That doesn’t mean I sleep around or I can’t be faithful. Despite what Bear or Maggie or Mom thinks. Fidelity is about respect and agreement. If the woman I’m with wants to be exclusive—and all of the women I’ve ever dated have—I can be exclusive.
Full disclosure, I cheated on Adele Andrepont in eighth grade when I kissed Madison Werner at the Christmas dance, but that was the extent of my infidelity.
So I can be monogamous. For as long as the relationship is mutually satisfying and beneficial. But as soon as it’s not, two people should be able to acknowledge that and move on with minimal drama and difficulty.
What about children? What about property?
My way of thinking is that neither of those issues is a surprise in a relationship. Make the decisions about what would happen should you split up ahead of time. Sure, you can have an unplanned pregnancy that might take two people off-guard, but babies still give you several months to iron out custody agreements long before they are born.
Property can be liquidated and the assets divided. But even before you go in with someone on buying a house or signing a lease, you should have a contingency plan for how things will go down when it ends.
Because it always ends, and half the time, it ends before somebody dies.
And if the process of coming to an agreement about how all of this is going to shake out—should things end before somebody dies—is impossible to negotiate, then you’re probably dodging a bullet. It’d be way worse to marry them and find out later that you can’t agree on child custody with this person you once thought was your soulmate.
“Don’t quote statistics at me,” Mom scolds. “When a marriage fails, it’s because one or both of them lost faith. Faith in the will of God. Faith in his Word.”
“Good thing I’ll never have to go through that,” I mutter.
“Then you should take Holy Orders.”
I don’t think my mother will be satisfied until one of her seven children becomes a nun or a priest. She must have brought it up every Sunday to me and Bear when we were kids. Sunday dinner wasn’t Sunday dinner if she didn’t trot out the idea of one of us going to seminary.
It’s a miracle I didn’t go on a hunger strike.
“Mom, I love you, but you know that’s not going to work on me.”
She’s quiet, like I’ve surprised her, and it makes me wonder how things are going at home for my five younger brothers and sisters. Fawn has just as much steel in her spine as Mom, so when they go at it, sparks fly, but my brother Pony is the sensitive one. I wonder if she’s already bought him a white collar.
She huffs. I know it’s not a concession of defeat, but what can she really do to me anymore?
“Go to confession. Please, Lark. I won’t be able to rest if you don’t.” She changes tactics from shame to guilt. If she goes for fear, we’ll have the Catholic Triple Crown. “If you died suddenly and spent eternity in the fires of hell, I’d never have any peace.”
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.
I should just lie to her, tell her I’ll go to confession, and let us both off the hook. But I can’t pull the punch. “If you’dneverhave any peace, then how would it be Heaven?”
“Don’t you try me, Lark.”
God forbid anyone challenge dogma with logic.
I chuckle, but I do feel a little bad about harassing her. “Guess what, though,” I say, wanting to throw her a bone.
She gives me the silent treatment for a solid ten seconds before her curiosity gets the better of her. “What?”
I grin. Despite her questionable sanity, her fanaticism, and her tendency to manipulate, I really do love my mother. Heaven and Hell are her favorite topics, but that doesn’t mean she did us wrong growing up. We may not have had much, but she made sure we had what mattered. Food on the table. Good food, too. A decent education—sending the seven of us to Catholic High has taken all the extra she and Dad must have—and free rein of Bayou Teche from Loreauville to Jeanerette. Bear and I used to raise hell in our jon boat.
“I’m renting a new place on St. John Street.” My grin stretches when I hear her soft gasp. “I’m about a block from the Cathedral.”
Her voice goes all breathy. “You can walk to church.”
“I could,” I hedge.
“And attend the Parish Rosary.” She’s practically swooning.
“Um… maybe.”
“And commit to a Novena.” She gasps. “Lark, son, you don’t know how nine days of prayer would transform you.”
