Free Time Off for Good Behavior by Lani Diane Rich

George and I were getting married — less than twenty-four hours after I promised over the hospital telephone lines that Id never see the bastard again — my mother stopped talking to me. My dad cut off most of our communication but occasionall y still sent birthday gifts with cards that said things like, “ Everyone has days for which the only cure is Scotch. ” Turned out he knew much more about what my future held than I did.
    George had successfully accomplished step one in the Abusive Shit Heel Ha ndbook : he separated me from my family. From there, it was a short ride to driving off all my friends. And then when I finally dumped the deadweight, I was alone in Hastings, Tennessee, where the smell of Ivory soap would turn me into a pathetic sobbing fe tal mass in a sage-green bathtub.
    I managed to complete my shower and get dressed, but I couldn ’ t stop crying. I ’ d pull it together for a minute, then I ’ d remember my mother ’ s face when I first told her I was moving to Tennessee with George. I ’ d get a few solid calming breaths in, and then I ’ d remember how my father ’ s voice cracked when I called to tell him that George and I were getting married. Dad ’ s last words to me were, “ Go ahead and marry that bastard if you want, but don ’ t expect us to watch you thro w your life down the shitter. ” Or words to that effect.
    I had thought about calling and telling them about the divorce, but it would have just led to painful silences and unanswered questions like, “ If you love me so much, why did you abandon me to an abus ive shit? ” And who needed crap like that around Thanksgiving?
    I hobbled out of the shower and managed to get dressed, pausing whenever the crying became too overpowering. I tried to busy myself with housework, but there wasn ’ t much left to do. As time pass ed and I couldn ’ t stop crying, I started to panic. What if I never stopped crying? What if I died of dehydration and became nothing more than an annotation in a bathroom reader, wedged between the guy who hiccuped himself to death and the chick who bungee jumped off an eighty-foot bridge with a ninety-five-foot bungee cord?
    I had to get out. I had to go somewhere. I had to talk to someone. But there was nowhere for me to go and no one for me to talk to. I could have called Walter, but the idea of being the object of his pity again only made the sobbing worse.
    So I went to St. Benedict ’ s and weaseled my way into the confessional.
    “ You ’ re not Catholic? ” The priest ’ s voice was cracked and warm. I couldn ’ t see much of his face through the grate between us, but h e sounded old and wise. I hoped he ’ d live up to that impression.
    “ No, ” I said. My sobbing had quieted, but the tears were still flowing. “ If you want me to leave... ”
    “ No, ” he said. “ That ’ s okay. Is anyone waiting out there? ”
    “ I didn ’ t see anyone else. ”
    He released a soft sigh, sounding slightly disappointed. I briefly considered pulling a Debbie Manney and trying to convince him that the lack of penitents was because he was such a good priest and no one was sinning, but he sounded like the kind of guy who c ould tell horseshit when he heard it. Besides, it was my understanding that God frowned on blowing smoke at priests.
    “ Would you like to tell me what ’ s bothering you? ” he asked.
    “ I ’ m alone. ” My voice was quivering. I cleared my throat and tried to continue with a stronger tone. “ I married a real bad guy a few years ago, and he drove my family and friends away. ”
    There was a pause. Then, “ No, he didn ’ t. ”
    “ Huh? ” I wasn ’ t expecting to catch interference from the father.
    “ He didn ’ t drive your family and friends away. You did. ”
    I leaned closer to the grate. “ Do I know you? ”
    “ No, ” he said. His tone was strong — not accusatory, but not terribly tolerant, either. I got the feeling this wasn ’ t the kind of priest