There were times when I wondered if we were traveling the same spiritual peaks and valleys, a little ahead or a little behind. Sine and cosine.
“Strange,” I said. I was glad that it was dark, and I was driving. “I must admit, in all my years, I’ve never fed from a priest, at least, not while he was in clerical clothing.” And definitely not in a place of worship during a sacred rite.
“Something for my next confession,” you said, and I couldn’t tell if you were being cheeky or sincere.
Back at our hotel room, you collapsed into our bed, studying me as I removed my belt and pants in preparation for the day’s end. I tossed the belt across the back of a chair, and you reached for it, then ran your fingers along its length.
“Dad used to beat me,” you said quietly.
The air went out of my lungs as though I’d been struck in the gut.
“What?” I hoped that I’d not heard you correctly.
You folded the leather in half and snapped it between your fists. The sharp thwack startled me.
“Ten times to start. Twenty if I cried out.”
I would strangle Santiago with that very same belt.
“How could this happen?” I sat on the bed across from you. I was trying so very hard to keep my composure. If you knew how enraged I was, you’d never admit anything to me.
You handed me the belt. For all of my fury, your expression was bland. “I was seven the first time. I bit him. Hard. It wasn’t an accident.”
“Your parents never said anything to me about it.”
“You were out of town. Papa doesn’t know either. Dad gave me a choice: tell you and Papa what I’d done or take a beating. It wasn’t with the belt then. It was just his hand. Still hurt, though.”
You frowned as if remembering that first abuse—not only was the pain physical but emotional as well. How dare he lay hands on you. And force you to keep it a secret.
My fists clenched the leather so tightly, the edges cut into my callused palms, and my knuckles blanched from the pressure.
“How often?” I asked.
“Only when I deserved it,” you said as if to caution me.
“How often?” I repeated.
“Once or twice a year.”
Pretty regularly then.
“Do you really believe you deserved it?” I asked.
You scratched your head. “I don’t know. I mean, I could get into some shit, Henri. Dad didn’t want me to get in trouble. He knew the belt worked, and he always forgave me afterward. It’s kind of crazy to admit this, but it actually made me feel better sometimes.”
“There are other ways to discipline a child.” Better ways. Healthier and more compassionate ways. You were never supposed to have experienced violence, and especially not at the hands of someone who was meant to love and care for you.
“But how many ways are there to discipline a demon?” you asked. “Besides, he did it so you and Papa wouldn’t have to.”
“Did he tell you that?” I asked, further incensed that Santiago might see himself as some kind of martyr for abusing you.
“When he was under seduction. He was afraid of what might happen to me if I didn’t obey. That’s when I knew he really loved me, in his own way.”
Santiago’s method was so simple—misbehave, take a beating, be forgiven—but it did very little to develop your moral character. It sounded like this ritual even left you craving some kind of corporal punishment as a release.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, feeling betrayed. “No secrets, remember?”
You shot me a doubtful look, one that said I was being a hypocrite.
