Asunder
by Mary Ann McGuigan
The chair had no give. Straight-backed, it cut into Moira’s spine, so she remained at the edge, at an awkward angle, no place to put her knees. Father Bertwin had settled into the leather chair on the opposite side of the desk, an impeccably uncluttered surface occupied only by a small metal pencil holder, the tape machine he’d brought in to record their conversation, and a drab green blotter that would certainly not be doodled on.
The office was boxy, the heavy curtains drawn. It had the feel of a confessional. Father Bertwin had insisted Moira come here to review Ken’s petition for annulment, gave her an hour. She was done. Now she knew what the priest knew, and she wished she could find a way to finish this without being obliged to look at him.
The Church had assigned Father Bertwin to be Moira’s advocate. It was his job to make sure she understood the grounds for nullity and to protect the marriage bond, which the Church considered to be intact. Their divorce a year before and their two sons had no bearing.
She had responded in writing to the tribunal as requested, a three-page, single-spaced hemorrhage of first this then that—none of which had ever been set down, not even for the divorce lawyer—making the case that her ex-husband’s request for annulment be denied. But no narrative could convey her longing to hear him say her name or what it felt like to become the anonymous being who walked from one room to another, tending his children, sharing silent meals, a creature who warranted no affection.
“You’ve completed your reading?” Bertwin said, sounding imperial, removed.
Moira nodded. She was shaken, her breathing shallow. She wished she hadn’t interfered. She could have let Ken’s petition go uncontested. Now she’d been trapped in the labyrinth, forced to read the case Ken had made against her. She felt lightheaded, barely able to sit up straight. She didn’t understand why Bertwin wanted her to read this. Had he expected her to come upon something she didn’t already suspect? That had not happened. But she had been holding on to the possibility, now a delusion, that Ken was telling her the truth all these years, that he had not slept with the girl, that he had loved her, at least in the beginning.
Bertwin turned on the recorder, leaned back in his chair. The button on the old machine made a sharp sound, like fingers snapping. “You’ll need to speak clearly,” he told her, without apology. After all, as a petitioner her ex-husband had brought this matter to the attention of the Tribunal of the Roman Catholic Diocese. “To rule on an annulment, conditions must be met,” he said. “And there is only one condition under which the Church will grant your husband’s petition: He must prove a grave lack of judgment in entering the marriage—that he failed to appreciate the obligations of marriage or to assess his ability to meet them. Has this been made clear to you?”
“Yes.”
She wondered what kind of a man could be part of a dissection like this. Bertwin’s face offered no clues. No wrinkles or smile lines. His expression was nearly blank, a few degrees short of bored. His hair was thinning, his voice measured. His demeanor was meant to convey balance and neutrality, but the collar did most of the work for him. Its associations for Moira were intractable—remnants of an Irish Catholic childhood in which idolatry trumped logic.
A panicky tingling lingered along the backs of her legs, the kind that woke her in the night, even now, years after she first suspected what was going on with the girl. She was having trouble focusing, being present in the room. She was back there, waiting up for Ken to return from his nightly walk. Was he keeping fit or calling the girl, the person they pretended didn’t matter? Once he returned, he’d undress out of sight in their closet, slipping out of the sweat suit Moira would toss in the hamper next day. If it was cold enough, his skin would still be chilled when he came to bed. She’d rub his arm or his back, but he’d pat her hand then turn away, so she stopped touching him, stopped expecting him to acknowledge she was there. In the mornings, when she kissed him good-bye, his lips did not part for her, and even without the children nearby to distract them, he did not embrace her. She would walk to the train station, studying her boots. It had been that way a very long time by then. She no longer cried the whole way. Unbidden, images of Ken with the boys would soften the edges of doubt. Instinctively, he’d know why they were crying or why they sulked, and how to distract them.
“You’re welcome to respond to any part of it,” Moira heard Bertwin say. He snapped open his briefcase, removed a notebook, placed it on the desk, opened to a clean page. The expensive pen he slipped from an inside pocket sat poised in his long fingers, like a scalpel.
“He mentions the affair,” she said.
“Yes,” he prompted. “He says he met her when Sean was six.”
She’d done the math. The girl couldn’t have been more than seventeen then. “That would add up.”
“Sean is your older boy, correct? Three years older than Michael?”
“Yes,” she said, and he made a note of it, as if it were new information.
“And he was twelve by the time you separated?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s when you became aware something was wrong?”
She saw it was a mistake to mention the affair. He was going to focus on it. “That’s when I began to suspect. Yes.”
“But you didn’t separate? Not until six years later?”
