he’s never seen. Before he can stop them, August’s eyes peel the dress away, fabric dropping in loose coils to reveal delicate, almost edible flesh.
Can he have fallen so far in a single month?
He blinks hard, but naked Mathilda remains, eyes downcast, lips parting to receive the host. Naked, that is, but for one small thing. It’s barely a hat at all, really, it’s sounobtrusive, as though the violets are part of her, having pushed their way up through her scalp.
Next in line, a bent old man clears his throat, its phlegmy rattle yanking August back. The dress returns in an instant, curling darkly to hide her glorious form. August’s hand convulses, hoists a wafer and places it on her waiting tongue.
MEAT FOR HEALTH
She won’t touch her meat. She’ll cook it dutifully, but for a week now Mathilda’s eaten around whatever Thomas provides, lamb chops or roast chicken, tender little veal rosettes. He’s not blind. She’s never had a big appetite, but at least she used to try—pick at her spare ribs and push them around on the plate.
It eats at him. Every untouched cut.
“Mathilda,” he says one evening as she lifts a forkful of peas to her mouth, “you’re not eating.”
Her mouth full, she chews and swallows before answering. “Yes, I am.”
“You know what I mean. You’re not eating your meat.”
She lays down her fork. “I can’t stand it,” she says quietly. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t stand it?” He tries to laugh, ignoring the rushing sensation in his neck. “A butcher’s wife who can’t stand meat?”
She looks up at him, the longest, straightest look she’s given him yet. “Is that what bothers you?”
“What?” he splutters. “No, I’m—I’m only thinking of your health.”
“I feel fine.”
“Well, you won’t for long.”
She lowers her gaze. “Is that a threat?”
“What?! What the—no! I just—I meant your health will suffer. You’ll get sick, is what I meant, if you keep this up.” He shakes his head. “Jesus.”
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Sorry.” He saws a chunk off his T-bone. “Mathilda, honey, I just want you to be healthy, you know, strong. For your own good.” He takes a deep breath. “Maybe for a baby one day soon.”
She shoots her chair back from the table. “I don’t feel well.”
“Honey, what is it?” He reaches for her hand, his touch making her flare.
“It’s this meat,” she says hotly. “Mounds and mounds of it. It’s disgusting. It’s making me sick!”
His fingers draw back as though burnt.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” she demands. “Cutting up all those animals, hacking them up into bits?!”
“Mathilda,” he says, keeping a choke hold on his tone, “human beings eat meat. It’s God’s will.”
She blanches, her face contorting like that of an outraged child. “Since when?” she shouts, bursting into tears. “How do you know? Who says?!”
“The Bible.”
She stares at him. “What?”
“Whose offering did God honour?” he asks quietly, glaring at his steak, gripping the rim of his plate.
“He—”
“Abel’s. Abel’s offering, not Cain’s. God wanted meat, Mathilda, not rabbit food. Abel gave Him lamb.”
“What would you know about it?” she mumbles. “You’re
Presbyterian.”
Thomas explodes. “You think Catholics are the only—?!” he yells. “Dammit, we read the Bible! Not to mention all the crap I had to learn for the privilege of marrying you!
Corpus Christi
—isn’t that what they’re serving down there? The poor bastard’s body and blood?!”
Mathilda leaps to her feet and hammers up the stairs, slamming the bathroom door behind her.
“Mathilda!” Thomas howls, his voice breaking over her name. He’s gone too far. Lost hold of the reins, felt the old man grab them and gallop away.
ET NE NOS INDUCAS IN TENTATIONEM
(
and lead us not into temptation
)
Surely, to be tempted is no sin.
Can he have fallen so far in a single month?
He blinks hard, but naked Mathilda remains, eyes downcast, lips parting to receive the host. Naked, that is, but for one small thing. It’s barely a hat at all, really, it’s sounobtrusive, as though the violets are part of her, having pushed their way up through her scalp.
Next in line, a bent old man clears his throat, its phlegmy rattle yanking August back. The dress returns in an instant, curling darkly to hide her glorious form. August’s hand convulses, hoists a wafer and places it on her waiting tongue.
MEAT FOR HEALTH
She won’t touch her meat. She’ll cook it dutifully, but for a week now Mathilda’s eaten around whatever Thomas provides, lamb chops or roast chicken, tender little veal rosettes. He’s not blind. She’s never had a big appetite, but at least she used to try—pick at her spare ribs and push them around on the plate.
It eats at him. Every untouched cut.
“Mathilda,” he says one evening as she lifts a forkful of peas to her mouth, “you’re not eating.”
Her mouth full, she chews and swallows before answering. “Yes, I am.”
“You know what I mean. You’re not eating your meat.”
She lays down her fork. “I can’t stand it,” she says quietly. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t stand it?” He tries to laugh, ignoring the rushing sensation in his neck. “A butcher’s wife who can’t stand meat?”
She looks up at him, the longest, straightest look she’s given him yet. “Is that what bothers you?”
“What?” he splutters. “No, I’m—I’m only thinking of your health.”
“I feel fine.”
“Well, you won’t for long.”
She lowers her gaze. “Is that a threat?”
“What?! What the—no! I just—I meant your health will suffer. You’ll get sick, is what I meant, if you keep this up.” He shakes his head. “Jesus.”
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Sorry.” He saws a chunk off his T-bone. “Mathilda, honey, I just want you to be healthy, you know, strong. For your own good.” He takes a deep breath. “Maybe for a baby one day soon.”
She shoots her chair back from the table. “I don’t feel well.”
“Honey, what is it?” He reaches for her hand, his touch making her flare.
“It’s this meat,” she says hotly. “Mounds and mounds of it. It’s disgusting. It’s making me sick!”
His fingers draw back as though burnt.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” she demands. “Cutting up all those animals, hacking them up into bits?!”
“Mathilda,” he says, keeping a choke hold on his tone, “human beings eat meat. It’s God’s will.”
She blanches, her face contorting like that of an outraged child. “Since when?” she shouts, bursting into tears. “How do you know? Who says?!”
“The Bible.”
She stares at him. “What?”
“Whose offering did God honour?” he asks quietly, glaring at his steak, gripping the rim of his plate.
“He—”
“Abel’s. Abel’s offering, not Cain’s. God wanted meat, Mathilda, not rabbit food. Abel gave Him lamb.”
“What would you know about it?” she mumbles. “You’re
Presbyterian.”
Thomas explodes. “You think Catholics are the only—?!” he yells. “Dammit, we read the Bible! Not to mention all the crap I had to learn for the privilege of marrying you!
Corpus Christi
—isn’t that what they’re serving down there? The poor bastard’s body and blood?!”
Mathilda leaps to her feet and hammers up the stairs, slamming the bathroom door behind her.
“Mathilda!” Thomas howls, his voice breaking over her name. He’s gone too far. Lost hold of the reins, felt the old man grab them and gallop away.
ET NE NOS INDUCAS IN TENTATIONEM
(
and lead us not into temptation
)
Surely, to be tempted is no sin.
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