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Our Kind of People

Bob Strother

    My husband Dean says the entire point of taking a vacation is to get a change of scene, go somewhere you wouldn’t normally go, and do things you wouldn’t normally do. If you just wanted a rest, he says, you could stop the newspaper, cut off the phones, put your feet up and watch DVDs. That would be more of a traditional rest than dragging your luggage across Europe and climbing the thirty thousand steps to the Notre Dame cathedral.
    Of course, there aren’t really thirty thousand steps involved, but it seemed so at the time. We were with Leigh and Wade Bailey, a couple from Iowa we’d met our first night in Paris, and part of our tour group. Leigh had a thing about heights—something I wouldn’t have imagined just to look at her; she seemed so composed—and Dean and Wade had to lead her to the top and back like one might guide a blind person. She might as well have been, I thought, since her eyes were closed practically the whole time.
    Still, they were fun, attractive people, and, like the two of us, in their late thirties. Not really our kind of people, Dean observed and I agreed, but we were on vacation, after all, doing things we wouldn’t normally do. During dinner that evening, the four of us decided we’d spend all of our time together—unless we grew tired of each other, of course.
    The following day we did the Eiffel Tower, and that went much better than Notre Dame.
    “She doesn’t mind the heights so much,” Wade explained while Leigh was in the restroom. “It’s the openness. As long as we’re enclosed”—he gestured to the elevator—“she’s fine.”
    That afternoon, we visited a couple of museums. Much to my surprise, Dean seemed truly immersed in the painting and sculptures. It’s certainly something we’d never done back in the States. In fact, it was probably the last activity I’d have imagined him tolerating, let alone enjoying.
    But enjoy it he did. Our tour wasn’t one of those where every minute was planned. On the contrary, once we reached our various destinations, we were pretty much free to do anything we liked. As a result, we spent much of the following week exploring at least half a dozen museums in four more European cities.
    Leigh was delighted—having confessed earlier that she’d studied art history during a brief stint in college. “I’m so glad we’ve something in common,” she told Dean. “Wade’s a good sport about my aesthetic interests, but I have the feeling he’s rolling his eyes behind my back.”
    Wade had chuckled and spread his arms as if to suggest you got me. “I’m not saying if you’ve seen one Picasso you’ve seen them all, but I will say I’ve got a pretty good idea what all the rest will look like.”
    Later that evening as Dean lay on the bed, he asked, “Did you notice the gun on Wade’s hip?”
    “I caught a glimpse of it when he spread his arms. How do you think he got it? They won’t let you take a weapon onto a plane.”
    “You can pack it in your luggage, as long as you declare it,” Dean said. “It just seems unusual he’d carry it while we’re touring.”
    “Probably he’s just used to having it with him.”
    Dean picked up the paperback he’d been reading. “I suppose so.” He unfolded his reading glasses and slipped them on, then looked at me over the top. “I’ve been watching Wade. I think he finds you very appealing.”
    I raised an eyebrow and moved to sit down beside him. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way Leigh looks at you, too.”
    Dean laughed. “I’m sure it’s just my appreciation for the arts.” He put down the book. “You know, at home, I wouldn’t give her a second look.” He reached out and stroked a length of my golden hair. “You know I prefer blondes ... but here, maybe.” His hand dropped to my thigh. “What about you, do you like Wade?”
    I shrugged then found my mouth sliding into a grin. “Umm ... maybe; I mean it would be kind of different, wouldn’t it?”
    “Wonder if they’re thinking what we’re thinking.”
    My grin widened. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

    Rome, Italy was the last stop on our journey, and I wasn’t surprised when Dean scoured the hotel’s tourism promotion racks for information on museums. At the dinner table that evening, he fanned out a collection of brochures like a deck of playing cards.
    Wade grimaced. “More museums?”
    Dean tucked the brochures back into the inside pocket of his blazer. “Well, we have plenty of things to see here other than museums. Let’s think about it overnight and come up with a plan at breakfast tomorrow.”
    “Sounds good to me,” Wade said.
    “And me,” I offered.
    Leigh brushed back a stray lock of dark brown hair and nodded her consent.
    It was decided.

    The next morning we toured the Coliseum and the Parthenon. Once, when we were standing on the ruins looking out over the city, I felt Wade’s upper arm press lightly against my own. I leaned into him just a bit and looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back.
    On the bus headed back into the downtown area, Dean pulled out the brochures again, handed some to Leigh, and the two of them began discussing possibilities for the afternoon.
    Wade turned to face me and said, “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had about all the culture I can stand for one day. I’m ready for a quiet lunch somewhere and a glass of wine.”
    “Me, too,” I said. “Dean, why don’t you and Leigh take in the museums this afternoon, and we can all meet up again for dinner.”
    Leigh looked first at Wade, then at me. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Then she turned to Dean. “I mean ... if you want to.”
    Dean reached over the seat and placed a hand on Leigh’s shoulder. “There’s nothing I’d enjoy more. You can enlighten me about Italy’s famous artists.”