“That’s right,” Moira whispered. Her tolerance must seem pathetic, even to a priest. But the idea of separation—the idea of anything other than a remedy—took years to form. Maybe for Ken too. He’d taught her how to press a rose, though she rarely bothered, but she’d find them tucked into biographies and textbooks she hadn’t trashed, wondering which anniversaries they marked. As things deteriorated, she dragged him to therapy, where he would politely say next to nothing. She believed she could fix them. At one point, she even asked about the girl—fear disguised as curiosity, trying not to accuse—but got no closer to the truth.
Father Bertwin tapped the barrel of his pen against his palm. “Does that stand out for you? His admission of the affair?”
She wondered at the look on his face, as if he too wanted something reconciled. “Yes. I’m surprised he mentions it at all.” Her voice weakened. She didn’t want to say any more about it.
Bertwin did. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?” He motioned toward the tape recorder. “For the machine.”
Moira looked into his eyes, but there was nothing to indicate he understood this kind of humiliation. She leaned forward. “I’m surprised he acknowledged having the affair.”
“He never acknowledged it to you?”
“No.”
He underlined something in his notebook. “Why do you think he wants the annulment?”
“That’s an easy one.” Her laugh was not a laugh. “He wants to start over with a squeaky clean conscience, take a hose to his past.”
“So why not let him?”
She wanted to slap this man. He thought his church could replay a marriage and rule it out of bounds. “If this were just between Ken and the Church, I wouldn’t care what you did.” Moira picked up the heavy folder, felt her face go hot. “I’m not doing this because I care what the Church thinks.” Bertwin’s wince was barely noticeable. “I’m here for my sons and for me. The marriage was real. Life can’t be nullified.” The folder landed hard on the desk, tipping the pencil holder.
Bertwin righted it. “So you suspected he was having an affair?”
The question made her eyes sting. She would not be able to answer him, not without crying. She nodded.
“Aloud please,” he told her, pointing to the recorder.
Moira had trouble swallowing. “Yes,” she whispered.
Bertwin seemed to take longer than needed making his notes. “With whom?”
“What?”
“With whom did you think he was having the affair?”
Moira had to catch her breath. She remembered having to work up the courage to ask why the meetings at school lasted so long. How complicated could planning a prom be? Why was he always the one to drive the girl home? She was crazy to be asking such things, she thought, twisted. Innocent things began to haunt her—his car radio set to a pop station he’d never listen to, called he’d end as soon as she entered the house, those hour-long walks, rain or shine. “Did you ask him that?” she said.
“The tribunal would not ask him that question.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“I’m asking it. I’m asking you.”
“I didn’t know who it was.”
Bertwin looked away, as if embarrassed for her, and turned off the recorder. “Tell me, Moira. Why do you think he’s revealing these things now?” It was the voice of the confessional, the one meant to make you believe in second chances. She wondered how many times he’d play back her answers, listening for secrets.
“I have no idea why,” she said.
He seemed edgy now, almost angry. Removing his glasses, he pulled his collar away from his neck. “Perhaps we need to approach this from another direction.”
He turned the recorder back on, leaned forward a bit. “To annul, the Church must establish whether there was anything that kept him—either of you, really—from entering into the bond freely at the start.” He waited a beat. “May I call your attention to a later section of the transcript,” he said, turning the page. “You saw this?”
She realized what he was pointing to. “I saw it.”
“Permit me to read it aloud,” he said, putting his glasses back on. “Perhaps it will help us think more clearly about this.”
Moira swallowed hard. She was perspiring.
The office was boxy, the heavy curtains drawn. It had the feel of a confessional. Father Bertwin had insisted Moira come here to review Ken’s petition for annulment, gave her an hour. She was done. Now she knew what the priest knew, and she wished she could find a way to finish this without being obliged to look at him.
The Church had assigned Father Bertwin to be Moira’s advocate. It was his job to make sure she understood the grounds for nullity and to protect the marriage bond, which the Church considered to be intact. Their divorce a year before and their two sons had no bearing.
She had responded in writing to the tribunal as requested, a three-page, single-spaced hemorrhage of first this then that—none of which had ever been set down, not even for the divorce lawyer—making the case that her ex-husband’s request for annulment be denied. But no narrative could convey her longing to hear him say her name or what it felt like to become the anonymous being who walked from one room to another, tending his children, sharing silent meals, a creature who warranted no affection.
“You’ve completed your reading?” Bertwin said, sounding imperial, removed.
Moira nodded. She was shaken, her breathing shallow. She wished she hadn’t interfered. She could have let Ken’s petition go uncontested. Now she’d been trapped in the labyrinth, forced to read the case Ken had made against her. She felt lightheaded, barely able to sit up straight. She didn’t understand why Bertwin wanted her to read this. Had he expected her to come upon something she didn’t already suspect? That had not happened. But she had been holding on to the possibility, now a delusion, that Ken was telling her the truth all these years, that he had not slept with the girl, that he had loved her, at least in the beginning.
