woman who disappeared in a crowd, a gray smudge who brought attention only when she was about to purchase something, the kind of face that brought attentive smiles only when she was ready to pay. Was that what Lawrence wanted?
Joe had been proud of his catch, said he’d married the best-looking woman in Hamilton County, seemed to forget she was fromSuck Creek. Joe liked to forget where she came from. He was Catholic, so she had to forget she was a Suck Creek Baptist girl, had to take classes with a priest before she got married, but that was okay then because Livy believed life was a process of continuously reinventing ourselves. She’d read that in a self-help book she’d found at the library. She was willing to reinvent, and even though it made her momma cry, she was rebaptized with a saint’s name: Olivia Katherine, a little cup of holy water dribbled over her forehead at the font with no one but the priest and Joe and God and maybe the saint she was named for watching.
If it hadn’t been for Katy, she might have left. Maybe. But back then she was a good Christian girl who tried to believe, so she went to her momma for help. “Life gives us crosses to bear,” her momma had said. “We prove ourselves in times of trouble, not times of ease.” Livy was happy that at least her momma didn’t blame her bad marriage on the Catholics. When things got worse, her momma told her to go talk to her priest. He told her that love was a gift, but marriage was a sacrament, a covenant. She would have to honor that. “A sacrament is a sacrament,” he said. But where was the proof of sacramental things? “It’s self-evident,” the priest said. “A sacrament is an outward and visible sign of an inner and spiritual grace.” Yes, she knew that. But with that definition anything could be a sacrament—helping a stranger, baking a perfect cake. “It’s a mystery,” the priest said. “You don’t walk away from God’s mysteries. You embrace them. You struggle to understand, and what you don’t understand, you accept.” He left her there in his office, staring up at the crucifix, and she thought of Jesus, tortured on the cross like that. Jesus was a tortured man. Not a God. Just a man. That was all. She came to the conclusion that sometimes God left you to your own salvation. You had to save yourself. Now she looked in the mirror and told herselfshe would have to tell Katy that. She’d tell Katy to beware of believing sacramental things.
“Are you coming to bed?” Lawrence called from the bedroom. She peeked through the door, saw him sitting up. He had that look in his eyes. At least with Lawrence, the sex was good.
“I thought you were sleeping,” she said.
“Oh, no,” he said with a smile. “Just dreaming.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” she said. “You know me and my routines.”
She went back to the mirror, rubbed cream in swift, light strokes up her neck and in gentle circles in her cleavage, what her aesthetician called her décolletage—there was a special cream for that. She closed that jar and reached for another for her hands.
She sat on the lid of the toilet and rubbed the cream into her skin. She liked her long fingers, good nails. And that diamond, Lord, a diamond so big it embarrassed her sometimes. Her mother would have declared it prideful. But she liked the fact that she had her mother’s hands, a few scattered freckles, the Irish blood. She would have to tell Katy to be careful of the sun with her dark hair, blue eyes. Statistics suggested that Katy was a prime candidate for skin cancer. She would have to tell Katy all kinds of things before she married. Take care , she would say, the words whispered in her head, take care . Your body is a temple , the Bible said. Your body’s the only one you’ve got, so maintenance is crucial —that’s what her personal trainer said, and her aesthetician, and her doctor, and just about every self-help magazine on the stands.
She gave one last
Joe had been proud of his catch, said he’d married the best-looking woman in Hamilton County, seemed to forget she was fromSuck Creek. Joe liked to forget where she came from. He was Catholic, so she had to forget she was a Suck Creek Baptist girl, had to take classes with a priest before she got married, but that was okay then because Livy believed life was a process of continuously reinventing ourselves. She’d read that in a self-help book she’d found at the library. She was willing to reinvent, and even though it made her momma cry, she was rebaptized with a saint’s name: Olivia Katherine, a little cup of holy water dribbled over her forehead at the font with no one but the priest and Joe and God and maybe the saint she was named for watching.
If it hadn’t been for Katy, she might have left. Maybe. But back then she was a good Christian girl who tried to believe, so she went to her momma for help. “Life gives us crosses to bear,” her momma had said. “We prove ourselves in times of trouble, not times of ease.” Livy was happy that at least her momma didn’t blame her bad marriage on the Catholics. When things got worse, her momma told her to go talk to her priest. He told her that love was a gift, but marriage was a sacrament, a covenant. She would have to honor that. “A sacrament is a sacrament,” he said. But where was the proof of sacramental things? “It’s self-evident,” the priest said. “A sacrament is an outward and visible sign of an inner and spiritual grace.” Yes, she knew that. But with that definition anything could be a sacrament—helping a stranger, baking a perfect cake. “It’s a mystery,” the priest said. “You don’t walk away from God’s mysteries. You embrace them. You struggle to understand, and what you don’t understand, you accept.” He left her there in his office, staring up at the crucifix, and she thought of Jesus, tortured on the cross like that. Jesus was a tortured man. Not a God. Just a man. That was all. She came to the conclusion that sometimes God left you to your own salvation. You had to save yourself. Now she looked in the mirror and told herselfshe would have to tell Katy that. She’d tell Katy to beware of believing sacramental things.
“Are you coming to bed?” Lawrence called from the bedroom. She peeked through the door, saw him sitting up. He had that look in his eyes. At least with Lawrence, the sex was good.
“I thought you were sleeping,” she said.
“Oh, no,” he said with a smile. “Just dreaming.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” she said. “You know me and my routines.”
She went back to the mirror, rubbed cream in swift, light strokes up her neck and in gentle circles in her cleavage, what her aesthetician called her décolletage—there was a special cream for that. She closed that jar and reached for another for her hands.
She sat on the lid of the toilet and rubbed the cream into her skin. She liked her long fingers, good nails. And that diamond, Lord, a diamond so big it embarrassed her sometimes. Her mother would have declared it prideful. But she liked the fact that she had her mother’s hands, a few scattered freckles, the Irish blood. She would have to tell Katy to be careful of the sun with her dark hair, blue eyes. Statistics suggested that Katy was a prime candidate for skin cancer. She would have to tell Katy all kinds of things before she married. Take care , she would say, the words whispered in her head, take care . Your body is a temple , the Bible said. Your body’s the only one you’ve got, so maintenance is crucial —that’s what her personal trainer said, and her aesthetician, and her doctor, and just about every self-help magazine on the stands.
She gave one last
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