Chapter 38: Performance Anxiety

November 27, 1987, McKinley, Ohio

“You’re sure?” Annette asked.

“No, I always ask pretty blonde tennis players to spend the night when I don’t really mean it!”

“I suppose I deserved that, but after everything we talked about, I was convinced you were going to say ‘not tonight’.”

“I was.”

“What changed your mind?”

“My friend Clarissa,” I replied with a sly smile.

“You lost me.”

“First time tonight, which has to be some kind of record! I usually confuse people a lot sooner!”

“So?”

“She’s my confidante, and knows literally everything about me, including stuff from my past that even my wife didn’t know.”

“You told Clarissa about me, right?”

“Yes, everything.”

“And she’ll get a play-by-play afterwards?”

“No specific details, but you should be happy, because she insisted that I accept your offer.”

“I have to hear this story! We have time because I think we should wait until Rachel has her 11:00pm feeding to go to bed.”

“Not expecting an all-night marathon?” I asked.

“Not this time!” she replied impishly. “So the story?”

“She’s the person who really whipped me into shape while we were at Taft, and in a slightly different universe, I’d call her my soul mate and would have married her. When I arrived at Taft, I was exactly what you thought I was now — stoic, focused, and often humorless. I obsessed about school, the MCAT, and anything that would impact my future as a physician. Clarissa, with the help of some other friends, got me to,” I smirked, “stop and smell the roses.”

“How did that help change your mind?”

“Clarissa is afraid I’m falling back into the old pattern, and she’s not the only one who’s noticed. You did.”

“Sure, but wasn’t part of it mourning for your wife?”

“It was, but it wasn’t only that. You put your finger on it when you asked about the rules pertaining to ordination, and what that meant. You specifically mentioned that Rachel wouldn’t have a mom, and that became my obsession. Clarissa, and others, talked me off that ledge, though it’s still a key priority.”

“That is the scary part of all this, but I don’t have to tell you that. Well, that and the idea of getting married in six to eight months.”

“Having second thoughts?” I asked.

“Will my answer to that change your invitation?”

“That question, all by itself, is a red flag. If we can’t be honest with each other, we have no future.”

“If the invitation was dependent on a potential future, something doesn’t add up.”

“How so?”

“You offered a rain check before you said you had the conversation with Clarissa, and invited me on what amounts to a date before that conversation.”

“She actually suggested I do it not long after you made the initial offer. I didn’t give you a full recounting of our conversations.”

“OK, but there are no guarantees either way, right? I mean, you asking me to spend the night isn’t a marriage proposal, right? And me agreeing isn’t saying ‘yes’ to getting married.”

“That’s true.”

“But you’re reluctant to have sex with anyone who isn’t, well, a candidate.”

I heard Rachel fussing, which meant I’d have a chance to think things through.

“Let me go check on Rachel, please,” I said.

Annette nodded, and I headed upstairs to begin Rachel’s ‘bedtime routine’ as I’d come to think of it. I truly hoped she continued on her trajectory and would soon sleep six hours per night. As I changed Rachel, I thought about the question Annette had asked.

She had a point, and there were a number of factors which complicated my decision. The one that weighed most heavily on me was that fornication, if confessed, would preclude the bishop ordaining me again. I might get a pass if it were only with the woman I eventually married and after betrothal, but I was reasonably sure it would be the end in any other set of circumstances.

The problem with that, based on what His Grace had required, was that I had to, in effect, deceive the young woman, either directly or by silence, about that potential future. Any young woman who was Orthodox would assume that re-ordination was literally impossible. And that had all kinds of implications, especially if it were ever revealed that I knew about the bishop’s intent and had concealed it.

There was no doubt in my mind that one of the motivating factors in Clarissa’s prescription was to foreclose any possibility of ordination in the future. As she saw it, that had the dual effect of protecting the plan of having a child together and protecting me from the kinds of troubles I’d had while I’d been a deacon. I knew she objected to what she called my ‘slavish obedience’ to the bishop, and she felt, rightly, that if I were to miss the mark with regard to sex, it would put an end to that.

