had more to do with helping Father Thomas than me finding balance between my disparate vocations. Regardless of her motives, the result was the same. I could be involved in the investigation with her blessings instead of her constant protests.
“And have you?” I asked.
“Have I what?”
“Figured out a way to do both.”
“I’m not the one who has to. And don’t be fooled into thinking you’ve got it figured out if things go well while you’re here. You’re on retreat. You’ll only really be tested when you’re back in prison and under pressure.”
I laughed.
“What is it?”
“I tell inmates that all the time,” I said. “Doing well inside doesn’t ensure they will when they get out.”
“Tell me about Susan.”
“Who?” I asked in surprise, the sudden change in subject jolting.
“Your two-time ex-wife,” she said, adding with a smile, “You do remember her, don’t you?”
“She neglected to file the papers the first time. We’ve only really been divorced once.”
“But how many times in your heart?”
“Two.”
“So what happened?”
“The usual,” I said. “Dependency, co-dependency, anger, resentment, bitterness, faithlessness, recovery, breaking cycles, changing at different paces—and that was just the first time.”
“And the second?”
“Her dad and I had a falling out. She sided with him.”
“You do a lot of counseling,” she said.
I nodded.
“What does it usually mean when someone becomes flippant over significant experiences in their lives?”
I smiled and nodded.
“I’m just saying there’s more to it than you had a falling out and she sided with her dad.”
“He’s the inspector general for the department of corrections. We were working a case together at my institution. It didn’t turn out well. It’s a long story. The short version is, a line was drawn in the sand and she chose to stand on his side of it.”
She nodded and looked up as she considered what I had said, her eyes narrowing, her lips twisting. Very little of her face was visible through her habit, but when she looked up it covered more of her forehead and less of her neck. The part that had pulled up off her chin showed a faint sepia stain from a patina of makeup powder and perspiration.
“Any chance of reconciliation?”
“She didn’t fail to file the papers this time, but even if she had…”
“Even if she had what?”
“I’m in no condition for a rematch.”
“So even if she wanted to be together, you do not?”
I pretended to think about it for a moment, though I knew the answer, then nodded.
“Then there’s something you’re not telling me,” she said.
I smiled. “Lots.”
“What’s her name?”
“Who?”
“
The
woman. The one you’re not telling me about.”
I shook my head and sighed heavily, the familiar mixture of guilt-tinged desire and joy, like a river, rising inside of me. “Anna.”
“And I take it she’s unavailable?”
“Married.”
“So were you,” she said.
“I used to work with her. It was difficult, but good. Sweet torture. I’ve loved her my whole life. When Susan and I got back together, I told Anna I needed to stay away from her if it was going to work with Susan.”
“What happened?”
“She transferred to Central Office and I haven’t talked to her since.”
She nodded.
We were quiet a long moment, everything receding as I tried to see myself clearly, honestly, objectively.
“I think maybe my marriage failed in part because I always held a part of myself back—and not just for Anna. I don’t know. It probably wouldn’t’ve made a difference in the final outcome. It’s not what ultimately caused our demise, but I feel guilty for it.”
“What do you mean not just for Anna? Why else did you hold back?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But I bet you’ve thought about it.”
“I’m not sure I was even doing it. If I was, it’s not on purpose. I don’t know. I just feel so fuckin’ isolated. So alone.
“And have you?” I asked.
“Have I what?”
“Figured out a way to do both.”
“I’m not the one who has to. And don’t be fooled into thinking you’ve got it figured out if things go well while you’re here. You’re on retreat. You’ll only really be tested when you’re back in prison and under pressure.”
I laughed.
“What is it?”
“I tell inmates that all the time,” I said. “Doing well inside doesn’t ensure they will when they get out.”
“Tell me about Susan.”
“Who?” I asked in surprise, the sudden change in subject jolting.
“Your two-time ex-wife,” she said, adding with a smile, “You do remember her, don’t you?”
“She neglected to file the papers the first time. We’ve only really been divorced once.”
“But how many times in your heart?”
“Two.”
“So what happened?”
“The usual,” I said. “Dependency, co-dependency, anger, resentment, bitterness, faithlessness, recovery, breaking cycles, changing at different paces—and that was just the first time.”
“And the second?”
“Her dad and I had a falling out. She sided with him.”
“You do a lot of counseling,” she said.
I nodded.
“What does it usually mean when someone becomes flippant over significant experiences in their lives?”
I smiled and nodded.
“I’m just saying there’s more to it than you had a falling out and she sided with her dad.”
“He’s the inspector general for the department of corrections. We were working a case together at my institution. It didn’t turn out well. It’s a long story. The short version is, a line was drawn in the sand and she chose to stand on his side of it.”
She nodded and looked up as she considered what I had said, her eyes narrowing, her lips twisting. Very little of her face was visible through her habit, but when she looked up it covered more of her forehead and less of her neck. The part that had pulled up off her chin showed a faint sepia stain from a patina of makeup powder and perspiration.
“Any chance of reconciliation?”
“She didn’t fail to file the papers this time, but even if she had…”
“Even if she had what?”
“I’m in no condition for a rematch.”
“So even if she wanted to be together, you do not?”
I pretended to think about it for a moment, though I knew the answer, then nodded.
“Then there’s something you’re not telling me,” she said.
I smiled. “Lots.”
“What’s her name?”
“Who?”
“
The
woman. The one you’re not telling me about.”
I shook my head and sighed heavily, the familiar mixture of guilt-tinged desire and joy, like a river, rising inside of me. “Anna.”
“And I take it she’s unavailable?”
“Married.”
“So were you,” she said.
“I used to work with her. It was difficult, but good. Sweet torture. I’ve loved her my whole life. When Susan and I got back together, I told Anna I needed to stay away from her if it was going to work with Susan.”
“What happened?”
“She transferred to Central Office and I haven’t talked to her since.”
She nodded.
We were quiet a long moment, everything receding as I tried to see myself clearly, honestly, objectively.
“I think maybe my marriage failed in part because I always held a part of myself back—and not just for Anna. I don’t know. It probably wouldn’t’ve made a difference in the final outcome. It’s not what ultimately caused our demise, but I feel guilty for it.”
“What do you mean not just for Anna? Why else did you hold back?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But I bet you’ve thought about it.”
“I’m not sure I was even doing it. If I was, it’s not on purpose. I don’t know. I just feel so fuckin’ isolated. So alone.
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