Michael's Wish, part 9

Veníte adoremus,
Veníte adoremus
Veníte adoremus Dóminum...”

As Morgan's voice carried the last tremulous note, the parish sat in rapt wonder before clapping appreciatively. Morgan stepped down and bowed, then turned and headed away from the congregation. Michael tensed in the pew but kept his visage relaxed. His young daughter Alexandra looked up at him from his lap. She was distractedly pulling the ribbon from her hair. He kissed her forehead while gently taking her fingers from her hair. Claire leaned from his left and asked, “Where's he going?”

Michael whispered back, “He goes where he needs to go.”

Claire quickly got up and headed to the side aisle and went looking for him. She found him standing outside, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette, a dark cloth draped over his arm. He inhaled deeply and held the smoke in his lungs for a minute before slowly letting it seep out. Without turning around, he asked, “You felt the need to check up on me?”

Claire crossed her arms and defiantly asked, “Since when do you smoke?”

Morgan took another slow drag and answered, “I smoke when I need to. It calms the schizoid thought patterns the way the alcohol quiets the voices.”

“Does that mean you're already drunk?”

Morgan ignored her question. He took off his jacket and inhaled reflexively as the biting cold seeped through his shirt. He dropped it on the ground. He unclipped his cufflinks and dropped them on his jacket. “You do not have to ever grow up, Claire. Your youthful, brooding, semi-angry nature is part of your charm, actually.”

Claire made a dismissive noise.

Morgan continued unabated, “However, I cannot be married to a woman that pretends to be a viscious girl. And I know you are not happy with me. Would you agree to an annulment?”

She had almost lashed out again, but was completely blindsided by his question. “What about our son?”

Morgan worked his tie off and he unattached his collar. “Michael's son,” he corrected. “I am not a fit father and you have not shown much interest in being a mother. Our son is a piece of paper assuring an heir apparent. I might as well have left him the second heir presumptive considering how well we have done as parents.”

He removed his pristine white shirt and tossed it to the December wind. She went to catch it. When she turned back, he was gone.

(The chorus is from Adeste Fidelis by John Francis Wade, circa 1743)