1 Peter 5:14
Saturday 1st December: She had moved her stuff out of the house the week after she had left Baxter. She had taken a very small apartment. She could afford it - just.
And this time David Sebastian had come to visit. And she could tell right off that all was not well. Seb had that lowering look that men get when they feel pressured. A woman would get angry in similar circumstances perhaps. Not a man, at least not a man like Seb. You had to push a man's buttons to make him angry. Otherwise, in circumstances beyond control, the male reaction to pressure was often a sort of sullen immobility, like an ox put unwilling to harness.
Angie recognised his mood as uncharacteristic. This was not her David, not the man she had grown to know and love. She had been in this world long enough to know that there were two ways to lift the male of the species out of depression. One was to kick them out of it, to goad them to anger. The other was to love them out of it. She chose the latter course, her perspective being that sex was the ace card in the mature woman's armament.
Inevitably perhaps, it was a hasty business, more like lovemaking had been in that other world an eternity ago, with Baxter. Afterwards he fell asleep and she bore his weight a while and then gently pushed him aside, soothing him awake.
For a while they lay together, he lent over and kissed her forehead, and her eyes, and cupped her face in his hands, leaning on his elbow to do so, kissing her once briefly on the lips. Then he climbed from the bed saying, "Angie, we must talk."
And there was something in the words that sent a chill to the nape of her neck, a frisson of fear running through her like a physical thing, and she knew what he was about to say before he said it.
"We have to end this."
"You are going back to the church?" she asked with a bravado she didn't feel. She wasn't going to let him see her cry; though the tears were there and would come, later.
"Not exactly. Not the Catholic church per se. But there's an ecumenical seminary in Bangor up in Maine. It has a good reputation. They'll give me refuge for now. I'll teach a little. I've had discussions with them."
"You'll move away?"
"I think so. It seems best."
"Now?"
"Soon. When this is sorted." He was dressing as he spoke.
And Angie Merill watched him. Watched as her world came to an end.
"I'm sorry Angie," he was saying but his words made little impression. "I think it best. I hope you can forgive me."
She didn't look at him. She felt so desperately hurt. All she wanted was to be alone, to curl up and cry and lick her wounds. Was this her fault? Had she seduced him, damaged him in some way? Should it be her that asked his forgiveness for subverting his mission in life? For taking him from the priesthood?
She felt him stroking her hair and she closed her eyes as if by so doing she could make him disappear. She knew the tears were there, great oceans of them, building inside ready to overwhelm and engulf her.
He had asked her forgiveness. But sometimes forgiveness was not in the mix. Did she want his forgiveness? No, his love was all she wanted, unconditional love. And that he wasn't prepared to offer, not in the way she needed him at least. And should she then forgive him for this thing he was doing, this abandonment, this betrayal? Why? It served no purpose other than to satisfy him, the man who had used her. God, Baxter was a saint alongside this one, for all that he beat up on her. What this one had done was truly abusive at a far deeper level. Forgive him then? This one she need never forgive, not 'till the day she died. Nor would she.
He tried to kiss her one last time but she turned her head away as her humiliation was replaced by anger.
"Go," she said. "Go now."
He smiled weakly. Then he left.
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