Bertwin turned on the recorder, leaned back in his chair. The button on the old machine made a sharp sound, like fingers snapping. “You’ll need to speak clearly,” he told her, without apology. After all, as a petitioner her ex-husband had brought this matter to the attention of the Tribunal of the Roman Catholic Diocese. “To rule on an annulment, conditions must be met,” he said. “And there is only one condition under which the Church will grant your husband’s petition: He must prove a grave lack of judgment in entering the marriage—that he failed to appreciate the obligations of marriage or to assess his ability to meet them. Has this been made clear to you?”
“Yes.”
She wondered what kind of a man could be part of a dissection like this. Bertwin’s face offered no clues. No wrinkles or smile lines. His expression was nearly blank, a few degrees short of bored. His hair was thinning, his voice measured. His demeanor was meant to convey balance and neutrality, but the collar did most of the work for him. Its associations for Moira were intractable—remnants of an Irish Catholic childhood in which idolatry trumped logic.
A panicky tingling lingered along the backs of her legs, the kind that woke her in the night, even now, years after she first suspected what was going on with the girl. She was having trouble focusing, being present in the room. She was back there, waiting up for Ken to return from his nightly walk. Was he keeping fit or calling the girl, the person they pretended didn’t matter? Once he returned, he’d undress out of sight in their closet, slipping out of the sweat suit Moira would toss in the hamper next day. If it was cold enough, his skin would still be chilled when he came to bed. She’d rub his arm or his back, but he’d pat her hand then turn away, so she stopped touching him, stopped expecting him to acknowledge she was there. In the mornings, when she kissed him good-bye, his lips did not part for her, and even without the children nearby to distract them, he did not embrace her. She would walk to the train station, studying her boots. It had been that way a very long time by then. She no longer cried the whole way. Unbidden, images of Ken with the boys would soften the edges of doubt. Instinctively, he’d know why they were crying or why they sulked, and how to distract them.
“You’re welcome to respond to any part of it,” Moira heard Bertwin say. He snapped open his briefcase, removed a notebook, placed it on the desk, opened to a clean page. The expensive pen he slipped from an inside pocket sat poised in his long fingers, like a scalpel.
“He mentions the affair,” she said.
“Yes,” he prompted. “He says he met her when Sean was six.”
She’d done the math. The girl couldn’t have been more than seventeen then. “That would add up.”
“Sean is your older boy, correct? Three years older than Michael?”
“Yes,” she said, and he made a note of it, as if it were new information.
“And he was twelve by the time you separated?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s when you became aware something was wrong?”
She saw it was a mistake to mention the affair. He was going to focus on it. “That’s when I began to suspect. Yes.”
“But you didn’t separate? Not until six years later?”
“That’s right,” Moira whispered. Her tolerance must seem pathetic, even to a priest. But the idea of separation—the idea of anything other than a remedy—took years to form. Maybe for Ken too. He’d taught her how to press a rose, though she rarely bothered, but she’d find them tucked into biographies and textbooks she hadn’t trashed, wondering which anniversaries they marked. As things deteriorated, she dragged him to therapy, where he would politely say next to nothing. She believed she could fix them. At one point, she even asked about the girl—fear disguised as curiosity, trying not to accuse—but got no closer to the truth.
Father Bertwin tapped the barrel of his pen against his palm. “Does that stand out for you? His admission of the affair?”
She wondered at the look on his face, as if he too wanted something reconciled. “Yes. I’m surprised he mentions it at all.” Her voice weakened. She didn’t want to say any more about it.
Bertwin did. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?” He motioned toward the tape recorder. “For the machine.”
Moira looked into his eyes, but there was nothing to indicate he understood this kind of humiliation. She leaned forward. “I’m surprised he acknowledged having the affair.”
“He never acknowledged it to you?”
“No.”
He underlined something in his notebook. “Why do you think he wants the annulment?”
“That’s an easy one.” Her laugh was not a laugh. “He wants to start over with a squeaky clean conscience, take a hose to his past.”
“So why not let him?”
She wanted to slap this man. He thought his church could replay a marriage and rule it out of bounds. “If this were just between Ken and the Church, I wouldn’t care what you did.” Moira picked up the heavy folder, felt her face go hot. “I’m not doing this because I care what the Church thinks.” Bertwin’s wince was barely noticeable. “I’m here for my sons and for me. The marriage was real. Life can’t be nullified.” The folder landed hard on the desk, tipping the pencil holder.
Bertwin righted it. “So you suspected he was having an affair?”
The question made her eyes sting. She would not be able to answer him, not without crying. She nodded.
