“That’s better. I like the please. But put your hands back in prayer and kneel up.”

“Please.” I crane my neck to look back at him.

He raises his eyebrows as if waiting for me to follow his direction.

I do, but I brace myself.

“You’ll feel that with every step tomorrow.”

I keep my gaze forward on the altar, tears blurring it.

“Do you know what my father expected of me?” he starts, circling again.

I shake my head, sniffle. I’m not sure what’s worse, the anticipation of the cane or the cane itself.

He stops in front of me, looks me over, slides the instrument of torture between my legs.

I stiffen.

“More than I could give,” he says, drawing it away. “I spent countless hours where you are now, and I can tell you I did not sob when lines crisscrossed my back. I did not so much as sniffle when the bottoms of my feet burned, the skin opening with each step.”

My mouth falls open. I glance at the photo of the stern-looking man on the altar, then up at him. I try to imagine him as a little boy kneeling here. And I think of my own father who has never in my life raised a hand to me. I think about my mother’s punishments, but they were never calculated. Hers were impulse. The momentary, uncontrolled rage of a dissatisfied woman.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him when he’s in front of me again. “I’ll wear it. Like you said.”

He walks behind me again.

“Please don’t,” I plead. It’s taking everything for me to stay still, kneel up, and not cover myself.

“Lean forward and put your hands on the floor.”

I glance back, then, after a moment, I do as he says. I put my hands on the floor, presenting myself to him. The pain that is surely to come overrides my humiliation.

When he slips the cane between my legs, I cry out, but he doesn’t strike. Just taps for me to spread them wider.

“Like that,” he says when they’re as he wants them. I’m sure he can see all of me. “Don’t move.”

I hear him walk away, watch as he slips into a pew, setting the cane against it in the aisle. I dare a glance and find him sitting back watching me.