"No," he began, but I knew I had to talk fast and hard or I would break into tears.
"Yes, we are. We can pretend. We can make promises. We can make special arrangements, but the result is the same, . . we're condemning each other to an unnatural life."
"Unnatural. . . to be with someone you love and want to protect and . . ."
"And never to hold passionately, and never to have children with, and never to reveal the truth about . . . We won't even be able to tell Pearl, for fear of what it will do to her. I can't do it."
"Of course we will be able to tell her when she's old enough to understand," he corrected. "And she will understand. Ruby, look. . ."
"No, Paul. I . . . don't think I can make the sacrifices you think you can make," I concluded.
He stared at me a moment, his eyes small, suspicious. "I don't believe you. Something else happened. Someone spoke to you. Who was it, one of your grandmere Catherine's friends, the priest? Who?"
"No," I said. "No one has spoken to me unless you want to count my own sensible conscience." I had to turn away. I couldn't stand looking at the pain in his eyes.
"But . . . I had a talk with my father last night, and after I explained everything to him, he agreed and gave me his approval. My sisters don't know anything about the past, so they were overjoyed to learn you would be my wife and their new sister. And even my mother. . ."
"What about your mother, Paul?" I asked sharply. He closed and then opened his eyes.
"She will accept it," he promised.
"Accepting is not approving." I shook my head and fired my words like bullets. "If she accepts it, it will be because she doesn't want to lose you," I said. "Anyway, it's not her decision. It's mine," I added a little more sternly than I had intended.
Paul's face whitened.
"Ruby . . . the house . . . everything I have . . . it's only for you. I don't even care about myself. . you and Pearl."
"You must care about yourself, Paul. You should. It's wrong of me to be so selfish as to let you deny yourself a normal marriage and a normal family."
"But that's for me to decide," he retorted
.
"You're too . . . confused to make the right decision," I said, and looked away.
"You'll think more about it," he pleaded, and nodded to convince himself there was still hope. "I'll come by tomorrow and we'll talk again."
"No, Paul. I've decided. There's no point in our continually talking about it. I can't go through with it. I can't," I cried, and turned away from him. Pearl, sensing unhappiness between us, began to cry, too. "You'd better go," I said. "The baby's getting upset."
"Ruby. . ."
"Please, Paul. Don't make this any more difficult than it has to be."
He went to the door, but just stood there gazing out.
"All day," he said softly, "I was like someone traveling on a cloud. Nothing could make me unhappy."
Although I was really feeling sick now, I still managed to find a voice. "You'll feel that way again, Paul. I'm sure you will."
"No, I won't," he said, turning back to me, his eyes full of pain and anger. His cheeks were so red, he looked like a sunburnt tourist from the North. "I swear I'll never look at another woman. I'll never kiss another woman. I'll never hold another woman." He raised his right fist and shook it toward the ceiling. "I'll take the same vows of chastity our priest has taken and turn that great house into a shrine. I'll live there all alone forever and ever and I'll die there with no one beside me, nothing but the memory of you," he added, and then he shoved open the door and ran across the gallery and down the steps.
"Paul!" I cried. I couldn't stand to see him this angry and hurt. But he didn't come back. I heard him start his engine and spin his tires on the gravel as he shot away, his heart shattered.
It seemed that everyone I touched, I managed to hurt. Was I born to bring pain to those who loved me? I swallowed back my tears so Pearl wouldn't be upset, but I felt like an island with the sea eddying around me. Now I truly had no one.
After my heart stopped pattering like a woodpecker, I began to prepare us some dinner. My baby sensed my unhappiness despite my attempts to bury it under busy-work. When I spoke, she heard it in my voice, and when I gazed at her, she saw the darkness in my eyes.
While the roux simmered, I sat with her in Grandmere Catherine's rocker and stared at the painting. Both Grandmere Catherine's and my mother's faces looked sad and sympathetic. The vivid memory of Paul's distraught face hung like the threat of a storm in the air around me. Every time I looked toward the door, I saw him standing there, glaring back, reciting his vows and threats. Why was I hurting the one person who wanted to love and cherish my child and me? Where would I ever find such affection again?