Angelika went to the door, opened it a crack, and had a whispered exchange with Sarah, taking a stack of clothes. Closing it again, Angelika sniffed haughtily. “They want to know how much longer to wait. All I can say is it shall be even longer now.”
She gave the clothes to Arlo—a fresh outfit for him, how scandalized poor Sarah must be!—and resettled on her fancy stool. “Back to where we were. Can you tell me about your parents?”
Arlo had an image in his mind: a hard-faced pair, unhappily married and trapped together in a house that did not suit the size of their family. “John and Frances Northcott. My brother is the eldest, also called John.”
“I never understood why families do that,” Angelika complained. “Two Johns would always come running when called. It’s impractical.”
“I also had an older sister, and two younger brothers and two younger sisters. That’s . . . seven children.”
“What else do you remember?”
Arlo began to dress, his mind lost in the past. “Our house was too small, and we lived cheek by jowl. I think that’s the true reason for my training at the seminary. There was no room for me.” A big swell of ancient hurt prevented more words, and he pulled on his pants and buttoned his shirt in silence.
Angelika said, “There is plenty of room for you here.”
He found he wanted to argue back. “That’s what bothers me about you, when you say such things, or buy me such nice things. Like these trousers, for example.”
“They look marvelous,” she said with her eyes on his crotch. “Tailored to within an inch of their life. Italian cloth from a particular wool mill in Milan. Don’t you look nice, my love.”
He sat on the edge of the well-used bed. “There really is no room for me in this house. I’m not used to being treated this way.”
“Treated like you are worth treating exceptionally well? That makes me sad.” She came to stand between his feet. “You have found your place in this world. Beside me. There is room right here.”
At his eyeline, the material of her dress glowed a rich indigo, shot through with a glimmer that only came from pure silk. Like the finest ceremonial robes, worn by priests. He plucked it between his fingers, rubbed it, and could no longer feel any sensation from the fine grain.
He closed his eyes as the memories began to flood him. There was no possible way to summarize each for her, except to say faintly, “I didn’t choose any part of my life.”
She held his face to her chest, and he wrapped his arms around her waist.
“I want to tell you of my old life, but there is not much to tell. I was eight years old when I was sent away, and homesick enough to vomit when I arrived at the seminary. I’d said to Mother, ‘Don’t leave me here,’ but she didn’t listen.”
Angelika was quiet for a long moment. “You used those very words when we visited the morgue together. You said, ‘Don’t leave me here,’ with such a raw note in your voice. Poor pet.”
Arlo couldn’t stop now.
“It was such a narrow world, reading the same texts and Scriptures, debates on theological concerns, and manual labor in the name of the Lord. It was my job to scrub out the huge pot that the dinner stew was boiled in, and the stink of it. Metal and meat.” He shuddered. “I was never sure if I was praying correctly, because it seemed a little uncomplicated—just thinking quietly—but no one could give me a definitive answer.”
He pressed his lips together to stop the torrent of memories. He must sound mad.
Angelika said the right thing. “Don’t stop. Tell me everything you want to.”
“I had a best friend named Michael at the seminary. He was so witty, he had me crying with laughter. He found the absurdity in it all, and he helped me gain my confidence and to see that the place we lived was also a game we must play. He loved pigeons, and he bred and trained them up in the loft of the barn.” Arlo was surprised now. “I think Victor’s pigeons reminded me of my long-ago friend.”
“Perhaps we could go together and find Michael.”
Arlo could only now think of a plain white cross. “He died of consumption. We were around fifteen, I think.”
“Oh,” Angelika said with heavy sympathy. “The only true friend you had died?”
“I was crippled by the grief. I cried into my pillow, and during the day I had to pretend I was all right with the apparent fact that he was in heaven, and it was his purpose. But for me, his purpose was to make my life livable.”