23
I’m from Idaho
On Sunday, a week later, a man at church asked me to dinner. I said no. It
happened a second time a few days later with a different man. Again I said
no. I couldn’t say yes. I didn’t want either of them anywhere near me.
Word reached the bishop that there was a woman in his flock who was set
against marriage. His assistant approached me after the Sunday service and
said I was wanted in the bishop’s office.
My wrist was still tender when I shook the bishop’s hand. He was a
middle-aged man with a round face and dark, neatly parted hair. His voice
was soft like satin. He seemed to know me before I even opened my mouth.
(In a way he did; Robin had told him plenty.) He said I should enroll in the
university counseling service so that one day I might enjoy an eternal
marriage to a righteous man.
He talked and I sat, wordless as a brick.
He asked about my family. I didn’t answer. I had already betrayed them by
failing to love them as I should; the least I could do was stay silent.
“Marriage is God’s plan,” the bishop said, then he stood. The meeting was
over. He asked me to return the following Sunday. I said I would, but knew I
wouldn’t.
My body felt heavy as I walked to my apartment. All my life I had been
taught that marriage was God’s will, that to refuse it was a kind of sin. I was
in defiance of God. And yet, I didn’t want to be. I wanted children, my own
family, but even as I longed for it I knew I would never have it. I was not
capable. I could not be near any man without despising myself.
I had always scoffed at the word “whore.” It sounded guttural and
outmoded even to me. But even though I silently mocked Shawn for using it,
I had come to identify with it. That it was old-fashioned only strengthened
the association, because it meant I usually only heard the word in connection
with myself.