Clarissa’s prescription, intentionally or not, was a way to guarantee that I could not be considered for ordination, no matter what happened. She felt that was in my best interest, and there was a good chance she was right, given everything that had happened in the past two years. Of course, I could defeat the plan by simply not confessing, but I didn’t think I could do that. Of all the struggles I’d had, a ‘crisis of faith’ wasn’t one of them.

To be sure, I’d had a loss of faith in my bishop, but history was replete with corrupt or incompetent bishops and clergymen who abused their office. Paul had taken congregations and leaders to task in the first century, so it was no surprise that nineteen centuries removed, we had those same problems. None of that had anything to do with my faith in a key Orthodox tenet — Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life.

What would I give up if I followed Clarissa’s prescription? Ordination, certainly; probably being a catechist; possibly being a Sunday School teacher. I could marshal all manner of arguments for not, in effect, throwing the baby out with the bathwater. I had valuable skills, as confirmed by two bishops and two priests, in evangelism and teaching, but grave sin might cause the Church to refuse to make use of them.

In the end, though, nothing could prevent me from using those skills unofficially, as I often had at Taft. I’d said, many times, that I didn’t need to be ordained to make effective use of my teaching or evangelism skills, and that continued to be true. I hadn’t sought ordination, I’d simply acquiesced to the request from the congregation to my bishop and done my best to obey him according to my understanding of what that meant.

I also knew myself well enough, that I could easily fall into the old pattern, and there would be near-infinite opportunities for sexual relationships, especially if I let my guard down, or relaxed my views on nurses and fellow med students, or eventually other doctors. Nurse Ellie was the tip of the iceberg, as it were, and was blatant about it; other young nurses were, I was sure, available, but were more circumspect.

As I made Rachel’s bottle, I analyzed the entire conversation with Annette and the unexpected turns it had taken, which, upon further reflection, were never going to happen. As I’d said to Annette, my entire support system was here, most of it very close, with my grandparents and my mom a bit further away. All my friends were here. My parishes were here.

The question I had to ask myself was why I’d taken the conversation in the direction of a speculative future, which had no realistic chance of coming to fruition. I almost laughed at the answer which popped into my mind — that I was looking for a justification for having sex with Annette. I wondered if my mental block had masked the desire, because I hadn’t had the usual feelings I’d had when I’d had the opportunity in the past. Perhaps that was why I’d taken the conversation in that direction.

“Sorry,” I said after sitting down in the rocking chair to allow Rachel to suckle her bottle.

“It’s OK,” Annette replied. “You’re focused on Rachel, which is what you should be doing.”

“Sort of,” I replied. “I was thinking about everything we’ve said and trying to make sense of it, and there are so many factors which complicate my answer to your question about being reluctant. Some of those factors I can’t discuss, and there are some I probably can’t properly articulate.

“One thing I am concerned about is a ‘rebound’ relationship, which is part of why I’ve been tentative with you. The more I think about it, setting all speculation aside, the less I’m sure I could realistically contemplate a move to Nashville. I mean, it’s possible, but it would be a major change of course.”

“You concluded that after you asked me to stay, right?”

“Yes.”

“It was a bit fast, though I was going with the flow because it wasn’t as if we were going to fly to Vegas tomorrow to get married. There would be plenty of time to sort things out and figure out if it was the right thing to do. And now, you’re reluctant because it would be, well, just...”

“Fucking,” I interrupted.

“I was going to say ‘sex’, because of all the words I’d have expected you to use, the one you just used would be the last one!”

“Don’t let the clerical garb I used to wear fool you! I know those words, and have used them quite a bit in private. In public, I had to maintain decorum. And that word really breaks it down to what it would be, because the future we sketched out is highly speculative and, to be frank, highly unlikely for the reasons I’ve given.”

