But it was as if the incensed monster at my side had never spoken. The old man’s conversation was only for me. “He’s written to me about you, countless emails detailing your history. I feel as if I know you.”
What?
Outright exasperation was met with equal parts boredom when Vladislov countered, “Countless? You always were one for drama. There have been seventy-eight emails precisely. How many times must I lecture you on the importance of accuracy?”
Though I had denied the old man’s hand, he placed his on my shoulder. “It wasn’t done to invade your privacy. It was done to document a monumental occurrence. You see, Pearl, the pages recount your life and all the ways in which the consequences of my existence complicated it.”
His hand was warm, not the brimstone touch of the beast who held me to his side, arm around my waist, and palm open on my belly. If Vladislov was fire, this man was sunlight.
If Vladislov was beautifully hideous, that old man was painstakingly ordinary.
And I was extremely confused. “I don’t understand.”
Did the man look embarrassed? It was so hard to tell when his gaze was so deep. “I’ve been told my father sends you a priest each day for a private mass and confession.”
He used to.
I had not seen a holy man since Vladislov had first penetrated me, nor had I asked for one. In that moment, it dawned on me that I had forgotten. Where was my rosary? Had I forgotten to bring it to a wedding?
Before I fell from the knife edge of nerves into hysterics, Vladislov spoke softly at my ear. “Your rosary is in my pocket, my soul. You may have it in this moment if you wish.”
What I wished was to know why the man before me seemed as if he felt grief at the mention of the beads I used to pray. Instead, I took a deep breath and focused on the fact that this was my daughter’s wedding and I had already made enough mistakes. “What is an email?”
The old man shook off his gloom, responding with a kind smile. “An electronic letter, typed instead of written by hand. As my father refuses to communicate with me in any other way, we rarely exchange words unless they are in written form. He believes it to be a lesson on the power of truth in the written word over the spoken one. But if you could see the things he’s written, you’d understand that he lacks the ability to tell the truth in even the most basic of exchanges. Just because it’s been written down does not make it true. Read any newspaper these days and you’ll find it's just as easy to lie with the pen as it is with the tongue.”
With his free hand, Vladislov physically removed the old man’s touch from my shoulder. “You are not amusing me, child.”
For a brief moment, the old man glanced at my companion—an expression of weariness, of deep concern aging his face all the more. “Heaven knows it will be many ages before reconciliation between us is possible, especially after I tell her the truth. But it is good to see you.”
Dry laughter preceded Vladislov’s threat. “Son, I could end you with a thought. And I’m very tempted.”
As if they shared a private, dark joke, the old man chuckled. He chuckled as if he was not only fearless, but the more powerful between them. “I am the only thing you ever created that is good. You have no more power to end me than I have the power to end you.”
When I had been dragged into Darius’ Cathedral, the world moved around me as it did now. I knew the son Vladislov claimed to have fathered. I remembered the dreams where they fought in the desert. But that man was not this man. Just like the angel’s form Vladislov had taken was not the monster I knew him to be.
Turning his face from his offspring, Vladislov looked down at me. “You’re frightening her.”
I did not return the glance. How could I? How could I look away from what might be standing before me? How could I reconcile an immediate and unintentional overflow of love and resentment? “Jesus?”
Brown eyes soft, voice like cool water on burnt skin, Vladislov’s son said, “My father will work to convince you that there is no God. It will drive his every move to draw your love from Grace so he might drink it down himself. Do not listen to him. God is in all of us, even in him. God is the love we feel for one another and the forgiveness we strive to extend. Compassion, patience, acceptance, that is the face of God.”
Lips came to my ear, but not those of the man speaking to me. They were the same lips that had been all over my body for days on end. “Do you see the flaw in his argument, my soul?” Vladislov stood taller, arm around me as he mocked his offspring. “Boy, it is true a priest was delivered every day to satisfy my bride’s indoctrinated need to confess her sins and ask for repentance. You see as clearly as I that she is as innocent as any might be. What sins might she carry? Yet she weeps. Did you hear her prayers? Did the Father you prefer to me deliver her? No, son, that figment of your imagination did not. I did. Just as I delivered you.”