My son began asking me difficult questions. I know that I was a precocious child, but Masson astounded me.
"Papa, why are you different?" We had fed the geese, and were sitting on a wall and swinging our feet.
"You mean, why do I look different?" He nodded. "Well, Son, some people are born and they can't see, or they can't hear, or there is something else than does not work properly. I was born like this."
I watched Masson think about that. "I was born like this," he said finally.
"Yes." I knew there was a question in there somewhere, but I could not guess what it was.
"Mama says I'm just like you, but I'm not," he announced, more confidently than the look on his face admitted. Ah, there was the question.
"No, Masson," I assured him. "You were born perfect inside and out. You will never be like me."
I saw the relief wash over his beautiful little face and tried to smile. How long had he been worrying, wondering if tomorrow was the day he would wake up ugly like Papa?
"Papa, what happened to Jesus?"
"I'm sorry, Masson, I don't know what you mean." Christine had begun dragging the boy to church. I knew it was an invitation to trouble.
"Why is He cruci-pied?" Ah. It's been awhile, but I reckon they still have that huge gory display as a focal point on the altar.
"Oh. Well, if someone commits a crime now, he has to go to prison. They put him in a little room and he can't see his friends, have any fun, or go anywhere."
"Like the corner chair," he replied miserably. He absolutely knew what prison felt like. It appeared my gift for drama and self-pity had been inherited.
"Yes. So, back when Jesus was alive, they would crucify really, really bad criminals, and the people in charge believed that Jesus was a really bad criminal."
Masson was horrified. "Is it a sin to cruci-pie Jesus?" Ah-ha, the Catholic propaganda was seeping in.
"Yes, I would say it probably is a sin to crucify Jesus, but they didn't know how special He was at the time. I suspect that many would say that it was a rather large mistake."
That was about the limit of my theological prowess; I advised him to take up Matters Spiritual with Christine. I didn't want to say something against the official propaganda and end up losing any privileges unwittingly. Not for a load of stuff and nonsense--at least I hope it's stuff and nonsense.
Look, I don't want to go to heaven. Not that I actually imagine myself to be on the guest list, but I hope when the carcass gives out they just feed me to the worms and that's the end of Erik. I don't want to go on in eternity, keeping company with a host of other beings that wouldn't give me the time of day when I was alive. And I certainly don't want to be best boy in the celestial choir, singing praises to the One who made me choose the booby prize from the face grab-bag. Christine would have a conniption if she heard me say that, but it's true.
At the same time he was solving Life's Deeper Questions with me, Masson was engaging in daily power struggles with his mother. Naturally, I had a theory, which Christine did not want to hear. It was my contention that what he actually took exception to was her stifling of his freedom of self-expression. I felt that if she allowed him to say No, Bad Mama, and what-have-you, while still insisting that the thing to which he took exception had to be, he would likely comply. I know I would; I grumble a lot, but I usually go along. I felt that all Masson really wanted was that his objection be duly noted. Christine was from the Old School, which dictated that Masson was to do what she said, and he was to be glad about it as well. Any problems he had, he was to keep to himself.
This led to increasingly tense scenes between Christine and me. She insisted I was taking his side and spoiling him. I tried to tell her that our son was possessed of an artist's soul, and she was crushing his creative spirit by expecting him to march in lockstep. He would never be a soldier, I told her; he would be a poet.
She countered by saying he would be a self-absorbed tyrant like his father.
I would counter with something like, Well, if that's what you think, what does that make you for wanting to marry me? My facile wit and razor tongue usually got the better of Christine in an argument, but ultimately it was a hollow victory.
I used to be a much cannier fellow, always on the lookout for pitfalls and traps. I still am, when it comes to the opera, or when I'm in public, especially with Masson. But with Christine, I seem to charge willy-nilly into situations that cannot but bring me to some grief. Either senile dementia is having a premature effect, or Christine has damaged me somehow. Perhaps the monks had it right all along, and dealings with women deplete a man's faculties.
As the day of Darius and Anci's wedding neared, Christine grew progressively more peevish. I knew she was obsessed with the annulment; the clock was ticking before she'd accost me about my appointment with the bishop. This is a dreadful confession, akin to naming a male cat 'Christine', but I had become quite fond of the foamy lavender bath; it really did seem to relax me and help me think. I actually came up with a workable idea for the piggy ballerinas in the tub. Anyway, I stewed in my lavender froth about the annulment, looking for some heretofore undiscovered weasel room.
It came to me that I was all but out of weasel room. It looked like telling the truth might be the best option yet again. Right, last time I told the truth, I got all upset, heaved my guts, and did not get what I wanted short term; ie, Christine did not return to the opera. Long term she still loved me even though I was useless to her. This time, I probably would not get what I wanted either, and I would probably get all upset and heave. But I would get points for bringing the matter up, rather than waiting for her to confront me and force me to admit that I'm a selfish, cowardly git.
Christine was reading her Bible before bed; it seemed an apropos moment.
"Christine, about the annulment," I opened.
"Oh?" She asked brightly. "Did you speak with the bishop?" She set her book aside with a bit of a smile.
"Um, no. I'm…I want to marry you but I don't want to talk to the bishop. I'm not much for clerics," I confessed.
"You're afraid to speak to the bishop. You want to marry me, but you can't do this one little thing for me," she deadpanned ominously.
"It's not a little thing, Christine! Not for me! He's going to ask if I'm Catholic; what do I tell him?"
