been charming and friendly, even a little flirtatious. In the supermarket Kate had mentioned that I was away on a trip. That evening he showed up at our house with a pizza and a bottle of wine, offering in a low-key way to give Kate some company since I was away.

They had a relaxed, friendly evening. But towards the end, he started acting concerned, worried, and when Kate asked him why he told her I'd been cheating on her.

"He did one hell of an acting job, Steve. All reluctant, his head hanging, not looking at me. He told me that the two of you had talked a couple of weeks earlier, and you'd told him about this girl you were screwing when you were away on your trips. He had lots of convincing details about what she looked like and where you met her, and how great you said she was in bed.

"And I started crying, of course, and Adam held me, and stroked my back, and consoled me. He said I was so beautiful and sexy, he couldn't understand how any man could cheat on me. He told me how sad he was to see me so upset, that he'd do anything to make me feel better ... and a little while later there we were in bed together.

"And I didn't find out until yesterday that it was all bullshit, the whole story."

I waited, expressionless. Finally she continued, looking more sad than ever.

"I was at his apartment, and we had just ... done it. He looked over at me with this smug expression and said, 'just think, if it hadn't been for Steve's affair with Julia we would never have discovered how great we are together.'

"I just stared at him. He had told me the first time your lover's name was Joanne. So I started questioning him about it, and he couldn't remember any of what he had told me before—what she looked like, how you met her, any of it.

"Finally I just screamed at him to tell me the truth—did you really cheat on me? And he laughed. He LAUGHED at me! And he said 'no, that was just a story I made up to get in your pants.' "

Kate's face was now red with anger. "I jumped up off the bed and threw my clothes on, yelling at him the whole time. I told him what an asshole he was. I told him he was lucky I could never tell you, because you would kick his ass. He was just lying back smiling, not the least bit guilty or sorry about what he had done.