“Aloud please,” he told her, pointing to the recorder.
Moira had trouble swallowing. “Yes,” she whispered.
Bertwin seemed to take longer than needed making his notes. “With whom?”
“What?”
“With whom did you think he was having the affair?”
Moira had to catch her breath. She remembered having to work up the courage to ask why the meetings at school lasted so long. How complicated could planning a prom be? Why was he always the one to drive the girl home? She was crazy to be asking such things, she thought, twisted. Innocent things began to haunt her—his car radio set to a pop station he’d never listen to, called he’d end as soon as she entered the house, those hour-long walks, rain or shine. “Did you ask him that?” she said.
“The tribunal would not ask him that question.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“I’m asking it. I’m asking you.”
“I didn’t know who it was.”
Bertwin looked away, as if embarrassed for her, and turned off the recorder. “Tell me, Moira. Why do you think he’s revealing these things now?” It was the voice of the confessional, the one meant to make you believe in second chances. She wondered how many times he’d play back her answers, listening for secrets.
“I have no idea why,” she said.
He seemed edgy now, almost angry. Removing his glasses, he pulled his collar away from his neck. “Perhaps we need to approach this from another direction.”
He turned the recorder back on, leaned forward a bit. “To annul, the Church must establish whether there was anything that kept him—either of you, really—from entering into the bond freely at the start.” He waited a beat. “May I call your attention to a later section of the transcript,” he said, turning the page. “You saw this?”
She realized what he was pointing to. “I saw it.”
“Permit me to read it aloud,” he said, putting his glasses back on. “Perhaps it will help us think more clearly about this.”
Moira swallowed hard. She was perspiring.
"He lowered his head to hear something she was saying. When he answered, the girl giggled. The sound was like a warning." |
“Question,” he began, “And what were your feelings on your wedding day? Answer: I wasn’t happy; I didn’t want to go through with it.” Moira remembered the heat that day, her hair heavy on her neck as they assembled in the park for the photographer. Ken was stiff, ill at ease.
|
“Question: You knew you didn’t want to get married? Answer: Yes, I knew that I didn’t.” The photographer tried to get Ken to relax, stand closer to her, get him to smile. She wanted that too. Ken stood where he was told as the photographer placed his arm around her waist. Ken’s touch was light, obedient, and she wondered if this was how actors felt when they took direction. It reminded her of the last time they were in bed together. They’d made love only once in several weeks. They’d been busy with the wedding arrangements, up late, tired. They watched a movie that night, drank wine, she, at least, hoping it would relax them. But he couldn’t get hard, blamed it on the wine. He went down on her but her body resisted, until she found herself imagining that the face between her legs was Richard’s, a young man Ken once taught with, a man he had always disliked. Moira had never imagined such a thing before, but the thrill of it, the feeling that she’d escaped some arid place, overcame her, carried her a safe distance away.
“Question: Why didn’t you want to go through with it? Answer: Because I didn’t love her. I never really loved her, not the way I should have.” Bertwin put the papers down. “What have you to say to that?”
Moira’s fists were clenched. Again she’d been found wanting. She tried for an even tone, but the bitterness wouldn’t stay down. “I’d say that’s less than 100 percent.”
“Moira,” Bertwin said, almost in a whisper, as if he was going to say something kind. But it was only more of the same. “Moira, does this match your understanding of the way things were that day? Did you have a sense that something was missing?”
She wanted to laugh. Was he really smug enough to believe he and his Church could get to the truth? “He said he loved me and wanted a family. Whether he
was lying then or now is anybody’s guess.”
“Do you really believe that? That he didn’t love you?” Bertwin sounded stern.
“It’s a lie,” she said.
“You sound certain.”
She wasn’t. Never had been. “It’s the reason I’m here. We had something special once.”
“Question: Why didn’t you want to go through with it? Answer: Because I didn’t love her. I never really loved her, not the way I should have.” Bertwin put the papers down. “What have you to say to that?”
Moira’s fists were clenched. Again she’d been found wanting. She tried for an even tone, but the bitterness wouldn’t stay down. “I’d say that’s less than 100 percent.”
“Moira,” Bertwin said, almost in a whisper, as if he was going to say something kind. But it was only more of the same. “Moira, does this match your understanding of the way things were that day? Did you have a sense that something was missing?”
She wanted to laugh. Was he really smug enough to believe he and his Church could get to the truth? “He said he loved me and wanted a family. Whether he
was lying then or now is anybody’s guess.”
“Do you really believe that? That he didn’t love you?” Bertwin sounded stern.
“It’s a lie,” she said.
“You sound certain.”
She wasn’t. Never had been. “It’s the reason I’m here. We had something special once.”
|
“And the affair?”