"Everyone's Catholic, Erik," she sighed.
"I don't know that. What if I'm Jewish?"
"Erik. Please don't be stupid. If you were Jewish, I am sure you and I would know," Christine frowned.
"Well, what if my loving mother never got around to…you know…"
"Erik, just tell the bishop you're Catholic, you ninny!"
"Next he'll want to know if I'm baptized, and communioned, and confirmed, and all that nonsense, and what do I tell him then?"
"Oh." Christine frowned slightly, deep in thought.
"Now you see my point!" I felt certain this would exonerate me.
"Well, that being the case, you'll have to go to catechism anyway before we can marry in the Church," she replied blithely. "So there's no harm in telling the bishop the truth, darling." She smiled, believing the problem to be solved.
"I don't want to go to catechism."
"If you don't go to catechism, we cannot marry." I had never seen Christine look the way she did: eyes narrowed to slits, lips tightly pursed.
Suddenly I felt hot and dizzy. I mentioned that I felt hot and dizzy, but her face remained unchanged. I could have dropped over dead and she still would have been there, making her deadly viper face at me.
"Could they just quiz me and pass me if I do alright?" I asked hopefully.
Stone Woman was unmoved. "So you're saying you won't marry me."
"No! No, Christine, I'm not saying that at all. I—" I made the mistake of reaching for her.
"Don't you dare touch me!" she hissed.
"You know I love you; of course I want to marry you," I protested.
"Who is it?" she demanded.
"No, no! Please, Christine, I swear on my life there's no one!"
Christine's eyes were about to overflow. "I've been such a fool, believing in you. You've made me a whore."
"Christine, no! Angel, look, we can get up tomorrow morning and be married in a civil ceremony!" I had no idea what was happening; I mean, it was so horrible I couldn't grasp it.
"I don't want to be married before a clerk; that's nothing. That is just the same as what I've been doing all this time with you!" She turned away and wept silently into her hands.
"Christine—"
"No, Erik," she interrupted. "You've deceived me again. No more. Please leave."
"Darling, let me stay," I pleaded. "I won't—"
She whirled on me angrily. "Get out of my bed; you've had your last bit of free fluff!" she hissed. Her tiny feet darted toward me under the covers. I tried to parry her kicks, but finally I had to scuttle away. She turned away again, pulling the blanket up to her ears.
"You've got it all wrong, Christine," I whispered. I think she heard me, but I couldn't be sure. She gave no sign.
I knew I would not sleep, so I dressed and went to the opera. I felt raw and bruised; I was devastated, but I couldn't believe Christine's words were final. In my mind, there was no question but that we had to reconcile; we had Masson between us. Meanwhile, I had to occupy my mind, so as not to dwell on this debacle.
I felt better just walking my familiar catacombs. I careened briefly down a mental path holding that the entire problem was that I'd left my lair; that I should be living down below with Christine and Masson. Of course, that would make everything perfect.
Could Christine be right, I wondered. Could it be that I really don't want to marry her if I won't do this one thing for her? I walked and considered as objectively as I could—I admit I'm not objective—and I came away with No. Christine's not right; I want her as desperately as ever. But equal to that, I don't want to experience all the feelings of humiliation and guilt that I will surely feel if I try after all these years to get right with the Church. I did not want to return to that state of ignominy again; feel it chewing on my guts like a live rat inside me. No, not even for Christine will I open the valve and let my sense of myself, fragile as it is, drain away.
I began to feel angry at Christine for failing to see my position. Who more than Christine should know how painful it would be for me? Then I remembered the absurd tattoo conversation. It seemed she wanted me to suffer; but why?
Nursing my resentment, I played a scenario in which we had a huge argument, where I accused her of wanting to see me suffer. Of course, in these reveries I always have the perfect retort; everything is marvelously theatrical, eventually Christine is appropriately contrite, and I am magnanimous in my forgiveness. Playing the scenario to its logical conclusion gave me a taste for a bit of soft. I was feeling quite deprived; what with 'discussing' Masson's discipline and et cetera, I was sure it had been at least a week. Call me a whiner if you like, but I was simply unaccustomed to such privations anymore.
Finding myself in the opera house at something like eleven at night, it was rather an embarrassment of riches. Plump pink piggies, the odd bony ones like my dear Christine…I laughed aloud when it occurred to me that perhaps I should call on Signora Giudicelli. I did not intend to harm anyone—I mean, aside from the obvious; I just wanted a bit of fun. A bound, struggling victim held a delicious, forbidden charm that could not be duplicated with a willing, interested partner. At least, that had been my limited experience with the mad Creole.
Right. I decided that anyone would do; after all, I was not looking for someone to escort to a coming-out ball. I wasn't going to see her anyway; I intended for it to be black as my caverns could go. I made my way upstairs. I would wait in the vicinity of overheard conversations and see what happened by.
I couldn't do it. As I skulked there in the dark, listening to the girls' chirps and giggles, I had precious little to occupy my mind. Thus, my thoughts turned to my precious boy. Unbidden, the thought came: 'Is this what you want Masson to grow up to be?'
I had to scramble down the corridor with my hands clapped over my mouth so no one would hear the inhuman sobs struggling to escape my body. I don't know how long I lay crumpled on the damp stone floor, shivering and moaning. When I couldn't cry anymore, I dragged myself home, clinging to the shadows, shrinking in alleys; a pariah.