    Wade picked a quaint little bistro for our lunch and surprised me by ordering our meal in Italian. “I’ve been boning up at night over the past day or two. I wanted to impress you.”
    “You have.”
    We waited until the waiter poured our wine and retreated to wherever it is waiters go when they’re not hovering, and then Wade put his hand over mine. “Cathy ... I find you very attractive.”
    It wasn’t unexpected, but I still felt my insides grow a little warm. “What do you suggest we do about that?”

    As we all gathered for dinner that evening, Wade’s tenseness was apparent—but only to me, I thought. His usually easy manner seemed strained. He looked very handsome, resplendent in a light gray shirt and matching silk jacket I’d helped him select earlier in the afternoon. If he was wearing the gun underneath, I couldn’t tell.
    Halfway through our third bottle of Dolcetto, Wade finally held up his glass and proposed a toast. “It isn’t often we find friends like you two, and Leigh and I want you to know how much we’ve enjoyed your company.”
    Dean raised his own glass. “The feeling is mutual.”
    “Anyway,” Wade continued, “tomorrow is our last full day here. The morning after that we’ll hop on a plane and when we reach JFK, we’ll probably never see each other again. You’ll go back to your job in advertising, Dean, and I’ll go back to doing what I do.”
    Perspiration glowed across Wade’s forehead, and he licked his lips. “There are so many things we still haven’t seen, it seems a shame to miss them, so tomorrow Leigh and I were thinking maybe we could split up—just spend the whole day doing whatever strikes our fancy. The whole night even, then get back together for breakfast.” Wade gulped down a healthy slug of wine and glanced at Dean. “And since you and Leigh seem to have such similar interests, I was thinking you and she could pair up, and Cathy and I could do the same.”
    The moment of silence that followed was probably not nearly as long as it must have seemed. Then Dean glanced at me, winked, and said, “Why not?”
    Later, back in our room, Dean asked, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
    “Yes, I think so,” I said. “I just wonder if it might make some difference in our marriage.”
    “I don’t think it will,” he said. “We wouldn’t do this sort of thing ever again. It’s like we’re in a fantasy world. I mean, we’re not back home in Cleveland; we’re in Rome. And, when in Rome... ”
    I grinned. “Is this what the Romans do?”
    “Probably,” Dean said, “when they’re on holiday.”

    After breakfast the next morning, the men discussed the necessary logistical arrangements while Leigh and I powered our noses. It was all small talk in the ladies’ room—I suppose it was easier to just act as if everything was normal. Then the four of us paired off as planned with nothing more being said. I wish I could remember more about what Wade and I did during the day, but I can’t. Suffice it to say we did lots of touristy things—shopping, taking a carriage ride, and feeding the pigeons outside Saint Peter’s Basilica.
    That evening we had dinner and drank wine, but not to excess. Afterward, we retired to my room and spent the night in either love or lust. I never really decided which it was. At some point I fell asleep, and when I awoke, Wade was gone and Dean was in bed beside me. I wondered idly if they had passed in the hall or if there’d been some arrangement made beforehand on the logistics.
    In the morning, we all had breakfast together and then left for the airport. Arriving at JFK, we collected our luggage and went through customs. Dean and I had a flight to Cleveland Hopkins airport, and the Baileys had a two-hour layover before heading to Des Moines. Before parting, the men shook hands while Leigh and I embraced. Then I kissed Wade and Leigh and Dean kissed. The scene was so surreal, I almost laughed.
    A couple of hours later, we were on the ground in Cleveland, and thirty minutes after that we were home.
    We had dinner the following weekend with friends of ours, Paul and Susan Lacy, a very fetching couple we’d known for years, and I wondered what it would be like if we traded partners for the evening. But, of course, it wouldn’t happen. I imagined Dean might be thinking the same thing. He’d always liked Susan. He never said anything, but still I wondered.

    I thought about all this again just last week. Dean and his team hit a bank in Scranton, Pennsylvania, and a teller managed to set off the silent alarm just as they were leaving. The police arrived quickly and there was some shooting, and one of Dean’s men was wounded, but not badly. One of the policemen was wounded, too, and another killed.
    Dean told me he’d fired his gun a few times, but was pretty sure he didn’t hit anybody. Still, I know both of us were thinking what if it had been Wade Bailey? It wouldn’t have happened, of course. I mean, what would a Des Moines cop be doing in Scranton, Pennsylvania? But what if Wade had been from Scranton instead of Des Moines? What if Dean had shot him? What if he’d shot Dean? Neither of us wanted to think about that.
    It amazes me to think I slept with a police officer while Dean was sleeping with a policeman’s wife. It’s just so incredible for me to picture it now—that we had even become friendly with them. But we were two different people then, and Wade and Leigh were different people, too. We were in Europe, after all, which is a whole different universe as far as I’m concerned.
    So, it’s like it never really happened at all.

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