The Confessions of X by Suzanne M. Wolfe Read Free Book Online

sat.
    â€œI understand,” Paulinus said. “It is too sudden.” He looked at my aunt accusingly, and, briefly, I disliked him a little less. He was not a bully.
    â€œShe’ll do as she’s told,” my uncle said. “It’s settled.”
    From within the folds of his tunic, Paulinus withdrew a small package, placed it shyly on the table, and pushed it toward me. “For you,” he said.
    I glanced at it but did not touch it for fear it would be taken as a sign of my consent. It was a tiny alabaster box tied with a red ribbon. I pictured his ink-stained fingers fumbling with the bow, his brave little token of hope. It made me pity him.
    â€œThank you for your kindness,” I replied.
    Paulinus was leaving, my aunt escorting him to the front door. I heard her speaking to him in soothing tones and could imagine what she said: She doesn’t know her mind; she’s young yet; she will obey.
    Left alone with my uncle, I could feel myself shaking but it was not from fear. Was I now to be bartered to a stranger and sold off like a bucket or a cooking pot?
    I thought of Nebridius and Augustine, who walked the city at will and never incurred disapproving or lascivious looks, of the way they talked of their future as if they had only to reach out and take it. Whereas I was handed mine full-formed, an entire map of my life stretching into old age—wife, mother, drudge.
    My aunt returned and I saw her jerk her head at my uncle indicating he should leave. I tensed, expecting him to refuse, but he got up. He stood for a moment looking down at me. I stared back, my chin raised.
    â€œYou will marry him,” he said, “or I will throw you into the street.”
    When he had gone, my aunt and I sat in silence. I expected her to berate me for coming home so late, for spoiling the dinner, for refusing Paulinus so rudely; instead, she seemed lost in thought. The oil lamp guttered, throwing wavering shadows on the table, on the little box with the red ribbon. My aunt took it up and, untying the bow, took off the lid. She withdrew a slender gold chain and held it up on the end of her finger where it dangled there, a shining filament.
    â€œA generous gift,” she said.
    I said nothing. I was thinking of the feel of the water jar as Augustine lifted it to my lips, the coolness of the water in my throat, the hot nearness of him.
    My aunt sighed and dropped the necklace back into the box, replaced the lid, and set it aside. Without the ribbon the box looked like a sarcophagus, a design of vine leaves etched faintly around its sides, a tiny coffin for one girl’s life.
    â€œHe is a good man,” she said, quietly. “A good man.”
    I knew she was comparing him to her husband. For the first time in my life I wondered how old my aunt was, how long she had been married, and if it had been a love-match or arranged. I could not imagine her young, could not imagine a time when her hands were not red and ugly, her face not scored with lines, her hair not lusterless and brittle.
    Instead I said: “My father would not have done this.”
    She gave a humorless laugh. “Your father was a dreamer,” she said, “with no more idea about the world, about a woman’s life, than a child. No,” she said, her eyes glittering but whether from anger or sorrow I could not tell. “Your upbringing was left to me to sort out.”
    She struck the table with the flat of her hand so that the box jumped and the lid fell with a tiny clatter.
    â€œWhen your father brought you home that first summer, you were a sight, I can tell you. Hair so tangled it took weeks to comb out the knots and crawling with lice.” She shuddered. “You were like a mangy dog and with manners to match. You ate your food like a wild beast and flung yourself about when I tried to dress you, scratching and biting, refusing to wear shoes.”
    I remembered only snatches of what she described, the