“That’s a lie too.” She clung to this, no less than she did then, like the night of that tournament game, when she saw him with the girl in the stairwell near the gym. She was against the wall, and he was close, surely too close. He was resting his forearm against the wall, as if to block her way. Their bodies were touching. They had to be. They didn’t see her. He lowered his head to hear something she was saying. When he answered, the girl giggled. The sound was like a warning. |
"She mattered to him. She must have. The changes came later, slowly, the wordless dinners, the space between them in the night, the longing to be held, to be loved again..." |
She should not see this. She should leave. Still, she imagined what the girl might smell like, some combination of fruity shampoo and stale gum. Ken looked over his shoulder—to be sure they were alone?—before his hand disappeared inside her denim jacket. Moira made a little sound, an audible shiver, as if the moment had become too ugly to watch. Then the door to the landing opened, and Ken stepped away, greeted the boy who passed. Standing there, her jacket open now, the girl raised her hand to her breast, cupped it for him, and he nodded, as if the gesture were familiar. Young girls were bold, he had said more than once. Still, she promised herself she would ask him about it later. But he made love to her fiercely that night, and she let that be her answer.
“But you wanted to marry Ken?”
“Yes, I wanted to marry him,” Moira insisted. “Why do we have to do this?”
Bertwin clasped his hands in front of him on the desk. She saw he was ready. He’d slice her open, show her the rot he’d found. “I spoke just yesterday to the tribunal, including the Judicial Vicar. I assure you Ken’s case does not seem as weak to them as it does to you. He has stated that he did not love you, that he was not prepared to enter what the Church calls ‘a partnership of the whole life.’ Evidence of his love for you at the time would be very useful.”
“Evidence?” Was he joking? Was there a blood test for commitment? By the time Michael was born, Ken was so distant their sex was like a well-rehearsed flop.
It wasn’t like that in the beginning. He wanted her. She made him happy. They laughed. He told her things, things she was sure he’d never told anyone. She mattered to him. She must have. The changes came later, slowly, the wordless dinners, the space between them in the night, the longing to be held, to be loved again, the night with John—hardly more than an acquaintance—a single night that would leave her broken and uncertain. They’d worked late together on deadline, post production on a video her client needed for a conference. John’s flirting was routine by then, bolder only because he could count on her refusals.
“But you wanted to marry Ken?”
“Yes, I wanted to marry him,” Moira insisted. “Why do we have to do this?”
Bertwin clasped his hands in front of him on the desk. She saw he was ready. He’d slice her open, show her the rot he’d found. “I spoke just yesterday to the tribunal, including the Judicial Vicar. I assure you Ken’s case does not seem as weak to them as it does to you. He has stated that he did not love you, that he was not prepared to enter what the Church calls ‘a partnership of the whole life.’ Evidence of his love for you at the time would be very useful.”
“Evidence?” Was he joking? Was there a blood test for commitment? By the time Michael was born, Ken was so distant their sex was like a well-rehearsed flop.
It wasn’t like that in the beginning. He wanted her. She made him happy. They laughed. He told her things, things she was sure he’d never told anyone. She mattered to him. She must have. The changes came later, slowly, the wordless dinners, the space between them in the night, the longing to be held, to be loved again, the night with John—hardly more than an acquaintance—a single night that would leave her broken and uncertain. They’d worked late together on deadline, post production on a video her client needed for a conference. John’s flirting was routine by then, bolder only because he could count on her refusals.
"He wrote a note inside, describing how sorry he was and how much he had loved her. It was her amulet, her protection from the abyss. She would not bring it out to be weighed and judged inadequate. It was proof enough for her."
But something was different and he knew she was staying in the city. He showed up at her room with a bottle of Stag’s Leap and an obscenely huge lollipop, an obvious reference to their earlier exchanges. But that’s not what she wanted, and he obliged. She liked how hungry he was, tender, and later when they realized the condom had broken, he lay still for a very long time, resting close to her on his elbow, his hand spread wide on her stomach, until the traffic in the street below thinned and the quiet of the place became their own. For a long time afterward, she could still feel the tears and the way his fingers felt on her cheek.
“Do you have any letters? Letters would be very powerful.” She had no letters, only cards. Birthday cards. Valentine cards. All composed by Hallmark and closed with barely more than his name. She shook her head no, but Bertwin was unconvinced.
“This is important, Moira. There must be something. A letter. A note.”
There was. A card. The only “evidence” she had of his feelings that wasn’t canned or formulaic. She kept it safe in a thick anthology of Irish poets, a good place for lost causes, a book she never planned to return to. The card came in the mail soon after they told Sean and Michael they were separating. It was one of those cards that asks forgiveness when none can be had, pointless, like get-well wishes for the terminally ill. But he wrote a note inside, describing how sorry he was and how much he had loved her. It was her amulet, her protection from the abyss. She would not bring it out to be weighed and judged inadequate. It was proof enough for her.
