Page 10 of Salt in the Wound
Mortimer hadn’t spoken yet, so I turned to look at him. I expected indignation on his face, maybe even disgust at my father’s archaic thinking.
But instead, he looked pensive.
“What?” I asked, suddenly wary.
Mortimer’s hands were laced behind his back, as they often were, and he had to turn his shoulders to look at me.
“I think you should do it,” he said.
Something gaped and yawned inside my chest, an empty space absent of air or blood or anything. He could have slapped me across the face and I would have been less surprised.
“You think I should do it,” I echoed. I stopped walking, feeling my pulse in my neck and my wrists, a pulse that still came even while breathing barely felt possible. “You think I should marry a stranger. For a bank.”
My uncle stopped too, the simar swishing around his ankles as he took a step closer to me. It was a weekday and scorching to boot, and so the High Line was empty in both directions. It was just us and the plants bobbing in the concrete-scented breeze.
He stared at me, and I knew he was waiting for me to have an outburst, to plead my case, and I hated that I couldn’t stop myself from speaking, from exploding. It was the exact lack of control that he had tried to tutor me against, but how could I stop myself? When he didn’t seem to understand the situation at all?
“I want to be a nun,” I said, my jaw tight to keep my voice from wavering. “I want to take vows. I can’t do that if I marry this man. This man whom, I cannot stress enough, I don’t know and whom I don’t want to marry. I’m not a stock to be traded, I’m not an asset to be invested, and I’m not giving up my future to further my father’s earthly glory.” I was proud that I hadn’t started crying yet, but I didn’t know how much longer I could last. I was gutted. Worse than gutted, because it felt like he’d ripped my soul out along with my viscera and flung it all over the railing to the street below.
And that was before I realized something even worse.
“Youknew,” I choked out. “At Christmastime, this is what Father was talking to you about. You knew this was coming, and you let me believe…”
I will never steer you away from what God needs you to do.
Why hadn’t I paid attention to how vague his assurances had been then? Why hadn’t I dug deeper, insisted on more?
Mortimer arched an eyebrow at me in sympathy. “My child, I hear you, and I see the betrayal in your face. Will you let me explain? Let me make my case?”
“What case is there to make?” My voice was quiet now, almost more exhalation than speech. “I want to be a nun. I’ve wanted it since I was twelve. I want to serve you and the Church and God, and I cannot do any of that if I am married.”
“I sometimes forget,” Mortimer replied softly, “how very young you are. You have the faith and commitment of someone much older, but you still think so categorically, so broadly. In unqualified absolutes.”
I bristled and he patted the air in a quelling gesture.
“I don’t mean that in deprecatory way, Isolde, it’s only the truth. You are eighteen, and there are things that you will view with an eighteen-year-old’s eyes. I’ve sharpened you into a blade, but being sharp is only half a blade’s job. The other half is knowing when and where to cut. I will teach you that too, I promise.”
I stared at him. “If I married Mark, which I won’t, you couldn’t promise me any such thing. I won’t be able to take vows. I won’t be able to work for you or the Church.”
Mortimer’s mouth tilted up in a fond smile. “Come,” he said, wandering over to the railing and leaning against it. The simar blew a little in the breeze as I joined him, and I thought about the habit I wouldn’t be able to wear if I listened to him and my father.
I braced my forearms on the railing and made a point not to look at him. Childish maybe, but he and the sisters were the ones who had taught me to fight with every weapon I had.
“Now, the issue of your vocation. I am disappointed you did not see the solution to this on your own, Isolde, but I suppose I’ve failed you in teaching you to think outside convention. You, of course, can take your vows and don your habit after your marriage to Mark Trevena is concluded.”
I gave a sharp laugh. “How am I supposed toconcludea marriage when divorce is forbidden?”
“An annulment,” my uncle said smoothly. “Once the marriage is annulled, you will be free to pursue any vocation you like. Any future you like.”
“Annulments are only for unconsummated marriages.” It was so strange to be talking about this with my uncle of all people, but he clearly wasn’t understanding the stakes. “Do you think the owner of a sex club will allow for an unconsummated marriage?”
“Do you think the Church will not allow for whatever I arrange for you? I’d be able to claim that you were not fully consenting; I can claim Pauline privilege if Mark’s baptism records are conveniently lost—but more importantly, I have made myself indispensable to the Holy Father. If my niece needs a marriage toconclude, I will see it done, no matter if you shared his bed or not. The truth is a fuzzy thing when we need it to be.”
I did turn to look at him then, my fingers gripping the railing. I felt like the ground was tilting under my feet, but so slightly that only I could feel it. “That would be lying,” I said faintly. “Non loqueris falsum testimonium. You shall not bear false witness.”
“Is it false witness, Isolde? Truly? The fact of what might happen between your body and Mark Trevena’s is not the same as the holy truth; your sacrifice will make inviolable the reality of your spiritual chastity.”
“Mysacrifice.”