“Your family, friends, and church are all here.”

“Yes, but there’s also my desire, from the time I was in grade school, to serve my community. As I’ve said time and again when people have encouraged me to attend medical school at Stanford or Emory or Yale, or Match to one of them or Mayo or Johns Hopkins, I’ve steadfastly replied that the people of Hayes and Harding Counties deserve the best medical care available, and if all the top students leave the area that can’t happen.”

“Where does that leave us?” Annette asked.

“Sitting in my former professor’s music room with me feeding my daughter,” I smirked.

“I don’t believe any woman in history has had to work this hard to get a guy to go to bed with her!”

Milena came immediately to mind, and I’d certainly frustrated Melody in that regard. And then there were Nurse Ellie and Erin Edwards, though neither of them had any chance of success.

I chuckled, “Let me introduce you to a few of my former lovers, and you can commiserate! Or a nurse who tried much harder and failed!”

“Given I can’t imagine you cheating on your wife, that isn’t really comparable.”

“I agree. There was one young woman who worked on me for the best part of two years before I gave in.”

“What was wrong with her?”

“Nothing! She was, and is, gorgeous, has a great personality, and we clicked really well. And the sex was sublime.”

“So what, then?”

“The same struggle I’m having now. I first met her as a Freshman, and that number of girls I gave you and the timeframe is a bit deceiving, because two-thirds of them were after Freshman year. Before then I was, well, struggling with the concept. That’s when I first turned down that girl I referred to, and that initial rejection carried over because I continued to struggle with the whole concept through Sophomore year, which was when my personality changed to be less stoic and more carefree.”

“And being married changed that back?”

“Actually, it was my ordination more than my marriage. As much as Russian men complain about Russian women, Elizaveta and I had a lot of fun, though it was somewhat constrained by our shared calling to the diaconate. But amongst our closest friends, we were like any other young couple.”

“And then you quit or resigned or whatever.”

“Asked to be laicized is the Orthodox way of saying it,” I replied. “But ‘resigned’ is a reasonable analogue.”

“OK, and if it was truly that, then I don’t see the problem, unless it’s your feelings for your wife.”

“I’m sure that’s part of it,” I replied. “And the fear of doing something foolish ‘on the rebound’.”

“That makes total sense. But maybe that you’re afraid of what it means if your equipment doesn’t work as designed.”

I chuckled, “God as engineer! Akin to Jefferson’s idea of God as ‘watchmaker’.”

“Deflecting with humor?”

“Maybe,” I admitted.

“It seems as if we’re right back where we started when I arrived,” she said. “I mean, sure, there’s a remote possibility this could go somewhere, which I raised when I said you were ‘boyfriend material’, but it’s no more likely now than it was then. I wanted to see you because I wanted to spend the night with you, and I don’t mean just sleeping in the same bed. And we’ve been dancing around the only question that matters in the short term — are we going to bed together or not? If we aren’t, I’ll go home. I’d much rather stay, but it’s up to you.”

If I looked at it from a purely pragmatic point of view, asking Annette to stay would answer an important question with no real potential for a bad outcome, except perhaps a bruised ego, though I didn’t think an inability to perform would be anything other than needing to overcome whatever mental block I had that was causing my physiological problems.

As I mused about it, one thing Clarissa had said, or at least implied, was that ordination, or the potential for it, was a set of shackles. I had to ask myself the same exact question that Lara had asked herself — did I want to live the rest of my life under a microscope, and have people like Nik Antipov watching my every move, even as a doctor, for any perceived violation of how they felt a deacon should behave.

When I weighed everything, including far more freedom for gigs Code Blue could accept, and the freedom I’d have to practice medicine exactly as I saw fit, and to raise my family as I saw fit, and to conduct my personal life as I saw fit, without constantly worrying about how it would look, I concluded that Clarissa was correct in her assessment. And if I was honest with myself, the best approach was to follow Clarissa’s prescription. She hadn’t steered me wrong or given me bad advice, even if I hadn’t always followed it.