“I have nothing like that,” she told him. “Two sons? Making a life together? That’s not enough?”
“The affair—given the length of it—may in fact lend weight to his assertion that he should not have married.”
“Why isn’t the burden on him? Make him prove he never loved me.” Proof had kept her waiting years. She’d remained unsure about Michael, tortured that he might be John’s child, until the cleft appeared on his chin and he outgrew every third grader, the way Ken surely had as a boy.
“I’m afraid he may have done that already.” Clearly Bertwin had some stake in this. He stopped the recorder. “I think we’re done here,” he said. He stood, took the folders, pushed them back into his briefcase.
Moira got to her feet, gathered her things. As she came around the desk, he stepped in front to block her way. “I want you to think about this,” he said. “You may have overlooked something that would shed light.”
She was done with this. She stepped around him and opened the door. He offered to accompany her to the main hall and before she could refuse he was walking next to her. Her legs felt weak. The floor was so shiny she was afraid she’d slip, yet she couldn’t imagine taking his arm. She was relieved when they got to the wide stairs and she could grasp the banister.
In the lobby, he made certain once again that she had his card. He took her hand to say goodbye. His was surprisingly warm. She turned away, stepped outside into the brilliant warm day. She felt lightheaded at once. Even her skin felt flimsy. Her parking space seemed far away; the sunshine, like a weight. She heard footsteps, and Bertwin was beside her again.
“Let me walk you to your car.”
“Thank you. I’m fine.”
“I have a few more questions. A few things are still not clear.”
She didn’t believe that. She was sure he had his answers. “I really need to get back.”
He pointed to a concrete bench facing a statue of St. Francis, kept safe behind layers of expertly tended flowers. Peace of heart in this place, she thought, was all a matter of good order. They sat down together as if on cue. He settled himself, adjusted his jacket. “I must ask you a question that may upset you.”
Moira laughed. “Why stop now?”
He let this go. “It seems as if . . . well . . . I can’t help thinking there’s something about this affair of his that you preferred not to know.”
Moira felt her heart pounding. “I can see why you would. Six years is a long time. I should have left him sooner.”
“I don’t mean that. I can understand your not facing it then. You would have been risking everything. It’s something else, something you want to avoid looking at too closely. Even now.”
“You must see how humiliating this has been,” she said, hoping that would satisfy. Could Ken still be charged with something? The girl was an adult now.
“If an annulment is about correcting something, then we need to get to the truth.” He sounded so priestly she was embarrassed for him.
“Some things can’t be corrected,” she said, almost tempted to pat his knee. She had wanted to abort, fearing the baby might not be Ken’s, but she couldn’t do it. The swelling—even when it required no more accommodation than unbuttoning her jeans—offered the promise that something might change. The undivided attention that a new baby demanded might finally call them back to each other. In her second trimester, Ken began to do the laundry now and then.
He encouraged her to take walks, to plan a longer maternity leave this time. Whatever the truth about the baby—the child had been conceived if not out of love, then for fear of losing it.
“Do you have any letters? Letters would be very powerful.” She had no letters, only cards. Birthday cards. Valentine cards. All composed by Hallmark and closed with barely more than his name. She shook her head no, but Bertwin was unconvinced.
“This is important, Moira. There must be something. A letter. A note.”
There was. A card. The only “evidence” she had of his feelings that wasn’t canned or formulaic. She kept it safe in a thick anthology of Irish poets, a good place for lost causes, a book she never planned to return to. The card came in the mail soon after they told Sean and Michael they were separating. It was one of those cards that asks forgiveness when none can be had, pointless, like get-well wishes for the terminally ill. But he wrote a note inside, describing how sorry he was and how much he had loved her. It was her amulet, her protection from the abyss. She would not bring it out to be weighed and judged inadequate. It was proof enough for her.
“I have nothing like that,” she told him. “Two sons? Making a life together? That’s not enough?”
“The affair—given the length of it—may in fact lend weight to his assertion that he should not have married.”
“Why isn’t the burden on him? Make him prove he never loved me.” Proof had kept her waiting years. She’d remained unsure about Michael, tortured that he might be John’s child, until the cleft appeared on his chin and he outgrew every third grader, the way Ken surely had as a boy.
“I’m afraid he may have done that already.” Clearly Bertwin had some stake in this. He stopped the recorder. “I think we’re done here,” he said. He stood, took the folders, pushed them back into his briefcase.
