Chapter 17

The next Sunday came, and we got up and got dressed. Actually I got dressed while Al made coffee, and then while I was brushing my teeth she began to get ready.

I came out of the bathroom and found her sitting on the end of the bed, a dress crumpled in her hands. I sat down beside her and realized that her face was frozen with fear. I put my hand on her shoulder and I could feel her shaking. "It's all right, Al," I said. "You'll be okay."

"I can't do it, Alan."

"You can, Al. You're a strong woman. Look what you've survived already. You've lived to be 29 years old, in spite of everything you've been through. You can do this too."

"No, Alan. It's one thing to be a whore among other whores. But to be a whore in church..."

"Alison Burdett McGee, listen to me. You are not a whore." I almost never used that word, but I wanted to be as blunt as she had been. "You were, yes. But you're not one now. You're my wife, not a whore."

"As far as those people at church are concerned, I'm a whore."

I had to fight the temptation to tell her she didn't have a clue what she was talking about. It was true, but it wouldn't serve any purpose to say it. "Al, I've been in that church for years now. And they won't think that."

"But they know about me, don't they?"

"They know that you were a prostitute. They know that you were missing for three years. They know you're my wife. And that's all they know."

"But Darvin knows where I was those three years."

"Yes, and Tyrone knows too – he prayed for both of us those three years. And I imagine that Cecelia – Darvin's wife ... he's married since you left – I imagine she knows too. But no one else does."

"But what if they told someone else?"

"They didn't."

"How do you know?"

Al was still shaking, and I knew she wasn't trying to be offensive, so I made an effort not to be offended. "Tyrone takes his calling seriously. He doesn't repeat things people tell him in confidence. Darvin doesn't tell anyone anything about his cases, except probably his wife. And trying to pry information out of Cecelia, when it's private, would be like trying to pry New Mexico loose from the rest of the world – it's impossible. No one else knows, Al."

"I can't do it, Alan." Sheer terror is that way. It doesn't notice the facts; it's stronger than reason.

I knew I had to play the trump card. "Alison," I said, wrapping my arms around her, "last week you made a promise. And you made me promise something too. Do you remember that?"

She nodded.

"What was your promise?"

"To go to church today." I could barely hear her.

"And what did you make me promise?"

"To hold me to my word."

I almost asked her if she wanted to release me from that promise. Her fear might be irrational, but it was very real, and she'd gone through enough. But one thing restrained me. The only thing that had held our marriage together was honesty. If I gave up on that now, given the enormous difficulty I was having with forgiveness, I wasn't sure we could remain together – and I wanted desperately to keep Al beside me. So I did a hard thing. I said, "Alison, you made a promise. And I insist that you keep it."

"Please, Alan..."

"Al, I can't." I didn't explain all my reasoning, but I gave her some of it. "If I back down now, where will we be?"

She nodded with a jerk. "All right, Alan. I'll try. But you've got to stay with me."

"I'll be with you all the way. That is also a promise."

As we walked from the car to the door of the church Al clung to my arm. She wasn't shaking, but whether that was because her fear had gone beyond that or she'd found a source of courage I didn't know. I did know that prying her loose would have been only a little easier than prying the earth out of its orbit.