“In the immortal words of Mick Jagger,” I replied, “Let’s Spend the Night Together.”

“Music to my ears!” Annette exclaimed.

“Let’s hope the instrument works.”

“Your ‘woodwind’?” she asked with a smirk. “Playing it is just a matter of proper use of your lips and tongue, having good breath control, and not allowing your teeth to interfere!”

“You’ve obviously played a ‘woodwind’ before,” I teased.

“I’d say that was pretty obvious when I told you that I swallowed! Even YOU can’t be that dense!”

I chuckled, “Clarissa would disagree with you!”

“I’ll send her a ‘Thank You’ note tomorrow! I’m going to get my bag from my car.”

She left and I heard the front door open and close. Rachel had drunk half her bottle, so I put her to my shoulder and patted her back.

“Daddy loves you very much,” I said softly, repeating, as I usually did, the first words I’d said to her. “Daddy’s going to find you a mommy soon. You have one, of course, and she loved you from the time we made you until she was taken from us.”

I laughed because Rachel’s response was to burp and spit a bit of formula onto the strategically placed cloth I always put on my shoulder. I cradled her again and offered her the bottle. She latched onto the nipple and sucked greedily.

“Daddy prefers redheads,” I said with a silly smile. “But maybe you like Lara who has dark hair, or Tasha who has blonde hair. Daddy likes both of them. Most of all, Daddy wants you to be happy and love your mommy, and he’ll love her, too.”

I wished there was some way for Rachel to give an opinion, but it would be months before she did anything more than babble, and the ability to express opinions was probably two years away, though before then she’d be able to make her feelings known verbally in a basic way. I very much looked forward to that and I very much wanted to share it with someone.

Annette returned to the house and came into the music room.

“It’s snowing,” she said. “Just very lightly.”

“She’s almost done eating,” I said.

“Where’s your room?”

“Upstairs, first on the right. You’ll know you’re in the right room because you’ll see Rachel’s crib. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Where’s your professor?”

“Out with her boyfriend. She should be home any minute now.”

“See you upstairs.”

Annette went up the stairs and two minutes later, Rachel finished her bottle. I put her on my shoulder and patted her back until she burped, then got up from the rocking chair and went upstairs. Annette was in the bathroom, so I swaddled Rachel, kissed her forehead, then put her down in her crib.

“Sleep well, little one,” I said.

I closed and locked the door to the room, tossed the cloth on my shoulder into the hamper, then put a CD of Queen’s Live Magic into my boombox, pressed play, and adjusted the volume. A few seconds later, the door to the bathroom opened and Annette came out wearing a sheer white babydoll nightie.

I smiled appreciatively and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and empty my bladder. As I did so, I realized that even the sight of a very sexy blonde in a translucent nightie hadn’t cause me to even twitch, and I feared that Annette might be very disappointed. I finished in the bathroom and went back to the bedroom to find Annette had turned down the comforter and was lying on the bed, her hair splayed on the pillow.

I turned off the overhead light, and dimmed the table lamp, then stripped down to my underwear and started to get into bed.

“Not going to remove your briefs?” Annette asked.

“You have on a nightie!” I countered.

“It’s sexy! And see-through! And I’m not wearing panties!”

I laughed, pulled off my briefs, and climbed into bed. I lay on my back and Annette turned and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Let’s see if we can get your instrument to perform,” she said.

I felt her hand on my groin, and she began slowly stroking my flaccid member. In the past, that would have been enough for the blood to begin flowing, but I felt nothing. Well, that wasn’t true, I felt her hand and then her lips on my shoulder, but they weren’t having the desired effect. Annette continued to stroke me and I felt her lips touch my chest, then my stomach, with no change in blood flow, or even the sense that it was going to happen.