Moira got to her feet, gathered her things. As she came around the desk, he stepped in front to block her way. “I want you to think about this,” he said. “You may have overlooked something that would shed light.”
She was done with this. She stepped around him and opened the door. He offered to accompany her to the main hall and before she could refuse he was walking next to her. Her legs felt weak. The floor was so shiny she was afraid she’d slip, yet she couldn’t imagine taking his arm. She was relieved when they got to the wide stairs and she could grasp the banister.
In the lobby, he made certain once again that she had his card. He took her hand to say goodbye. His was surprisingly warm. She turned away, stepped outside into the brilliant warm day. She felt lightheaded at once. Even her skin felt flimsy. Her parking space seemed far away; the sunshine, like a weight. She heard footsteps, and Bertwin was beside her again.
“Let me walk you to your car.”
“Thank you. I’m fine.”
“I have a few more questions. A few things are still not clear.”
She didn’t believe that. She was sure he had his answers. “I really need to get back.”
He pointed to a concrete bench facing a statue of St. Francis, kept safe behind layers of expertly tended flowers. Peace of heart in this place, she thought, was all a matter of good order. They sat down together as if on cue. He settled himself, adjusted his jacket. “I must ask you a question that may upset you.”
Moira laughed. “Why stop now?”
He let this go. “It seems as if . . . well . . . I can’t help thinking there’s something about this affair of his that you preferred not to know.”
Moira felt her heart pounding. “I can see why you would. Six years is a long time. I should have left him sooner.”
“I don’t mean that. I can understand your not facing it then. You would have been risking everything. It’s something else, something you want to avoid looking at too closely. Even now.”
“You must see how humiliating this has been,” she said, hoping that would satisfy. Could Ken still be charged with something? The girl was an adult now.
“If an annulment is about correcting something, then we need to get to the truth.” He sounded so priestly she was embarrassed for him.
“Some things can’t be corrected,” she said, almost tempted to pat his knee. She had wanted to abort, fearing the baby might not be Ken’s, but she couldn’t do it. The swelling—even when it required no more accommodation than unbuttoning her jeans—offered the promise that something might change. The undivided attention that a new baby demanded might finally call them back to each other. In her second trimester, Ken began to do the laundry now and then.
He encouraged her to take walks, to plan a longer maternity leave this time. Whatever the truth about the baby—the child had been conceived if not out of love, then for fear of losing it.
|
“But we can still have the truth.”
“I don’t see how.” Her voice was icy. She braced herself to hear him recite the Church’s balm for betrayal, some reassurance as potent as holy water. “Stop him.” “What do you think I’m doing here? Why else would I want to rehash all this?” “To satisfy yourself you were the injured party,” he said. “We see this all the time.” “I know exactly who was injured,” Moira said, getting to her feet. He looked up at her, unimpressed, as if she were some minor player in this drama. “That’s not what this is about.” “What is it about then?” She braced for more of his twisted logic, smug abstractions that had nothing to do with anything real. “It’s about protecting the Church.” |
She wanted to laugh. “Protecting the Church. That’s a pretty tall order,” she said, mostly to herself.
“Certain behavior can’t be tolerated.”
“Of course not. You just move the offender to some other parish.” She turned to go.
“We’re not finished here,” Bertwin said, raising his voice, then, correcting his tone, “Please sit down.”
He was starting to frighten her. She returned to the bench.
“The Church must not grant this annulment, Moira, even if he has proved that he has legitimate grounds.”
You bastard, she thought, and looked at him. He was perspiring. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Since when are you guys allowed to have your own opinion about something like this?”
“A petitioner may not use an annulment to cover his tracks.” She watched his eyes narrow. He was taking aim again. “Tell me about this woman Ken intends to marry.”
“Certain behavior can’t be tolerated.”
“Of course not. You just move the offender to some other parish.” She turned to go.
“We’re not finished here,” Bertwin said, raising his voice, then, correcting his tone, “Please sit down.”
He was starting to frighten her. She returned to the bench.
“The Church must not grant this annulment, Moira, even if he has proved that he has legitimate grounds.”
You bastard, she thought, and looked at him. He was perspiring. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Since when are you guys allowed to have your own opinion about something like this?”
“A petitioner may not use an annulment to cover his tracks.” She watched his eyes narrow. He was taking aim again. “Tell me about this woman Ken intends to marry.”
|
“I don’t know her,” she insisted.
“She attended the high school where he teaches,” he said, uncrossing his legs. “Didn’t one of you mention that?” “I didn’t.” Moira was sure Ken hadn’t either. |
"Moira saw the harm this man was willing to do, his determination to set things right. It drew her in, this conviction." |
“I’ve spoken to people. I looked her up. Jennifer was her name, assisted him in the Athletic Department, on the prom committee.” He waited for her to tell him what she knew.
