Page 34 of When We Were Enemies
“Not a replay. But ...”
“But ...? Remember, you can’t lie.” I take a bite of my cold food, knowing I’ve found a chink in his armor.
“It’s an idea I’ve been playing around with for a long time.” He’s not looking at me now. He’s focused on a spot in the air above my head, or something behind me.
“How long?” I ask, and take another bite.
“A while, I guess.”
“No lying ...,” I remind him, pointing at him with my fork.
“That’s not how it works,” he says, laughing.
“I guess you’ve never heard of the Ten Commandments.” I shovel another bite into my mouth, knowing I’m being ridiculous. But he’s playing along. And I like that.
“Nope. Never.” He’s back from whatever far-off place I’d lost him to momentarily. “I went to the Louvre my senior year of college.”
“Before all this, then?” I gesture at his collar.
“Yes, before I was ordained.”
“Hmm.” It’s my turn to evaluate him. “So, a million years ago, then?”
“It’s been a while, but the moment stuck with me.”
“Did you finish? Your degree?”
“I did, actually.” He nods without providing any further information.
“What did you major in?” I pop one of the fried pieces of dough into my mouth and crunch through the crispy edge, crumpling with pleasure when its airy sweetness hits me.
“I have a master’s in divinity.”
“And—” I don’t let him off the hook, tossing another treat into my mouth.
“Fine. My BA was art history, and I had a minor in secondary education.”
“You went from art to religion? That’s an unexpected jump.”
“It wasveryunexpected.”
“Oh yeah? Not part of your five-year plan after your undergrad?”
He shakes his head and looks into the space beyond again.
“No. Not at all. Things changed pretty soon after that trip.” I don’t know why, but I’m relieved when he looks at me again.
“And that made you change your trajectory?” I match his generalities.
“It did.”
“Must’ve been monumental.”
“Completely.” I can see the emotional fences around him. I want to break through. His title and his vestments must work well to keep the world out, but I’m longing to sound a trumpet and make his walls come crashing down.
“There are no cameras here, Father. No silent partners or mics or lights.” I fold my arms on the table and close the space between us so no one else can hear our conversation. His breath brushes against my cheek, and my elbow grazes his as he matches my position. The walls wobble ever so slightly.
“It’s hard for me to talk about—it’s easier to ...” He cuts his sentence off like he’s struggling against invisible restraints.