She wouldn’t.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “We both know what this means.” She could feel his breath on the side of her face.
“It doesn’t have to mean that,” she snapped.
“He practically said so himself in his petition.”
“He wants you to believe there was an affair so you’ll grant the annulment.”
“We can’t allow him to make a charade of this process.”
She wanted to shake him. People had been hurt in this. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “All annulments are charades. People trying to satisfy your rules. Ken’s petition is a lie.”
“He’s not going to marry that girl in the Church.
Moira almost laughed. “Fine. Don’t grant the annulment.”
“There may be no choice.”
“Then I guess we both lose.”
“I have no intention of losing. I’ll request an investigation.” She saw that he meant it. Even if he couldn’t prove anything, the school would certainly let Ken go. He’d never teach again. “This relationship of his is going to raise questions for a lot of people.”
She thought of her sons, imagined how they would feel about their father if they learned about the girl. “You can’t do that. You don’t know for sure . . . I mean that there was anything like that between them back then.”
“I do know, Moira. So do you.”
She couldn’t look at him. She wanted no part of his certainty. Suspicion was the easier torment. Whose fault was this anyway? Whose failure? This priest thought he knew. He was ready to punish. She could let him. Maybe that would put an end to it.
“If he’s granted the annulment, I’ll take this wherever it needs to go,” he told her.
“Why do that now? She’s an adult. He’s going to marry her.”
Moira saw the harm this man was willing to do, his determination to set things right. It drew her in, this conviction. Maybe there’d be comfort there. She leaned forward, rested her forehead in her hands. Ken fell out of love with her. That’s all she knew for sure. What price should he pay for that? “I have a card,” she told Bertwin.
He waited for the rest.
“You asked before if I have something . . . to show he loved me the day we married.”
He leaned back, as if something had at last been properly aligned. “Very good,” he said.
He put his hand on hers, as if to console. His satisfaction was like a victory lap. She hated him. This man thought she had what he needed to protect his Church—regrets scribbled in a moment of pity. But they had made no difference. They’d done no good. Until now.
She wouldn’t.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “We both know what this means.” She could feel his breath on the side of her face.
“It doesn’t have to mean that,” she snapped.
“He practically said so himself in his petition.”
“He wants you to believe there was an affair so you’ll grant the annulment.”
“We can’t allow him to make a charade of this process.”
She wanted to shake him. People had been hurt in this. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “All annulments are charades. People trying to satisfy your rules. Ken’s petition is a lie.”
“He’s not going to marry that girl in the Church.
Moira almost laughed. “Fine. Don’t grant the annulment.”
“There may be no choice.”
“Then I guess we both lose.”
“I have no intention of losing. I’ll request an investigation.” She saw that he meant it. Even if he couldn’t prove anything, the school would certainly let Ken go. He’d never teach again. “This relationship of his is going to raise questions for a lot of people.”
She thought of her sons, imagined how they would feel about their father if they learned about the girl. “You can’t do that. You don’t know for sure . . . I mean that there was anything like that between them back then.”
“I do know, Moira. So do you.”
She couldn’t look at him. She wanted no part of his certainty. Suspicion was the easier torment. Whose fault was this anyway? Whose failure? This priest thought he knew. He was ready to punish. She could let him. Maybe that would put an end to it.
“If he’s granted the annulment, I’ll take this wherever it needs to go,” he told her.
“Why do that now? She’s an adult. He’s going to marry her.”
Moira saw the harm this man was willing to do, his determination to set things right. It drew her in, this conviction. Maybe there’d be comfort there. She leaned forward, rested her forehead in her hands. Ken fell out of love with her. That’s all she knew for sure. What price should he pay for that? “I have a card,” she told Bertwin.
He waited for the rest.
“You asked before if I have something . . . to show he loved me the day we married.”
He leaned back, as if something had at last been properly aligned. “Very good,” he said.
He put his hand on hers, as if to console. His satisfaction was like a victory lap. She hated him. This man thought she had what he needed to protect his Church—regrets scribbled in a moment of pity. But they had made no difference. They’d done no good. Until now.
Mary Ann McGuigan writes both adult and young-adult fiction. Her short fiction, which has been nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize, has appeared in The Sun, Image, Grist Journal, Perigee, and other literary magazines. Her articles and essays have appeared in Word Riot, New York Times, New York Sunday Newsday, Bloomberg magazine, and elsewhere. Mary Ann's second novel, Where You Belong, was a finalist for the National Book Award, and it's sequel, Morning in a Different Place, was a Junior Library Guild selection. Her latest, Crossing into Brooklyn, was published by Merit Press.
A 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee, McGuigan's story can be found in Issue 13 of Glassworks.
